“Even more troubling…where exactly do you think all the guards have gone?” Krin added, as he ran up beside him. His grip on the handle of the sword was beginning to burn, and he forced himself to loosen it as they raced down the corridor.
“Good question. But one I think we can worry about after the immortal spirit-assassin from who-knows-where is dealt with, don’t y—”
Just then, an enormous human missile flew toward them from the shadows. Garhet, being two heads shorter, managed to duck with ease. Krin, however, wasn’t so fortunate. The full brunt of Ulfilas’ massive frame careened into him, sending Krin sprawling backwards, and wheezing for breath. With a growl, Ulfilas shook the collision off, and pushed himself off Krin’s squirming form.
“Sorry ‘bout that.”
A shrouded figure burst from the gloom, tackling him to the ground again. Tendrils of dark indigo smoke—much darker than it had been when Krin saw it—spiraled from the jinni’s back. The creature, its own talons extended, began to ravage the giant in a feral rage. Unlike Garhet’s dwarf-smithed armor, the Visigoth’s thin chain-mail, and fragile bone armor was no match for the spirit’s ferocious ire. The claws dug deep into Ulfilas’ chest, raking down his abdomen in a geyser of crimson that painted the marble walls in gore.
There was something distinctly different about this jinni from its consorts. It was larger. More bestial. To Krin, it seemed almost mad with blood lust. But before he could consider it any further, Garhet sprang at the creature with a roar, only to be back-handed with a casual flick of the jinni’s wrist, and sent flying down the gloomy hall.
“No!” Krin shouted, reaching for his sword. But it wasn’t there. He glanced around, and saw its hilt laying uselessly around the curve of the hallway, and well out of immediate reach. He turned toward the smoking jinni, which no longer resembled a man but a rabid chimeric monster of legend. Large feathered wings filled the tight confines of the corridor, effectively blocking any attempt at rescue by Garhet or anyone else. The beast’s body was that of a great lion standing on all fours, easily shoulder to shoulder in height with Krin, with the feet and rapier talons of a falcon. The only thing remotely humanoid, was its head and face, which now looked hungrily at Krin while mist-like drool slavered down its chin.
It turned back to its bloody claws, still buried in Ulfilas. Then it looked back at Krin, and smiled. Its grin was wider than humanly possible; stretching easily from one ear to the other, and boasting a set of dagger-like fangs along the corners of its lips.
“Stop it,” Krin said quietly.
The coals in the jinni’s eyes flared—now a deep shade of blood red—and it snickered at the feeble command. Or rather, it tried. The creature’s laughter sounded more like a saw-blade being drawn against a slaver’s chain. Then, as if to demonstrate beyond any shadow of a doubt, just how impotent Krin was to stop it, the ghostly form shoved its all-too-real raptor claw deeper into Ulf’s gut, withdrew it, then slowly licked the blood dripping down the talon.
Something hot burst from within Krin’s chest at the sight. It boiled, and raged, and roared with a hunger for vengeance. He felt the air around him suddenly stir with the same intense heat as it pulsed invisibly from within him. His teeth ground against each other, as he turned to look at Glalbrirer. Could he make it? Did he have time to get to it before the thing finished Ulfilas off?
No. No time. Krin took a single step toward the jinni. The waves of heat swelled deeper inside him, raging for release. Gotta end this now…before it’s too late for Ulf.
“It is time for your friend to die.” The words—as harsh and cruel as a hangman’s noose—came from the jinni, though its lips never moved. “Then, I shall take great pleasure in feasting on your bones. Then the dwarf. And maybe that pretty, young elf for which you have been pining. ”
It then lumbered off of Ulfilas, rose onto two stout legs, and hefted the big man above his head.
“Let. Him. Go.” The fire inside Krin thrashed at his gut, broiling as his own anger fumed. He moved even closer, unsure what he was about to do, but knowing he had to do something. “Now!”
“It will be as you say,” the jinni said inside Krin’s own mind. In one swift motion, it twisted around, and flung the bounty hunter down the hall. As he approached the bend in the corridor, his body struck the wall with a sickening crack.
Upon seeing his friend broken like a rag doll on the floor, something inside Krin snapped. Another wave of heat pulsed from his chest, and this time, the jinni noticed it. The light of its eyes flared in recognition, and…Krin could have sworn it was fear, which bolstered his rage. But if the creature had been afraid, it quickly mastered it. Snarling, its talons extended, and poised for his head, it leapt directly at Krin.
“Back off!” Krin shouted, preparing himself for the jinni’s impact. But it never came. Instead, the heat that had been building inside him was released in a tidal wave of flame and ash. He watched as the jinni stopped short, reared back in mortal dread, and let out a scream that was cut short as the creature melted away into nothing.
Krin stood in the hallway for several moments on trembling legs, before collapsing to his knees. He could feel the blisters, branded upon him by the heat, swelling over every inch of his skin. Could smell his smoldering clothing, now little more than smoking rags barely covering his shaking frame. Lances of pain burst over the entire surface of his body, and he tried to breathe, but his lungs refused to obey the most basic command.
The whole experience had been…so familiar to him, yet so alien. The heat, the power coursing through his veins, had all been reminiscent of rifting. Only instead of ice and frost, he had expelled a Vulcan dynamo of heat.
He didn’t understand it. Didn’t know how it had happened. But the jinni was now gone, and he honestly didn’t care about the details at that moment. All he wanted to do was lay down, and let the fever building inside take him from the insanity his life had become in these past few months.
“…alright, Krin?”
He just wanted to be left alone. To go back to the way things were. Back to Myra, and Justin, and driving the town guard crazy with their antics. All he wanted was…
“…Krin? Krin?”
He slowly looked up to see Garhet standing over him, worry reflecting from the gleam of his eye. When had he fallen onto his back? Last he remembered, he had been on his knees. Had he intentionally laid down? If not, why hadn’t he felt the fall?
“Don’t worry, friend,” Garhet said. “We’re going to get you some help. Just hold on.”
Of course, he would hold on. It wasn’t like he was going anywhere. His arms, legs, or even his head couldn’t move. He tried to open his mouth to speak—to assure the dwarf that he was going to be fine—but his jaw was locked in place. It wouldn’t budge. He tried to swallow, to clear his throat, but it was as if all the moisture in his body had evaporated.
An eternity later, an entire squad of Magi Guard stood over him. Two of the Magi Council sidled up next to him, coating his skin with a foul smelling ointment. His eyes blurred briefly as pain gnawed against his flesh with every touch the Magi healers gave him. When they cleared again, he nearly gasped. The same people were busying themselves, preparing to move him. Garhet stood to his left, biting his lips with arms folded across his barrel chest. But standing behind him was someone he had never seen before. The man was tall, perhaps only a head shorter than Ulfilas, with a broad, muscular shoulders. Like Garhet, his bare arms were crossed, rippling with power, and covered with swirls of vine-like tattoos. The man’s age was difficult to determine, but from the worry lines and crows’ feet creasing his face, he was easily above fifty. His silver-white beard almost glistened in the lantern light, and was braided into two forks that stretched down past his sword belt. He had bright lavender-colored eyes, almost identical to Krin’s, were accentuated by an elaborate tattoo scrawled across the right side of his face—a tattoo of a serpentine dragon coiling for a strike. The stranger's most unnerving feature of all was th
e jagged scar that stretched across one side of his neck to the other. The injury that could have caused such a scar, would undoubtedly have been fatal, but here the man stood.
Yet no one else besides Krin seemed to notice him as he stood there, unmolested. The man watched the goings-on with great interest. When he noticed Krin watching him, he gave him a warm, compassionate smile, then nodded conspiratorially at him—as if to say, “Let’s just keep this our little secret.”
Then, before he could process all the implications the stranger represented, Krin’s entire world flared bright red and orange, then quickly faded to gray, then black. Then he was aware of nothing else.
TWENTY-NINE
Reganus pulled away from the parapet’s rail, satisfied he had done the right thing. He watched as Krin and the dwarf dash through the door leading into the southeast wing of the Keep, and was confident the final jinni would finish the job.
The boy had certainly surprised him with the ease in which he had dispatched the first two jinn; though in hindsight, he realized he had failed to factor in Kraen-Lil’s sword. It wouldn’t really matter. The outcome was a foregone conclusion. The surviving jinni, known by the name of Hestion, was more than capable of finishing the job where the others had failed.
Hestion, after all, was no ordinary jinn. He had transcended the power of the most fearsome of his brethren millennia ago, and was now be classified as a creature the Arabs called a ghul. To some, a ghul was an abomination to be feared. To be destroyed on sight. They were viewed as low-level demons, and as malevolent as the fiercest of the Fallen.
Reganus, however, knew better. Demons were bound to no man. Could not be reasoned with. Could not be contained. The ghul, on the other hand, were merely jinn that had lived far too long, and teetered on the edge of madness. In return, the madness gave them strength and ferocity far greater than anything their brethren could possibly imagine. And, despite how it might seem to the unyielding, rational minds of his fellow magi, this madness actually made the ghul much easier to control. Easier to manipulate.
A smile spread wide across Reganus’ face. No, it would only be a matter of time before the bells sounded, heralding the gruesome death of the boy and his companions.
Satisfied his mission was nearly complete, the figure stooped down, withdrew a silken pouch, and carefully picked up the shards of glass littering the parapet floor. As he worked, a brief pang of guilt edged its way from the corner of his mind. Despite the young man’s arrogance—and the danger he posed—the boy was still very much an innocent in all this. He did not choose his own lineage, nor the blood coursing through his veins, and the infernal power said blood granted him. It wasn’t his fault that powers outside the realm of man—both mortal and immortal—would set their sights upon him if they knew he existed.
And for all Reganus knew, the creature whom the dwarves called Winterking had already set to work on corrupting the boy. Despite Calibus’ incessant defense of Nicholas, he still believed it quite possible the Bishop of Myra was the one who had taken up the mantle left vacant by Sair’n Kryl. And if this was true, both he and the nephil had been preparing the boy nearly 18 years for what could only end in the destruction of all humanity.
No, it didn’t feel quite right to take such joy in the act of his murder. Reganus was, after all, not a killer by nature. He was a member of the Order of the Magi, and despite differences of opinion on exactly what that meant, he still believed in the principles they were sworn to uphold. Cold blooded murder was evil. Plain and simple. And Reganus had a difficult time reconciling the idea that his actions that night, in turn, had tainted his soul a little more.
Still, he thought. It had to be done. The boy simply presented too much of a threat. If allowed to live, there’s no telling what…
A soft scrape of boots echoed across the floor behind him. Startled, Reganus tensed, dropping one of the glass fragments. Prepared for a fight, he spun around at the intruder. “Who…? Oh, it’s just you.” He smiled, straightening his robes nervously, before bending down again to scoop up the glass he had dropped. “You gave me quite a fright. I was afraid we had been found out.”
The newcomer watched patiently as the aged magi finished cleaning up the glass, then cinched the draw string on the bag, and tucked it into a hidden pocket inside his robe.
“I have to say, that was a brilliant idea, having the guards dismissed from the garden,” he said, feeling his muscles relax a bit. “Though my jinn would have easily dealt with them, I would rather none of our own people suffer for the Cause, if you take my meaning.” He gave one last look over the edge of the parapet, and turned to the newcomer. “Now, I suppose we should make our way down to the council chambers. Wouldn’t want the others to miss—”
Without a warning, a gleam of silver shot out from the newcomer’s hand—the blade of a dagger expertly wielded—and slashed across the magus’s throat. A geyser of crimson gushed from the wound, pouring to the floor, and pooling near his feet. Reganus glanced up at his killer, eyes wide, then brought his hands to the jagged gash across his throat. He tried to cry out…to call for help, but found no voice in his effort.
The newcomer stepped forward, leaned in toward the dying man’s ear, and whispered, “You’ve done well, Reganus. His Highness will be most pleased.”
A sudden, horrid realization flooded into the magus’s mind. A terrible mistake had been made. He had been played for a fool, and there was nothing that could be done to atone.
He staggered; the strength in his legs waning rapidly. The world around him grew dimmer with each slowing drumbeat of his heart. What had he done? How could he have been so blind? He stepped toward his killer once more, and lunged. The figure easily side-stepped the move, and Reganus crumpled to the ground. He could do little more than watch the growing red pool beneath him. Reganus’ world gradually grew perfectly black, and the ancient magus was no more.
THIRTY
Madagus Keep
Two Weeks Later
The magpie perched in the open window, cawing mournfully until Krin clawed his way to consciousness. The ebon bird preened, ruffled its feathers, cawed again, then returned to its preening before repeating the cycle for the thousandth time that day. Krin wasn’t entirely certain how long he had been aware of it. Wasn’t certain how long it had been watching over his sleeping form and berating him with its mocking, merciless cry. But once his consciousness returned, he simply laid in his warm, over-stuffed bed, and listened to the ridicule. He accepted the bird’s rant, as he would have accepted a scolding from Nicholas, and found himself in wholehearted agreement.
Who did he think he was? How was anything in this strange, and incomprehensible valley even remotely related to him? Why was he not back home in Myra where he belonged? These were questions the bird was asking, and Krin had no acceptable answer for any of them.
The one thing he did know, was that he felt no pain. That was a good sign. Or maybe not. He wasn’t entirely certain, but the only way to find out, one way or another, was by opening his eyes.
He found such a simple task, easier said than done. The moment he willed his lids to part, he felt the tightening resistance of bandages wrapped around his face. He reached up, felt the soft linens, then sighed. The damage must be pretty serious to wrap me up like a swaddled infant.
“That was quite a scare you gave us, son,” came a familiar voice from somewhere behind the veil of his bandages.
“Nicholas?’ Krin shot up in bed, turning his head this way in that.
“Shhhh.” He felt someone’s hands gently pressing back onto the mattress. “Don’t try to move. At least, not yet. The healers are still doing their thing.”
“But is that you? Nicholas, are you really here?” Krin reached out his hand, searching for familiarity. He shivered when it was accepted by the strong, calloused hands he knew so well. Hands both sturdy, and gentle. Lined with years of laboring for his flock; ministering to every need he had the power to meet.
“Yes, my boy.
I’m here.” The bishop’s hands squeezed his in silent, and grateful greeting.
“But how? Last I saw, you were in prison. How did you get out?” Krin stopped, and thought about it for a moment. An even more perplexing question presented itself. “How long was I unconscious?”
Nicholas belted out a deep, throaty laugh. “Fear not, dear Krin. It hasn’t been that long. Though you have been asleep for a little while now—fifteen days to be precise. The Magi gave you a kind of sleep potion to induce unconsciousness while they ministered to your burns.” Krin could hear the smile in the man’s next words. “As for how I’m here…well, let’s save that story for a different day. I’m quite sure you’re not ready for that particular adventure.”
Try me, Krin thought, but held his tongue. Though he was tiring of all the secrets, cryptic double talk, and evasion of questions, he had known the old man for too long, and knew his moods. Pressing the issue now, would only build into an argument, and neither of them needed that right now. Instead, he decided to turn his attention to a more immediate concern.
“Um, how am I? I mean, the burns.” He concentrated on his entire body, but any pain he anticipated simply wasn’t there. “I’m not sure what happened. We were fighting…well, we were attacked by something that…” How could he utter the words? Jinn. It sounded so preposterous in his head. And Nicholas had always been a no-nonsense kind of father. He had no tolerance for ‘idle fancies’, as he had always called the superstitions so prominent in the region in which he had been raised. But hadn’t Nicholas sent Krin here? Didn’t he already know about the strange denizens that haunted this realm?
“You mean, the jinn?” Nicholas asked, discerning the boy’s discomfort in the subject matter.
“You know about them? I mean, you actually believe in them?”
Nicholas chuckled. “Belief isn’t necessary when one knows something exists, my boy.” Krin heard the bishop shift in his chair, a telltale sign of uneasiness. After a moment, he cleared his throat. “Krin, there’s going to be a lot of things you learn about me in the coming days—things I’ve kept from you, things I’ve tried to shield you from—that might surprise you. Some that might even disappoint you.” Another pause, then: “For instance, I’m three hundred and sixty-seven years old. I was born in Persia, near the province of Ur. I actually met Christ as a small child along with all the other magi here, and I know that things like elves, dwarves, faeries, trolls, and yes, jinn exist.”
The Legend of the Winterking: The Crown of Nandur Page 22
