The Legend of the Winterking: The Crown of Nandur

by J. Kent Holloway

  ”I’m trying! But you need to push too!”

  Together, they pushed and shoved, building enough momentum to finally flip the bounty hunter over onto his stomach, freeing the dwarf. With Garhet safely extricated, Krin bent down, and unhooked the big man’s belt, liberating his beloved Glalbrirer.

  “I’ll be needing this,” he said, giving the unconscious man a swift kick in the side.

  “You okay?” He turned to Garhet.

  The dwarf nodded. “I’ll live,” he said in between gulps of cold, crisp air. He then looked down at the bounty hunter with a nod. “Nice job, by the way.”

  From somewhere inside the encampment, a soldier shouted, followed by the braying of a pack of dogs; reminding them that their situation was still tenuous at best. In unison, Krin and Garhet turned towards the vast open field to the southeast of the Bremen. The snow had already begun to taper off, and the first vestiges of orange light now radiated up over the Weihen mountains directly to the east. Just at the edge of the mountains, they could make out the slight ripple of dawn’s light washing over a broad river. The Rhenus. Once they found a way to cross it, Garhet explained, they would be in Magna Germania, and beyond the reach of Rome.

  Krin and Garhet sprinted as fast as they could across the snow-covered landscape, trying to put as much distance between themselves and the Port of Bremen as possible before the sun was fully visible over the mountains.

  The most difficult part of the journey was just beginning, but Krin felt elated at the prospects of what lay ahead. In particular, the answers he had been seeking for the better part of the last month and a half. Answers he had been missing most of his life.

  ***

  Ulfilas rolled over onto his back before easing himself up onto his elbows; his head pounding. He had never lost a quarry before; nor did he intend to start now. But this hunt…this hunt was rapidly becoming one of most intriguing he ever had.

  There was something quite different about his prey this time, though he couldn’t quite decide what it was. First, there was the fact that they had induced a full blown obsession with a man as powerful as General Alexandrius. That spoke volumes in itself. But it was more than the Roman’s interest in the boy and dwarf that nagged at Ulfilas’ thoughts. The boy himself was special. Something, he thought, that hadn’t been seen in the world in centuries if the stories were true. It had been his snow-white hair, and those strange lavender-colored eyes. No wonder that accursed Roman had such a keen interest in him.

  Ulfilas was beginning to foresee a major dilemma in the future of this hunt. Something he would need to be mindful of, if he ever hoped to claim his long-sought reward. Truth be told, he was beginning to admire the two of them. They had brass. Standing up against him when so clearly disadvantaged. The runt was proving especially resourceful.

  Yes, he liked them. But he was relatively certain his affections for the duo would not be enough to forego the precious bounty he could claim once he retrieved the boy.

  “Sir,” came the feeble voice of a soldier who now cringed over the bounty hunter. “Are you alright, sir?”

  Ulfilas stood up to his full seven and a half foot height, and arched his back until each vertebrae popped, one at a time up his spine. Satisfied, he leaned his head to one side, and repeated the same ritual with his neck. It felt good.

  He looked down at the soldier, who scampered away from him as if he were an abused mongrel. Like most young Romans, the soldier was terrified of him, and that felt good as well. As a general rule, Ulfilas despised the fact that his tribe had wanted nothing more than to be free from the whims of one emperor or another, and ultimately paid for that desire for freedom with bondage…bondage that even now, he was forced to endure. But more than anything, he loathed the very fact that he was forced to be at the plume-helmeted peacock's constant beck and call.

  “Fetch me a horse and some provisions,” Ulfilas growled. “I’m going after them.”

  The soldier briskly did an about face, and shuffled away to fulfill his assigned task.

  The giant turned to look out at the field in the distance. He figured they were probably getting close to the river by now. Ulfilas glanced up at the sky. A ribbon of purple and orange was just breaking over the horizon. Dawn. They would be plenty visible soon as the sun was high enough. Now that the snow had stopped falling, it made their tracks easier to follow.

  He took in a deep breath of the frigid morning air and smiled. He would let them get a few hours head start. It seemed more sporting that way. He wanted to have some fun with them before he crushed their hopes of freedom. Besides, it would be good to let the Roman peacock sweat a little bit longer. Another day or so wouldn’t hurt.

  He reached a hand to his head, gently touching the lump growing there. A testament to the boy’s courage as well. Yes, he did indeed like these two. It was going to be a shame to deliver them back to the prison in Lycia. But he had no choice. Promises had been made. His freedom in exchange for the boy’s capture. Ulfilas decided he had absolutely no problem with that at all.

  PART II

  SONS OF THE MORNING

  TWELVE

  The tongues of the small fire lapped at the frigid air surrounding the camp that Krin and Garhet had made east of the Rhenus. They had been traveling non-stop for the last two days, and had finally decided there was a safe enough distance between them and Bremen to take a much needed repast.

  Crossing the river had proved more difficult than Krin had imagined. The ferryman had refused them passage once he caught sight of Garhet. The old timer, flustered by the small man’s presence, had immediately burst into a tirade about ‘dwarves and the filthy worms from which they came’. It had taken every ounce of Krin’s diplomacy to convince his friend not to punch the ferryman in the face. In the end, it was the ferryman’s son who agreed to take them across after Garhet performed some of his ‘dwarf magic’ by turning an ordinary piece of black coal into a diamond. Krin still couldn’t quite grasp how Garhet had done it, but assumed the transmogrification was little more than sleight of hand. After all, if the dwarf had access to such sorcery, why on earth had they labored so hard in Andriaki to earn passage on the merchant vessel? He filed the question away for later. He was just happy they had been able to reach an agreement—which also included a worn pair of deerskin boots for Krin, a couple of fur-lined cloaks and headgear, and most importantly, a vow of complete silence should anyone come searching for them.

  Now, nearly two-days walk south of the fortified Roman outpost, the two huddled close to the campfire, nibbling on the scant meal of fish and frozen wild berries they had managed to scavenge. They had chosen a small dell, near an outcrop of rocks just outside the dense forest, and well hidden from any prying eyes, in which to set up camp. The only giveaway to their location was the campfire’s smoke curling slowly over the pines.

  A fresh blanket of snow had fallen over the forested landscape since they had crossed the river. He pulled his cloak around him, nibbled on a berry, and took in the sight.

  Growing up in Lycia, on the Mediterranean coast of Asia Minor, Krin knew of only one snow fall during a freak storm when he was six—though he had been too sick with a sudden fever at the time to actually enjoy it. He was certain his parents had lived in climates such as this when he was a small child, but no memory of the beautiful white powder remained in his mind.

  Taking his thoughts from the snow, he turned to his right to see Garhet huddled around the fire with his back to Krin, frying up the fish he had just caught, and humming a strange melody that sounded like some sort of battle hymn.

  “I thought you only ate candy.”

  The dwarf shrugged. “Need to ration it. It doesn’t grow on trees, ya know. Besides, the fish helps warm me old bones.”

  “It smells delicious.” Krin's mouth was watering.

  “Ye think so, eh?” Garhet said, turning around to look at Krin. “Well, the rod is over there. Help yerself.” The old dwarf chuckled to himself, amused at his little joke,
as he pointed to a long thin branch with a line of twine attached to it. He took one of the fish, placed it on a piece of bark, and handed it to Krin.

  “Eat up, lad,” said Garhet with a wink. “We’ve a long journey ahead of us tomorrow. It’s at least a two-day walk to the valley and another day to Madagus Keep.”

  Krin stuffed the fish into his mouth, savoring every morsel. Though he had never been denied the best cuisine Myra had to offer, food had never tasted so wonderful in his entire life. He wasn’t sure whether the difference had more to do with the ravenous hunger he had to endure while on their sojourn, or the unusual spice the dwarf had added to the recipe. In the end, it didn't matter the cause; he picked at the fish to the bare bones.

  “It’s an old dwarven recipe. Even though dwarves aren’t really fond of the water, we love to eat,” Garhet explained. “We can turn almost anything into a culinary—if not confectionary—delight.”

  “I’m discovering…you dwarves…have quite…diverse skills,” Krin managed between bites. “Like that diamond thing you did. Quite an impressive trick.”

  The dwarf scowled. “Unfortunately, that was no trick. It was a sacred act, all dwarves are capable of doing…but one we’re loathe to reveal to anyone outside of our kind.”

  Krin sat up straight. “You mean, it wasn’t a simple conjurer’s trick?”

  Garhet shook his head, pulling a piece of tender white meat from his plate. He then stuffed it into his mouth.

  “Then why…”

  “It was an act of desperation.” The dwarf’s words were little more than a growl. “Such transformations are reserved for the most sacred of worship, and I stooped, turning it into a cheap commercial transaction. It’s not unheard of. Not forbidden. But the very act disgusts us to our very core.” He paused, taking another bite. “And I’d rather discuss it no more.”

  Even with the myriad of questions each answer raised, he respected the dwarf’s request to drop it. Instead, he continued picking over the few stray scraps of fish still clinging to the bones in silence. Dwarves were a strange people, with curious customs and beliefs that baffled him. So far, they seemed to be wondrous and wise, with a hearty yet genial disposition that few others could claim. Yet, the ferryman’s reaction to seeing Garhet had puzzled Krin. The man hadn’t been just openly hateful and hostile initially…he seemed deeply suspicious as well.

  After finishing the last bite and tossing the plate into the fire, Krin stared reflectively into the flames, and pondered Garhet’s sudden return from the dead. Though he still wasn’t clear on how exactly he had been saved, or who the mysterious stranger that had pulled him out of the water had been, he certainly had no inclination to look a gift-horse in the mouth. Still, the fact that the man had seemed to have the ability to rift, similar to the way Krin supposedly could, intrigued him. The more he thought about it, the more anxious he became to keep moving…to journey on to Thana Pel and the answers that had been gnawing on him since his flight from Myra. He had been promised that he had find them in the Magi stronghold of Madagus Keep. He hoped the promises weren’t empty.

  Speaking of hope.

  Krin wiped the grease from his hands on the hem of his tunic, reached into the pocket of his tunic, and withdrew the dwarf’s medallion. His fingers traced the outline of the man clutching the sword, and turned his attention to the surprised look on the dragon’s face as it was split in two. It was as if the beast had never imagined the possibility of its own defeat. After a few silent moments of contemplating the medallion’s relief, he offered it to the dwarf.

  “Here,” Krin said. “You dropped this when you fell overboard. With everything that’s been going on, I haven’t had a chance to give it back.”

  Garhet reached out, and took the medallion from Krin with utmost reverence; his eye glistening with tears as he gazed on it.

  “I thought…I thought I’d lost it fer good, lad.” He wiped the moisture away with his cloak, then regarded Krin solemnly. “Thank you. I…my people and I…can’t thank you enough for recovering it.”

  Krin gave a quick nod. “You never have to thank me. We’re friends and that’s what friends do.”

  The response brought a flood of fresh tears down the dwarf’s face. Embarrassed, he turned away from Krin, and dabbed at his eyes. “Never had a friend quite like you before,” he said. “Not really.”

  “But surely, if the other dwarves are anything like you…well, I just figured you all would be tightly knit. Close.”

  Garhet cleared his throat and opened his mouth to reply, but quickly closed it again. He took a deep breath, then turned back to look at Krin. “There ain’t many of us left. Just a handful now, really. The Winterking saw to that.”

  Winterking? Garhet had touched on the subject during his lessons on the Dhuna-folk, but had never really elaborated. He had merely said the Winterking was an evil being that had usurped the throne of Wyndter long ago. Supposedly he ruled the Fae with an iron fist, destroying anyone or anything that got in his way.

  “The King of the Fae killed your people? Why? How?”

  Garhet let out low, angry snarl before answering. “He ain’t the king of the Fae. Not really. He just pretends to be—uses fear and his demonic magicks to ensure everyone accept his claim to the throne—after he ousted the true king from his office.

  “And I never said he ‘killed’ my people. Not directly anyway.” The dwarf reached into his pouch, and pulled out a long-stemmed pipe. After stuffing the bowl with a generous portion of tobacco, he chomped down on the stem, and lit it with an ember from campfire. Though such things as pipes, and tobacco had been as foreign to Krin as the wild creatures of Thana Pel, it was yet another aspect of dwarven custom that Garhet had explained on their journey. Since then, he had just seen the dwarf smoke only during a few instances of extreme melancholy.

  “Now, where was I?”

  “The Winterking. He didn’t kill your people, but…”

  “Ah, yeah.” The dwarf spit into the fire in disgust. “It’s a long story, but the short of it is, millennia ago, that foul son of a troll-herder…long before he assumed the role of high king of Wyndter…stole the Dwarfwives from us. Just took ‘em and spirited ‘em away ne’er to be seen again. No one knows why or to where. But needless to say, it’s a might hard to continue yer kind when yer womenfolk are taken out of the equation.”

  Krin wasn’t sure how to respond. He knew the dwarves lived long lives. From the stories Garhet had shared, it seemed they could live for centuries. But without females of the species, there would be no way to procreate. No way to carry on their race. One by one, the dwarves would die out until there were none left. What does one say to a person whose people are victims of a great genocide, with the razor’s edge of time itself, the executioner’s axe?

  Finally, he decided to the best response was the truth. “I’m sorry.”

  Garhet gave a half-hearted smile. “Not yer fault, lad.” He pulled in a lung-full of smoke, then exhaled. “Not yer fault.”

  The two sat in silence for a long time after that, nestled closer to the fire when the snow began to fall again. Soon, the day’s burdens began to weigh Krin down, his eyes grew heavy, and he lay down on his bed of pine boughs. Knowing with certainty that the dwarf’s watchful eye would remain unwavering throughout the night as he drifted off to sleep.

  THIRTEEN

  A distant shout wrenched Krin from his dreams. He bolted upright from his bed of pine boughs, grabbed his sword belt, and prepared to fight. Their small camp was deserted, and smoldering. Garhet was gone, as was his axe.

  “Garhet?”

  Another scream echoed through the forest—or was it a battle cry? The voice sounded fierce. Enraged.

  Krin slipped into his boots, and ran towards the cries. As he drew closer, he could hear multiple voices punctuated by the clash of metal. He took a deep breath and listened. The battle was a long stone's throw to east of him, but because of the overgrowth of underbrush, he couldn’t see what was happening. He
decided it would not be wise for him to stumble blindly into the thick of a fight.

  As he listened, he noted the voices were deep and throaty. He counted dozens. The unfamiliar guttural language was not like any he had heard before. It sounded more like snarled curses more than any articulate discussion. But he only managed to catch bits and pieces in between the clatter of metal weapons crashing down on each other and armor.

  Krin’s heart raced like stampeding wild horses as he listened to the fighting. He was no warrior. The only battle he had ever been in—against the bounty hunter onboard the merchant vessel—had ended in disaster. At least then, he had a familiar weapon—his bow. But Ulfilas had tossed it overboard into the Atlantic after Krin had shot him in the leg.

  He had the now recovered, strangely beautiful gold-handled sword Nicholas had left him, with no knowledge of how to use the blade. What use would he be against whatever was out there?

  But Garhet…

  It was a good bet his missing friend was somehow mixed up in the battle. The dwarf could be in danger. He couldn’t stand idle while Garhet faced the unknown enemy alone.

  Krin had learned enough recently, to use his head, check things out, then act when the time was right.

  He eased Glalbrirer from the scabbard, and crept toward the cacophony ahead, careful to avoid branches or stray twigs that might snap, and give away his location. Based on the sound of the battle, no one would have heard him coming even if he rode in on a herd of elephants, but better to not take any chances.

  As he inched closer, he noticed the woodlands dropped off into a narrow gully. Once he breeched the line of trees, he scrambled down on his belly, crawled to the edge, and gazed down.

  When he saw the motley band of black-skinned creatures, he instantly regretted his choice to come looking. There were nearly twenty of them, the majority of them waist high to Krin, the taller ones, chest-high. The largest, and mightiest of them would have been close to his own height, if the massive quill-covered hump on its back would have allowed it to stand up straight. They were clothed in little more than loincloths, with armor fashioned of bones, similar to that of Ulfilas. The strange creatures brandished a variety of weapons from metal swords and spears to small daggers made of the sharpened animal bones.