A King Of Crows

by T L Drew

  A pain shot through Jorgen’s leg, a pain like no other he had ever felt. It stunned him, and the new King of Balfold froze as he held the sword in the air, about to deliver the death blow to Hakon Grey. His eyes hovered downwards, the sting coursing through his body, and his eyes landed upon blood spilling down his leg and soaking the snow. An arrow penetrated his skin. Jorgen took a stunned breath, tried to ignore the pain, and raised his sword again, shooting his eyes back to his prey. It was then that another arrow hit him, piercing his shoulder from behind. Jorgen felt the force as it collided with his skin.

  Hakon smiled up at Jorgen from the cobblestone floor as the breath was taken from Jorgen’s mouth. Hakon’s men were never going to let the young man win, Jorgen realised as the arrow stuck in his shoulder. Jorgen had never had a chance.

  Through the darkness, a pain crunched through his face, his own blood spilling down from his nose and into his mouth, iron upon his tongue. He stood there for a second, his vision a blur and a pain coursing through his face and his body, attempting to understand what had happened, but he could only register the pain, nothing like he had ever felt before and the sword in his grasp fell to the floor with a crash against the snow-covered cobblestones. Jorgen’s body began to tremble, swaying back and forth as he tried to steady himself, his face in agony as though he had been stabbed with a blade. Then a second crash came before he could steady himself; a large blunt object collided with the rear of Jorgen’s skull, powerful and brisk. His body fell forward, crashing against the cobblestone, his head hitting the rock and blood cascading down from the open wound. Suddenly, Hakon Grey was on his feet in an instant hovering above him, but he was not alone, the group of armoured men surrounding Jorgen’s body in the smoke, clad in familiar steel armour.

  The rise and fall of his chest slowed, his world crashing into darkness as arrows still penetrated his skin. His eyes closed, pain coursing through him, slipping into an agonising lifelessness, but his mind was still alert, still processing what was happening. ‘Where’s my nephew’s ring?’ Hakon spat with malevolence. Jorgen could feel the old man’s hands on his hand, looking on each finger, then ripping his furs. It wasn’t around his neck. ‘Where is it?’ Hakon shouted menacingly, spitting in Jorgen’s face. He dared not tell him, even if he could speak. He felt the kick of Hakon’s steel boot in his chest, then his stomach. The pain was nothing compared to his head or the arrows in his flesh.

  ‘I’m going to find your lover now, she’ll tell me where the ring is,’ A familiar voice whispered in his ear. It was Hakon Grey’s voice, a dull, calm monotone in his ear. Jorgen could feel Hakon’s smile against his ear, cold like the southern snow. ‘When I find Nora, I’m going to hurt her, and I shall be sure to let her know that it is happening to her because of you. You’re going to bleed to death slowly in this courtyard, a slow, painful death, and you’re going to lie there helplessly while I kill her, like I killed your father. Goodnight Jorgen Black, I’ll be thinking about you when I cut her throat.’

  Hakon Grey and his armoured men disappeared back into the castle of Crow’s Keep in search for Nora Ostergaard, Jorgen’s bleeding body left alone in the courtyard, still, his body insentient, but he had heard every word that the old man had spoken to him. He knew that Hakon had never wished to marry Nora; he only enjoyed the pain it caused Jorgen.

  Jorgen Black saw his life flash before his black eyes in that moment. He wondered whether it was his last day, his last moments, and only then was he desperate for it to go on. He didn’t want it to end, especially not like this. There was so much that he wanted to do that he had never achieved, so much he wanted to see that he had never saw; he wanted to have children, to watch them grow, to watch his children have children of their own. He wanted to see the world, to travel to the Isles of Mór and beyond – he had heard of its beauty. He wanted to marry Nora, and take her with him on his travels, to see as much of the world as he could. Jorgen wanted to avenge his father, to kill the man who stuck a sword in his gut, even if it was the last thing he did. He wanted to learn the truth, of what had happened to his wife, a truth he had never learned.

  Jorgen knew it was too late as he drifted into lifelessness, sinking into an endless darkness, and his last thoughts slipped into desperate pleas to the gods, begging to grant him one last day, one last moment with the people he loved.

  His prayers were left unheard, and everything went dark.

  NORA

  Orange flames hissed and licked at the stony buildings like fiery snakes, engulfing the city of Solvstone, flames that Nora and Erik could see over the crest of the low hill, dancing in the darkness – he’s not dead, she heard a quiet whisper as she gazed at the flames, almost specks in the distance. ‘Where is Jorgen, Erik?’ Nora asked with fret as she ignored the whispers, twisting the hot ring in her hands, gazing out of the moving carriage as the burning city was almost void from desperate sight. Jorgen Black had not returned – and despite what she could hear, Nora wouldn’t believe that the prince was alive until she saw him. Her copper eyes were locked upon the smoke that raised high into the starless night sky and blocked the silver glare of the moon, the screams of war deafening even as they rode hard away from the burning city. Even the sounds of Verath’s squawking would have comforted her, but the damn bird was nowhere to be seen. The ring burned her hand, although she could barely comprehend the power she held in her palm, and felt her gut twisting as it scorched her skin – and continued to whisper.

  ‘He’s not coming back,’ the young prince uttered in the darkness, defeated, eyes gazing from the dark wooden box and into the night, fixated upon the flames that danced upon the city as they rode further and further away from the place they called home. ‘Jorgen’s dead. Father’s dead. The Krea’s are dead. They’re all dead.’

  ‘They are alive,’ Nora hissed, her copper eyes finding Erik, narrowing with venom. ‘Don’t speak like that – don’t lose hope, Erik.’

  ‘Can you not hear it?’ Erik interjected, choking back salty tears, his black eyes moving from the flames and finding the young red-headed woman, face blackened by the darkness. ‘The city is ablaze. My father’s people are dead, and Jorgen and my father lie there with them, I can feel it in my gut. I told Jorgen, I had a bad feeling…’

  ‘Quieten your tongue – you’re not helping.’ Nora spat harshly, gazing at the city, trying not to listen to Erik’s words, and instead listened to the whispers. Jorgen had told her much of the power she held in her hands, of all he had heard, all he could feel, and now she too could feel it and hear it, knowing his words to be true.

  ‘Do you remember when you and I first met?’ Nora asked, twisting the ring in her hands after a long moment of quiet, the carriage urging onwards over the snowy lands.

  ‘Of course – your mother escorted you into Crow’s Keep, wearing that foolish green dress, and you tripped on the hem of your frock, in front of my father, and my father laughed so hard his face turned into the colour of summer wine as Jorgen helped you to your feet. He was mad at father for laughing, even though I think Jorgen was drunk that day.’

  ‘He was most certainly drunk, he always is.’ Nora’s rosy lips turned into a weak smile, a blissful memory, despite the embarrassment. ‘Your father took an instant disliking to me, and Jorgen saw that – which is why he agreed to the wedding proposal my mother offered before Reidar could even say no,’ she bit her lip between her teeth, remembering. ‘I wanted to be a warrior, or a knight...I had never wanted to marry, until I met your brother. I pray for him now.’

  ‘I think the moment you fell in front of my father was the moment my brother decided he wanted to be your husband – he could see your discomfort – he knew that you were a warrior, at heart, and he enjoyed the look in father’s face when he said that you were who he wished to marry, too. Father wanted him to marry a true lady, not a woman who swings swords and rides with the soldiers, but Jorgen wanted that.’

  The smile fell from her face, and her eyes once again found the fire t
hat blazed over Solvstone. ‘And yet Jorgen leaves me behind, while he rides into battle.’

  ‘If anything were to happen to you, he would go mad.’ Erik said with certainty, his dark eyes sympathetic. ‘If I could fight, I would fight – but Jorgen wants to keep me safe. I wish I could leave this carriage and search for him, but I know that even if I could, he wouldn’t want it.’

  ‘You only say these words because you wish for me to remain here.’ Nora said quietly, her voice barely heard by Erik’s ears as the carriage jolted.

  ‘Of course,’ he said, his eyes finding hers. ‘You’ll be my sister – I wouldn’t want to see anything happen to you, either.’

  Her fingers tightened around the ring, her eyes finding tears beginning to surface. ‘He’s coming back, Erik. He is, truly – but perhaps I am just going mad.’

  They quickly felt the modest carriage beginning to slow, slowing until it came to a complete halt outside of the forest’s dark edge. Erik quickly shuffled his body across the wooden seat towards the carriage window, positioning his tousled head through the opening, letting the wind blow in his dark hair. ‘What’s the problem?’ He shouted, gazing into the darkness. His questions were left unanswered as he saw the soldiers drawing their weapons in the faint light of the flaming torches, staring towards the burning city. ‘I asked you a question, now answer me!’ His voice raised, but still the soldier’s mouths did not open. ‘Their weapons are drawn,’ Erik told Nora, mystified, pulling his head back into the confines of the carriage.

  ‘I will return in a moment,’ she said, pulling her dress to her ankles in her dainty hands and pushed the carriage door ajar. ‘I’ll find out what it happening.’

  Carefully, Nora walked down the three thin steps that led from the carriage to the lightly snowed soil. ‘Please, my lady, go back inside.’ A soldier of the Night Cloaks urged with a deep voice from over his shoulder as the young woman stepped out from the carriage, her feet sinking into the muddy track, hitching her dress into her dainty hands.

  ‘Not until I know what’s going on – why have we stopped?’

  ‘Listen, my lady.’ The soldier whispered as his head twisted back towards the burning city, so far away she could only see flickers of light and dark smoke drifting towards the heavens. ‘They’re coming, I fear.’

  Nora Ostergaard listened. Silence fell over the night, a faint noise echoing through the land. The sounds of horses riding hard, shouting, growing louder and louder with each step they rode closer; she could picture them now, wild men on horseback, brandishing their blood-stained weapons, blanketed in the blood of the western soldiers, fox heads branded into their armour, their lust for blood still unquenched despite all those who had met their end in Solvstone at the end of their blades...

  She felt her hand grasping around the soldier’s thick wrist, pulling him to face her. ‘Erik cannot run – carry him, flee into the forest, and make haste for Knight’s Denn.’

  ‘Our orders were to take you and Prince Erik to Svart Sommer–’

  ‘–Fuck your orders! Prince Jorgen is not here, and your other prince is in danger!’ Nora spat, panic arising in her stomach, the sounds of the horses fast approaching, growing louder and louder, the sounds of war approaching them, men riding to butcher them – or worse, she thought. ‘The city is burning and the enemy will be upon us! The western survivors will flee to Knight’s Denn; do you hear me? Your Prince cannot defend himself or flee when we’re attacked – now go!’

  Nora could see the soldier’s brown eyes changing, taking in her every word, knowing that his lady was right; they were coming, fast, and there would be more of them than there were western men around her. The soldier of the Night Cloaks was quick to obey; Nora watched with trepid fear as the soldier barged into the carriage and wrapped his broad arms around the young, crippled boy, ripping him from the confines of the carriage and throwing him over his armoured shoulder wordlessly.

  ‘Remove your hands from me at once!’ Erik screamed into the night as the soldier’s feet touched the earth. ‘Put me down, that’s an order!’

  ‘Erik, let him take you, the Grey army is coming,’ she ordered, finding her way to the side of the soldier, the ring burning her palm. ‘I’ll find you.’

  ‘What? No, Nora–’

  ‘–There’s no time to argue, Erik!’

  ‘Come with us.’ Erik urged over the soldier’s shoulder. The ring was burning in her palm, hotter now, growing hotter with each step the army grew closer.

  ‘I’ll find you, now go!’ The young girl insisted to the tall soldier, watching with a racing heart as the soldier obeyed her every word and fled as fast as he could with Erik over his shoulder towards the vast forest, disappearing in the darkness behind the haunting trees.

  Erik was still calling after her, even when he was gone from sight, but Nora didn’t listen.

  Battle cries grew louder, ripping through the air like the screams of a dying animal. Nora spun on her heel, twisting her body towards the soldiers as they waited, weapons drawn. They tried to order her back inside of the carriage – she didn’t listen to them, either. Her heart slammed in her chest, fear taking her, but she wouldn’t run. I am not a coward, she thought, even as her hands trembled and her heart raced like a wild animal.

  ‘Hand me your knife,’ Nora ordered another Night Cloak, ignoring their commands and spying a shining silver blade on a soldier’s hip. He quickly ripped it from the holster and thrust the dagger into Nora’s hands. She opened her palm and gazed down at the ring as it burned, pleading with her to wear it, just once, to save her life. ‘Jorgen wouldn’t want me to wear it,’ she whispered to herself, biting her lips, the sound of horses and battle cries growing closer. ‘He told me not to.’

  Nora had heard many a tale of what the skeletal man had done in his lifetime; he was a renowned rapist and torturer, a tormenter of men and women alike, and due to his relation to the old King Kodran, Hakon Grey had never paid for his crimes against the people of Askavold. The balding man – who was riddled in scars from war and the burns from dragon fire – thought of rape, murder and torture as a pastime, and with the fables of Hakon Grey’s cruel and callous past and present, Nora knew that she was in grave danger – the ring confirmed it, pleading with her, and yet Jorgen had told her not to wear it. The rings pleading was stronger. ‘I shouldn’t...’ Nora bit her lip so hard she could feel her own irony blood slipping onto her tongue.

  In the blink of an eye, she felt the metal band slipping onto her finger, hot like fire.

  Silhouettes could suddenly be seen over the crest of the hill, their screaming loud and malevolent, and weapons drawn, like she was living in a nightmare. Nora couldn’t wake up. ‘Ready yourselves!’ A soldier shouted, bracing themselves with weapons raised, pushing Nora backwards as the small army advanced – she could see only two dozen men on horseback riding towards them, but there were more men than Nora had around her, adrenaline pulsing through their veins, high on war. Her heart slammed against her ribcage, and the ring burned so hot her skin felt as though it was melting – she felt strength she had never felt, eradiating from the ring.

  Nora saw the skeletal man as he broke through the darkness on horseback, swathed in a new skin of blood. He wore the crimson liquid as a mask, only his grey eyes recognisable, screaming battle cries, a sword waving in the air, blood holding onto the silver metal. She grasped her hand tighter around the handle of the blade as Hakon’s sword slashed through the air, cutting at the skin and bone of her lover’s soldiers, watching as they battled as the Grey’s descended upon them, fierce, bloody and unforgiving. Hakon’s grey eyes fell upon her as she found her back was pressed against the wooden carriage, frozen like a statue.

  ‘My lady,’ he smiled a wicked, bloody smile, dismounting from his horse, cutting his way to her as his men killed hers, limping his way across the muddy track, a ring on his finger, like the one on hers. His eyes found their way to the blade in her hands. ‘Drop the knife and come with me – I’m taking you
home with me, to the south. We have been looking everywhere for you, Nora Ostergaard,’

  ‘Where’s Jorgen?’ Nora demanded, moving forward towards Hakon Grey – without fear – blade tightening in her palm despite his snake-like words. All Hakon did was grin, cold and malicious, like the southern snow. He stared at her as though she were a piece of meat.

  ‘He was foolish to trust you with the ring,’ Hakon spat as his eyes found the ring upon her finger, releasing his grip on his long sword, letting it fall to the floor, the sound of the crash lost among the screaming and cries of war.

  ‘Where is Jorgen?’ Nora asked again, but she was with gifted no response from the old man.

  He extended a skeletal palm towards her. ‘You’re going to hand it to me, now.’

  Hakon was so close now she could smell the death lingering off of his skin. Nora wondered whose blood blanketed his body. ‘Never.’

  The old man raised his fist and crashed it into her face before she even had a chance to struggle. Her head threw back as the pain coursed through her, disorientating her, disfiguring her vision, despite the darkness. She couldn’t contain the painful shriek that escaped her bleeding lips. The dagger did not slip from her hands – her fingers merely tightened around the cold handle. ‘Give me the ring, and come with me, or you’re a dead woman walking.’

  ‘Never.’ Nora spat again, gritting her teeth, straightening herself, and lunged her body forward without a thought. The shining dagger whipped through the bitter air, slashing past Hakon’s gaunt face, silver flashing before his grey eyes. His body ducked swiftly underneath her arm, avoiding the silver, and pushed himself forward, his body lunging into her, pushing her roughly backwards, her back crashing into the wooden carriage. A painful shriek slipped from her lips, and Hakon pulled swiftly back, raising his fist, staring at her bleeding face.