The Legend of the Winterking: The Crown of Nandur

by J. Kent Holloway

  But Krin. His thoughts raced through his mind in an instant. Think about it. The girl’s a warrior of the highest caliber. An elf. Agility and grace have always been synonymous with her.

  He looked into her face, as she reached down, desperately trying to pull him back up. Her eyes wide with concern. Fear even. The face of someone who honestly cared about him. There was no way she would have done this intentionally.

  Then he remembered the N’ahk’s riddle he had been trying to recall only moments before:

  “MY HEART IS GONE WITH CROWN OF BONE.

  VANISHED IN A SPLINTERED RING.

  GONE IS SHE, TO MY ENEMY...

  THE TORMENTED BRIDE OF THE WINTERKING.”

  No, no, no! He wasn’t talking about her. He couldn’t have been. Whoever is going to betray me is destined to wed the Winterking. The Krampus.

  “Take my hand!” she was screaming. Her hand struggled to take hold of his leather gauntlets. “I cannot pull you up if you do not take my hand!”

  The snow slapped at his face, arms, and hand as if the weather itself conspired to see him fall to his death. He stared back up into the elf’s beautiful face. A small stream of water trickled down one of her cheeks. A tear? Or merely a fleck of melted snow? He wasn’t certain.

  But he was certain of one thing…this woman was no traitor. She had no love for the Krampus. The opposite, in fact. He had taken her from her family. Abused her. Used her. Humiliated her, and turned her into a terrified urchin who had barely managed to escape Wyndter with her soul intact.

  More than that, she had found a home here in Thana Pel. A father who treasured her more than the entire hoard of Madagus Keep’s Vault. A fulfilling life. She wouldn’t—couldn’t—possibly turn her back on all that.

  No, whoever the N’ahk was talking about, it could not have been Leara. And if it was, then the mad creature of the Tower was more insane than Krin ever suspected.

  “I can’t let go to give you my hand,” he shouted up to her.

  “The other one! Give me the other!”

  Krin looked down, and eyed his left hand, avoiding the hundred foot drop below. There was no way he was going to let go of the Crown. They had worked too hard to get it. Too much was at stake. But he wouldn’t be able to hold onto the carpet much longer. Between the sweat from his palms, and the slipperiness of the melting snow, he would lose his grip soon enough. Sair’n Kryl and the Krampus could then simply pluck their prize out of his bone-shattered fingers wherever he landed.

  Regardless of the still-lingering doubts concerning the N’ahk’s enigmatic warning, he had no choice. He had to trust Finleara if he hoped to get out of this alive.

  Taking a deep breath, he swung his arm up to her. As he had hoped, she grabbed hold of one end of the antlers, and began to tug; trying to pull him above the lip of the carpet.

  “You have to help me!” she cried.

  Krin struggled to pull himself up; his muscles straining against his own weight. Inch by agonizingly slow inch, he eased himself over the edge until his upper torso was atop the soft fabric of the carpet.

  “We did it,” he said softly. His body was still shaking from the strain and the adrenaline coursing through his veins, but he laughed. It was a deep laugh, emanating from down inside him. It was more intense than he could recall ever making before. It was a Nicholas-God-Moment kind of laugh, and it felt good.

  At least, until the shining tip of Finleara’s sword lowered to less than an inch above his face.

  FORTY-FOUR

  “Get us down,” Finleara said calmly. “Now.”

  He looked up at her; unable to move as he tried to process what was happening. She held Nandur’s Crown in one hand, while pressing the sword tip down against Krin’s cheek with the other. Her face was an enigmatic mask; a multi-faceted puzzle his brain worked futilely to unravel. While Finleara’s lavender eyes stretched into saucer-sized discs of remorse and pity, her lips had firmed into thin lines of unyielding, merciless resolve.

  “Why?” Krin asked.

  “It is complicated,” she said. There was a subtle sadness in her voice. “Just do as I say, and you may yet live. I have no desire to see you dead. Especially while atop this accursed carpet.”

  Krin gritted his teeth while he shuffled through a series of ideas to escape his current predicament. Every one of them, however, ended with either death by her blade, or by a sudden, inevitable stop when he hit the ground. He could see no possible way out.

  “Now please,” she said. “Stand up, and land us.”

  Every muscle tensed as he watched the blade ease back just enough to allow him room to stand. Instead, he remained unmoving. Uncooperative. Defiant.

  “There is no way I’m going to let you have the Crown, Leara.”

  With a scream, she plunged the sword down into the carpet only centimeters from his nose. “Finleara! Finleara! I will not tell you again.” She withdrew the blade, leaving a two-inch slice in the fabric. “Nor will I ask again for you to stand up and bring us down.”

  Though not happy about his prospects, he obeyed; slowly climbing to his feet, then facing her. His right hand inched toward the hilt of Glalbrirer.

  “Please,” she said. “You and I both know you are no good with that sword. You would have a better chance facing me with a fishing pole than Kraen-Lil’s blade.”

  “But why? Just tell me that.”

  She stuck her chin out stubbornly. “No.” She hesitated, then shrugged. “But I will tell you this…”

  Krin made his move mid-sentence. Lunging forward, he tackled her to the carpet, nearly sending them both over the edge. Before Finleara could counter the move, the entire construct hurtled uncontrollably toward the ground. Both of them screamed as they clung desperately for any purchase they could find.

  The earth raced up to greet them, as friendly and inviting as a flyswatter to a fly. Shoving Finleara aside, Krin thrust his hand into his pocket, fumbling for the bell. After an eternity, the tiny metal ball rolled into his palm. He clutched it tight, and felt the carpet slow its descent. But it was too late. They crashed into a stand of trees, and Krin was thrown from his perch, tumbling end over end through the razor-like branches that ripped and tore at his skin. Then, he struck the ground hard, and everything went black.

  ***

  Searing pain burning into his wrists woke Krin. Then he noticed he was bound to a wooden post as tall as he was. Splinters dug deep into his back, already raw from abrasions sustained during their crash.

  He opened his eyes, and gasped. Though there was no way to know for sure how long he had been unconscious, it had been long enough for day to fade into a frigid, snow-covered night. The snow had at least ceased, giving Krin at least a slight reprieve from the winter storm. Though from the tingling sensation in his hands and feet, the cold was still mercilessly biting at his exposed flesh.

  Slowly, he peered into the sky, trying to get his bearings. He was in central courtyard in front of an immense, citadel of polished black stone—a fortress of ancient design that seemed to spew up from the ground as if molten rock burst out of the bowels of the earth itself, and instantly cooled into a jagged, toothy monstrosity. A single, blood-red spire—twisting around like a single antelope horn—stretched into the sky from the southeast wing of the structure.

  The courtyard itself, easily the size of the town square back in Myra, was surrounded a low stone wall, no higher than Krin’s waist. At first, the wall seemed utterly preposterous in terms of providing any sort of defense for the baleful fortress Finleara had called Kor Shani, then he noticed the nearly impenetrable wall of dense woodland vegetation beyond that would have made a charge by an enemy army all but impossible.

  The courtyard, which looked surprisingly well manicured for an estate that supposedly hadn’t been occupied in decades, was littered with the tattered remains of dozens of dead goblins. The corpses, marbling green with early decomposition, appeared to have been torn apart; their jagged incised wounds crusted over with dark,
dried blood. As he stared at them, trying desperately to hold back the bile rising in his throat, he felt a strange vibration thrumming at the crook of his back where his pack still hung beneath his cloak.

  What the…? He craned his head, trying to surmise the source of the oddly familiar vibration, but he couldn’t quite place it. Once his gaze was no longer fixed on the bodies, however, the thrumming stopped.

  Reluctant to return his gaze back to the ravaged carcasses, he put the odd sensation to the back of his mind, and directed his attention to the rest of the courtyard. To the left of the stone staircase leading up to the fortress sat a wooden weapons rack. The gleam of a gold handle in the firelight revealed that Glalbrirer rested there, along with an assortment of swords, axes, and daggers. To the right of the staircase, sitting flush with a patch of freshly upturned dirt, was a large Rifting Stone. This Stone was flat, and perfectly circular; solid throughout, and nearly a half the size of the Stone at Madagus Keep…which was still massive compared to the one he had seen at Kair’n Del. A swirling, black, viscous energy wavered and stretched across its entire face. Something massive stirred from within, hulking and terrifying to behold. The shape, little more than a silhouette, was vaguely human-like. Two arms. Two legs. Shoulders the size of mountains, with two twisted horns on either side of its skull. The thing inside the Stone turned its head to look at him, and although its true gaze was obscured behind the curtain of energy from the rift, Krin’s knees would have buckled at its visage if he had not been firmly secured to the post.

  “Do not look at him,” someone growled from Krin’s left. He turned to find an exceptionally large goblin bound around a wooden post similar to Krin’s own. “He will not enter our world. Not yet, at least. But Death comes to those who look on Winterking.”

  “The Krampus?” Krin whispered. “That’s the Krampus?”

  The goblin nodded, then winced at the effort. Thought it was difficult to tell by the goblin’s black, scaly skin, his face appeared swollen, and bruised. One eye bulged above a nasty cut along his right cheek. His hide appeared shredded from days of torture, and the quills of his back had been ripped from their follicles mercilessly.

  Krin looked back at the Rifting Stone, and noticed for the first time that there were two figures huddled in front of it. One was a goblin of much smaller stature than Krin’s fellow prisoner. The other was a man dressed in fine silk, crimson robes. The robed man was on his knees, facing the portal, and appeared to be trying to cut or saw at something with a short, one-handed hand saw.

  “Where’s Finleara?” he shouted. “What have you done with her?”

  Both goblin and robed man ignored him, as they continued to focus on their work.

  “They won’t listen,” the goblin said. “Only thing White-hair and Bryx are good for now is sport.” He glanced to his left, eyeing the shadows that filled the tree line surrounding the citadel. Krin followed the gaze until he caught the slightest trace of movement from within the forest. Three large cats prowled the perimeter with feline patience. The goblin’s meaning of ‘sport’ was perfectly understood.

  “But why? Why keep us alive at all?”

  The goblin shook his head. “Don’t know why for son of Kraen-lil. For Bryx, it is for pleasure of Shaman Brahk.”

  Krin looked over to the smaller goblin, sniveling and fawning over the red-robed figure who, judging by descriptions he had heard, had to be Sair’n Kryl. Brahk. Bryx. The names sounded familiar to him.

  Wait! The hunter! The memory struck him instantly. Tuhg, the goblin queen, had sent Bryx out to hunt the ‘traitor’ shaman—who had aligned himself with the rogue magus—down while Krin was their prisoner.

  Krin smiled in spite of himself. Given his current predicament, it was a very small comfort, but he found himself smugly satisfied that the goblin who had treated him so poorly a few weeks before was facing nearly the same fate as he. If nothing else, it would be one less filthy goblin to worry about in the future.

  The smile faded the moment that last thought flashed through his mind. He could almost hear Nicholas’s rebuke even now. The old man would be ashamed of him for the very thought. No one deserved this. No one deserved to be beaten, and tortured—basically tenderized for the man-eating cats encircling them even now. Even more, Bryx was a formidable hunter. A fighter. He could prove a valuable ally should they manage to escape.

  He could also just as easily tear the face from your head, were he freed. He closed his eyes, leaning back against his post to think. It didn’t take long for something to pop into his head. The carpet!

  He had crashed it. But if he remembered correctly, they had flown into a cluster of trees. It was very possible it could have gotten snagged on a branch or something, and been overlooked by Sair’n Kryl and his goblin lackey. Perhaps it was still in the woods somewhere. Perhaps he could summon it.

  Wondering in which direction lay the crash site, he opened his eyes, and scanned the tree line. But with no identifiable land markers, and the dense clouds blocking out the stars above, there was no way to establish any sense of direction.

  Frustrated, he tapped the post with the back of his head, and looked around the courtyard. The shaman was staring at him; his pale eyes narrowing. A moments later, he pulled away from his master, and stalked slowly toward Krin.

  Like others of his tribe, Brahk wore animal skins, trimmed with a few small bones for rudimentary armor. Across his chest, hanging from his right shoulder, he wore a linen sash trimmed with gold thread. He carried a staff made of two long bones of a deer, bound together in the middle with leather straps. A curved fang, similar to those of the Cra'chuna, adorned the head of the staff like a scythe.

  “There is no point in trying to escape,” he said. His Latin was as articulate and concise as Tuhg’s, a sharp contrast to broken language employed by Bryx and the other goblins Krin had encountered. “Your fancy carpet is of no use to you now.” Brahk lifted up his sash, gesturing toward the golden trim. “As soon as I am able, I will delve into the mystery of the spirit creatures imprisoned in these fibers, and will add their strength to my own.”

  “Not if Bryx kill you first,” Bryx growled from his perch, before spitting at the shaman’s feet.

  In a blink of an eye, the shaman spun, whipped his staff through the air, and slamming the fang down into the hunter goblin’s left shoulder. He then yanked it away with a bloody slurp, and turned once more to Krin.

  “As for the elf child, have no fear about her,” he continued as if Bryx was no longer an issue. “She is at her place. By the side of the Winterking, now betrothed, just as he had foretold years ago.”

  The N’ahk’s enigmatic words flooded his brain: Gone is she, to my enemy…the tormented bride of the Winterking.

  So it was true.

  Finleara truly had betrayed him.

  Betrayed them all, and now she intended to marry the vile creature that would destroy everything good in the world. Krin glared at the hulking silhouette hidden by the veil of the opened rift. He didn’t know why the Krampus simply stood there, watching the scene unfold. Nor did he understand why he hadn’t stepped out from Wyndter into the world he desired to conquer. But for the moment, Krin wished he would. Wished he was free with Glalbrirer in hand. He would show that half-demon a thing or two of what it meant to be human. Or, in his case, an elf.

  “So she’s doing this freely? Marrying that…that thing?”

  “In a manner of speaking.” Brahk cackled softly, glanced over his shoulder at Sair’n Kryl as if to make sure he had not said too much, then returned his gaze to Krin. His yellow, jagged teeth gleamed by the nearby firelight.

  “Is that why she took the Crown? For a wedding gift to her betrothed?”

  “No more questions!” The shaman slapped Krin across the face before turning, and sauntering back to his master.

  Krin studied the goblin as he strolled smugly away, then turned his attention to Sair’n Kryl. The Mad Magus had yet to even acknowledge his presence. Since Krin had
awoken, the man had done nothing else except saw incessantly at the object in front of him. Aside from that, the only other movement came from his robes gently flapping in the chill breeze. The only sound came from metal teeth grinding against whatever the object was made of.

  “Any idea what he’s doing?” Krin asked Bryx, who only sneered at him in response, then struggled against his leather bindings. “Good talk.”

  Okay, looks like you’re on your own. Time to figure out how to get yourself out of this…

  He felt something tugging at his wrists, like tiny daggers jabbing into his flesh. “Ow!” He craned his head, and saw the brief flutter of hyper-fast wings dart just out of his line of sight.

  An imp!

  The shaman turned toward Krin, who tried to cover his sudden outburst.

  “Lousy mosquitoes!” he said to Brahk. “Who knew they could survive in such miserable climates?”

  The goblin sniffed derisively, then returned his attention back to his master.

  “Hermie? Is that you, buddy?” he whispered over his shoulder.

  Suddenly, one of the imps zipped around him twice—maybe three times, Krin wasn’t sure—then alighted on his shoulder, just within the cover of the fur trim of his cloak hood, and well out of sight from the villains across the courtyard.

  “Good boy.” Krin kept his voice low and took a closer look. The little guy’s ridiculously large head wobbled for a second, then listed to one side. His tongue lolled to the right, as he looked into Krin’s eyes. “Askew?” The imp nodded vigorously, and Krin was almost afraid his insubstantial neck might snap from the exertion. “Where’s Hermie? Sentinel? Are they here too?”

  Another exuberant nod.

  “Where are they?”

  Shrug.

  “Who does White-Hair talk to?” Bryx asked, louder than Krin would have liked.

  “No one,” Krin growled. “Now keep your eye on your friend over there. If he starts looking over this way, tell me, and I might just help you escape.” He then smiled at Askew, who returned the gesture with a wide grin.