A King Of Crows

by T L Drew

  The resonance of war echoed through the city like a powerful storm. They could all hear it, blood soaking the soil.

  The ring around his neck urged him to place it around his finger. He could feel it burning wildly against his chest, desperate. Jorgen ignored the ring’s voice in his head, pleading with him, making him feel as though he was going mad. The prince quickly ripped the chain from around his neck and rode towards the carriage, Nora in his sights. The bird panickily flew from his shoulder and disappeared into the night.

  ‘What’s happening? What are we going to do?’ Jakub’s voice rose in a panic, riding towards his prince.

  ‘Your Grace?’ An armoured man asked when Jorgen did not respond.

  ‘Half of you, stay here, take Nora and my brother south, to Svart Sommer.’ Jorgen’s voice was panicked, thinking too fast, shouting to his men. ‘The rest of you will come back with me, back to Solvstone. I fear that Hakon Grey is attacking the city.’

  ‘I’ll ride with you,’ Jakub said surely.

  ‘And I,’ Elinor agreed.

  ‘No,’ Nora urged from the carriage window. Erik was protesting behind her. ‘Stay, with us, please.’

  ‘Take it!’ Jorgen shouted to Nora, throwing the ring from his neck. Nora caught the ring and felt the burn of the hot metal in her icy palm. He felt the rip in his chest as it was far from his touch, an ache he had never felt. He wouldn’t let Hakon have his ring – the old man was determined to take everything from Jorgen, but the Prince of Balfold wouldn’t let him have his ring, nor his bride. ‘Don’t wear it. Don’t let him find it. Ride hard, to Svart Sommer. I’ll be there with you soon, I promise.’

  Jorgen turned his horse before he could change his mind. He drew his eyes from her. Erik was shouting at Jorgen from the back of the carriage. Elinor and Jakub turned with him and moved their mounts behind him as Jorgen began to ride towards the blaze, several of his soldiers riding with him, and the few remaining Night Cloaks readied themselves outside of the carriage.

  ‘Don’t go!’ Nora screamed, but Jorgen didn’t listen.

  ‘Come back! He’ll kill you!’ Erik shouted.

  ‘We must ride harder!’ Jorgen’s voice carried on the wind as he urged his mount faster through the light snow, his companions struggling to keep up with him in his urgency. Nora and Erik’s voices began to quieten as they disappeared into the darkness. He thought about his father and wondered what had gone wrong for Hakon Grey to attack the city; perhaps his father had changed his mind about bending the knee, or perhaps the unpredictable, malevolent old man had decided to kill them all anyway, for a sport. Hakon Grey’s mind was twisted, and with the powerful ring upon his finger, Jorgen had no idea what he would be capable of.

  They rode hard, harder than Jorgen had ever rode before. They rode closer and closer to the burning city. The smell of smoke grew sickeningly stronger. He could hear the songs of war; the clashing of steel against steel, blades cutting through flesh and bone, panicked screams and fires blazing. He rode past the common people running for their lives with trepid fear, towards the forest.

  He watched as the black smoke raised high into the night, flames dancing in the darkness and engulfing the city, his beloved home burning before him. Screams grew louder as blood spilled into the streets, the people of Balfold slaughtered by men in steel suits who charged through the large trees of the forest that surrounded Solvstone. They carried fox banners, sprayed with the blood of Jorgen’s people. Steel clashed with steel as the unprepared Black army fought back.

  Jorgen and his men rode into the city, past people who fled for the safety of the trees past the soldiers that left them, swathed in blood and chased by men in steel suits, weapons bared. Jorgen drew Night from his holster as they rode into the city. He swung his blade, catching with southern men, blood spilling.

  He had fought before. He had killed before. He was but a young man when he had been caught in the last war, a fourteen-year-old boy when war had waged in the six kingdoms; he had seen the horrors of war and the people who had suffered. People had died at his hands, but not the cursed men who his family fought against for rule over the six kingdoms of Askavold. He had shed the blood of his own, not that the world knew. Jorgen had killed many men to save Caeda Lienhart from the headsman’s axe, and now he was shedding blood again. The sight of the blood brought all memories back, the cruel horrors of war, the loss of his wife, the loss of the cursed men.

  ‘We must find our fathers, before he does!’ Jakub shouted over the clash of swords to Jakub and Elinor. Jorgen couldn’t see the young boy, not anymore, not through the smoke, but he could still hear his young voice, all the fear gone from the fourteen-year-old. Jorgen was riding towards the castle, his eyes set upon Crow’s Keep, slashing and stabbing his way to the castle at any man who wore the Grey armour. Many men tried to cut him from his horse, but Jorgen was too fast, too skilled. They were all met with the cold embrace of Night. He saw Elinor swinging her blade, staining the white snow red with another man’s blood before he lost sight of her in the smoke, like he had lost sight of Jakub. His sword crashed with metal again and again, meeting other blades, axes and cutlasses. The clash of metal began to hurt his head and began panting with each swing of his blade on top of his panicked mount. He lost count of how many soldiers and mercenaries he had cut down within minutes of battle as he rode hard with determination towards Crow’s Keep, piercing their skin through metal suits. His blade, Night, had become white with ice and frozen blood.

  ‘For the southern king!’ Jorgen heard a man’s voice over the resonance of war as Crow’s Keep grew dangerously close. The mountain appeared more foreboding than ever. The slash of a blade caused Jorgen’s horse to throw him from her back, his body crashing into the hard snow, a blizzard of smoke and snow in his black eyes. He took a painful stand, wearing the snow like a second skin as he clambered to his feet, a blade swinging towards him. Jorgen raised his sword, and Night met with another blade, the clash of metal ringing through his ears. Their swords broke, met again, and broke once more as their vision was clouded by the smoke and the falling snow. Jorgen swung again, a pained sound escaping his lips as his blade met with the man’s flesh in a break in his armour, catching in the man’s neck, spraying Jorgen’s face with warm, fresh blood. The man fell, and Jorgen charged onwards after he freed his blade from the man’s dying body. With each step Jorgen ran, he prepared himself to turn and face the old man who terrorised his home and ordered the slaughter of his people, but each step was met with another man who fought for him, or one of his own who ran from the Grey army. ‘Where the fuck are you, old man?’ Jorgen shouted in the night, killing any man who stood in his way – southern soldiers, sell-swords and hired mercenaries. With his sword poised, he finally reached the entrance to the Crow’s Keep courtyard, and Jorgen realised he was entirely alone. Jakub, Elinor and his men had been lost to him in the battle.

  A voice came calling from inside the courtyard. A voice that frightened him, like it always had, so familiar and yet so cruel. It taunted him.

  ‘Jorgen Black!’ A voice called over the resonance of war, deep and haunting from inside the courtyard. ‘Jorgen Black, come out! I have your father, boy!’

  Jorgen compelled his body forward as he heard Hakon’s cruel words. His heart pounded in his chest as smoke clouded his vision. The world around him seemed to distort as he pushed by the open gates and into the snowy courtyard, snow soaked with fresh blood. Jorgen could see him before his eyes, the skeletal man, staring up at Crow’s Keep where Jorgen’s balcony was in view. Hakon shouted to Jorgen’s chambers, his voice sinister, believing the prince to be inside. ‘Come out boy! Come out or your father will hang!’

  Hakon Grey was not alone. He was surrounded by men in steel armour, holding the banners of the white fox and holding their weapons poised in gloved hands. Jorgen could scarcely see them all through the smoke of the burning city as he moved painfully quiet towards the sinister group of armed men. Behind them was a stage, a stage that
was not there before the sun went down over Solvstone. ‘Hakon,’ the young man called in a raspy voice, Night held tightly in his icy hands. ‘Stop what you’re doing, before it’s too late.’ His voice shouted over the muffled sounds of war.

  The old man’s eyes found Jorgen Black, turning his eyes away from the balcony overhanging Crow’s Keep. His thin, cracked lips turned into a wicked smile from across the blooded courtyard. His men stayed where they stood, surrounding the wooden stage. Two dark silhouettes in the darkness stood upon it, still. ‘I knew you could come, Jorgen. Honour controls you. Honour is what will get you killed.’

  ‘I’m not a puppet, old man.’ Jorgen spat, moving ever closer, wondering if he would ever leave the courtyard. He was alone with two dozen soldiers and mercenaries, and the old man himself, and yet no one moved, all eyes upon him as Jorgen moved towards them, his blade poised and ready. He had faced worst odds, as a fourteen-year-old boy. He had protected the people he loved, even if it meant killing many more. He was prepared to do it again, if he must.

  ‘I beg to differ.’ Hakon scoffed, twisting his gaunt body towards the stage, moving himself up the wooden, creaking steps, and placed grey eyes back upon the young man. ‘You’re my puppet, and I know how to pull your strings – you’re here, and that says it all.’

  Jorgen was close enough then to see his father stood upon the wooden stage, a bar stool under his feet. Amund stood next to him, stood upon another, mouths bound with rough material. He saw their wrists and ankles tied together with thick rope. It was then that his rapid heart skipped a beat at the sight of rough rope wrapped around their necks, tied to a banister above them, ready to hang. ‘Let them go,’ Jorgen said quietly, panicked. He was close to the Grey soldiers now, but no one moved a muscle, no one went to strike him, and yet none of them moved from around the wooden platform, surrounding it. Jorgen’s eyes locked with his fathers, filled with terror. ‘Hakon, please–’

  ‘–Your father was having second thoughts about bending the knee. This man whispered in his ear all evening about changing his mind, trying to get Reidar to go to war with the south for the crown. Your father was starting to listen.’ Hakon said as he moved towards Amund’s stool. Amund Krea tried to make a sound, tried to speak, but the bindings in his mouth prevented it, his eyes fearing death.

  Jorgen took a step forward, his heart racing and sweat beading down his forehead, despite the sheer cold. The soldiers that surrounded the platform stepped forward with brandished weapons, forcing Jorgen backwards. He was surrounded, but his eyes were focused on his father, calculating a way to come to his aid.

  ‘Tonight, it will be the end of House Black,’ Hakon said as he stared at the young prince. ‘House Krea will soon follow – unless you do the right thing. Surrender your crown. Your father decided to keep his. You’ll be the king, after this night, if you surrender the west to Askavold rule, and I’ll consider letting the Black family line continue, out of the kindness of my heart.’

  Jorgen shook his head. His foot jerked forward. The stool was pushed out from underneath Amund’s legs. Before Jorgen could move the second stool was roughly knocked over, the rope tightening around Reidar’s neck, suspending him in the air.

  Amund’s neck snapped. Reidar wasn’t as lucky.

  Jorgen charged forward, blade ready to swing. The soldiers moved forward with him, ready to strike. Jorgen couldn’t break through the barrier without being struck, he was certain, and breaking through was impossible without meeting his end. Panicked, he jumped back, watching in disbelief, trying to find a way to save his father.

  ‘What do you want from me?!’ Jorgen cried, darting in all directions, searching for aid. ‘Cut him down! Cut him down now!’

  ‘Cut him down yourself,’ Hakon said with a grin from ear to ear, motioning for Jorgen to join him upon the stage. ‘Come on boy, would you truly leave your father hanging there? Come and get him.’

  Jorgen stepped forward, boots crunching over the snow. He could see his father’s bound legs dangling, jerking as he struggled for breath. He was chocking, his cheeks turning red and purple, eyes bulging, searching for help. The young man swung his blade. It cut a man in the crevice of his armour, blood spurting wildly from the wound into the snow. Jorgen swung and swung again as the soldiers surrounded him, cutting through the air, their blades unable to strike the fast and agile prince. Jorgen tried to cut his way to the podium. He wore their blood like a second skin, staining his furs. He tried to reach his father. He tried to kill any man that stood in his way. Although Jorgen and his father rarely saw eye to eye, he loved his father all the same, and would kill anyone who tried to harm him.

  Sweat and blood ran down his forehead. Smoke blinded them. His body was growing tired, but he tried to reach Reidar before it was too late. Jorgen struck down man after man, more skilled, powerful and agile than any man who faced him, until only a third of Hakon’s men remained unscathed.

  ‘Stop!’ Jorgen heard Hakon’s gruff voice shouting over the clash of blades as Jorgen remained surrounded. ‘Let him through.’

  Blades suddenly lowered at Hakon’s command. The men parted like the red sea, the steps towards the stage revealing themselves through the thick smoke and snow. Jorgen kept his blade drawn, black eyes on Reidar as his life slipped away from him, time running out. The young man rushed towards the steps. ‘I’m coming father,’ Jorgen urged to Reidar as he sped for the steps, past armoured men with swords drawn and haunting eyes upon him through partitions in their helms. ‘Hold on,’ he urged further, reaching the base of the steps. Hakon Grey sauntered towards Reidar as he dangled, his movements lessening, his body slipping into unconsciousness.

  Hakon stuck his blade into Reidar’s stomach as he flailed for air.

  Jorgen’s feet stopped in the snow. His breath caught in his throat as blood ran from Reidar’s stomach and swathed the wooden platform like a sea of crimson. Hakon withdrew his blooded blade from the King of Balfold with a malevolent smile across his gaunt face and drew his eyes to the young man, sauntering closer as Reidar’s body fell into lifelessness.

  ‘You’re a stupid boy,’ Hakon spoke cruelly as he shook Reidar’s blood from his blade, advancing upon Jorgen who stood at the base of the steps, watching the King of Balfold’s body with shock and disbelief. Jorgen backed up in the snow as Hakon grew closer. ‘You’re going to die tonight, Jorgen. I can make it quick, and clean, if you let me.’

  ‘Fuck you,’ the young man spat, his eyes slowly moving from his father’s body to the old man as Hakon Grey took slow, careful steps down the snowy planks towards Jorgen, his blade raised and ready to strike. ‘I’m not dying, not until I kill you.’ Jorgen promised.

  Hakon grinned, amused. ‘You’re without your ring. You can’t win.’

  Jorgen’s face twisted with perplexity. He backed up, until he could back up no further. The Grey soldiers surrounded him in a smoke-filled circle, blades pointed. He felt the pointed end of a weapon against the back of his armour as he could move back no further. Hakon Grey moved into the circle, blade ready. ‘I’m not dying.’ Jorgen said again, rising Night at his side.

  ‘He’s mine,’ Hakon spoke to his men, eyes dancing over the soldiers, eyes finding Mercer who stood among them. A sharp clang of metal echoed through the courtyard as Jorgen’s blade met with Hakon’s. The young prince saw Hakon’s pale, skeletal face as clear as day through the dark smoke. His head was protected by steel armour and his body was clad in the same shining metal that gave away his location in the darkness, lined with the fur of a white fox. The old man smiled as his blade met with his prey, lured into the courtyard, alone and trying to hide his fear. Their eyes locked in the darkness, their steel pushing against one another, and time almost appeared to stop as they stared at one another with determination to kill the other. Jorgen Black found the strength he needed to break their swords from one another and cut his sword back down towards Hakon Grey through the bitter, chilling air. Hakon’s armoured body dodged Jorgen’s strike in the smo
ke.

  Hakon backed into the smoke, hiding himself from sight. Jorgen felt a presence suddenly at his side, swinging his sword, slicing through the air with power and cutting at nothing more than smoke that engulfed him. He swung again as Hakon darted through the smoke, as though he could bend it to his own will, moving around him. Jorgen missed again. Hakon was at home in the darkness, a powerful ring on his finger. Smoke filled Jorgen’s laboured lungs, coughing, his sword lowering with depleting strength. He was blinded by the smoke, but by some miracle or sheer luck, Jorgen saw the glimmer of steel in the corner of his dark eyes etching towards him and drew his blade upwards to meet his steel with the steel of the old man. Jorgen suddenly felt weak and powerless without his ring. Hakon was like no opponent Jorgen had ever faced. The ring gave the old man strength he had never possessed.

  Jorgen’s swing of his sword was strong and fast, but Hakon was at home in the smoke and the darkness, and as he dodged Jorgen’s attacks, he appeared to disappear deeper and deeper into the smoke and away from Jorgen’s gaze. Jorgen noticed how clumsy his blows were without his ring, how weaker he was without its power, how hopeless he felt. Hakon’s strength came from the ring; he was old, and the power in his swing was unnatural for a man of his age, nearing his sixth decade.

  Jorgen swung again and again, until once more his blade clashed with Hakon’s sword, the sound ringing through his ears. The smoke barely bothered Jorgen anymore as the determination to kill Hakon dominated him, their steel clashing against each other as they fought, the old man almost vacant from Jorgen’s sight. Then, with a brash of luck, Hakon’s heavy amour caused him to slip onto the cobblestones as Jorgen’s powerful swing of his long sword crashed against Hakon’s weapon. His blade fell from his grip and slid across the stones. The skeletal man gazed up at Jorgen with fear and disbelief. ‘Any last words?’ Jorgen uttered to Hakon Grey as he pointed the end of his blade to Hakon’s throat, the icy steel against the old man’s skin. Hakon’s words caught in his throat, and Jorgen smiled down at his prey with watering eyes. He raised his sword.