A King Of Crows

by T L Drew

  He urged himself onwards. He walked through the White Woods for hours, his head down, letting the snow fall upon his hair and burying his face in the furs that the western man had gifted him with. It felt like hours before Nazir saw another human being, but when he did, a dread took over him. He saw two men walking his way, steel suits of armour upon their bodies, the Grey family sigil upon their breastplates through the trees. Nazir put his head down further and hoped they would not notice him, praying they were not Hakon Grey’s men patrolling for him, following him.

  ‘Hold up one second,’ one of the steel men said, grasping Nazir’s arm. Nazir reached his hand slowly into his satchel for the knife. ‘Nazir Evrat? Is that your name?’

  ‘Who wants to know?’ He stammered, his head down below his hooded cloak, his lips swollen.

  The second man spoke bluntly. ‘Our king.’

  ‘Do you speak of Hakon?’

  ‘Come with us,’ the first man spoke again. ‘Our king wants to speak with you.’

  ‘If you are Nazir Evrat from the Isles of Mór, then you have nothing to worry about.’ The second soldier said with certainty.

  Nazir followed the men hesitantly, hand on the knife. He knew with a weapon that he could kill the two men in steel suits effortlessly if danger approached him, despite his wounds. The soldiers led him off of the beaten track and deeper into the woods, the deep snow crunching over their metal boots.

  He followed them for what felt like miles. Each step and Nazir grew more anxious, more worried. They did not lead him back to Hakon in Tronenpoint, he knew that for certain, but where they led him was an utter mystery. He didn’t want to admit that he was frightened, but he was ready for whatever would happen. ‘We are almost there.’ The first guard uttered as they trekked further and further into the deep woods.

  A sense of relief flooded Nazir when all he could see were black and emerald green tents turning white from the snow in an open clearing in the centre of the White Wood. He knew then that he was safe, and that the men in Grey steel were not Grey soldiers at all. Nazir saw men and women warriors grinding steel, rallying horses, practising the art of combat against straw dummies. He saw soldiers fire arrows into circular targets painted upon trees and others feasting on game over small fires. He passed by a young Jakub Krea and a soldier of the Night Cloaks in the snow, who barely noticed Nazir as he walked through camp behind the two soldiers in disguise.

  ‘He’s in there,’ the second soldier in a steel suit approached a large tent in the centre of camp, raising his hand to the fabric and pulling it up towards the dark sky. Nazir thanked the man and walked underneath the black and green material and into shelter from the snow. The man dropped the fabric, and suddenly everything was quiet inside of the tent.

  Nazir looked around and saw lanterns lighting the vast fabric room. He saw a table in the centre with a map of Askavold rolled across it, held in place by daggers piecing it to the wood. He saw a straw bed and folded furs by the side. He saw a man; the man wore black gloves and black fur around his broad shoulders. His hair had grown to his shoulders, with half of it tied into a knot on his crown, dark like his eyes, and his beard was becoming unruly compared to what it had been the last time Nazir had laid eyes upon him. The man had a deep scar across his face, running from the top of his eyebrow to his lower cheek on the opposite side of his face, a scar that had not been there before. Nazir’s heart pounded in his chest, his breath catching in his throat.

  ‘Nazir? Is that you?’ Jorgen asked with surprise, glancing up from the map that was sprawled across the table. His voice was hoarser than it had been the last time they had met and his eyes were tired and hollow. Jorgen Black walked around the table, extended his arms, grasped his friend and pulled him into his embrace.

  ‘Yes, my friend, it’s me.’ Nazir breathed a sigh of relief, tightening his grip on his old friend.

  ‘I knew the risks, but I could not leave you in there,’ Jorgen smiled, pulling back from the embrace of his dearest friend, relief washing over him. ‘The disguises were the only way my men can be in the open without the old man growing suspicious – I do not know how they managed to get into the city, but I’m glad they succeeded.’

  ‘Your men gave me a message for your ears,’ Nazir said worriedly, pulling back from the western king, spying the new scars that clad his light skin. ‘They said that the queen and Hakon Grey know you’re alive, and making your way to the city. They mean to follow me to your location.’

  ‘And that means I have lost the element of surprise.’ Jorgen said with disappointment, his eyes falling into a deeper sadness.

  ‘You’re starting a war, against Hakon and the queen?’ Nazir asked, glancing around at the map upon the table and spying weapons around the tent. He noticed wooden carvings of crows and foxes upon the map, coupled with krakens, wolves and griffins, and all manner of sigils. ‘Andor thought as much.’

  ‘I’m not starting a war, I’m ready to end one.’ Jorgen uttered, his eyes finding the darkness of Nazir’s, spying his wounds, seeing all that the old man had done to him. ‘I did not start this war, Hakon Grey did – he’ll pay for what he has done to me, to you, to all of us. Andor Grey came to me, he did, and he asked me to take back what was stolen from him.’

  ‘And I will be at your side, swinging my sword.’ Nazir said with certainty.

  ‘You must see a healer; there are many here. They will tend to your wounds and you shall rest well tonight, for tomorrow we strike Tronenpoint.’

  JORGEN

  The storm had come, and it was merciless and unforgiving. The howls of wolves pierced through the bitter air with wickedness, listening to the call of a cursed ring.

  Jorgen heard ringing through his head as the storm began to wage, the fabric walls of his tent shaking, his eyes sealed shut, the voice of Ragnar Lienhart coursing through his mind in his difficult slumber. They’re here. Jorgen’s black eyes abruptly snapped open into a deeper darkness – he knew what the words meant, what the ring was telling him, if the words were to be believed. The ring hadn’t failed him before. Whitehold, it whispered in his ear like the hiss of a snake, despite his black eyes staring into the darkness of the night. He pushed himself upright from his damp straw bed, seeing only ebony fabric shaking through the blackness of the night as the harsh wind crashed against his shelter, and hearing nothing but the ring’s desperate whispers. Yet Jorgen didn’t part himself from it, letting it burn on his already scarred finger, and pulled a thick leather glove over his frozen hands – he promised himself not to take it off again, despite what Nora had said and her eager disapproval of him wearing it.

  When the ring’s whispering began to die, trailing off into nothingness, the western king could hear more than the ring, sounds that frightened him, sounds that took him back to that cold night in Solvstone, when his father hung from his neck, his eyes pleading, pained...screaming, slashing and horses screeching, sounds that had become all too familiar, in his nightmares and in his every waking thought; and yet this time, there were other sounds from outside of the fabric, growing closer and closer, the sounds of beasts, running on four legs, snarling, tearing and howling...

  Jorgen reached for Night – it was learning against the black fabric of the tent, waiting for him, and the king of the western lands reached his gloved hand towards the blade and advanced for the opening, wearing nothing but his thin tunic with a fur cloak around his shoulders on his upper body, his being unprotected from what he might face.

  ‘My king! Jorgen Black!’ His name was heard, shouted in a familiar, young voice, and the western king pushed his way into the open night, cold and powerful, a storm engulfing them, clouding his vision.

  Archer Rose stood outside of the king’s tent in the clearing of the White Woods, his weapon drawn; Jorgen was quick to notice that Archer was clad in blood, but the king could see nothing else in the darkness though the swirling snow, pushed violently by the powerful winds through the breaks in the forest. ‘What’s happening?’ Jorgen s
houted over the roar of the wind and the sounds of painful cries and ripping, tearing and howling. He raised his blade, a dark figure rushing past him in the snow on hind legs, leaping through the air too fast for his eyes to see, landing on the creature’s prey.

  ‘The camp is under attack!’ Archer yelled back over the roar of the wind and the swirling snow, pushing Jorgen backwards towards his tent. ‘It’s the queen’s army and thousands of wolves, tearing us apart!’ Behind them, Jorgen could hear the sounds of his own men, shouting over the wind. The storm was so powerful that it took men off of their feet, the harsh winds blowing their legs out from underneath them, bodies crashing against fresh snow and ice as they attempted to fight for their lives. Arrows could no longer soar through the wind.

  ‘Are you certain?’ Jorgen roared, wondering if Nazir had been followed to Jorgen’s camp despite the precautions, seeing nothing but his own men falling and flailing, slashing their swords at things he was not close enough to see, as a figure appeared through the darkness clumsily, running for his life, pushed by the storm and struggling to remain upon his feet. It was plain to Jorgen that it was Nazir who ran towards them clumsily with his wounds from Hakon’s relentless torture, blade void from his hands, soaked in blood, but his bronze skin and black hair were plain to see, and so was the figure that chased after him.

  ‘Run! Run!’ Nazir’s faint voice carried on the wind as he sped towards the king, a wolf snapping at his ankles, trying to catch him. Then there was not one, not two, but eight creatures giving chase and men in silver armour on horseback, brandishing weapons, riding with the wolves, Grey and Rose sigils branding their armour and waving on dark banners, and mercenaries from all regions of Askavold and beyond. Nazir’s feet almost flew out from under him as the wolves and the soldiers chased and cut down all that they caught with blade and fang.

  ‘Ready yourself,’ Jorgen urged Archer, raising his weapon, waiting, watching as they advanced on them, riding and running hard, but Nazir was faster despite the wicked pull of the storm on his lean body and the wounds on his body which had barely begun to heal. Jorgen felt the rings burn, and shouted towards the sky. ‘Anduin!’ He bellowed, begging his ring to bring the dragon to him, wherever the bloody beast was. ‘Anduin, Ice! Now!’

  A loud roar reverted through the skies; the earth shook beneath them. The soldiers and the wolves advanced on Nazir, growing ever closer, the bite of the wolves nearly grasping him, snapping violently behind his wiry legs. The powerful roar of the dragon over the wind shook the wolves and the horses, some of the beasts throwing their riders from their saddles. ‘Anduin, Ice!’ Jorgen yelled again towards the dark sky, hearing the dragon’s roar growing closer and closer until Jorgen could feel the power of the dragon’s wings overhead, the gust of the wind growing evermore powerful with the presence of Anduin, and Anduin was quick to obey.

  White ice ripped from the dragon’s throat, despite all upon the ground behind unable to see the giant dragon hovering in the sky on the storm’s wind. Anduin’s Ice travelled downward like a powerful explosion, freezing the men on horseback and the wolves that snapped at Nazir’s heels, slaughtering them inside of their ice coffins. Anduin’s Ice narrowly missed Nazir as the young soldier continued to run towards his king with little strength left inside of him.

  A sound behind the western king drew his head to twist, whipping around over his shoulder. Jorgen’s eyes found more soldiers and more wolves in the swirling of the snow, cutting down his men, advancing on him as Nazir reached his king and the king’s protector.

  ‘Ready yourselves, men.’ Jorgen urged as he pulled a dagger from his hip and thrust it into Nazir’s unprotected hands. He tightened his grip on Night, twisted his heel in the snow, and faced the wolves and the queen’s soldiers, his ring burning hot. They fight for Hakon Grey, Jorgen knew as the wolves advanced, after all he had learnt to do with the ring on his finger. His ring controlled the sky. Hakon’s controlled the earth. He assumed it meant that Goran had the power over the sea.

  The soldiers advanced upon Jorgen and the men that fought wolves behind him. His sword crashed with metal again and again, meeting other blades, axes and cutlasses. Several wolves made a bite at his skin before they were met with the pointed end of his blade through their flesh. The clash of metal began to hurt his head and he began panting with each swing of his blade. Jorgen lost count of how many men he had cut down within minutes of battle, piercing their skin through metal suits. His blade, Night, had become white with ice. He continued to fight as Anduin killed all the creatures he could see in the darkness, freezing as many wolves and Jorgen’s enemies as he could.

  A creature leaped forward, paws and claws finding Archer’s body, pushing him into the sinking snow, struggling against the beast’s strength, snapping and biting. Jorgen raised his blade from behind the wolf’s back and plunged the pointed end into the beast’s neck. It shrieked in pain before rolling from Archer, dying in the snow.

  Whitehold, Jorgen heard again from his burning ring as he found himself surrounded, Anduin’s Ice freezing Jorgen’s enemies that surrounded him, the giant creature lowering himself closer and closer to the southern ground. Jorgen’s eyes widened, hearing the ring in his ears, and his blooded blade lowered, his black eyes finding Nazir.

  ‘This is a distraction,’ the western king uttered to his injured friend over the whistle of the storm’s wind. ‘Hakon Grey is going to Whitehold!’ His voice began a shout, his heart quickening, thinking of the family he had left there – it was no secret to Hakon Grey that his home had been stolen by the westerners, and Jorgen was certain with the whispers of the ring, that Hakon was advancing north, to take back what was stolen from him.

  ‘Then go!’ Nazir shouted over the roar of the wind. ‘I will come with you!’

  ‘No, stay here! Find Jakub!’ Jorgen ordered Archer and Nazir, holstering his blade and moving away from his companions. ‘When he is found, ride to Whitehold with all who remain!’

  ‘Your Grace!’ Archer tried to shout to his king, stumbling in the snow against the force of the storm – Jorgen couldn’t hear his voice, not anymore.

  ‘Anduin!’ The king of the western lands shouted, twisting his ring underneath his glove. ‘Land!’

  The dragon did as his master commanded him, lowering his body to the icy floor, and creating a bridge with Anduin’s wing and taking a hold of an advancing wolf in the dragon’s giant mouth, crunching the black wolf between his giant, sharp teeth. Whitehold was only hours away on the dragon’s scaled back – rough and jagged, like the blades of a razor, pointing in all directions – but Jorgen awkwardly climbed his way onto Anduin’s scaled back, perching himself rigidly between the creature’s colossal wings, and grasped his gloved hands around the sharp scales, filling his frozen hands.

  ‘To Whitehold,’ he commanded loud and deep, the ring’s presence unforgotten as it burned hot upon his finger underneath his leather fur-lined gloves. ‘As fast as you can fly, Anduin.’ He bellowed fiercely, and Anduin listened to his every word. The ice dragon roared over the raging storm, so loud that the ground trembled beneath him, stretched his wings and took flight.

  ANDOR

  North Rock towered menacingly into the sand covered mountains, so tall that it blocked the light from the fiery sun. The palace swelled and narrowed as it spiralled towards the sun, unlike any palace mankind had ever laid eyes upon, built by those with cursed blood pulsing wildly through their veins. ‘It’s beautiful – I have never seen anything quite like it,’ Lady Abigail’s voice – as sweet as honey – was heard from behind the King of Askavold, her silk dress light and airy as the weather grew hotter the further they had sailed into northern seas. ‘I wonder how many people died here, during the war.’

  ‘Thousands,’ the king spoke as he stared blissfully at the mountaintop palace in awe, watching as sand dragons circled North Rock in the sun’s glare, brownish scales upon their malevolent bodies. He remembered the palace well, despite not having been to North Rock in at lea
st a decade, a palace that was beginning to crumble as the Lienhart’s slowly disappeared. ‘And there will be more death to come to this cursed place.’

  The king and his uneasy companions watched the sand dragons peacefully take flight as the ships were sailed into the harbour, only the sounds of squawking gulls, the calm ocean, and the rare roar of the giant scaled beasts echoing through tired ears. The harbour was empty and still, blanketed by tiresome hot sand, silent and desolate. Andor Grey found himself hoisting the hot metal leg behind him as he urged himself towards the front of the Thorn Maiden, searching for something – anything – that showed a sign of human – or cursed – life. He saw nothing, nothing but piles of sand, scavenging gulls and bones which littered the northern sands.

  ‘I was just a boy the last time I came here,’ Thorbjorn urged his aching body behind the king, his eyes fixed to the sandy coloured palace that towered into the cloudless sky. The Thorn Maiden pulled into the harbour and came to a nervous stop. ‘There were thousands of people here, maybe more, littering the harbour, selling fish, oysters and trinkets, as far as the eye could see. There was a small town, just over there, at the foot of the mountain before the Great War. It was destroyed in the battle – who knows how many innocent people lost their lives when our family came to the deserts.’