by T L Drew
The Prince of Balfold had warned the son of the southern king, but Jorgen Black knew that Goran Grey would not listen. He was due to repeat the mistakes of his past, and Jorgen could not stop him. He knew well to keep his concerns and frets to himself, especially with Prince Goran, who was known to carry a vile temper and the man who was the heir to the southern throne. Jorgen had learned well to keep his thoughts to himself; he had many enemies in Tronenpoint, although they did not know they were an enemy of Jorgen Black. The twenty-four-year-old man kept those he despised to himself, and showed it to no one but his younger brother and his beloved sister. Goran Grey was one man that the Prince of Balfold cared very little for.
Tronenpoint reminded Jorgen of an icy maze, plagued with snow. It had taken Jorgen years of summer seasons in the south of Askavold to learn his way around Stone Keep and the snowy city that surrounded the king’s dark, forbidding palace. Goran, Jorgen and his seventeen-year-old brother found themselves outside of the castle walls, where the snow was falling lightly over Tronenpoint, the capital city of Askavold. Although on this morning the sun had set strongly over Tronenpoint, it failed to thaw the snow and ice that blanketed the city built from grey stone. Jorgen wrapped himself tightly in his black cloak as the cold bit at his skin and the snow landed lightly into his deep black hair, clinging to it. Jorgen could see his own breath in the cold air as he exhaled and pushed Erik’s wheeled chair through the thick snow. He followed behind Goran Grey as they sped through the castle's courtyard and towards the training yard; the sounds of steel crashing against steel became louder as they drew nearer, and armoured men swinging their swords quickly came into view. At the sight of their prince, and the princes from the neighbouring kingdom, the training came to a crashing halt.
King Kodran of Askavold was in attendance of the training yard, closely guarded by men clad in steel, waiting to see his sons battle even though the true tournament was not until the following morning. ‘The sun has risen over this realm, and you are late, son.’ King Kodran – dressed in the furs of a white fox – spoke to his eldest child as Goran Grey neared his father with Jorgen following closely behind. ‘A king should not have to wait for his son.’
Goran’s lips twisted into an unsettling smile. ‘Trust me father, this fight is worth the wait.’
‘It had better be.’ Kodran warned, his feet stirring in the crisp snow, the king growing fatter with each passing year – Jorgen was surprised to see that that king had successfully left the confines of the castle without his heart combusting.
Jorgen bowed his head to the fat king and stood far behind him, leaving Goran's side. He joined the presence of his older sister, Abigail, who had married Goran some years past. They had no children together – she had been unable to give Goran the son he desired, despite over a decade of marriage. Jorgen Black stayed silently beside his sister and Erik; he knew that she had as little love for her husband as Andor Grey did, yet tried to keep her mouth closed and her face emotionless.
‘I am surprised to see you here,’ Jorgen whispered quietly to his older sister as the crowd waited to the arrival of Andor Grey, her fiery red hair blowing gently in the southern wind. ‘Your husband has many friends here to support him.’
‘Margot wishes for her husband to fall,’ Abigail uttered quietly in her brother's ear, speaking of Andor Grey's absent wife. ‘As I wish for mine to fall defeated. I do not come to support my husband; he is a fool and dishonourable man.’
‘I'd hold your tongue, Abigail, if I were you,’ Jorgen warned with care, finding her wrist with hands chilled to the bone. ‘Words like that could get you killed in this realm; he is to be the king, and you're to be his queen.’
Abigail merely smiled at her brother. ‘And you’re drunk again, even in the presence of a king – our father may tolerate your problem, but they won’t here. I can smell it upon your breath and it is not even sunrise.’
‘The southern king is too old to notice,’ Jorgen was certain, his voice low, watching as the men left the training yard with haste and moved to the side-lines. Jorgen watched as Goran removed his heavy cloak, tossed it to his squire, and weaved his weapon through the air like a dance. Silence fell over the crowd that surrounded the training ring as Goran Grey moved his body to the centre of the ring and scouted his eyes for his target. Andor Grey was nowhere to be seen. ‘Come out, my brother!’ Goran shouted over the crowd's silence. ‘I hope you're not cowering behind the chambermaids!’
The crowd laughed lightly. King Kodran hinted at a smile, but Jorgen remained silent. He cared not for Goran's dislike for his brother. He cared even less for the king, despite King Kodran knowing nothing of Jorgen’s distain for him.
They waited moments before Andor Grey appeared from behind the stony walls of the courtyard, his squire moving faster than the twenty-two-year-old prince. Andor had a permanent stagger; his cloak hid his legs from the gawking eyes of the crowd, and Andor's head was hung low, hiding his pale face and icy blue eyes. His dark brown hair was becoming unruly and the stubble on his chin was beginning to transform into a dark beard. Behind Andor Grey was his wife, Margot Rose, trudging through the snow in fine furs and her long black hair blowing in the wind, catching snow. She quickly sped past her husband and joined Jorgen's side, ignoring Abigail Grey's presence and stood behind the King of Askavold.
‘I see that my sons have an issue with arriving before their own king,’ Kodran spat at the sight of his youngest true-born child, the child that had killed his wife as he entered the world. His words made Andor's head rise and smile at his father.
‘Walking does not come so easy to some, father,’ the youngest son of the king uttered spitefully as he threw his cloak from his body into the arms of his squire and motioned to his metal leg that caused his permanent limp, strapped to his severed limb with leather belt from above where his knee had once been. The memory flooded back to Jorgen like a cruel nightmare; there had been so much blood when Andor's leg had been lost to him, when Goran had cut his younger brother in the training yard two years prior, only for infection to fester inside of his sliced flesh. The infection had taken his leg from him, and now a hunk of icy metal was in its place. Andor Grey had been lucky to live, although he would tell a different tale.
‘I was beginning to think you weren't going to show your face.’ Goran grinned at his younger brother, his sword poised. ‘We all know what happened last time we fought with sharpened steel – I thought perhaps you were going to hide from my blade, again.’
‘Perhaps this time it will be you who shall suffer in defeat, and not I.’
Goran Grey laughed mockingly at his younger brother. ‘It will be a cold day in oblivion before that day comes, little brother. I am going to beat you today, and then I am going to win the tournament tomorrow.’
The crowd lingered on their every word; Andor grinned, drew his sword, and moved his armoured body in front of his brother. ‘I may surprise you yet.’
‘You have never done so before.’
The young men took their stances, and pressed their blades together. ‘This is a mistake; why is he even fighting Goran again?’ Jorgen whispered in Abigail’s ear, fret in his voice. ‘Andor is going to find himself dead.’
‘He cannot hide from Goran forever,’ she uttered back as each brother readied himself. ‘There is just so much taunting a man can take before he’s given no choice but to fight for his honour.’
‘Do not bring harm to my heir,’ King Kodran shouted to Andor before their fight begun, silencing Abigail’s tongue. ‘Heavens forbid that you should take his place.’
Andor's face twisted, but his lips remained sealed.
Prince Jorgen Black had no love for the King of Askavold, especially when his words were so cruel, and yet despite the Prince of Balfold’s secret hatred for the king, Kodran loved Jorgen like he was his own flesh and blood. He loved Jorgen more than he loved his youngest child. The king brought Jorgen and his brother to the capital every year, every summer, for the past ten years s
ince Kodran had taken the throne from Ragnar Lienhart. The king knew that Jorgen and his family had been close with the old, cursed king, and Kodran had spent the past decade trying to show Jorgen and his royal western family that what Kodran had done what was necessary. Jorgen’s mind had not been changed – Jorgen wondered whether if Caeda was still alive, whether she would consider him a traitor to her, to her father, for even being in King Kodran’s presence. He hoped not. His loathing for the king remained, but he wouldn’t show it – King Kodran had murdered Jorgen’s father-by-law, and in doing so, ripped Jorgen’s own wife from his side.
Jorgen had always done what he had to do to make his life easier during the summer visits, even if it meant silencing his tongue every time the new king would ridicule his youngest son. Jorgen took great pity on the one-legged prince; he had the eyes of a broken man, and his father and brother had caused it. Jorgen watched as the smile dropped from Andor's cheeks and his eyes flared with anger. ‘What a shame it would be if I were to take my brother’s place.’ Andor replied, his mouth set in a hard, straight line and eyes dancing with abhorrence. His eyes returned to his brother.
Goran Grey was the first to swing his sword without warning.
The younger of the brothers stepped back in the snow, lashing his blade. It met with Goran's with a loud crash of singing metal. The clash of blades echoed through the silent training yard. Goran moved his body forward with each swing of his blade, pushing Andor backwards, swords slicing through the air. Jorgen watched with apprehension, his heart pounding his chest, his body swaying from the drink.
Andor slid around Goran in the snow, catching him off guard. Andor was no swordsman, but he was fast and agile, especially for a man who bore a single leg. Andor appeared pleased with himself as he slashed his blade at his older brother. It caught Goran's cheek, drawing a trail of blood down his wintery skin. Goran Grey's eyes widened with surprise. Jorgen heard the king curse.
The youngest son of the king slashed his sword again towards his brother with anger, and Goran's weapon defended Andor's attack; their blades met each other, cutting through the air, crashing together and parting again. Neither blade touched skin, only steel. Goran threw his shining blade once more with all of his strength, swinging from his core; their blades met again, but the strength of Goran's attack worked in his favour. Andor slipped over the snow at the powerful blow, throwing his body backwards and taking his foot from underneath him. His blade slipped from his grasp across the slippery snow. The crowd gasped, and Jorgen noticed how Andor's wife Margot tried to hide her smile – her hatred of her husband was well spoken of.
Goran pointed his blade in his brother's face and smiled smugly. ‘Not so tough now, are you brother?’
Andor smacked his brother's blade away from him with the palm of his hand. It drew blood, but the young prince didn't seem to notice as it dripped into the snow. He came to a stand, grasped his fallen blade with his cut hand, and took his stance. ‘Let us try again; I can beat you, I know I can. I will win.’
Goran grinned. ‘I never tire of seeing you try, only to fail again.’ He unexpectedly slashed his blade at Andor Grey. The younger prince leapt back as the blade neared his face and raised his sword. He slashed it back, this time with more force, pushing Goran backwards as their blades met. Each parried with as much strength as they could muster; Andor could not deny that his older brother possessed more strength than he had, but Goran could not deny that his younger brother was faster than he was, even with a metal leg. It became clear that Andor Grey's slow limp was little more than an act; even Goran was surprised by the quickness of his younger, crippled brother. Andor was taller than his brother, making him a larger target for his older brother to strike, but Goran couldn't seem to hit him with his speed.
As well as Goran's strength, he had been granted the privilege of training with his weapon with the best swordsman in the realm since he was but a boy, a privilege which Andor was not allowed to share; and although Andor did not hold a sword as well as his brother, or swing it with incredible power, he was keeping himself alive from his brother's blade.
King Kodran made it very clear which brother he wished to see crowned victorious, and it was not his youngest boy. He cheered at Goran's every strong swing, and shouted in frustration at Andor's every surprisingly powerful parry. Jorgen remained silent, praying that the past would not repeat itself, trying to keep his drunken balance.
‘You look tired brother.’ Goran noticed, shouting at Andor over the roar of their blades colliding. Andor granted him no response, his breathing becoming laboured and balancing on his icy metal leg became a struggle. To the amazement of the crowd – and the surprise of Andor Grey – Goran's steel cut through the chilling air in a new direction, crashing against the metal of Andor's new leg before the young prince had a chance to block the blow. The power of the strike caused the metal leg to be pulled out from underneath him, and once again Andor found his body smacking into the icy, snow covered ground. The breath was stolen from his lungs. His blade was still firmly in his grasp when Goran approached his brother before he could stand and pressed his frozen steel boots upon Andor's hand, pushing painfully until he released his grasp upon his long sword. Andor let go, and Goran kicked the blade across the snow.
‘Like I said, it will be a cold day in oblivion the day you beat me,’ Goran sneered down at his brother, cold in the ice. Kodran cheered for his heir as Goran pointed his blade at his brother's leg, the one that had not been severed from his body. The crowd silenced their tongues.
‘Don't you dare,’ Andor threatened as he felt the pointed end of his brother's blade breaking his skin through the brown cotton on his thighs. Jorgen prayed Goran would head his warning or that the king would intervene, but Kodran uttered no words, and watched with anticipation.
Goran’s eyes narrowed. ‘I am to be the king of this realm, your king; therefore, I will do as I please.’ The blade sunk deeper into Andor’s skin.
Andor grinned up at his brother, ignoring the pain. ‘If you ever become king, that is.’
‘Is that a threat, little brother?’ Goran hissed, sticking the blade deeper into his brother's broken skin. Blood began to soak the snow beneath the prince.
‘That was not a threat, my lord.’ Andor spat the words.
‘It was not a threat, but a promise,’ Jorgen whispered under his wispy breath, seeing the promise in Andor Grey’s deep blue eyes.
Goran sighed heavily in the cold, removing the sharp end of his blade from his brother's leg. The pain lifted, and Goran lowered his mouth to his brother's ear as he lay upon the snowy floor. ‘You killed my mother, and one day you'll pay for it. You'd best quieten you tongue before that day comes sooner than you think. You'd do well to remember that, little brother. I could take that leg as easily as I took the other one.’ He whispered under the roar of the winter's wind, his voice too quiet for the men that surrounded them to hear. Andor's eye twitched as he kept his mouth numbingly closed. He dared not react, not now. For the first time in a decade, the mention of Andor and Goran's mother did not spark a dark reaction from the youngest of the brothers; Andor did not respond, nor did his face change.
Jorgen half expected Andor to stand and try to fight Goran again, but Andor did not such thing; he knew he had lost the battle, but the war had not yet come. He still had time. ‘I'll see you at supper.’ Goran smiled bitterly, twisting on his heel in the snow victorious, and Jorgen watched as Andor’s blood soaked the snow, and the Prince of the Balfold knew that Andor was plotting as he lay in the cold.
‘What’s he planning?’ Jorgen whispered to his sister, Andor’s threat coursing through his mind as he watched the youngest son of King Kodran pulling himself up in the bloodstained snow. ‘I know Andor well, and he has a look in his eyes, like he’s going to do something foolish.’
Abigail’s voice was barely a whisper under the whistling wind. ‘He’s going to kill his brother.’
Jorgen had prepared to quench his empty stomach full o
f mead in preparation for the king’s cruel tournament; the young Prince of Balfold was the only man to believe he was a better fighter when drink overtook his haunted mind. His half-sister, Abigail Black, thought differently. ‘You’re going to find yourself dead,’ she urged, forcing her younger brother into his loose shining black armour, watching as he drew the dark fluid to his full lips. ‘We have not long buried your mother – I cannot bury you too.’
‘When I fight sober, I think too much,’ he told his worried sister as Abigail helped him with his armour; she fastened his black steel breastplate, branded with the crow of their House as the sun rose the following morning over the wintery city. The dragon’s screeching could be heard for miles over the roars of the raging winds, the winter growing stronger over the lands as the sun crept over the tops of the grey-white mountains and touched the cliff side castle of Stone Keep. Jorgen gazed at the white dragons from the window as Abigail handed Jorgen his gloves. He took to a careful seat and Abigail moved swiftly behind him, sighing heavily with frustration. ‘To drink makes my heart steady and brave in the heat of the fight, and to drink keeps my thoughts from racing with fear.’
The red-head could tell when her brother was lying – he was the best swordsman in all of Balfold, sober, especially when sober. ‘To drink too much is to drop your blade and fall unconscious in the snow, again. It’s an excuse to drink more when you do not need to.’ Abigail’s lips tightened as she pulled her brother’s dark hair backwards and tied it into a messy knot on his crown. Her grip on his hair was rough and he winced as he pulled at it like a rag doll. ‘Careful,’ he seethed as she yanked at his black hair.