The Legend of the Winterking: The Crown of Nandur

by J. Kent Holloway

  “First of all, you can’t use that guy in yer argument. We don’t know the first thing about him. For all we know, he really could’ve been Neptune himself. Could’ve been some type of trick of the mind too. I don’t know. All I know is he seemed to be able to rift like you.” The little man tossed up his hands with a roar of frustration. “Just trust me on this, will ye? It’s a big deal. You’re not getting just how dangerous, and wicked the Dhuna truly are. There was a reason the Crafter removed them from our world, Krin. A very good reason.

  “Imagine if a being had the power to rift in entire armies to our world…at any geographic point on the map at will. Even the Romans wouldn’t stand much of a chance against that. As it happens, the Dels—what we call those stone monoliths—only exist in a few places in Thanaheim. Twelve here, but three or four dozen others scattered over the entire globe, and in some of the most remote places too. Not as much of a threat because they’re relatively easy to defend. But you could come and go anywhere. Unleash an army of ogres against the Huns. Send a scourge of banshees against the stone fortresses of the Far East. A battalion of…”

  “I get it, I get it.” Krin’s shoulders slumped as he continued to process it all. Garhet was right. No wonder the Magi had misgivings toward his sudden, and inexplicable appearance within the council chambers. If he wanted to, he supposed he could do quite a bit of damage.

  He supposed they probably wouldn't be so spooked if they had known just how badly he wished things could go back to the way they were before Nicholas’ arrest. Before he learned that dwarves and goblins and faeries really did exist. He longed for the days when it was just he and his friend Justin against the world; making life miserable for Turelmos the baker. When the most difficult thing he had to endure was how to keep the stitching of his second-hand clothes from unraveling.

  What he wouldn't give to be called again before the Magi Council so he could say his goodbyes, and begin the long journey back to Myra. To simply break his father out of prison, and return to their normal lives. Somehow though, he doubted it would be as simple as that.

  ***

  High above the garden, in the tallest parapets in the southernmost tower, a lone figure watched the three friends below. The boy was trouble; there was no doubt about that. The wretched son of Kraen-Lil would bring disaster to everything they had worked for if allowed to go unchallenged.

  The watcher thought that pulling the strings to have Nicholas arrested would have been enough to deter the boy, but he had clearly been mistaken. He had not counted on the old man’s foresight…the note he had left, instructing his charge to seek the Magi out. In retrospect, sending Finleara to Lycia to unwittingly broker the deal with the Roman General might not have been the best way to utilize her impressive skills, but she had certainly succeeded in orchestrating Nicholas’ incarceration. If only that Roman oaf had succeeded in apprehending the boy as well.

  No matter. There were other—far more reliable—means of taking care of the problem. Of course, subtlety was paramount. He could never risk the others discovering his involvement. For the sake of the Cause, he could not afford to raise their suspicions. But the ancient Keep he had called home for nearly three centuries stored a virtual treasure trove of old world methods, and he alone, was expert in them all.

  Smiling, he reached into his robes, and withdrew three crystalline wine flasks, trimmed in gold. The flasks had been in his family for generations, and he had kept them secret from the others for just such an occasion. He knew they would never understand his using such artifacts as these. They were remnants of the “Old Way”. Reminders of darker times, and despotic rulers. If the others knew of the flasks, they would surely try to confiscate them from his collection, and bury them in their precious Vault for fear their power would be used unwisely.

  The fools. These men, who he had called brothers for so long, had lost all sense of vision of the splendor of their noble calling. Their magnificent heritage. They had lost sight of their glorious purpose, but he was determined to revitalize them once more. In order to do that, he first needed to deal with the issue of Nicholas’ brat.

  Once more, he glanced over the side of the parapet, and watched as the dwarf burst from the bench, and whirled around on his young charge. Whatever they were discussing appeared to be rather heated, and the crotchety old Bliix was beginning to lose his patience with the lad. Good. That’ll make their job all the easier.

  The figure uttered a few words in a language long lost to the world of men, and cast one of the flasks to the floor near his feet, shattering it into hundreds of shards of prismatic glass. He recited the incantation a second time, and threw the second flask to the ground. He repeated the ritual for a third time, and waited. Within seconds, the glass began to melt into a miasmic liquid of swirling colors, then transformed again into three amorphous clouds of smoke, fueled by flickers of radiant embers.

  “Rise, my jinn,” he whispered. “As long ago, my ancestor bound you to your vessels, I now release you upon one condition.”

  In unison, the three jinn hissed: Speak, and it will be as you say.

  Smiling, the man pointed down into the courtyard at Krin. “Relieve me of that ridiculous boy,” he said. “And his companions.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Krin glanced around the garden, breathing in the sweet aroma of honeysuckle, and the strangely warm breeze that wafted down on him from somewhere unseen. This life, he supposed, wasn’t without its charms though. He had to admit that his adventures since meeting his new dwarf and bounty hunter friends was something he doubted Justin or even any of his wealthier companions would ever experience.

  Then, of course, there was Finleara. She was so wild. Untamed. Fierce, yet stunning; like a cat prowling about an undiscovered jungle. If he left now, he would never get to know her better. Never know for sure if…

  Three dazzling orbs of yellow-green light zigzagged their way from the low-lying clouds above, ripping Krin from his thoughts. The imps. Suddenly, he leapt to his feet, and launched into the air to grab the closest one.

  “Why you little…”

  It darted away just in time, flitting past his head, and pausing just long enough to flick Krin on the ear as it passed.

  “You left me to rot!” he shouted at the next one zooming by. It flew past his other ear, and flicked it as well. “Stop it! Knock it off!”

  “What in blazes…” Garhet was by Krin’s side, axe removed from its belt loop, and ready for a fight.

  The third imp—from the feathered feet, Hermie—zoomed up between Krin’s eyes, and landed directly on his nose. It paused a full two seconds before bringing his thumb and forefinger together, and thumping Krin right between his eyes just before darting off again.

  “Those things really have it in for you, boy,” Ulfilas laughed, while trotting up beside them. “Not sure what you did to raise their hackles, but it must have been bad.”

  “I didn’t do anything! They just followed me home from…”

  “…from Wyndter,” Garhet said quietly.

  “It wasn’t my fault.” Krin looked around at the zipping imps, and repeated the statement at them. “It wasn’t my fault! You followed me back! I never asked for you to come.”

  The three friends watched as the imps continued their aerial dance through the garden. One of them—from its tilted-head, and lolling tongue, Krin guessed it was Askew—flew in a wobbly circle, its arms waving frantically as it raced by Garhet’s bulbous nose.

  “Um, I think the buggers are trying to tell us something,” Ulfilas said, as he attempted to swat Sentinel, the bulkiest imp, away. “They don’t seem to be just interested in the boy any longer.”

  At that, both Garhet and Krin stood from the bench, and looked cautiously around. “Hermie, what is it?” Krin wasn’t even sure the diminutive creatures could understand him. They had seemed to listen to him in the goblin cell, but it could have merely been a fluke. Still, if his three pesky tag-alongs were trying to communicate, he would have
to at least attempt to establish some type of dialogue. “What are you trying to tell us?”

  The feathered imp flitted past his shoulder, performed an aerial somersault, and buzzed into the thick foliage of what Krin called the Noah tree. A second later, an explosion of leaves and branches blossomed out toward the three friends as Hermie rocketed uncontrollably into the sky, followed by a shadowy—unnervingly humanoid—cloud of smoke and blue flame. At that precise moment, two more amorphous figures emerged from the shadows to flank them.

  Garhet and Ulfilas instantly drew their weapons, but Krin could only gape at the alien creatures. They appeared composed of nothing more than a mass of gloom flecked with blue-black embers swirling chaotically within. Their eyes—like burning coals—were the only constant within their forms, until weapons suddenly materialized into their hands. Only then did their dark ghostly bodies take on a much more solid, menacing look. Krin's knees nearly buckled at the sight and he flushed with sudden realization.

  “Jinn!” Garhet cried, raising his axe above his head, and dashing toward the closest intruder. Ulfilas, pronouncing a string of curses on his own target, leapt heartily into the fray with his long blade swinging.

  Jinn? Of course, having been raised in a province in Asia Minor, he had heard of the legends told by travel-weary merchants plying their wares. Like so many other beings encountered on this journey, he had always assumed them to be creatures of myth. Stories to frighten children, and warn against the destructive nature of greed. In a handful of accounts, they had been spirits of great magic that could be used to grant the most lascivious of wishes. But most of the stories were darker; far more sinister than any of the other faerie stories he had heard. They were always described as spirits, yes; but unless they were bound to some type of talisman or vessel, they were free to do as they pleased in the world of mortals—and that typically meant a great deal of mischief, and violence.

  So the question now is which kind are these? Bound and serving a master, or free? Considering their timing, Krin doubted it was the latter.

  Garhet’s sudden cry of pain yanked Krin back to the present, and he watched as one of the creatures, now consumed in flames of azure fire, flew over the dwarf’s head, swinging a very solid-looking scimitar–straight at Garhet's remaining eye. He brought up the axe handle in the nick of time and blocked the curved sword. In the same motion, he dropped backwards, rolling away from the jinni. He came up behind it and swiftly, before the thing could turn around, the dwarf brought the blade of his axe down. The metal passed right through the creature as if slicing through a wisp of fog. The substance of the smoky creature billowed out, expelled by the displaced air of the moving axe, then merged together once more, forming a semi-solid entity once more.

  “Iron!” Garhet cried. “The axe is pure iron.” He turned to look at Krin; true worry etched across his face. “Nothing of the Fae can withstand iron.”

  “Then these things must not be of the Fae,” Ulfilas replied, blocking the double-bladed thrust of his enemy’s own blade. He, too, had been unsuccessful in cleaving his own opponent in two. “Perhaps a new strategy is in order!”

  Sword and axe whirled through the air, attempting to land at least one blow against the vaporous foes. The jinn darted around the garden in a blur of motion, evaporating, and congealing just as Krin’s friends nearly succeeded in landing a hit.

  Krin, for his part, drew Glalbrirer, but remained motionless as he watched the scene unfold. He wanted to join in to help his two friends, but nagging self-doubt pricked at the back of his mind keeping him fixed in place. He was no good in battle. Everyone knew that.

  But what he lacked in battlefield experience, he more than made up for in cunning. No, he was much better suited, at that moment, to wait, watch, and bide his time for the right moment.

  Two of the jinn were locked in battle with Garhet and Ulf. The third, who had chased after Hermie, was nowhere to be seen. The imps Askew and Sentinel zipped in between the combatants, dutifully attempting to distract the incorporeal assailants, but Hermie, too, had disappeared. Though still annoyed with how the imps had abandoned him in the goblin dungeon, he couldn’t help but worry for the feather-heeled imp leader. He found himself silently praying for the little guy’s safe return.

  The clash and clang of metal echoed around him, Krin looked around the perimeter of the garden for the Magi Guard soldiers who had been ordered to sentry duty while their guests relaxed. No sign of any of them either.

  Seems they conveniently disappeared as well, Krin mused. Interesting.

  “Krin!”

  Garhet’s shout caught his attention just in time for him to duck the black-tipped arrow rushing past his face. The moment it flew by, Krin traced its path, and caught the slightest glimmer of blue-tinted embers shrouded in the shadows of the Noah tree.

  “It’s in the tree!” Krin shouted. “Watch…”

  Before he could finish the warning, the air around him buzzed with a flurry of arrow shafts hurtling straight for his chest. For the split second he had to think, Krin realized there were suddenly more arrows than possible for a single archer to shoot. He estimated that nearly thirty of them were speeding in his direction, and all from a single attacker.

  Magic! He thought, as he dove for cover behind the stone bench he had been relaxing on only moments before. I hate magic!

  Huddled into a fetal position under the protection of stone, he waited as the click-clunk of the barrage striking his hiding spot had stopped, then risked a peek around the leg of the bench. Garhet’s jinni was now on top of him, viscously mauling him with raptor-like claws. He couldn’t tell where the spirit’s sword had gone, but the dwarf was doing all he could to keep the five inch talons from ripping through his chain-mail armor.

  A few feet away, Ulf seemed to be faring slightly better against his foe. Timing the swing of his scythe to coincide with every time his jinni had to solidify for an attack, the giant had begun to make considerable headway. The creature was actually being pushed back, until giving up, it dispersed once more into a fiery cloud, and rose into the air, and out of reach. Krin watched as the humanoid haze peered around the garden, searching for something…or someone.

  Suddenly, the creature’s cold eyes locked onto him, and dove. Still laying prone under the bench, Krin rolled to the left just as the jinni crashed down where he had been just seconds before. The instant he did, another barrage of arrows let loose. Two tips struck him in the back, barely piercing the leather armor he had secured from one of the Magi Guard. The tips bit into his skin, but not by much.

  “Ulfilas, the tree!” Krin pointed to the Noah tree. “Help!”

  Krin saw the big man rush toward the tree, just as his attacker solidified, and lashed out at him with his blade. Instinctively, Krin brought up Glalbrirer to block the blow. Upon impact, a brilliant light burst out from the blade, shattering the jinni’s own sword into millions of tiny pieces, which quickly dissolved into black wisps of smoke. The jinni screeched, leaping away. The glow of its now wide eyes suddenly dimmed.

  That actually hurt it, Krin thought. Its sword was part of him. Glalbrirer actually hurt the thing when it shattered the sword.

  Emboldened by the realization, Krin gave a quick glance over to Ulf, who was now chasing the archer jinni around the perimeter of the garden, then leapt to his feet, and brought Glalbrirer up in as close to a defensive posture as he knew how. His own attacker hovered just barely out of reach, seemingly uncertain as to what to do. Then, as if pushed by some unseen force, it barreled toward him, solidifying once more, and silently raised a newly conjured sword. Anticipating the move, Krin spun to his right just as the creature thrust his blade at him. The jinni over-extended, rushing past his prey, which left its back completely unprotected. Seizing the opportunity, Krin raised his own weapon, and brought it down across the jinni’s back. With a flash of brilliant red light, it was sliced in two. The creature, squealing in pain, attempted to dematerialize once more, but the tendrils of smoke waft
ing up into the sky quickly liquefied, and splashed to the ground in a pool of azure ink and molten glass.

  Satisfied his foe was no longer a threat, Krin turned in Garhet’s direction. The dwarf was still struggling to keep his attacker’s claws from tearing into him, but fueled by seemingly endless supply of dwarven determination, was holding his own. The creature was no closer to succeeding in eviscerating Krin’s friend than when he first latched onto him.

  Hefting Glalbrirer up, and squeezing its grip with renewed confidence, Krin ran to Garhet’s aid. “Stay down!” he shouted.

  “Huh?” The dwarf attempted to raise his head to see what Krin intended to do, and almost had his bulb-like nose sliced off as the boy whirled the sword in a swinging arc that cut through his attacker like Ghundary cheese.

  Like its ethereal companion, this jinni squealed pitifully, but had no time to attempt its transformation into smoke before it simply melted into a puddle of bluish goo.

  “A little more warning next time, will ye?” Garhet growled, accepting Krin’s hand to help him to his feet. He then turned his attention to the garden, and scowled. “Where’s the giant?”

  “Oh, he’s taking care of the other…” Krin glanced around, but saw no sign of his friend, or the third jinni. He scanned the grounds until his eyes noticed an open door near the southeast wall. “Come on! He needs our help!”

  After Garhet retrieved his axe, the two ran through the door, and down a long, dimly lit corridor leading to where Krin had seen the Keep’s three kitchens on their tour earlier that evening. At the time, the luxurious marble-hewn halls were ablaze with oil lamps mounted on sconces in five foot intervals. Now, only a handful burned to light their way. He was just about to comment on this, when a crash of pots, pans, and other kitchen appliances echoed down the hallway.

  “Kind of strange that the lamps are all out,” Garhet said, quickening his pace.