Blood Of Kings: The Shadow Mage

by Paul Freeman

  She saw a glow up ahead, gently pulsating, inviting, a haven from the dark; yet now she feared to move into the light. A gift. Brandlor had said the seer would expect a gift. She pulled a silver comb from her hair, hoping he would deem it suitable. Then she walked towards the light.

  The passage opened up into a wider chamber. At its centre a fire burned, the dancing flames casting eerie shadows on the damp walls. The rocky floor was littered with animal and fish bones, and stank so much of waste and rot that it made her gag. She resisted the urge to cover her mouth and nose from the foul odours. She held her breath, afraid to make a sound, fighting the urge to turn and run. Up against one wall, what looked like a bundle of oily rags, stirred.

  “Who disturbs the rest of Maolach?” a voice hissed from the rags, dragging out each S, putting Rosinnio in mind of a serpent from some child’s story she had once seen acted out. Only, no performer had ever sounded so sinister.

  “Lady Rosinnio, wife to Crawulf, Jarl of Wind Isle,” she said, hoping her voice did not quiver as much as her heart. “I bring a gift,” she added and held out the silver comb.

  The bundle shuffled forward into the orange light cast by the fire. A stooped figure wrapped in a cloak made from, what appeared to be, the feathers of gulls and other seabirds, stepped towards her. Lank, greasy hair hung in strands over his shoulders. He reached out with bony fingers, the nails crusted with dirt, and snatched the comb from her outstretched hand. “And what does the Lady Rosinnio wish from Maolach?” the voice hissed.

  “I wish to see what Maolach sees,” she said, taking an involuntary step back when he regarded her with dark eyes, before turning them on the comb.

  “Maolach sees much,” he said, reaching out to touch her belly and then screwing his eyes up to look at her quizzically. “Even that others do not wish him to see. Like a womb that should be full, yet remains empty.”

  The small vial of the bitter liquid her handmaiden had procured for her sprang into Rosinnio’s mind. How could he know of this? she wondered.

  “What do you suppose would happen to the childless wife of Crawulf should he fall in battle on some distant shore?” he asked, stepping into Rosinnio’s comfort zone. The smell of him standing so close made her gag again, but she hid it well—at least, she hoped so. Her answer was a shrug. It was all she could manage. “They would tear such a delicate summer flower into little pieces.” His hands roamed over her body while she stood stiff-backed, daring not to move. “But the mother of Crawulf’s child, they would fight for.” He turned away from her then and shuffled over to sit on a rock by the fire, inviting her, with a gesture of a pale-white hand, to take the one opposite.

  She sat on the rock, glad to have the fire as a barrier between them. He said nothing, nor even seemed to notice her as his head slumped forward. She waited. He’s fallen asleep, she thought, or died. Her uneasiness only grew more intense as the silence continued. She pulled her cloak tightly around her as her mind recoiled from the memory of his touch. The sound of the sea drifted to her as her eyes were drawn to the hypnotic dance of the twisting flames. She allowed herself to be drawn there until she could see dark shapes forming at its heart. Figures from the past began to reveal themselves in the flames, lost memories of her childhood. Happy memories she was sure she would cherish forever, yet she had forgotten so many, she realised. When she looked up from the flames he was watching her.

  “What do you see?”

  “Nothing. I was just remembering some old friends,” she answered, wondering how long he had been watching her.

  “Tell me,” he insisted.

  “My sisters, there was an orange grove in the palace grounds. We would play there as children…” She trailed off as the memory brought a smile to her lips.

  “Look again.”

  She returned her gaze to the flames, feeling the warmth of the fire on her face. A clear image of Crawulf suddenly appeared to her. He was standing on a hill surrounded by his warriors. Rain lashed down on them, turning the ground into a treacherous quagmire. She could see him bellowing orders, though she could not hear the words. He bore a sword in one hand, a round wooden shield in the other. She grimaced at the sight of the savageness of battle, flinching as each blow was struck, as blood flowed freely down the hillside turning the ground crimson. Crawulf gritted his teeth as he fended off a sword strike with his shield before stabbing his attacker in the chest. She did not want to look, but she could not tear her eyes away from the images in the flames, as clear as if she were watching through a window. “Why? Why do men fight and kill each other? How can they boast and sing songs about valour… about this… slaughter?” She wrenched her eyes from the scene and looked up at Maolach who was staring at her intently.

  “Eat,” he said, handing her a bowl of watery broth. The scent of the food wafted over to her, making her mouth water. She had not realised how hungry she was. She took the bowl hesitantly, fearful of what it might contain. She did not want to offend the seer of Wind Isle by refusing his hospitality. She brought the bowl, slowly, to her lips. Surprisingly, it was delicious. When she was done she handed back the bowl, very conscious of Maolach’s unrelenting stare. It was as if his eyes were drawn to her every movement, linked with some invisible thread.

  “Look again,” he said.

  She did as she was bid and returned her gaze to the blaze one more time. The flames parted to reveal Crawulf once again. This time he was alone. He was standing beside a massive tree. Its branches were bare of leaves; bark came away in thick strips from the gnarled trunk. The ground beneath his feet was covered in snow – Rosinnio had never seen the ground covered in a blanket of white before. Her eyes opened wide as the snow began to stir behind him, and a grey and bloodied hand reached out. She saw Crawulf’s face turn to fear as he stepped back from the emerging arm, then a head, followed by a torso, until finally a full body leaking fluids and maggots rose. She wanted to cry out, but was paralysed with terror. Skin peeled from the corpse’s head as it leered a lipless grin at Crawulf. The jarl raised his sword and cut it down. The dead thing—she could think of no other way to describe it—crumpled back to the earth. Crawulf stood with his back to the tree as the snow parted all around him, and more corpses rose from the ground. Rosinnio screamed then and tore her eyes away. Her lip trembled as her whole body shook.

  “What did you see?”

  Although it pained her greatly to relive the scene she told Maolach exactly what she saw. He regarded her for a long time before speaking. “You have been gifted with the hidden eye. Why would the gods bestow such a gift on a foreign harlot, unless they wish to mock me?”

  Rosinnio’s jaw dropped. Never in her life had anyone dared call her such a thing. Outrage boiled inside her. Yet, her desire to receive an explanation of her vision overrode her anger. “What does it mean?”

  He looked at her with those dark, cold eyes. She felt as if she were looking into twin holes in the cold earth. “You have seen the past, the present, and what has yet to pass.” His voice quivered, and Rosinnio thought she detected a hint of fear there.

  “I do not understand. How can the dead rise from the ground?”

  “A shadow looms over you. It bathes you in darkness. Even as I gaze upon it I can feel it trying to hurt me as it will cause pain to all who are close to you.”

  Rosinnio dropped her eyes to the ground. “I…”

  “No!” he bellowed, interrupting her. “Speak no more of it. The more you do the closer you bring it. It is an evil thing I do not understand, yet I sense that it knows you only too well. Leave me now.”

  Rosinnio felt the compulsion in his words and yearned to leave. She fought that feeling. “If you can see the shadow then you know you must help me,” she persisted, even as she moved away from Maolach and the fire.

  “Go!” he commanded.

  Her legs, almost of their own accord, carried her to the entrance of the cavern. “Can it be stopped? If it has not yet come to pass, can there be a different future?”

/>   “Perhaps,” he answered, and then walked slowly back to the cot by the wall and slunk down into it.

  Rosinnio ran from the cave then, heedless to the dangers of running through the rocky passageway in the dark. Outside, Brandlor and Rothgar waited for her.

  “My lady, we feared greatly for your safety. Thank the gods you have returned,” the counsellor greeted her.

  “You did? How so?” She looked out towards the horizon, the sun had barely moved in the sky.

  “You have been gone a day and a night, my lady,” the giant warrior Rothgar said.

  Duke Normand: Eorotia

  Duke Normand sat beside a roaring blaze, letting the heat from the fire wash over him. He had commandeered the largest dwelling in Eorotia for himself while he resided in the mountain citadel. The closest thing to a keep was the Temple of Eor and he had no desire to sleep beneath its roof. One priestess still remained at large, Elandrial, the most dangerous of all. He would never rest easy while she still lived, even if Djangra Roe insisted that he was beyond her power. He did not believe it.

  He watched in silence as the mage walked towards him, his boots echoing off the polished flagstones. He could feel his face flush as he downed another mouthful of brandy, the fiery spirit warming his insides even as the flames heated his outer body. Djangra dragged a wooden chair over to the fire and sat opposite Normand, he carried in his arms a collection of leather bound books. Even before he opened them, Normand could see that they were old, by the tops of the yellow pages and worn bindings.

  “Are you rested, my lord?” Djangra asked.

  “Well enough.” He still had a lump on his head the size of an egg where he smacked it against a tree and bruises aplenty from the mauling he had received from the giant beast.

  “I’ve been searching the temple, seeking clues about this Dragon Lord. There are not a lot of books stored there, a lot less than you would expect. Most religious are pretty good at keeping archives. It’s possible they destroyed them while you were besieging the city I suppose.”

  “And what did you find?”

  “Tell me again, my lord, do you know who these people were? Or where they disappeared to after they dragged you away from your men?”

  “It is as I already said,” Normand began irritably. “I was thrown by the beast and hit my head. I felt hands on me and voices whispering all around me.”

  “And they called you the Dragon Lord?”

  “Yes. No. Maybe. I don’t know. They said something about a Dragon Lord returning or some such nonsense.”

  “So this Dragon Lord is a thing of worship for these people?”

  Normand closed his eyes tight, his face twisting in pain. His head ached, and not just from trying to recall the events on the mountain. “The Dragon Lord will raise the dragon and bathe the world in blood,” he intoned the words he heard. A log split in the blazing hearth, flashing sparks into the air.

  “Do you think it a coincidence that your own crest is that of a red dragon, my lord?”

  Normand shrugged. “Have you discovered who lives in the mountains?”

  “I’m told there are a number of hamlets populated by wild folk who keep to themselves. Even the brigands who occupied the city stayed away from them, and know little enough about them.”

  “Are they followers of Eor, these wild folk?”

  “Aye, perhaps.”

  “How is it these people have lived on the borders of my family’s lands and we know nothing of them?”

  “The same reason none of your predecessors were prepared to confront the problem of this city and its inhabitants. It takes a brave man to poke a hornet’s nest.”

  “Or a stupid one,” Normand added.

  Djangra Roe shrugged. “The writings I have found are mostly gibberish intoning the great virtues of the goddess Eor. Some psalms about her grace and all-consuming power, and some warnings to her followers to eschew false prophets, and so on, and so on.” He opened one of the volumes in his lap. Normand could hear the crackling of the pages as the mage searched for a marked passage. “I thought this might interest you.” He began to read. “The goddess did walk among her folk, and all bowed before her, giving great cheer, with much gladness in their hearts to have her shadow fall upon them. Where the soles of her feet touched the ground, many jewels of different colours sprung like wildflowers from the earth, or veins of gold threaded the bare rock around her, fanning out like arms of the sun, with She at its centre, the source of all light. ‘Gather these treasures and keep them safe from all who would seek them. One will come, he will rise from the chaos, you will know him and you will follow him. He is my Lord of Light.’ As her eyes fell upon them, bathing them in her radiance they fell to their knees and wept, for they knew they had borne witness to the eternal light and all else would seem dim in comparison. Her people gathered her treasures then and retreated to the dark places of the world. Waiting for Him, the Lord of Light.”

  “So? You read me a story for children and expect me to be impressed?” Normand said.

  “Myth and rumour all have a whiff of truth to them, my lord.”

  “And you think, some disciple of the goddess Eor is going to come down from the heavens, and rid the world of all darkness, is that it?”

  “No, my lord. I think there are those who believe this will happen and are watching for a sign, folk hidden in the dark places… and the high places, anywhere hidden from sight. These people are possibly sitting on a vast treasure. They are waiting for their lord to come and take it from them.”

  Normand paused, swirling the brandy in his mouth. “And if these mysterious people were sitting on a vast treasure how do you suppose we might convince them to part with it?”

  Djangra set aside one book for another musty tome, before leafing through the crispy pages. “The great king of the east, Jalen brought blood and fire to all realms. His was a reign of death and suffering, ushering in an age of darkness. From the midst of the storm rises the light, and none shine so bright as the Dragon Lord of Eor. From astride his great winged beast he casts down the Lord of Suffering and all who serve him in the world of man, even the mighty King Jalen who thought himself an immortal.”

  “Dragon Lord, Lord of Light… you are giving me a headache, Mage. What do these stories have to do with me?”

  “These books are written in different eras, by different authors. I believe they speak of the same man… entity… whatever. They are speaking of some kind of demigod made flesh who arrives into the world in times of great strife. Not once, but many times.”

  “Well, thank you for the lesson in obscure theologies, but you are talking about a man riding a dragon, more children’s tales, more nonsense.” Normand drained his goblet and refilled it from a decanter sitting on a table by his side. He did not offer any refreshment to the mage.

  “My lord, it is not important that you believe in the Lord of Light, or Dragon Lord, whatever he calls himself. Merely that the guardians of Eor’s treasure believe it, and believe that you are the Dragon Lord incarnate. Thereby making the entire hoard your birthright.”

  “Assuming it even exists.”

  “I think it does, my lord. Why else build this,” he circled his hands to encompass their surroundings, “a city in the middle of an inhospitable mountain range, for no apparent reason?”

  “This place has been called the Thieves Citadel for a reason. It has been home to brigands and pirates for hundreds of years. That is the reason for its existence. That it was not raised to the ground years ago is a shame on my predecessors. The power of the bandits and their witch has been broken. Broken by me,” Normand answered.

  “I’m sorry, my lord, but I believe there is more to it than that. This city may be hundreds of years old, but that temple is older still. It is at the heart of the city’s past. You believe the brigands brought the priestesses of Eor to their city, gave them a home and worshipped their god in exchange for their protection against those with larger and stronger armies. Well, I say it was the
other way round. I believe the city built up around the temple and the priestesses allowed its reputation as a den of iniquity to spread, in order to mask its real purpose. As guardian of the treasure of Eor.”

  Normand shook his head, clearly not convinced.

  “These mountains are sacred to the followers of Eor,” Djangra continued. “They have other temples scattered about the Sunsai Empire and even some small ones secreted about the Duchies, and beyond. But this is where they believe their goddess walked among them. This is where her treasure is hidden.” His eyes blazed as he finished the last sentence.

  “And how is it you’ve become such an expert on Eor, all of a sudden, Mage?” Normand demanded.

  “As I said, my lord, I’ve been investigating their histories while you were hunting the mountain beast.”

  “Even if what you say is true, how does one become a Dragon Lord?”

  “By acting like one, my lord.”

  “And I suppose you will conjure up a dragon to act as mine own steed.” Normand allowed himself a smile at his own joke.

  “Who knows what may be found in the higher peaks of these mountains, my lord.”

  “Do not talk nonsense. There are no dragons.”

  “Perhaps, my lord.”

  “My lord,” a stiff-backed servant interrupted the conversation. “A royal messenger awaits your pleasure.”

  Normand’s eyebrows rose, as he threw a quizzical glance towards Djangra. “Send him in.” The servant bowed and beckoned with a raised hand.

  The messenger hurried into the room, his tunic bearing the king’s coat of arms. His family’s crest was a boar’s head, in the upper half was the crest of the Duchies, three grey castles on a sky blue background. Topping this was a crown. He handed a rolled scroll to the duke, and waited to be dismissed. Normand did so with a wave of his hand before breaking the king’s wax seal and unrolling the parchment.