by C. M. Hayden
Chapter Nineteen
Mjolir, The Red King
The Red Hall was packed full as Taro, Fenn, and Kyra entered. Lord Cassin came with them, but his injuries were more severe than he’d originally let on. They led him to a chair by the hearth, and listened in as the Northmen debated their next move.
“You let the snake live, Lokír-ama?” an enormous red-bearded man shouted.
Lokír looked distressed by the entire exchange. “Praxis is a snake, there’s no doubt, but he’s not what laid waste to Firholt. It was the same creature that felled the Endrans’ ship.”
The man scoffed. “The All-Seer? You’ve lost your wits.”
Lokír slammed his hand against the long table between them. “Careful now. I saw the destruction wrought by dragon fire. I’ll not have my judgement questioned by you.”
A voice called from the back of the Red Hall, near the great throne at the end of the table. “And what of me?”
The man who spoke was the oldest of the assembled, though not much older than sixty. He had a long gray beard tied into three knots, and wore brown leather armor, etched with two deer across the chest. His face was leathery, and covered in scars that marked him as an old fighter. As he took his seat at the High Table, there was no doubt: this was the Red King, Mjolir.
Around his neck was a heavy silver chain with a large blood-red ruby hanging from it. Around it were detailed magistry runes, something that Taro hadn’t seen anywhere since they’d been with the Nuren. Whatever the necklace was, it was extremely old. Kyra and Fenn noticed it too, and Kyra moved noticeably closer to get a better look at the inscriptions.
Lokír bowed, momentarily cut off his stride. His beard brushed against the table, and he leaned back up. “Apologies, I did not know you’d returned from your hunt.” He spoke this last word differently than the others, almost accusingly. “I come bearing counsel.”
“Do you?” the king asked. He looked to his other subjects. “I’ve heard much of the counsel you wish to offer.”
“Not by my mouth, Mjolir-ata,” Lokír said quickly. “And if any man here believes he can speak for me, let him stand. I’ll have none of it.” His eyes flashed angrily, and there was a stir amongst the others. None of them stood.
The king waved one hand in a calming motion. “None of that, my old friend. I don’t doubt your resolve or loyalty. I will hear what you have to say.”
Lokír eyed the others like they were traitors. “I’ve seen the destruction with my own eyes. This is not a foe we can fight with sword or spear. We must beseech Sivion if Nurengard is to survive. But it’s not just this enemy. The one responsible for Craetos’ return, the Shadowmancer, must be stopped as well, or there’ll be nothing left.”
The king laced his hands together. “And you wish to take these outsiders to our most holy site, and have them enter the dragon city?”
Lokír didn’t hesitate. “I do.”
The Red King furrowed his brow, and spat on the ground. “Then you truly have taken leave of your senses. Lady Sivion entrusted the key of the Bórhiemdr to my ancestors. I will not bring their enemies to their very doorstep.”
“We’re not your enemies,” Taro said. The looks he got from this outburst were not kind. The glare Lokír gave him was clear: sit down, shut up.
“You need little boys to make your argument for you?” Bjorn said.
Without a moment’s hesitation, Lokír drew his hand back and slapped the boy across the face. Blood and teeth flew from his mouth, and Lokír drew his axe from his side. “I warned you, boy.”
“Enough!” Mjolir shouted. “Stop this nonsense.”
Lokír controlled himself, and Bjorn dejectedly returned to his seat, battered and bleeding.
“By the Old Gods,” Lokír said, his teeth clenched. “I implore you to see reason.”
“I’ve seen it. I will not allow outsiders to sully the Bórhiemdr, nor enter the dragon city.”
Taro spoke again, ignoring the glares of those in the hall. “Think about what you’re doing. Vexis will—”
King Mjolir pointed to two of his guards, and the men grabbed Taro by each of his arms.
“By our customs, it’s forbidden to harm guests in our household,” Mjolir said. “Which is fortunate for you, cripple.” He stood and spoke to Lord Cassin, who was still watching intently from the hearth. “Let it not be said that we are without hospitality. The southerners will be allowed to stay another week while they heal. Afterwards, they’ll be given rations and horses for their long journey home. And I’ll hear no more of this foolishness.”
“But, Mjolir-ata—” Lokír began.
Mjolir shot him down immediately. “Your king has spoken. See it done.”
Chapter Twenty
An Echo of Shadow
There wasn’t much that could be done. With the Red King’s mind made up, all Taro and the others could do was wait for the wounded to heal and hope to make it back to Endra Edûn within a reasonable time. Even though they’d had surprisingly good fortune in finding the Northmen in the first place, spirits were not high.
The ease with which the Eventide had been destroyed was more than a little unnerving. Magisterium airships were the pinnacle of magic and warfare; having one ripped to shreds would send tremors throughout the kingdom. If the Magisterium couldn’t protect Endra, who could?
The strangest part about the incident may have been its effect on Lokír. Indeed, nobody seemed to take it harder than him. Taro got the impression that the man had, essentially, been publicly shamed by King Mjolir; something that might’ve been annoyance to others was a deep insult amongst the Nuren.
In the week that followed, there was little else to do but wait. It was on the sixth day that another messenger arrived in Nurengard. Bloodied and beaten, he explained that yet another village had been razed by Craetos. He’d seen the beast himself, and described it with a tremble in his voice.
“A monster of death and decay, reeking of a thousand rotting corpses, and followed by shadows. Beneath his wings, trees scattered like autumn leaves, buildings were torn from their foundations, and the lives of a hundred men were culled in a single fiery breath.”
This didn’t seem to sway King Mjolir’s opinion on the matter.
Something about the whole situation gnawed at the back of Taro’s mind. At first, he just felt like it was his natural suspicion, not to mention the unease of a foreign culture, but the more he thought about it, the more he felt like something was terribly “off” about the Red King.
That evening, he found Lokír at the village fletcher, looking over an assortment of arrows nearly the size of harpoons. He was in the throes of friendly negotiation.
“See the hooked edges?” the fletcher said, running his hand close to a curved piece of an arrowhead. “With the tail I put on these, it’ll get some spin in the air, and once it’s in an animal’s hide, it’s never coming out.”
“It’s not the quality I’m doubting,” Lokír said appreciatively, “just the price. Bring it down to four draughts and we’ll have a deal.”
He held his hand out as if the deal was already made, but the fletcher shook his head.
“I wouldn’t cheat you, Lokír-ama. These are my best. It’ll be seven draughts for a dozen, and I can’t go a thin tin coin less.” The fletcher looked around his long tent, but Taro had crouched behind the flaps of the door and wasn’t spotted. “Listen, I consider you a friend, or I wouldn’t say naught a word. But Mjolir-ata requested the lot of us to…eh…inform him if you buy any weapons.”
Lokír looked ready to spit venom. “The king ordered you to spy on me?”
The fletcher stepped back, his hands raised slightly. “I’m sorry to bring you troubling news.”
Lokír calmed a bit, and put his hand on the fletcher’s shoulder. “Don’t be. You’re a
good man, Denir-ama. Seven copper draughts it is. I’ll be by around the hour of the raven to pick them up.”
As Lokír exited the tent, Taro tried to stay hidden. But not a half a dozen steps from the tent, Lokír paused mid-stride. “Eavesdropping is a deplorable habit, young Taro.”
Realizing he’d been caught, Taro stood. “What about spying?” he countered.
Lokír was quiet for the space of a few breaths. “Mjolir has a great deal of trouble on his mind. These are dark times.”
“It’s more than that,” Taro said, coming to stand next to Lokír. He felt tiny by comparison, his eyes hardly coming up to the man’s chest.
“Explain.”
Taro shrugged. “I can’t.”
Lokír started down the road. “Then off with you.”
Taro hurried to follow. “Wait! Is there any way I could get an audience with Mjolir?”
“Speaking to him once he’s made up his mind is pointless. As his Right Hand, I’m honor-bound to obey and see his will fulfilled.”
“And what if your king is in league with the enemy?” Taro asked, realizing he was venturing into dangerous territory.
Lokír shot Taro a vicious look, and pointed one of his huge fingers in his direction. “Mind your words. Lies might go unanswered where you’re from, but here they’ll get your tongue cut out.”
“You heard what Praxis said. What if they’re not lies?” Taro said, unperturbed. There was something about Lokír’s body language that gave away the man’s uncertainty. Something about his eyes. About the way his shoulders fell. He knew that the Red King was acting strangely, but, being a man of honor, couldn’t bring himself to openly defy him.
A chink appeared in Lokír’s armor. His expression soured, and he looked around the clearing. Seeing they were alone, he ushered Taro toward a cedar tree in the middle of a small clearing.
“Speak,” he said simply. “I will hear you.”
Taro let it all out in one breath. “I think your king has something with him. Something I’ve felt before. It’s magic that only Helians have.”
“You think? You feel? Have you any proof, or just words?”
“No proof,” Taro said. “Not yet, at least. I need an audience with him to be sure.”
Lokír scoffed. “Be on your way, little one. Trouble me no more.”
Taro didn’t back down, moving to block Lokír from leaving. “I’m telling you, I know what Netherlight magic feels like. It surrounds him. If he made a deal with Vexis, then he’s not someone that deserves your loyalty.”
Lokír stopped, his eyes looking glassy and distant.
“Please,” Taro said. “Arrange a meeting with him. If I’m wrong, I’m wrong. But if I’m right…”
_____
Kyra, Fenn, and Cassin all gave similar looks as Taro explained his plan to them. Kyra, in particular, didn’t seem to like it very much.
“You’re sure about this?” she asked dubiously. They spoke quietly as they loaded the wagons bound for Endra. She was tying the packs off on one of the horses, though the poor beast seemed already overburdened.
“Positive,” Taro said. “I was around the Netherlight long enough to recognize it again. It’s like…being deep underwater.”
“I have a more pointed question,” Fenn said. He was sitting on top of one of the wagons, doing as little work as possible. “What if you’re right? What if he’s in league with Vexis? If we uncover that, you think he’s just going to let us waltz out of here?”
“I thought of that,” Taro said. “Lokír’s going to arrange the meeting after the wagons depart. I’ll leave a horse tied up in the forest nearby in case I need to make a quick escape.”
Seeing Kyra’s disapproval plain on her face, Taro raised his hands in a placating motion, leaning back on the side of the wagon wheel. “You’re the ranking officer here. I won’t do it without your say-so.”
“I almost wish you hadn’t asked,” Kyra said. “I’m used to you just doing things.”
“I’m turning over a new leaf,” Taro said glibly.
“A new leaf of bringing in co-conspirators?” Lord Cassin said, cocking one eye.
“Look,” Taro said, “it’s a shot at getting into Castiana. Unless one of you can sprout wings and fly us up there.”
Lord Cassin eyed Kyra as she considered it. She’d stopped hitching the horses, and was running her fingernail against the woodgrain.
“I’d be a bad uncle if I didn’t advise you against this. If your friend is caught, it could cause a serious incident. We’ve got plenty of enemies as it is; adding the Nuren to the list isn’t wise.”
Kyra looked up. “If the Northmen are in league with Vexis, they’re already our enemies.”
“Not necessarily,” Lord Cassin said, his one wild eyebrow arching. “Magic is a powerful motivator, and can scare small folk. If we show them we’re trustworthy and strong, we could convince them we’re better allies in the long run.”
Kyra peeled off a splinter of wood. When she spoke, her voice was firm, but quiet. “We’re here, now. We have to try.” She shot Taro a serious look. “But I’m going with you.”
Cassin seemed startled by this. “Kyra, you can’t put yourself in that kind of danger.”
Kyra was resolute. “We have to try.”
“No,” Cassin said. “Action for the sake of action is recklessness. Sometimes the answer is simple: there’s nothing we can do.”
“It’s just an audience with the man,” Taro said placatingly, trying to diffuse the tension. “Just a few quick words. That’s all. What could be the harm?”
Chapter Twenty-one
Cowards and Kings
The wagons left Nurengard four hours early the next day, just before the sun peeked over the tips of the snowcapped mountains. There was a light flurry out, and the air was hard and crisp. Taro and Kyra remained behind in Lokír’s home, waiting silently for him to return from the Red Hall. His house was just one room, though large compared to some of the others. Wolf pelts and hunting trophies decorated the wicker walls, and a tiny fire burned in the exact center. A wild boar’s head hung over the flames, roasting it, eyes and all, to a fine crisp. It smelled quite good. Overhead, there was a small, closable hatch in the roof for smoke to escape. A few flakes of snow drifted down from it, most melting before they hit the ground.
Taro and Kyra talked of small things as they waited out of sight.
“Mjolir’s their king. Why be so secretive about the whole thing? His men would follow him, even if he pushed an alliance with the Helians, right?”
“Not since we came,” Taro offered. “Craetos has been burning their villages, and now they know that Vexis rose Craetos from the dead. Maybe the king was going to be open with them about it, but we changed his plans. Now he’s trying to shuffle us off.”
Kyra nodded. “He was awfully generous with the horses.”
The tarp entrance to the hut ruffled, and Lokír entered. Taro and Kyra got to their feet expectantly.
“He’s agreed to see you,” Lokír said.
Taro clapped his hands together. “Well, that’s some luck at least.”
“However…” Lokír began.
“However…?” Taro echoed.
“It will not be alone. As he put it, anything that can be discussed with him, can be discussed with his men. He’s expecting you in the Red Hall.”
Kyra winced. “That complicates things.”
“No,” Taro said. “I think we can work with this.”
The Red Hall was quieter than ever before. There was no feast at the High Table. No reckless drinking. No brawls. No shouting. In fact, it was eerily quiet as the creaking wooden doors closed behind Taro and Kyra. Lokír broke off and stood beside the hearth, observing.
King Mjolir sat at his thro
ne, looking impressive beneath the antlers and animal pelts. He spoke in a calm, level tone, but accusation lurked beneath the surface.
“Your people left earlier than expected,” he said. “Have they healed so quickly?”
Taro got as close to the Red Throne as he could without being rebuffed by the guards. The closer he got to it, the more certain he was of what he felt deep within his templar. There was dark magic here, identical to what he’d felt in Helia. But how could he prove it?
What Taro knew about the Northmen could’ve fit on a thimble. He knew they were a largely warrior culture that valued directness and honorable combat. When one of Lokír’s men had insulted him, Lokír took it upon himself to defend his honor and good name.
With that in mind, Taro closed his eyes, took a hard breath, and steeled himself for what could very well have been some of the last words he’d ever speak.
“Yes, well, with the warm welcome we’ve had since you returned, you can’t blame us for wanting to book it.”
King Mjolir’s eyes narrowed. “If the courtesy of my hall isn’t to your liking, perhaps you should run along back to Endra with the rest of your ilk.”
“No, the hall’s fine,” Taro said, inching toward Mjolir. “While it’s standing, that is. Not long before it’s a puff of smoke and a pile of cinder, thanks to your glorious leadership.”
“Taro!” Kyra said, grabbing him by the arm. She looked up at the king. “Your Grace, my personal apologies. He doesn’t know what he’s saying.”
Taro made a show of pulling away from her. He stabbed a finger in the king’s direction. “Tell me, Your Grace, are you just willfully ignorant, or are you working with Vexis? I’d really like to know.”
Mjolir’s eyes were like two smoldering coals, and he practically spat venom when he spoke. “If you want to keep your head, boy, you’ll turn around and return to your people.” He raised two fingers, and his guards advanced toward Taro, seizing him by the arms.