The Legend of the Winterking: The Crown of Nandur

by J. Kent Holloway

  “Geeze!” Krin hissed, turning to look at his three little tormentors. “An acorn? Really?”

  Askew, his tongue flopping out of his mouth, nodded furiously and rolled across the tree branch in a tidal wave of silent giggles. Sentinel merely sneered at him, crossing his arms over his barrel chest as menacingly as possible. Hermie just grinned, and shrugged innocently.

  Krin sighed, then gave them all a half-smile. At least they’re here. He positioned himself a little better on the branch, and pointed down to the artifact. “Okay. Can you do me a favor?” He paused, then added, “With no unexpected tricks? Please?”

  In unison, the three imps saluted their assent.

  “Good. See that ball-like thing down there?”

  They peered over their limb, then nodded.

  “I need you to quietly—and I mean really stealthy-like, got it?—take that ball, and place it on one of those dead goblins over there. Can you do that?”

  The three jerked to attention, snapped another salute, and zipped off in a beautiful wedge-formation to the ground below. Krin watched as Sentinel, being the strongest of the imps, hefted the heavy orb into his thick arms, and took flight once more.

  If everything went according to plan, the imps would deposit the artifact on one of the corpses, which would then raise them from the dead, and Krin would have his own personal army of undead goblins at his command. Simple.

  Accept for…oh no.

  He had miscalculated one little element in his scheme. He had no way of controlling the draugr once they came to life. No way to direct them. He would be just as susceptible to their attacks as Sair’n Kryl, Brahk, and the three cats.

  He had just leapt from the proverbial frying pan into an undead fire.

  Of course, he only had to worry about that if they carried out their mission precisely as instructed. He watched them flit across the estate’s lawn, bypassing every single corpse, instead heading straight for the still-very-much-alive hunter, Bryx. Shaking his head, he wondered why he had ever thought the three diminutive trouble-makers would have actually follow his instructions.

  “No, no, no!” he hissed, waving at them to turn around, then pointing at the bodies. What possessed them to think he meant the hunter? “The dead ones! You have to leave it on one of the dead ones.” He exaggerated his enunciation knowing they couldn't hear his hushed reprimands.

  With Sair’n Kryl and Brahk focused on the ever-twitching bodies, the imps slipped past them, and hovered over the trussed-up form of Bryx. Quickly, Sentinel whirled around the goblin’s waist twice until he found a leather medicine pouch tied to his belt. He pulled it open, and dropped the dodecahedron inside. The three nodded in satisfaction to one another, and burst high into the air before disappearing from sight.

  Frustrated, Krin pinched at the bridge of his nose to stem off the headache he knew was coming.

  What a waste of a perfectly good plan, He took hold of the limb beneath him, and lowered himself down the tree. Guess it's gonna have to be the hard way.

  He was halfway down when an ear-splitting shriek erupted from the courtyard. Startled, Krin jerked to see what the commotion was, losing his grip on the branch he was holding, then tumbling out of the tree. He landed hard in the pine-needles. The impact sucking all the air from his lungs. Unable to stand, Krin rolled over onto his side, and peered past the underbrush into the courtyard as he tried to regain his breath.

  The next sight nearly knocked the wind out of him again. The goblin draugr were rising; their decaying forms clumsily climbing to their feet. Once upright, they shambled toward the cringing shaman. How it was happening, without the artifact being in physical contact with any of them, Krin didn’t know.

  He glanced over at Bryx, still bound and apparently unconscious against the post. His chest rose and fell shallowly, indicating that he was still alive, but other than that, there were no signs of life.

  Unlike the draugr, who were even now chasing after Shaman Brahk with a single-mindedness that bordered on fanatical. They all but ignored Sair’n Kryl, who was watching the entire event with such a surreal detachment, Krin found it downright chilling. So the question was, why? Why were they going after Brahk, and not the magus? Why not the unconscious, but still-breathing, Bryx? Heck, why not anything at all that moved or breathed?

  Suddenly, the answer came to him. The imps had known what they were doing all along. They had surmised Krin’s own miscalculations even before he had. The Maera-Wif’s own consciousness…her own will…directed and controlled her draugr through physical contact with the artifact. The moment Krin had stripped her of it, her control vanished, and the undead returned to dust once more.

  If the imps had followed Krin’s instructions, it never would have worked. Simple undead goblins would have been mindless, with no direction of any kind. They needed someone to steer them to action. So, the imps had passed the artifact to someone close enough to the corpses for its power to bring life, while retaining a will of their own. Although Bryx was unconscious, his devotion to putting an end to the one he deemed a traitor, was even now directing the actions of the draugr.

  And as long as Krin stayed on the hunter’s good side, he believed he would have little to fear from them. Or, at least, he hoped.

  After finally getting a good couple of lungfuls of air, Krin pushed himself up into a crouch, and inched his way to the edge of the tree line. Hiding behind a shrub, he peered out to see Sair’n Kryl stalk over to the weapon rack, and retrieve Glalbrirer from its hook. His blood boiled at the sight of the villain’s hand grasping the hilt of his father’s sword. It took every ounce of strength he possessed, not to rush out into the field, and tear it from his evil grasp.

  Instead, he watched as Sair’n Kryl raised the sword into the air. He dashed out to intercept one of the creatures, then took its head off with a single swing. Satisfied that the two were focused on their undead problem, Krin crept from his hiding place, hugging the edge of the woods, as he made his way around the lawn in quick, furtive steps. He was so focused on his clandestine crossing, however, he failed to notice the soft, steady purring of the large cat padding softly behind him.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  “Yaaaaaaargh!” came a deep-throated shout from behind Krin. Surprised, he whirled around, tumbling backwards onto his rear, just in time to see a metallic gleam, sweep down across the prowling Cra'chuna’s neck. The force severed the cat’s head with a single blow.

  Krin yelped, scrambling away from the flood of crimson spewing from the creature’s neck. Heart pumping wildly, his eyes swept the area, trying to focus on what had just happened. They soon landed on the heaving form of a thickly bearded barbarian wielding an exceptionally lethal-looking scythe.

  “Ulf!” Krin beamed upon recognizing his friend.

  The giant grinned back, held out his hand, and helped Krin to his feet. “Good to see ya, lad,” he said. “You didn’t give me much of a trail to follow. Ultimately, it were your little imp friends that steered me here.” Ulfilas blinked, then spun around and looked across the courtyard as if looking for something. The draugr were still pressing the assault against the shaman, but the commotion of killing the big cat had already drawn Sair’n Kryl’s full attention in their direction. “Where’s the witch?”

  “Witch? What witch?”

  “The elf-girl. She murdered Reganus, and left his body to be devoured by these…” He kicked the decapitated carcass next to him. “…things.”

  “What? How do you know?”

  Two sharp whistles erupted from Sair’n Kryl’s direction that were immediately answered by the roar of the two remaining cats. The Cra'chuna, who had joined in the fight against the goblin draugr, now turned from their fight to eye Krin and Ulfilas hungrily, before bounding toward them with bared teeth.

  “No time,” Ulfilas said, tossing Krin a Roman-smithed sword. “Run!”

  Without a moment’s hesitation, Krin took off, making a beeline straight for Bryx, who appeared to have been awakened by the
sound of battle. He looked around, to see where the two cats had gone, and saw they had begun chasing the larger prey, Krin found himself muttering a silent prayer on Ulf’s behalf before proceeding with his original plan.

  He pulled up behind the goblin hunter’s post, being sure to keep it between him and the undead battle beyond, and leaned in toward the hunter’s long, pointed ear. “Are you well enough to run? You need to get out of here before they finish what they started with you.”

  The goblin scowled. “Why would White-Hair help Bryx?”

  “Because you may be a jerk, but you don’t deserve to die. So I’ll ask you again, if I cut you loose, do you have strength enough to get out of here?”

  Bryx didn’t answer at first, but cocked his head as he watched the strange sight of his undead brothers attacking their enemies.

  “We don’t have all day! Answer now or I leave you to your fate.”

  The goblin glared at him. “No. No strength to run.” Krin’s hopes deflated at the words. He had really hoped he could save the poor, battered creature before going after the Crown. “But strength to finish what Bryx came to do. Yes.”

  Krin smiled, understanding what the goblin was saying, then sliced through the leather straps with the short sword. “There’s something you need to know,” Krin said as Bryx pulled away from the post, rubbing his wrists. “You have an object in your pouch. It controls those…”

  But the goblin was already running headlong, and unarmed, toward the fray.

  That guy isn’t quite all there, is he? Krin watched as Bryx resumed his race toward the weapon’s rack, grab single-edged axe, and leapt toward the traitorous shaman without any concern over the undead creatures scurrying around the courtyard. He shrugged. One more distraction in the mix certainly helps me…

  “Krin!” Ulfilas shouted, drawing his attention away from Bryx and the others. The large man was near the tree line, swinging his great blade down across one of the Cra'chuna’s hindquarters. The cat screeched in agony before whipping around to lash out at him with its claws. “If you’re going to do something, better make it quick!” The second cat pounced on Ulfilas’ back, driving him to the ground.

  No pressure or anything, Krin thought, trying to decide whether to help his friend, or finish his mission to retrieve the Crown. In the end, he realized there was no contest. The only thing that mattered were the antlers. He had to recover at least one of them, or everything was lost.

  He gave another glance around the empty post to see Bryx sweeping his newly acquired axe up at the shaman. Had it connected, the traitor would have been split in two from the groin up, but he managed to leap out of the way just in time, and countered with his cat-toothed staff. But Brahk had miscalculated. The momentum of his swing spun him into the arms of a nearby draugr, who grabbed hold of him by the arms, and dragged him to the ground. Instantly, twenty-something undead creatures dove on top of him, digging their teeth and claws into the shaman’s flesh in a horrific feeding frenzy. Brahk screamed, squirming underneath the pile of bodies now feeding on him, but was cut short when one of the goblins sunk its teeth deep into the shaman’s vocal cords.

  Krin looked away, once more biting back the bile building inside his throat. It was a gruesome way for anyone to die, even someone as heinous as the shaman. Taking a deep breath, and collecting his thoughts, he turned his attention toward the Rifting Stone, and the silken pillow sitting in front of it. The remaining half of the Crown still sat unprotected, just waiting for him to snag it, and be off. But when Krin made a quick search of the courtyard for Sair’n Kryl, he stiffened, unable to move. There was no sign of the magus anywhere.

  Where’d he go? Krin couldn’t dare make a move without knowing where the other villain was hiding. One false step would forever ruin his chances. If Sair’n Kryl, suspecting Krin’s objective, was lying in wait somewhere just out of sight, it would complicate matters.

  The draugr, having feasted on the shaman’s flesh, had already stood up, and were now ambling aimlessly around the courtyard. Even Brahk’s own half-eaten body was roaming the lawn, chunks of skin and sinew dangling off his bones like a mongrel’s chew toy. Bryx, for his part, was already running to assist Ulfilas with the cats. But there was no sign of Sair’n Kryl anywhere.

  Considering his options, Krin grinned as a devious idea sprang to mind. He leaned against the post, stretched out his right hand, and focused on the Crown. A sudden wave of chill air—far colder than his surroundings—bit at his arm before willing open another portal to his destination. He glanced over his shoulder to see his own hand, nearly fifty yards away, materialize out of thin air just above the antler. With a hearty laugh, he reached down and grabbed it. Quickly, he jerked his hand back, allowing the portal to snap closed with a hiss, and the aftermath of a frost-coated pillow. The moment his arm was through, he examined the antler, assuring himself it was indeed one half of the Crown, and leapt to his feet.

  “White-hair!” Bryx shouted. Krin turned to the voice to see the goblin scrambling in his direction. The axe he had taken was raised over his head as he charged. Behind him, another Cra'chuna lay dead, with the third limping off into the woods to lick its mortal wounds. Ulfilas was hot on the heels of the goblin, a look of panic scrawled across his face.

  Krin stood transfixed at the sight. Is Bryx attacking me? But if so, why warn me, unless…

  A long sinewy arm stretched around the post, and locked itself around Krin’s neck. “Son of Kraen-Lil,” a voice whispered low against his ear. The voice was familiar somehow, though he couldn’t place where or when he had heard it. There had been such a benevolence to it before, where now there was only malice. Vitriol. “My Master wanted you alive. He wished to explore the mysteries revealed to you by the N’ahk, but I warned against it, just as the imbecilic goblin warned me. But seeing what you can do—raising an army of the undead, rifting your hand to steal that which does not belong to you—I now know you are simply too powerful to let live.”

  Krin felt the white-hot cold of Glalbrirer’s steel against his throat. His heart pumped madly in his chest; his brain ground to a halt with sheer, unadulterated panic. And even though Bryx was now only fifteen paces away, he knew it was too late. He was about to die, and there was nothing that could be done about it.

  “Know this before you die, elf-son,” Sair’n Kryl hissed. “When you are gone, I will personally see to it that your insane father, Nicholas, the upstart dwarf, and everyone else that you hold dear will die a most gruesome, and horrifying death for the pain that your elf-father caused me.” He pressed the sword tighter against him. “And Finleara…oh, have no doubt that she will share a fate far worse than any of them. The Bride of the Winterking, is she.”

  And with a cackle, he slid the blade across Krin’s throat.

  ***

  Ulfilas watched as the goblin leapt onto the back of the great cat, and slammed his axe blade deep into its skull, splitting it with a sickening crack. He nodded his thanks, then turned to the remaining creature, who was now fleeing into the woods.

  “White-hair!” He heard the goblin shout from behind him. Ulfilas turned to see the hunter running headlong toward…

  By the gods! Krin!

  The wizard, Sair’n Kryl, lunged from the other side of the wooden pillar, grabbing the boy by the shoulders, and pulling him back. Instantly, a sword was at Krin’s throat, and Ulfilas burst into motion. His long strides bridged the gap, and he was nearly caught up to the goblin when the unthinkable happened.

  A spray of blood exploded from Krin’s neck as Sair’n Kryl dragged the sword—Krin’s own sword—across his throat.

  “No!” He screamed, raising his own blade in the air, and preparing to strike.

  Krin’s eyes widened as he coughed a geyser of blood onto the trampled snow at his feet. The antler he had been holding dropped into the crimson pool.

  No, no. This can’t be happening. Not now. Not after all the lad’s been through.

  The traitorous magus cackled gleefull
y, still clutching the boy with one hand, while keeping the elfblade deep into his neck.

  Ulfilas watched as a single tear trickled down the boy’s cheek. His mouth opened, as if to speak, but only a bubbling fount of blood spilled out. Shaking, Krin reached up, and grabbed hold of Sair’n Kryl’s sword arm, glanced over at Ulfilas, and blinked.

  Suddenly, the big man was struck by a wave of arctic air, sending him flying backwards. When he came to his feet, the air around him was a swirl of white—a fully developed blizzard—that blinded him to anything farther than arm's length away.

  “Krin! Lad!” he shouted. But the only thing he heard in reply was the howling wind, and the sound of his own heart pounding at his temples. “Krin!”

  Ulfilas pushed forward, battling the icy gale bombarding his massive frame, fighting his way to the post. His falx at ready, he stumbled to where the pool of blood lay frozen on the ground. He glanced around, but saw no sign of Krin, the goblin, or Sair’n Kryl.

  “Krin! Where are you?”

  The sound of something popping and hissing wheeled him around to see a strange black glow radiating through the blizzard. Instantly, he sprang into motion, and ran toward the light. As he ran, he passed corpse after goblin corpse, sprawled across the lawn. Where only seconds before, they had been alive and wandering aimlessly around the courtyard, now they had resumed their eternal slumber. But the Visigoth had more pressing matters to worry about than the reasons for this strange turn of events, so he pushed on.