Blood Of Kings: The Shadow Mage

by Paul Freeman

  “Leave me be,” he gasped.

  “Tomas, wake up now!”

  His eyes flashed open. Aliss was leaning over him, her white hair reflecting in the moonlight coming through the window. “I…” He was disorientated as he slowly became aware of his surroundings, of the ache of his swollen loins. “I was dreaming.”

  “Yes, I know, love. She is close, I can sense her. She was in your dreams.”

  His face flushed. How did one explain such a dream to the love of their life? “Yes,” he simply answered.

  She stroked his brow and cheek. “She is gone now. I was not sure how to fight her, or if I even could. But now I know. Now that I have tasted her power, I can combat it. And I can follow its trail.”

  “She didn’t try to kill me.”

  Aliss shrugged, not understanding his meaning.

  “She could have killed me. She knows we are hunting her, but she did not. Why?”

  Before Aliss could answer they heard a scream. They both looked at each other and realisation dawned at the same time. Horace.

  They ran from the room and down the corridor. Tomas put his shoulder to the door, which gave way easily and both burst into the room. The tracker struggled alone in his bed, his hands gripping his throat as if he were trying to prise fingers from it. His eyes bulged in their sockets as he gasped for air. Aliss ran to his side and placed her hands on his head. She put her own head back and drew in breaths in a slow easy rhythm. Horace instantly calmed. Her eyes were open wide. Storms raged there as even the whites of her eyes filled with swirling, dark clouds. Although Tomas was looking straight into them, he knew she could not see him.

  Horace suddenly bolted upright, gulping down air. “It’s horrible! Horrible! It’s after me, it won’t stop.” He began sobbing then. “Please help me,” he squeaked in a pitiful voice.

  Aliss blinked and then regarded Tomas. “Now it begins.”

  Jarl Crawulf: Northern Duchies

  Crawulf rubbed tired eyes as he pored over the maps spread out before him. Gathered around him were his chosen men. Ulf Soulgarde, also known as Ulf the Red, built like an ox with a shaggy grey beard stained with rust. His red hair was tied in a single plait that trailed down his back. Torngor Blakhar, as tall as Ulf, though not as wide—in truth few men were as wide as Ulf the Red—his hair was dark brown and hung loose over a face that may once have been handsome but for a crooked and scarred nose broken too many times. Olf Skarnjak, known as One Eye, the other lost in battle along with two fingers of his left hand. He wore a leather patch to cover the loss, and snarled at any who looked too closely at him. Honbar Dolfson, blond-haired and with pale blue eyes, and unlike most Nortmen, clean-shaven, he had often been called pretty as a girl. None who did so lived long enough to repeat the insult. These men were Crawulf’s battle leaders, his most trusted advisors. Each man was sworn to him, an oath of blood taken in the sight of the gods. They would do his bidding and they would die for him if needs be.

  “We will wait for him here where we will have the higher ground.” Crawulf pointed a dagger at a location on the map. “If what the scouts say is true, then he should be at this point by now. He will be upon us before the sun reaches its highest point in the sky.” They all looked to the east where the sun shimmered in a clear blue sky, two fingers’ width above the horizon.

  “Will he come? Has he the stomach to do battle?” the blond-haired Honbar asked, idly cleaning dirt from beneath his fingernails with a thin-bladed dagger.

  “He’ll come. He has no choice. We have burnt his crops and torched his villages. We have killed countless and taken as thralls even more. He will come,” Crawulf answered.

  “Aye, we’ve done well. This has been a mighty raid that will be sung about for a long time.” Olf Skarnjak began, his words greeted with nods of approval. “This is our way, how it has always been. We raid and take what we want. All that can be plundered from the weak is rightfully ours.” He paused and drank from a wineskin.

  Crawulf’s eyes narrowed. “Go on, One Eye.”

  “We hit, and then we return to the ships, leaving a trail of havoc in our wake. We are the bringers of death. No one knows when or where we will appear, and then we are gone as quick.”

  “You do not wish to fight this fight?”

  “It is not our way.”

  “Our way is how I say it is,” Crawulf snarled.

  “They have twice the men we do.”

  “Less than half are trained warriors. The rest are peasants summoned in from the fields.”

  “Our ships are laden with treasure. There are so many captives on board we’ll barely have enough room for ourselves. This…” Olf gestured expansively with his arms, “is a needless risk.”

  “Are you afraid to die, One Eye?” Crawulf took a step towards his chosen man, but Olf did not flinch.

  “No! I embrace death like a lost love… as all Nortmen do. I do not see the need to throw away all that we have gained when we have no reason.”

  “I have brought pain and fire to the people we count as enemies. You say this is not our way. When was honour not our way? When was vengeance not our way?”

  “A lot of men will die for your honour,” Olf answered.

  “Yes.” Crawulf’s eyes shone with the sun reflected there. Olf looked away, his shoulders slumped in defeat.

  Honbar clapped him on the back and snatched the wineskin from his hand. “Come, One Eye, let’s drink to a glorious death.” All of them, including Olf smiled their agreement.

  Crawulf watched the morning creep in, bringing with it dark clouds rolling from the ocean. Below him men dug trenches around the side of the hill and sharpened long stakes before hammering them into the soft earth turning the crest of the hill into a prickly hedgehog.

  “They’ll not ride armoured horses up that rise too easily once we’ve finished,” Torngor Blakhar said, standing beside his jarl, hands on hips. “A storm’ll be upon us soon enough,” he added looking into the distance at the dark blanket of cloud swallowing up the sapphire sky.

  “Aye. Rain is good. Rain adds to the confusion,” Crawulf answered.

  “How many dead will satisfy your honour and sate the gods’ thirst for blood?” the big Nortman with the crooked face asked.

  Crawulf levelled his gaze on him. “All of them.”

  “I hear thunder.” Olf One Eye approached them from behind. All three listened while staring at the distant clouds.

  “Not thunder,” Crawulf said.

  “Drums,” Torngor added.

  “Aye. Gather the men.”

  Moments later two blasts of a horn rang through the valley, signalling for the men to gather on top of the hill. Like a pack of some dark-furred predators, they lifted their heads and quickly grabbed their weapons in unison and scrambled up to where Crawulf and his chosen men waited.

  The jarl of Wind Isle felt his blood race as nervous energy coursed through him. There was no feeling like it; the anticipation of battle. No matter how many times he stood, sword in hand, standing toe to toe, eyeball to eyeball with an enemy, he would never tire of the rush he felt, the combination of elation and dread. No matter what they say, no man lives without fear, for what is courage without terror? They are two edges of the same sword.

  Hundreds of Nortmen raced to stand behind him, checking weapons and armour, chattering noisily and raucously as each of them summoned their own well of courage and tried not to think about the many painful ways a man can die in battle. Swords, axes, spears will do terrible things to soft flesh, even that encased in mail. Archers readied their arrows and checked that their strings were dry, knowing that from a distance they were relatively safe, unless the men standing in front of them were to fall; in which case their deaths would be just as, if not more horrible than the men-at-arms.

  The tree line in the distance appeared to move as men sent to defend their land and thwart the invader melted from the forest. Crawulf glanced left and right of him, although he knew he had no need to check on the stoutne
ss of heart of his own men.

  In the distance a line of horsemen made their way, in single file, to the front of the growing ranks. Crawulf could see the banners now fluttering in the wind held proudly above the swell of men as their numbers grew, like a dark pool melting from the forest. He felt the first drops of rain on his face and looked up at the darkening sky. Archers hurried past him, stringing their bows and placing arrows into the ground before them. They would rain death down on the advancing army as it charged up the hill. Once the attackers were close they would slip behind the line of shields and men strung out across the rise. Then, the real butchery would begin; hand-to-hand, blade-to-blade.

  The drums continued to beat as the men of the Duchies formed lines and readied themselves for battle. It occurred to Crawulf to attack at that moment with a thousand raging Nortmen into the disorganised ranks of the enemy, but he had the higher ground and was reluctant to give it up. The Duchies had strength of numbers and knew the lay of the land. With such an advantage often came arrogance and over confidence. Mounted men dressed in mail and carrying shields and lances formed a line at the base of the hill. Some struggled to control their horses as the animals stomped and fought the rein. The sound of curses, along with the snorting of horses and rattling of weapons and mail, carried up the hill to the waiting Nortmen, who jeered and flung insults at the men waiting to advance on them.

  The rain and wind picked up as fighting men waited to be unleashed; to begin the killing and maiming. It was a time when doubts and fears were given life; a time when men soiled themselves or sought courage at the end of a wineskin; a time when the real fear was showing lack of courage to the men around them or the chosen men barracking them to fight or hold.

  At the sound of a horn the line of horsemen began to advance up the hill. Crawulf felt a ripple of nervous tension wash over his men. It was no easy thing to hold a line against the advance of armoured horsemen, even those with the disadvantage of a hill to climb. He drew his own sword then and tightened his grip on his shield. Flinging his arms in the air and with a theatrical grin on his face, he joined the front ranks of his army. His chosen men disappeared, taking up positions along the line where they would goad, encourage and curse men into giving their lives for their jarl.

  About halfway up the hill the front line of horses found the ditches and potholes hastily dug by the Nortmen. With a squeal, a horse went down, breaking its leg and collapsing onto its side. It took out two others following behind. The Nortmen jeered and snarled insults at each flailing mount and rider. A few casualties, though, were not enough to halt the advance as most of the riders avoided the traps dotted about the hill by the Nortmen. Crawulf heard a barked order from his Master Archer, followed by a ‘twang’. A dark cloud whistled into the air from his own ranks, arcing, like a swarm of stinging insects, towards the line of horsemen. Many arrows found their mark, most bounced off expensive armour, but some found gaps or weakened points, knocking knights from their mounts. Still more took down the more lightly-armoured horses. The sound of dying men and beasts drifted upwards.

  Still they came, hard, determined men eager to reach their enemy and deal out some pain of their own. Rain dripped from Crawulf’s helmet, blurring his vision, as the sky overhead darkened some more from the rainclouds moving over them. He felt the icy grip of fear clutch his heart as the mounted knights of the Duchies kicked their warhorses onwards, despite the stinging onslaught of arrows. His archers fell back when the charge shook the ground and the air was filled with the sound of grunting horses and riders barracking them on with curses and roars of encouragement. The Nortmen responded with their own war-cries, calling down the names of their gods and heroes of the past, hoping their own hearts would be filled with the courage of legends of old.

  They gripped the sharpened stakes they’d cut from trees earlier that morning and held them out inviting the horsemen to their deaths. Some of the mounted men baulked at the prickly wall of wood, flesh and iron, others crashed through bringing death from lance and the weight of a charging warhorse on the defensive wall. Men screamed in pain as they were crushed beneath the hooves of horses or pierced savagely; a charging horse adding weight to the thrust of a lance. Along the line, horses stumbled or faltered and the riders were dragged from their lofty perches to be hacked to death, their screams joining the cacophony of battle.

  A massive Nortman stepped out of the line of shields and stakes to swing a great Nort-axe at a charging horse. The animal bellowed in agony as the axe bit deep into its neck and collapsed onto the ground, trapping the rider beneath it. Ignoring pleas for mercy, the Nortman advanced on the stricken rider, raised the axe, and with a single swing removed his head. A great cheer went up from the line of defenders close enough to witness the act of bravery, and the killing stroke. Crawulf allowed himself a quiet smile.

  Most of the casualties suffered by the horsemen were when their charge had run out of steam and they attempted to disengage themselves. Nortmen lashed out at the mounts, pulling riders from their horses. The bodies of men and beasts littered the crest of the hill, a good number of them his own men, Crawulf noted. The knights untangled themselves from the melee, urging their horses to carry them to safety. A good deal fewer of them would make it off the hill. The Nortmen had little time to catch their breaths, following closely behind. In tightly packed ranks was the bulk of the Duchies army. Leading from the front were the hard, experienced men. Crawulf wiped rain from his face and set his boots into the churned earth at his feet, his mouth set in a grim line. The smell of turned earth and the metallic scent of blood filled the air.

  The advancing army closed so that Crawulf could see the faces of the men coming to die. To die or deliver a savage death to their enemies filled the minds of men on both sides, battle lust overriding fear now that the enemy was within smelling distance. Crawulf heard his men roaring all around him, and realised he was shouting, as if he were intent on bursting a lung, along with them. He dug his heels into the softening ground as rain came down in great sheets of water. A flash lit up the sky, quickly followed by a crack of thunder. The All Wise bears witness, Crawulf thought, pleased that Alweise, king of the gods was there to accept his gift of blood. “We will feast with the gods tonight!” he roared over the din. The men around him cheered back, welcoming a glorious death in battle.

  The distance between the two lines closed in a heartbeat as the Duchies army ate up the ground. Two lines of flesh and iron crashed together with wooden shields clashing as if thunder rippled along the line. A warrior with a mouthful of black teeth and stumps snarled at Crawulf as he thrust a spear over his shield, aiming the point at the jarl’s face. Crawulf caught it on his own and stabbed with his sword at the man’s neck. The warrior fell back as a crimson spray erupted, like the geysers dotted all over Fire Isle, drenching the men around him. Another stepped forward to take his place and Crawulf jabbed out with the iron boss of his shield before he had time to settle into place. Beside him, a Nortman hammered at an upraised shield in front of him with an axe, sending splinters of wood into the air. The relentless assault stopped abruptly when a spear snaked out from the opposite wall of iron and wood, stabbing him just below the eye. The man slumped onto Crawulf’s shoulder as the jarl attempted to swing his sword, breaking the momentum of the arc. With a curse he shrugged the dead Nortman off and quickly raised his shield just in time to block the strike from a short-sword.

  He was beginning to regret carrying his own sword into battle and not opting for a shorter blade or a spear to stab with. His sword, gifted to him by his father, and by his father before him was a fine length of killing steel, but perhaps not the best weapon in such close quarters. He was close enough to feel the splash of spittle from his attacker wash over his face when the man screamed a war-cry. He drew his head back and then launched it forward, the man’s nose disintegrated from the iron helmet smashed into his face, and he fell back screaming. Crawulf stepped forward as the man fell, grinding the heel of his boot into the m
an’s head, crushing his skull like a thick-skinned fruit brought to Wind Isle by the merchants of the empire.

  Rain water ran down the hill, dyed a reddy-brown, equal parts mud and blood. He glanced back and realised the line of Nortmen had steadily pushed the Duchies from the top of the hill and were inching them back to where they had come from. It was good that they were pushing the enemy back, but he did not want his men moving from the top of the hill. He would need to stop their advance.

  As he was thinking on how best to stop the steady advance of his men, he caught sight of Duke Elsward’s banner, a prancing lion on a green field—Crawulf had never seen a real lion before and doubted if Elsward had either. It could just as easily be an exotic chicken as a ferocious predator—it was moving fast behind the line of men-at-arms, and peasants making up his army. Cold dread dripped into his bowels when he realised why the duke was moving so fast. He was rallying the scattered horsemen and forming them to attack the Nortland left flank. Crawulf scanned the line until his eyes found the chosen man commanding the left: Olf Skarnjak – One Eye. He caught a glimpse of him barracking the men around him. Had he spotted the danger? Crawulf needed to get a message to him.

  Before the thought could form properly a surge from the lines behind him propelled him forward. The dull thud of a weapon bouncing off his mail armour reminded him that he was in the midst of a battle. He lashed out at the man in front of him, so close that he could smell his sour breath and the sweat of a hundred and more men all around him. The man went down, lost beneath a forest of legs and likely crushed into the sticky earth at their feet. He took a step back reaching out to find the man behind him and haul him in to take his place. He had to stop his men from pushing forward and giving up the crest of the hill, and he had to get word to One Eye.

  Pain exploded in his head and travelled like a lightning strike to the base of his spine. White light flashed before him then turned red. He staggered back trying to focus on the man in front of him. No easy thing with his sight blurred. He saw two men, hazy as if they were emerging from a fog… no, not two, just one. The man raised a weapon. To Crawulf it was just a blur, it could have been an axe, or hammer… it could have been a lump of wood for all he could tell. His mind told him he needed to raise his shield, but his arms refused to respond. In the distance Elsward’s banner rippled in the wind as the lion stood on two legs roaring its defiance at the Nortmen and the gale blowing across the battlefield. He waited, dumbly, for the killing blow.