by T L Drew
‘I will do what I can.’
She took a hold of Jorgen’s hand and pulled him to the cell she had been tending to. Verath flew back to Jorgen’s broad, fur-covered shoulder and screeched deafeningly as his painful steps towards the cell grew closer. Jorgen followed her gaze, deep into the dark cell. There was a man sleeping inside upon a straw bed, still as a statue with laboured breathing. The roof of the cell was leaking, water dripping onto the stone floor and soaking the straw and hay upon it. The moment Jorgen laid eyes upon him, the ring against his chest began to burn hotter, almost painful, like flames flickering against his skin. Jorgen knew this time he was not imagining it; he was stone cold sober – the ring was burning him, and the whispering of the man whose voice resembled the old Askavold king returned in his ear. ‘This man is very hurt,’ Nora said quietly as not to wake him as Jorgen scratched his chin, trying to listen to her words, and not his. ‘His thighs and his calves have been sliced with blades, and he is suffering from starvation and dehydration, and yet he cannot keep food or water down. His skin is badly burnt and I worry his wounds might catch an infection, but whenever I try to tend to his wounds, he goes into a madness and I cannot touch him.’
‘Why is he locked in here?’ Jorgen asked with uncertainty, the ring scolding his skin, hotter and hotter.
‘Your father insists, seeing as we know very little of where he came from and what happened to him.’ Reidar had a reputation for being frightened of most things that were unknown to him, Jorgen knew.
‘I will to go inside and speak with him,’ Jorgen was sure, his ring perplexing him. The cell was opened, and Jorgen was let inside. Nora waited outside for Jorgen to call her inside of the cell, although the cell door was kept wide open as he hesitantly peered over the straw bed and gazed at the man. The man’s chest rose and fell with shallow, pained breaths. His fine furs and cloak were bloodstained and cut. He had long dark curls, dripping with sweat on his head, and his skin had turned from an icy white to a lobster red, as though he had been burned by the sun.
The bird on Jorgen’s shoulder was angry. His screams were deafening in his ear, and the ring’s whisperings grew faster, more urgent.
‘Something has your bloody bird startled,’ Nora stated, making a casual gesture. ‘He will wake the man.’
‘Quiet.’ Jorgen ordered as he drew his hands to stroke the soft feathers, and the bird reluctantly obeyed. His ring scorched his chest so hot that he quickly drew his hand away and pulled the ring out from underneath his tunic. He could smell his own flesh burning. He did not let his betrothed see his pain. Jorgen took a deep breath and tried not to think of it; perhaps the journey had taken a terrible toll on him.
‘This man is southern,’ Jorgen noticed his skin was as red as blood from the scorching sun and his fine furs a light colour that only came from the southern wolves. His breastplate bore the mark of House Castle. ‘And yet this man is very far from home. Has he spoken to you?’
‘His name is Ser Ivar Castle.’ Nora said quietly. ‘He did not say much more.’
‘This man has journeyed very far,’ Jorgen noticed, the name Castle was very familiar in the south of Askavold, especially Tronenpoint. His skin was burnt and his boots were glued with white sand. Jorgen had been to the desert north, only once since the war – he had been many times before. The sand was almost the colour of snow and the sun was so hot it only took moments to burn the skin. It was a frightening place since the Great War between the cursed bloods and mankind, lawless and feral, where thieves ran riot in the cities and the streets were ridden with whores. Outside the cities, the tribesmen rode horses through the deserts with their spears and scythes and were barely more civilised than savages, butchering anyone who dared stand in their path. Since the fall of the Lienhart family, the north had suffered, greater than any of the other kingdoms in Balfold or Askavold. One trip since the Great War to the north was all Jorgen wished – but he had gone to look for her. ‘He has recently been beyond the Great Gates of Tholon. What would a man like Ser Ivar be doing there?’
‘If I had to make an assumption, I would say he was searching for the Lienhart girl – there’s rumours coming from the south of her return.’ Nora said surely, leaning her thin arms on the bars. Jorgen’s heart stopped for a moment – was she speaking of Caeda? Hearing it was painful enough, especially when Jorgen’s history in the north was the only thing he had ever kept from the woman he loved.
‘Which one?’ He asked, not certain he wanted to hear the answer.
‘Caeda Lienhart,’ she replied. ‘I think the other Lienhart girls are dead.’
‘Did Ivar Castle mention her? I heard she died.’ Jorgen asked with his lip between his teeth, remembering everything he had ever tried to forget in a flash of unforgiving, dark memories.
‘Briefly.’ Nora replied, blissfully unaware. ‘He spoke of an army of the undead.’
Jorgen Black was quick to notice ebony ink dripping from the cracks of the walls as he stood outside of the cell. It trickled down the stone, like it had in his nightmare, like he had seen in the north, ten years before. He wondered if his ring played tricks on his mind. It’s just water, he told himself – even though it looked like the ink that followed her. His eyes drew back to the sleeping man. His chest had stilled, and his body was frozen like a statue. Jorgen learned forward into the man and smelt smoke. He placed his head on the man’s chest and heard nothingness.
‘I think he’s dead.’ Jorgen uttered, his ring burning, knowing in that moment, that she was alive, and she had killed him.
THORBJORN
The moon glared over the ancient, wintry city, the ominous white light illuminating the chilly throne room as the king’s nephew gazed at the most wicked man he had ever known. Thorbjorn Grey – or more commonly referred to as the Sky Knight – remembered the agonising day that Prince Andor Grey had lost his leg like only a few days had passed him by, rather than two long and painful years. His thoughts lingered back to that moment as Thorbjorn stared at his fat, balding uncle, the King of Askavold, with a crippling disappointed. King Kodran had done nothing but cruelly snigger when he heard the news that his youngest son had been struck, the infection festering in his wound, and Thorbjorn tried to keep Kodran’s cruelty in his mind as he convinced himself that if the king were to die, it might be the best thing to happen to the six kingdoms of Askavold, as well as for his family.
He tried to think of all the wicked, evil things Kodran Grey had done; he had brutally beheaded Ragnar Lienhart for nothing more than being born with cursed blood, tried to butcher Ragnar’s children, and let the realm sink into a state of death and decay and wicked slavery. Thorbjorn had been forced to watch the executions.
‘Have you received word of the Lienhart boy?’ King Kodran asked his skeletal old brother, Hakon Grey, Thorbjorn’s aging father, as they stood inside of the throne room, the king seeking council. Kodran Grey was sat hunched ruggedly in his throne; he was old, his face as grey as his beard and the man was withering away with each passing winter, but the man was not so old when he had taken the throne from the Lienhart’s over ten years prior, and since Kodran had taken the throne from the cursed family, the realm was falling into ruin. The poor starved in the streets and slavery was on the rise, keeping the old, fat king in power.
The mention of the Lienhart family brought a familiar anger to Thorbjorn; he had been a young man and he had refused to fight during the Great War, but he had seen enough blood and destruction. He had seen Kodran beheading the old king and members of his family. Thorbjorn had always had a fondness for Ragnar Lienhart before his death, and the old king had always held a fondness for the Thorbjorn, as well as his youngest cousin.
‘Rob Lienhart fled my blade, and it still waits for him after all these years.’ The king hissed with venom. Thorbjorn had remained silent, sceptical, listening to the words of his own father that circled in his mind. ‘Just keep your head down my son, let it all happen, and it will be over soon.’ Hakon Grey had said. Thorbj
orn remembered his words, kept his head down, and waited for it to happen. It is what the king deserves, he told himself, again and again until he believed it.
‘The Lienhart boy hides upon the Frozen Isles, still at his mother’s breast, it would seem.’ Hakon responded blankly. ‘He wages war with Lord Whitehall for claim to the lands, fuelled by his crazed mother’s words. I must remind you, Your Grace, that Vilkas Whitehall has married your daughter, and it would be a mistake to stand by while he fights the dogs alone.’
‘Bloody cursed men,’ the king spat with hatred like poison on his tongue, the thoughts of his only daughter stuck on an island with the last known cursed men to have survived the Great War. ‘They’ll be the death of us all if they continue to breed.’
‘Perhaps it would be wise send a small fleet,’ Goran intervened. ‘Surely a few thousand men could easily put Rob Lienhart in the ground.’
Kodran’s scowl deepened. ‘You did not see what these creatures are capable of.’
‘It was dark times; I remember them as though they were just days past,’ Hakon spoke, his voice barely a whisper. ‘We had been fed rumours of what Ragnar Lienhart’s army could do, that they were not as strong as we believed them to be. We were told that they were not truly cursed, and yet, when we met them upon the battlefield, the sun scorching our skin and sand blowing into our eyes, it appeared we were doomed from the start. They truly were cursed, and we did the near impossible defeating them. It was sheer luck that most of them are buried under the sand. Luckily, we found their weakness when we were gifted with the Imbane Ore from the Isles of Mór. It was only when Ragnar Lienhart fell that the rest of them followed. And yet, Rob Lienhart and his pack are still very much alive, and if they gain control of the Frozen Isles, it won’t be long before he returns to the mainland to try and claim back the throne.’
Mentioning Ragnar Lienhart angered Thorbjorn further; he had seen Kodran beheading the old king with his own eyes, as a young man, and the images still haunted him cruelly, and yet killing Ragnar Lienhart had not been enough for King Kodran; Thorbjorn’s eyes moved to the king’s throne, forged from the bones of the dead, Ragnar Lienhart’s skull carefully placed on top of Kodran’s throne. The bones of Kodran’s victims joined Ragnar’s, the bones of Ragnar’s infant child, Ragnar’s father who had been stolen from his tomb, and other cursed men who had rallied behind their king to battle Kodran Grey, the usurper. Kodran continued to mock the dead as he sat his fat ass upon their bones. Even the new king’s crown was crafted from bone, but instead of the bones of man, a white fox – the Grey House’s sigil – had been slaughtered for it. The king even wore the beast’s white fur over his hunched shoulders. He took great pride in mocking the dead.
‘Yes, we must kill the boy and his whore mother before the problem spreads. I heard several of his siblings still reside with him, and one of Ragnar’s girls is in the desert north; soon at least one of the dogs will come knocking on our doors, trying to take back what is mine.’ Kodran stated.
‘Or perhaps we could leave the boy be,’ Andor interjected, his eyes darting to his father. ‘Has his life not been ruined enough? He was but a sixteen-year-old boy when you beheaded his father. His life has been nothing but a misery, and now Vilkas Whitehall is trying to destroy what little family he has left.’
Kodran laughed, deep and haunting. Thorbjorn and Andor scowled at the king’s mocking. ‘You are soft boy, not like your brother here. He knows what must be done for this realm, don’t you, son?’
Goran agreed with the king. ‘Rob Lienhart and his family must be dealt with.’
All second thoughts of what was to come lifted from Thorbjorn’s mind; the king was an evil man, and his eldest son was no better than a mindless soldier. Even though he was the commander of the king’s royal guard, sworn to protect Kodran, Thorbjorn was going to betray his promise, but if it meant that justice for the Lienhart family, justice for Andor Grey and the people of Askavold who froze in the streets and were sold into slavery, then Thorbjorn was glad to be on the right side of justice, no matter the betrayal or the broken oath. It is for the greater good, he told himself.
The king raised himself on his bony throne, but did not stand. ‘Hakon, send word to Vilkas Whitehall of the Frozen Isles; tell him that we will aid him and send as many men as he requires in his extermination of the cursed men. Their kind is no longer welcome upon Askavold soil, be it sand or snow.’
‘You shall be sending no army to the Frozen Isles father,’ Andor stated boldly, standing at his Uncle Hakon’s side. He took a long, sharp breath. ‘Cursed or not, the Lienhart’s are a great breed; man has no reason to fear them. They ruled over these lands for hundreds of years, and Askavold thrived. They could be powerful allies. Since you took Ragnar’s head and tore down his throne, the six kingdoms have fallen into a dire state, and that is on your head, father. I think it’s time for a change in the ruling of this realm.’ Andor paused, took a breath, and raised his voice with a smile, his bold and confident. ‘I will toss your body into the sea, or feed it to the dogs. Men and women will thank the gods, and I for one, will celebrate like no other. I will drink in celebration of your death until I cannot piss straight.’
Kodran’s mouth hung ajar. His face twisted in anger. ‘Are you threatening, boy?’
‘Yes, I am.’ Andor smiled boldly.
‘Arrest him,’ Kodran ordered his guards sternly. ‘Make certain he rots in the dungeons until there’s nothing left of him.’
The guards did not move. The silence in the throne room deepened.
Andor smirked at his father. Kodran’s head wildly whipped around to his guards that stood as still as steel statues and Goran watched on with bewilderment. ‘I am not going anywhere.’ Andor assured, folding his arms across his broad chest.
‘You will do as your king tells you to do,’ Goran Grey spat, taking a step towards his younger brother with his gloved hand on the handle of his long sword. Thorbjorn could not help but notice the surprised smile upon his cousin’s face at the thought of Andor Grey rotting in a cell, sitting in his own filth. Goran pulled the blade fractionally from his holster. Thorbjorn mimicked him as Goran took a step closer to his grinning brother, protective of Andor. Thorbjorn moved himself between the brothers.
The youngest son of King Kodran found Goran’s actions nothing less than amusing. ‘And finally, the good little soldier speaks! A righteous knight, the protector of the weak – as you so proudly proclaim – and yet you do nothing as our father plots to butcher an innocent family; this will not continue anymore, dear brother. There’s going to be a change around here.’
‘What are you waiting for?’ Kodran shouted to his guards. ‘I gave you an order, now follow it!’
‘They don’t take orders from you anymore.’ Hakon Grey said after a long silence, twisting his body towards his older brother and walked up the steps towards the throne. ‘Although I detest the cursed bloods as much as you do, you have outstayed your welcome in this life, brother. The soldiers take orders from their new king now.’
‘What in oblivion do you think you’re doing, uncle?’ Goran ordered as Hakon grasped his skeletal hand roughly around the crown that perched upon Kodran’s head and pried it from him with bony old hands. Kodran’s mouth hung open, lost for words as Hakon passed the crown to Andor Grey, placing it upon the boy’s head with an air of confidence. The room fell into a stunned silence.
‘I have more to gain with another sat upon the throne.’ Hakon told them boldly.
Andor Grey clicked his pallid fingers with a poised smile. In an instant, the guards around the room grasped their rough hands around Goran’s thick arms, removing the shining sword from his hip and tossed it aside before he could process what was happening. The blade clattered against the stone, ringing deafeningly through the shadowy throne room. Thorbjorn watched tediously as Goran was roughly restrained, Kodran’s face plastered with confusion.
Wordlessly, Andor Grey spun on his steel heel to face his aging father, the
bony, twisting crown upon his dark head, and pulled a small shining blade from his leather belt. His knife, Winterthorn – whose handle had been carved into the lean body of a steel fox – shined menacingly in the dim light of the flaming torches and etched closer towards King Kodran with zeal.
‘Hakon, Thorbjorn...Andor, what–’ Andor grasped his father’s oily grey hair in his pale hands and yanked his head backwards towards Ragnar’s bones as Kodran sat upon his haunting throne. ‘Don’t–’ The knife rapidly glided across Kodran’s throat like soft butter as Andor dragged the sharp blade across his thin, pallid skin. Thick blood gushed down his neck and Kodran quickly began to choke, blood splattering from his mouth, past cracked lips and sprayed onto his lap, his eyes bulging in pain with the realisation he was going to die. Kodran’s hands found his throat, desperately clawing as his blood soaked him, running down his sleeves as he tried urgently hold his skin together. Winterthorn, and the man who brandished the blade was strong, and the blade was sharp and the cut had been clean. The king gargled and chocked on his own blood. Kodran’s head fell back as he drew his last breaths, the wound from Andor’s knife splitting deeper as it rolled back against the chair crafted from yellowing bones. His arms fell to his sides. His eyes rolled back deep into his skull.
As Kodran slipped into a permanent black sleep, Andor felt nothing but relief. After years of torture and endless abuse, his father’s torment was at an eternal end – there was no guilt or regret on the young man’s face, only a dark relief. Thorbjorn could see it. Andor’s lips parted, and he let a liberated breath slip from his mouth.
Goran Grey watched in silent horror as Kodran’s blood stained his white furs and turned the yellowing bones of the old king’s red. A crippling silence echoed through the throne room as the guards watched and Thorbjorn breathed a sigh of relief, years of planning finally coming together.