by T L Drew
Mercer rode the black beast through the snow, four bodies trailing behind him, struggling, kicking. Jorgen gazed down upon them from the dragon’s scaly back; he could scarcely see their faces from the sky, through the snow, but the sounds of their cries echoed through his ears like a nightmare. Jorgen’s face froze.
‘Land your beast, lad, or their throats will be cut!’ Mercer’s voice shouted over the roar of the wind, Anduin hovering in the sky above Whitehold, his wings gently moving on the wind. Gazing over Anduin’s shoulder, Jorgen saw them, knives to their necks.
‘Do as he says, Anduin.’ The western king commanded, the dragon’s movements slowing, his body lowering to the icy ground. The ground quaked beneath Anduin’s feet as he landed, the weight of the dragon shaking the earth underneath them. The dragon lowered his wing and his chest to the snow, creating a bridge for his king; Jorgen released his grasp from Anduin’s scales and lowered himself, clambering his shaking body from the dragon’s back until he once again felt his feet sinking into the southern snow. He was quick to notice how close he was to them, but not as close as he wished to be – he couldn’t reach forward and touch them, and he couldn’t be swift in killing the men that held onto those he loved before the order to kill them could be given. He could see them both – Erik and his wife Elinor, bound and frightened.
Elinor’s voice screamed over the roar of the wind, held in place by a soldier wearing steel armour, a cold knife pressed against her throat. ‘Jorgen–’
‘–Quiet!’ The man clasped his grimy palm over Elinor’s mouth. She still tried to shout for the king’s help, her voice muffled by the soldier’s hand. She thrashed against his grasp, but she wasn’t strong enough.
‘It’s okay,’ Jorgen urged, his eyes wide with fear, raising a hand, and took a step closer, Anduin at his side.
‘Stay back!’ Mercer-One-Eye ordered, pointing his silver blade in Jorgen’s direction. The western king stopped in his tracks. ‘Backwards,’ the man on horseback ordered, and Jorgen obeyed, his eyes upon his brother and his wife, knives to their throats. He stepped backwards in the snow, moving himself next to Anduin’s giant white wing. Where is Nora? He thought panickily, seeing only Erik and Elinor.
‘You’re all alone, once again...’ A loud voice came from the tops of the Whitehold walls, a man appearing with gaunt cheeks and wintery skin, hands held behind his back. He almost shouted over the roaring wind, pacing along the stone walls, gazing down at the young king and his ice dragon, seemingly unimpressed. ‘You have learned a lot, in the short time since you and I last met,’ Hakon’s voice was almost shouting from over the Whitehold wall, his lips half twisting into a smile, almost like he was proud. ‘I have unlocked much power in my own – I believe you saw it, outside of Tronenpoint, and right now.’ The man motioned to the wolves that starred at Jorgen as though he was their next meal.
‘What do you want from me?’ Jorgen asked, half hidden behind Anduin’s protective wing – Jorgen was still without armour, unprotected, and one well-placed arrow from Hakon’s men and he would be dead. His gaze continued to flicker between Hakon and those that he loved, scared that if he took his eyes off of either of them for just a second, they would slip through his fingers.
‘Run, Jorgen!’ Erik shouted, only for the handle of the soldier’s blade to hit into the back of his head and silence his tongue. Jorgen flinched as he watched his brother’s eyes pry open, pain filling them, blood beginning to run down his forehead.
Hakon gazed his single eye down to the snowy floor, finding Erik in the soldier’s arms. ‘Your brother won’t run, boy, he’s a fighter, not a coward – and that is something I do admire in him.’
‘What do you want from me?’ Jorgen asked again, his heart pounding in his chest, his hand on the handle of Night. ‘Why are you doing this to me, to my family?’
Hakon took a deep, chilling breath, and his face twisted, like the question was too difficult to answer. The king of the western lands gazed up at the old man upon the wall, and for the faintest of moments, Jorgen thought that he saw a brief glimpse of humanity in the skeletal man’s eyes – what does he want from me? Jorgen thought; it was something he hadn’t thought much of, hadn’t much time to ponder as thoughts of revenge had clouded him, believing it was all Hakon’s madness, or perhaps the will of the cursed ring upon his finger...but the look in Hakon’s eye, and the way his face fell, Jorgen quickly thought otherwise.
‘None of it matters now,’ the man’s voice croaked from the stone wall, his face twisting back into the cruel, hard face he usually wore, all humanity disappearing in the blink of an eye. ‘This ends today.’
Jorgen took a careful step forward in the snow, but his body was still shielded by Anduin’s powerful wing. ‘This is between you and me – they have nothing to do with any of this.’
‘You’ve come to kill me – so much as try, and they die.’
‘We have been here before,’ the western king uttered, the memory of his father still haunting him. Hakon had been right, in the west – I am a stupid, stupid boy...he thought, as it was happening all over again, those he loved in Hakon’s grasp and far from his, unable to reach them...he had kept them there to protect them, and now they were in the enemy’s arms, pained and frightened, and Jorgen felt as hopeless as he did the night his father was taken from him.
‘Although a similar situation, it’s not quite the same as it was then – now you have a dragon, and I have so much more.’
‘Anduin...’ Jorgen uttered the dragon’s name, but without a command. The dragon raised his head, eyes like glass finding the skeletal man upon the wall.
‘Careful, boy – use your dragon to kill me, and we all die anyway – me, Mercer, my army...and your brother and the Lady of the Emerald Isles. Harm me, and my men harm them.’ The old man drew his sword and pointed it at those Jorgen loved threateningly.
‘You’ll never let them leave,’ his voice was barely a whisper, looking into all of their eyes, two people he loved, almost choking on his words.
Hakon shouted over the wind’s roar. ‘I can’t hear you, boy!’
‘I know you well now,’ he raised his voice, each word harder to speak than the last. ‘We have been here before, and I know...I know you won’t let them go...you won’t...You didn’t let my father go, not when I begged you, not when I fought to save him – you torment people, make them believe there is hope, and then you rip it from under them, when you had no intention of sparing anyone, having mercy...’ He remembered his father’s face, his father’s pain, how vulnerable and helpless Jorgen felt, trying to save him, but no matter how hard he tried, no matter how many men were in his path, however many men he had to kill...his father died anyway – Hakon would never let them leave. Once the old man had his grasp upon them, they were as good as dead. Jorgen choked on his words, gazing at the face of this beloved brother, seeing the same fear in Erik’s eyes that Reidar Black had, the same desperation, the same knowledge...
Hakon’s lips twisted into a genuine smile, but the western king wasn’t looking at the old man – he was trying to remember their faces, not the fear in their eyes, not the blood on their faces. ‘I called you a stupid boy, once – you’re a slow learner, but you’re learning, Jorgen. This wasn’t the way I planned on this ending, but you’ve left me with little choice.’
Jorgen’s lips closed. He saw his brother, unable to stand, his hair tousled and deep like it had always been, his cheeks round and youthful, and his brother’s wife, Elinor, a woman he had barely known, but she had given her life to Jorgen, her sword – she had fought for him, killed for him, and gave her life to his cause. ‘You’re not going to beg for their lives, like you did with your father?’ Hakon’s voice carried on the wind, and Jorgen’s eyes drew upwards, finding the old man.
The western king shook his head.
‘Smart boy,’ Hakon said again.
‘I love you–’ he choked, staring at Erik as Hakon’s gaze found Mercer, his head nodding, giving the order.
Erik’s shouted through the man’s grasp. ‘Jorgen–’
‘Anduin, Ice.’ Jorgen commanded, his words catching in his throat, almost as though it was not he who had said the words. Anduin’s mouth pried open as the dagger began to slice across Erik’s skin, blood cascading down his neck, eyes bulging as the knife was dragged across his throat. Ice ripped from Anduin’s throat as a sword was thrust into Elinor’s back, cutting through her, until the pointed end was sticking out of her chest between her breasts. Jorgen eyes didn’t stray – he watched as Erik’s throat was half cut, before Anduin’s icy breath finally reached them.
They were screaming – and then it ended as their bodies were engulfed in ice.
‘Ride Mercer! Ride hard!’ An order screamed from Hakon’s lips to the mercenary. Mercer’s horse was quick to avoid Anduin’s breath, and the mercenary rode hard as his commander had ordered, towards the forest as his soldiers and their hostages were frozen in place, dying in an icy coffin. ‘Remember what I asked of you!’ Hakon shouted as Mercer did as he was commanded, riding off into the distance as Anduin’s Ice spread.
‘Kill them all! Kill every last one of them!’ Jorgen bellowed to his dragon, his blade ripping from the sheath into the storm. ‘But not him,’ he pointed his sword to the man upon the wall. My blade will be the one to end his life, Jorgen thought.
Anduin’s feet lifted from the snow and his giant wings stretched out into the sky. Uncurling, the dragon’s wings stirred the wintery air and blew the snow and ice from the soil, swirling around Jorgen as he charged towards the open gates, watching as Mercer-One-Eye fled, disappearing between the trees. The wolves ran at Jorgen on Hakon’s command. Arrows were fired into the air, soaring towards the western king from Hakon’s men upon the walls and the entrance of the Hold, but the power of Anduin’s wings blew the arrows off course as the giant beast rose into the sky, opened his giant mouth, and let the ice rip from his throat, freezing the wolves, freezing the men. Men turned to ice upon the tops of the walls; Jorgen saw Hakon duck out of Anduin’s path, drawing his sword, and bolted away from the beast as his men froze all around him.
Jorgen reached the gates; he swung his blade and felt it slashing skin and bone, cries in his ears, but nothing felt real in his determination to reach Hakon, his thoughts consumed, the ring burning hot on his finger and giving him a strength he had never felt. He pressed onwards, a lump in his throat, blood splattering on his skin as he butchered his way to Hakon, the old man in his sights as he pushed through the gates and entered Whitehold, Anduin killing all those except Hakon that met his glass-like eyes.
Jorgen saw that Hakon wasn’t running, attempting to flee as Mercer had done – the old man had his sights on Jorgen too, moving towards the King of the Balfold with his blade drawn, avoiding Anduin’s Ice as arrows flew for the dragon, and rebounded off of his thick scales.
The King of Balfold charged through the wintery grounds of Whitehold, boots sinking into the snow, avoiding Anduin’s Ice as he froze all those close to his master. Jorgen’s eyes remained fixated upon Hakon Grey, and the young man bounded towards ice covered steps, the old man close, moving ever closer. They met at the top of the ice ridden steps, on the wall, the old man charging towards him with his blade drawn, the handle of Hakon’s blade shining silver and carved into the lean body of a fox.
‘This ends now, boy!’ Hakon hissed through the snow, silver flashing before Jorgen’s eyes. The young man quickly flew his body backwards, almost slipping upon the icy stone, narrowly missing the slash of Hakon’s frozen blade. The old man cut through the air a second time as Jorgen struggled to balance upon the slippery stone, his body swaying, grasping a hold of his blade tightly in both hands. Jorgen saw the flicker of silver for a third time, crouching quickly, and dodging Hakon’s powerful blow. ‘Remember how this ended the last time, boy?’ Hakon shouted over the roar of Anduin’s Ice, freezing all those around them, the stone turning to ice below their feet slowly as Anduin’s Ice spread as it touched the wall. Jorgen swung Night as he began to slip on the ice, catching with Hakon’s shin, a trail of blood spilling – and Hakon’s blade made contact with Jorgen’s forearm. The young man struggled to keep a hold of his blade as he felt the cold sharpness of Hakon’s sword catching his skin, cutting open the dark fabric of his tunic and staining it red with blood.
Hakon groaned as blood cascaded from his shin. Jorgen gritted his teeth as his blood soaked his tunic and the King of Balfold leaped forward, blade tightly in his grasp, the ring’s strength urging him onwards, Jorgen’s desperation to defeat the man who had taken everything from him overpowering his being. They slipped together as Anduin’s Ice spread and thickened under their feet, crashing into the icy stone. Jorgen felt the rear of his skull colliding with the ice, rendering him still, for just a moment, a moment too long as Hakon found himself back on his feet, a blade soaring for Jorgen’s head.
The King of Balfold rolled out of the way as the blade collided with the ice, a ringing sound coursing through them. His ring gives him his power, Jorgen knew; without it, he was a frail, weak old man. Jorgen jumped to his feet, thrust himself forward and swung his sword with all the power he could muster.
Night cut through the air, meeting with Hakon’s blade – the old man’s sword shattered into a thousand splintering shards, exploding before their eyes in fragments. Hakon’s eye widened, taking a step backwards as Jorgen’s blade cut for Hakon a second time, meeting with the lord’s skin and bone, his hand severed from his body, the ring cut from away from Hakon. The old man cried out in agony as a crimson waterfall cascaded from the butchered stump that remained. Jorgen raised his sword to make the kill.
‘Wait!’ Hakon sneered with gritted teeth, swathed in blood and speaking through the pain, grasping his remaining hand around what was left. ‘Kill me and you will never see Nora Ostergaard again!’
‘Where is she?’ Jorgen spat, raising his blade higher into the sky. ‘Tell me where she is!’
‘No, I won’t! I don’t want to die!’ The old man’s eye was wet with water, grasping his bloody stump, pleading, riddled with pain.
‘Tell me, and your death will be quick and clean.’
‘I won’t tell you,’ he said with certainty. ‘Nora is the only thing stopping you from killing me. If you kill me, you will never see her again.’
‘You’re lying – you fucking killed her already, didn’t you? Didn’t you?’
‘No!’
‘I should kill you now,’
‘And risk her life?’ Hakon stammered, bleeding profusely. ‘The moment you kill me, the moment she dies, too!’
Jorgen looked into Hakon’s remaining eye, his sword still raised, ready to strike, his heart thumping wildly in his chest. ‘If she’s in this castle, I will find her.’ He said surely, tightening his grip on his blade, desperate to swing it into Hakon’s exposed neck, and yet he couldn’t, frozen in place like a statue, the cold biting at his skin and his body riddled with pain.
‘She’s not in the castle. Nora is long gone from here by now.’ Hakon Grey told him, the bleeding of his stump increasing, spilling over the ice.
‘If I found out you’re lying, I’m going to cut off your head.’ Jorgen hissed, raising the handle of his long sword, and crashed it into the back of Hakon’s head – the old man fell, his eyes rolled back and then closed, his body falling forward towards the ice, unconscious.
Jorgen felt nothing; the young man stared at Hakon’s bleeding, broken body, still, with only the rise and fall of his chest giving the king any indication that the old man was still alive. He stared at the old man with his mind empty and his heart hollow – it had all been for this moment, to take victory, but Jorgen didn’t feel like he had won anything; his father was dead, his brother was dead, and Nora might share their fate. All he had left was his dragon and his sister, but he had no idea where she was, and even if she was still alive, like Nora.
Anduin’s Ice came to an abrupt halt as Jorgen stared down at the man who
had stolen everything from him, and the world fell into silence. Jorgen gazed around him as Anduin flew to the wall beside his master and perched his giant body upon the walls of Whitehold, gazing at the king. Jorgen saw no movement other than his dragon, every man who had retaken Whitehold was frozen and still in their ice coffin, or slaughtered from the cut of Jorgen’s own sword, lying dead in the blood-stained snow.
The King of Balfold removed his glove, exposing his own ring to the cold. Jorgen ripped the ring from what remained of Hakon’s severed hand, and twisted it in his palm, feeling it’s warmth; it felt no different than his own, the same power coursing through the magical metal, the same warmth, the same whispers. ‘Why did you betray him?’ He found himself asking as he stared down at the cursed object in his palm, hot on his skin, almost glowing next to his own, but it didn’t answer him, the whispers dying, growing silent. ‘Mine never betrayed me.’ Again, he was left unanswered. Quietly, Jorgen ignored all of his instincts, and let the second ring slip onto his scarred finger. Although Hakon’s ring had twisted him into a deeper madness, Jorgen’s ring had kept him sane. Perhaps it enhances what is already there, he supposed. Jorgen was strong, but the ring made him stronger.
Jorgen gave a quiet order to Anduin, and Anduin did as his master asked – no longer because of the ring’s control, but because the dragon had formed a bond with him, and Jorgen felt it too. The dragon hovered over his master and the unconscious man, grasping Hakon’s still body in his giant feet, claws curling around his body, and moved Hakon from Whitehold, placing him gently in the snow outside of the Hold, his body sinking into the cold, white dust before the dragon retook his place upon the Whitehold walls, staring out into the silent forest. Jorgen slowly and carefully moved himself from the walls, his heart heavy, his mind empty, taking silent steps down to the ground floor of the Hold, feet sinking back into the snow, his breath cloudy with the cold, and urged himself from the confines of Whitehold, passing by those he had killed in his desperation to defeat Hakon and avenge those he’d lost – and yet none of it felt real.