Blood Of Kings: The Shadow Mage

by Paul Freeman

  “So what now?” one of the men asked.

  “Elsward will run to his castle, thinking himself safe there. He will send out for help from the surrounding lords, perhaps even his king. He will hope that we will take our plunder and return to the sea.”

  “Aye, it is what we do.”

  “Not this time,” Crawulf said. “We will march on his castle and we will take it.”

  The sky grew darker still, the wind and rain increasing in pace. All around him, Nortmen ignored the weather as they herded prisoners together. The dead and dying were stripped of their valuables and anything useful they had on their person. Crawulf stared into the distance, consumed by an urgency and overwhelming need to conquer the lands around him and bring pain to the people who live there, a desire born from the humiliation of having his own lands defiled by an invader and a need to prove that he was still a man of strength.

  “Jarl Crawulf.” A warrior approached him, his face covered in dried blood and mud. “A… man wishes to see you,” he said

  Crawulf smiled; the pause from the warrior told him exactly who it was who wished to see him. He and many of his warriors had travelled far and wide in their sleek longboats, seen many strange things in distant lands, even so, the sight of a man with skin the colour of charred leather still gave them pause, and had them reaching for one of the many charms they carried about their person to ward off evil spirits.

  “By the gods, he doesn’t waste much time.” Crawulf turned to see a channel open amongst his men as a huge figure strode imperialistically through the gap. Behind him lackeys strained under the baggage strapped to their backs, while either side two huge, dark-skinned warriors watched with steel-eyed coldness any they deemed to be encroaching too close.

  “Not when there is coin to be made,” Dolfson answered straight-faced.

  “Aye.” Crawulf grinned as he waited for the retinue to approach.

  Rain beat down on the heads of both noble and lowborn, victor and captive, as a hush settled over the battlefield.

  “He makes a fine entrance, I’ll give him that,” Ulf the Red said in his thick gravelly voice.

  “My lord, Crawulf,” the massive dark-skinned man beamed a smile as he bowed expansively before the jarl of Wind Isle. He wore bright, loose-fitting clothing, making him appear even more strange to the gathered Nortmen, as if his height and the colour of his skin were not enough. Strapped to his waist was a sword which curved at the end, its hilt possessing a large, green gemstone set into the pommel. Crawulf also noted a bright gem in each of his ears. He dresses and wears jewellery like a woman, the Nortman thought, but was under no illusion of how dangerous the man could be. Crawulf knew that he did not carry the peculiar-looking sword as a decoration. And certainly the two warriors at his side looked like killers. “It has been many, many moons since last we met. Far too long a gap for such friends as ourselves.” The newcomer’s mouth dropped into an exaggerated frown.

  “Jari-Vin, it is good to see you too,” Crawulf answered with a smile. He turned towards Dolfson then. “Find some wine for my guest. I also have a parched throat.” The handsome Nortman nodded once and hurried to do his jarl’s bidding.

  “Even amongst all this blood and death, it is nice to see the laws of hospitality observed.” Jari-Vin beamed a smile, the contrast of dark skin and ivory teeth startling in the gloom of the weather and morbidity of the surroundings.

  “I am sure you have a thirst after a long and speedy journey.”

  “What else could I do when a good friend requests my presence?”

  “Aye, I’m sure you have longed to be in my company again, and your almost unfathomable haste has nothing to do with the prospect of cheaply bought bodies for you to auction in the slave markets of the empire.”

  “You wound me.” Jari-Vin clutched his chest.

  “Aye, no doubt, but come. I have not the time to tarry. There are several hundred warriors here. You may have them all for ten gold crowns a head.”

  “Ten? And all I see are defeated herdsmen.”

  “You will sell them for five times the price.”

  “I will have to feed them. Many may not even make the journey, and you greatly overestimate any profit.”

  “Jari-Vin, you’re a rogue and a thief.” Crawulf smiled as he took a cup offered to him from his chosen man and passed it over to the slaver. They settled on seven gold crowns and sealed the deal with more wine and clasped hands.

  “Where are your ships?” he asked the slaver, watching the tall, dark man grimace as he swallowed the wine. A man with expensive tastes and used to getting them, he thought as he savoured and swallowed his own drink.

  “There is a small fishing village to the north and west of here. I have anchored there. I would like to make the next tide and begone from these excessively damp shores.”

  Crawulf looked up at the dark sky and the sheets of rain coming down from the black clouds. “You should come north to Nortland. Then you will see real rain.” He grinned.

  “Someday perhaps, but I am a man who prefers the feel of sunshine on his face. Not that I doubt the beauty of your magnificent home.” Jari-Vin bowed.

  “Aye, you’re a sweet-tongued demon, Jari-Vin,” Crawulf said. The big slaver simply bowed again, before turning to his guards and speaking to them in a language the jarl of Wind Isle did not understand. Immediately the two men bellowed instructions to the rest of Jari-Vin’s followers. The rattle of chains followed as iron cuffs were, none to gently, slapped onto the wrists of the captive Duchies men.

  “Honbar,” Crawulf called his chosen man to him. “Take what men you need and escort Jari-Vin to his ships.” The clean-shaven Nortmen nodded and began rounding up some warriors.

  “Many thanks, my friend. May you travel calm waters under the favourable gaze of the gods,” the slaver said before leading a much larger column of men from the hill than he first arrived with.

  “Aye,” Crawulf simply answered before hawking and spitting.

  “They will hate you for this,” Ulf the Red said as they watched the line of men snake over the hill and into the gloom of the misty rain.

  “Yes, Ulf, they will,” Crawulf answered as he turned his back on the men he sold into slavery, “but they will fear me more.”

  “What now?” a gruff voice demanded from behind. Crawulf turned to Olf Skarnjak marching up the hill, taking great bounding strides through the mud.

  “One-Eye.” Crawulf grinned. “They tell me you fought like a man possessed by the rage of a berserk.”

  One-Eye waved off the compliment with a scowl as he dropped his battle-axe into the ground and leaned on the upturned handle. Crawulf noticed the double blades were still thick with blood. “If they wish to come in nice straight lines to be killed, then so be it.”

  Crawulf laughed, feeling a little of the tension of leadership melt away. “Elsward’s castle is less than a day’s march from here, with very few defenders. I would have us take that castle.” He waited as he watched One-Eye digest the information. It was never good to hurry Olf Skarnjak.

  Eventually he hawked and spat before scratching his red beard and answering in his gruff voice, all the while his one good eye intent on his jarl. “You know my feeling on this. We are raiders, we hit and we go. Besieging castles is not what we do. We have not the knowledge or the skill for it. We cannot hope to hold the castle. We have beaten well the lord of these lands and softened them up for raiding for years to come, but there are other lords and their king who will hit back and hit back hard if we linger over long. However you are my jarl, and as I have always done for you, your brother and your father before that, I will follow where you lead.”

  Crawulf turned towards Ulf the Red. “Why do I keep poets and bards to sing songs and tell tales of our deeds when I have One-Eye?” He turned back to the big one-eyed Nortman. “Eloquently spoken, One-Eye.” Then clapped him on the back.

  As it happened, there was no need for a siege. The army of Nortmen emerged out of the mist the fo
llowing morning and slowly encircled the castle. As Crawulf was examining its high stone walls and crenellated towers, the heavy wooden doors swung open. The jarl watched, with his chosen men alongside him, as a small column of six horsemen emerged through the archway, beneath the banner of Duke Elsward. The dancing chicken. Crawulf allowed himself a smile. The Duke himself led the group. The riders rode right up to where Crawulf waited.

  “I am Duke Sorbatine Elsward, master of these lands you have invaded.” The duke wore a long coat of mail; beneath a round helmet, blue eyes that may once have sparkled bore dark rings and heavy clouds, his beard was white and well trimmed. His jaw trembled slightly as he spoke, a muscle twitching in his face.

  Crawulf stepped forward until he was a hand’s length from the duke’s grey, dappled mount. The horse stomped and snorted nervously as the Nortman approached. “I am…”

  “I know who you are,” the duke stammered before Crawulf could finish. “What do you hope to accomplish by this display of savagery? Does your king wish to go to war with the Duchies? Because I assure you, my king and fellow dukes will not stand by while you attempt to forge out a new kingdom for yourself. It is enough that we suffer incessant raids from you and your ilk… savages! Every last one of you!” Spittle formed at the corner of his mouth, his cheeks burning red. “Go back to the Pirate Isles, before you are all driven into the sea!” He paused then, his shoulders slumped as he turned and pointed at a line of carts trundling from the castle gates. “There, there is all the gold and silver we possess. Take it. Take it and go. You cannot hope to hold this castle from the king’s army. I offer you my wealth in exchange for the lives of my people. What remains of them. It will make you a rich man and impoverish my family for generations. Take it and go back to the sea.”

  It was not what Crawulf had expected to hear. Yet he heard the truth in Elsward’s words. They would never hold the castle from a determined assault from a large Duchies army. He looked to where Elsward was pointing at the line of carts rattling towards them along the muddy road. With a simple nod he took possession of Elsward’s treasure and left behind a broken duchy, a far richer man than when he landed on its shores.

  Lady Rosinnio: Wind Isle

  “My lady, it is time,” Crawulf’s grey-haired counsellor said to her.

  Rosinnio nodded and rose from her chair. Her handmaiden and the giant warrior, Rothgar, fell in behind her as she followed Brandlor from the empty hall. Normally the hall would be packed with warriors feasting or sleeping off hangovers at such an early hour, but since Crawulf had left to raid the Duchies, those men who had been left behind avoided the feasting hall of the dark castle. Or is it me they avoid? she could not help wondering.

  A huge log fire blazed in the hearth at one end of the hall, but even so, she shivered as she walked across the flagstones. Two hounds worried at bones in front of the fire, crushing them with their sharp teeth, only pausing to look up briefly before retuning to their search for the marrow hidden inside the bones. Wooden shields and all manner of weapons adorned the stone walls of the jarl’s feasting hall, eerily quiet without the raucous chatter of scores of Nortmen.

  Outside, a groom held her horse for her while Rothgar helped her into the saddle. She had been shocked when the giant warrior had requested he be left behind when Crawulf took the majority of his men on the raid. There had been talk of little else leading up to their departure and ever since. It was to be a raid that would go down in legend among the Nortmen. So many men and ships assembled for a single assault on the Duchies, a raid needed to reaffirm the strength of Crawulf’s claim on the crown once his uncle travelled his final journey to the All Wise’s feasting hall. And Rothgar had chosen to miss the opportunity to have his name immortalised, in order to stay and guard her. It touched her heart that he felt such concern, especially when she thought most of Crawulf’s other men would have preferred if the poisoner had been more successful. True, she had gone up in many of their estimations after she had roused the men to fight off the attempted coup. Yet, it seemed to her that, in their eyes anyway, nothing had changed. She was still and always would be an outsider. Rothgar had been good to his word in not mentioning to Crawulf the were-beast in her chamber or the blue flame she had somehow conjured to defeat the monster. She needed time to work out what was happening to her before she involved the jarl. In truth she was half concerned they would cast her out, or worse throw her into the grey sea when they heard the tale. She was grateful to the big warrior for keeping her secret, although a little surprised. Was it not, in a way, a small betrayal of his jarl after all?

  She shivered again as she climbed aboard her mount and pulled her cloak tightly around her shoulders. The sun had not yet risen and in the gloom of night, when the only light came from the overhead stars and the flickering torches held by the grooms, every sound seemed to magnify tenfold.

  They rode in darkness, with Brandlor leading the way. Rothgar rode by his side with Rosinnio and her servant behind them, two more warriors brought up the rear. She was an excellent rider, having grown up around horses in her father’s palace. They were a different breed of animal to the larger, shaggier mounts used by the Nortmen. The stables in the palace were full of sleek, statuesque horses, bred for speed, as opposed to the sturdier beasts of Nortland. The conditions were a lot different too. Wind blew in the salty taste of the sea, dampness in the air reaching her bones, so that she felt as if she would never feel warmth again.

  Brandlor brought them to a halt above a cliff as a crack of orange appeared on the horizon. She could hear a bird call out a long mournful note from the darkness.

  “We will have to leave the horses here and climb down to the shore. It would be best to wait until the sun has risen. I would not like to be responsible for my jarl’s lady falling to her death in the dark.” He regarded her with a penetrating stare, making her turn away and watch as the light slowly spilled out from the horizon, turning the sea into liquid gold.

  When he deemed it light enough to see what they were doing, Brandlor instructed the two warriors to remain with the horses, while Rosinnio gave the same instruction to a much relieved handmaiden. Rothgar, of course, would not leave his mistress’s side. I demanded this man’s death when first we met, she mused, once again unable to fathom how these strange men think. It was a stark reminder of how different they were and how much of an outsider she seemed to them. I can see the beauty here, she thought as she looked over the sea, the white caps visible now, the sound of waves breaking against the shore. It is wild and rugged, so different to home… as different as I am to them. The lone seabird called out again, leaving Rosinnio with a feeling of empathy with the small, lonely creature.

  “Mind your step, my lady. It is quite steep.” Brandlor led the way, as Rosinnio followed, half climbing, half sliding down the rocky incline. When they reached the bottom an apron of rocks stretched towards the ocean. Brine hung thick in the air as waves sprayed salty water over the rocks leaving a border of dampness along the boulders closest to the edge.

  Beyond that vast ocean lies my home, she thought. No, this is my home now. “How can somebody live down here?” she asked the counsellor.

  “Maolach is no ordinary man, my lady. He is both revered and feared by the folk. As one so close to the gods ought to be,” he answered. “There!” He pointed at a dark opening cut into the cliff face by the power of the sea.

  Rosinnio swallowed hard and felt a knot of fear form in her stomach at the sight of the cave. She could not help but wonder what would happen to Maolach if the tide were ever to rise over the shoreline and fill the cave with water. “Yes,” was all she could manage as the muscles in her jaw clenched it tight and set her mouth in a grim line.

  “You do not have to do this, my lady,” Brandlor said, offering her his hand as she clambered over the rocks, silently cursing herself for wearing a dress, even if it was plain and spun from wool, unlike the elaborate silk gowns she wore in her father’s palace. It would have been unseemly for her to we
ar the coloured breeches the men of Nortland wore, even if they would be more practical.

  “Yes, yes I do,” she answered as the salty wind snatched her breath. “If I were a noble lady of Nortland, born on one of the other islands and married to Jarl Crawulf, would I not be expected to visit the seer of Wind Isle?”

  Brandlor nodded his agreement but remained silent. She felt the comforting presence of the giant warrior Rothgar behind her as she stood at the mouth of the cave. She regarded the black, gaping opening as she would the widening maw of a giant serpent intent on swallowing her whole. The thought made her shiver.

  “Do not fear Maolach, as I said, he is not like other men.” He handed her a torch and struck a flint to ignite a small flame. “Just follow the passage. Oh, and one other thing. Maolach will expect a gift, something of value.”

  Rosinnio nodded and took the torch. The flame danced frantically in the wind, forcing her to hurry inside the cave before it was blown out altogether. She hesitated at the mouth, perched on the border of light and dark, her fear paralysing her muscles. Hers had been a privileged upbringing. Youngest daughter of the emperor, her every desire and whim catered for by an army of attendants. Never before had she known such fear, not even when her father informed her that she was to be wed to a Nortman and shipped off to the Pirate Isles—although that had been bad enough—not even when she walked, holding aloft a sword, into the midst of a battle in the courtyard of the castle. But this, this brought terror to a whole new level for her.

  Tentatively she placed one foot in front of the other. The passage was damp and smelled of rotting seaweed and dead fish. The deeper she went the stranger were the noises made by the wind, like ghosts wailing in the dark. Every sound made her jump and whirl around, the flickering torch making monsters of her own shadow and that of slimy rocks. Her mind searched for an anchor and conjured an image of the palace gardens, she imagined the colour and the heady perfume of the flowers, but the vision only made her realise that she could not find a place in the world any more removed from those gardens than where she was. What would Crawulf think of her fear? Or Rothgar? They would simply laugh at her and march boldly into the darkness.