by Paul Freeman
They began a steady climb up the mountain even as flakes of snow drifted all around them. Tomas wondered how the hooded warriors of the south were dealing with the cold. It was hard to tell when all they ever revealed of themselves were their dark eyes. They left their horses behind at the foot of the mountains before they began their ascent, following guides who had come to their camp hours after they arrived.
“This is nearly over,” he said to Aliss as they passed beneath a waterfall to a hidden passage through the mountain. He could see that Elandrial was becoming more excited and urging them to greater speed, even though all were exhausted from the seemingly endless journey.
Drums reverberated all around them as they climbed steadily, hidden from view by the narrow waterfall gushing over the cliff above them. “The people of the mountain,” Elandrial answered the unasked question with a smile. “My people.”
“Where are they?” Tomas asked. “I have seen no one other than those who came to guide us.”
“They are all around us. These people have inhabited the mountains when the Duchies was just a vast wild land. Their traditions are joined with the mountain as one. They flow through the trails and pathways as blood flows through a body, bringing life to the heart.”
“You?” Tomas raised a sceptical eyebrow.
“Not me, but the majesty of Eor.”
Tomas waited for Elandrial to move ahead of him before he offered a helping hand to Aliss. “I do not trust her, or that so called Shadow Mage,” he said as Aliss gripped his bigger hand with her own.
She shrugged. “We have made our choice. We cannot turn from the path now.”
As they filed over the cliff edge to stand at one end of a large valley, a thick mist descended on them, obscuring their view of the rest of the gorge. The drums were louder now, echoing off the valley walls. Black-robed warriors formed ranks as each man hauled himself up from the steep climb, followed by the Nortmen. The sea-raiders ignored all as they stood, expressionless behind the Shadow Mage, led by the giant Rolfgot.
“Tomas,” Elandrial said excitedly, her eyes gleaming as she spoke to him. “Lead my warriors and strike down my enemies.” She turned to Aliss then. “Can you feel the power? Open your heart to the source. Let if flow through you. Take my hand.”
Tomas watched in silence as the two women joined hands. Even he could feel the raw energy pulsing through the valley. He was dressed now in an ornately engraved breast plate and plumed helmet given to him by Elandrial. From his shoulders hung a gold cloak. He looked every bit the warrior general he claimed not to be. The mist began to clear and he saw the ranks of Normand’s men gathered in a defensive ring around a circle of large standing stones.
“The duke,” Tomas said needlessly. Above the men a banner of a red dragon on a green background billowed in the breeze. It was then that he recognised the mage Djangra Roe, on his knees clutching his head in his hands. “What’s wrong with the mage?” he asked.
“He has opened his mind to the power of the stones,” Harren Suilomon answered, his voice dripping with scorn. “It is a far greater power than he could ever hope to understand. His feeble mind will explode like an overheated melon.”
“No!” Tomas snarled. “He must atone for the death of Joshan.” Even as he spoke the words he knew he was being foolish, but it was one of the reasons that swayed him to change sides. What did he care of the power struggles of nobles and their pet wizards. Life was what was important to him, the loss of Joshan’s, the saving of Aliss’.
“Do not lose sight of what is important, Tomas,” Elandrial rebuked him softly.
A cry went up around him and black-robed archers pushed their way to the front. They released a volley of arrows into the air, leaving their re-curved bows of horn and wood like a swarm of buzzing insects. Before the first flight hit its mark, a second was already in the air. The cries of men dying floated down the valley. The men packed tightly around the cairn were subjected to further attacks from their flanks as the mountain folk also fired an array of missile weapons in their direction.
“Gather the power. Hold it within you until the pressure makes you feel as if you will burst open. Then release it!” Elandrial’s words were filled with excitement and joy as she addressed Aliss. Tomas watched mesmerised as he felt the air being sucked from around him, his skin tingling and making it impossible to breathe. Although the mist had cleared from the valley, it gathered in a swirling mass at the centre of the stone circle. Suddenly a bolt of energy crackled to life around the two witches. With a cry of unbridled joy from Elandrial the women redirected the energy towards the ranks of Normand’s men. Lightning fizzled randomly across the men standing there, thumping three men from their feet. Tomas could not see what happened to them once they went down. What he did see was the look of pure ecstasy on the face of Aliss as she wielded such terrifying power.
“Now!” Elandrial cried. “Kill the invader. Remove their stain from our lands!”
“For the glory of Eor!” a cry went up from the mountain folk off to their right.
“Elandrial! Elandrial! Elandrial!”
The black-robed warriors were moving then too, a surge pulsing through their ranks. The men of the mountain were already charging out from their hidey holes and pre-dug bunkers. Caught up in the euphoria of the moment, Tomas drew his sword and let out a roar. He could still deliver the finishing blow to Joshan’s murderer.
A restraining hand gripped his shoulder. “Secure the duke. See that no harm comes to him. Kill the rest.” Tomas was uneasy about taking a direct order from the Shadow Mage, but he nodded his assent. A cold shadow passed over his soul as he regarded Rolfgot and the men standing behind him, each of them with the same black eyes and blank expression. Many men have been called evil, defined by the deeds they perpetrate, but even the cruellest of tyrants is capable of love for his children or for another. Does that negate the pure blackness of their soul? At that moment Tomas felt as if he were in the presence of something purely evil. The Shadow Mage regarded him coldly, daring defiance. Tomas got the impression that he would welcome it.
“Kill them all!” The words echoed in his mind, even as he felt his legs carry him across the valley that had become a bloody battlefield.
Jarl Crawulf – Lady Rosinnio: The Duchies
Crawulf moved with the swell of the sea, his feet firmly planted on the wooden boards of the longboat. All around him men slept slumped on their rowing benches as their work was done for them by the square sail catching Baltagor’s breath, driving them ever closer to the unknown over a white-capped, grey sea. Sitting at the prow, looking tiny, wrapped in an over-sized fur cloak was his young wife, an exotic creature far from home. He reflected on times past, to a distant memory. A fair-haired girl with sparkling blue eyes full of mischief and joy—his first wife, Agathea—she had died bearing him a son, the babe had perished that day also. He swore he would never take another woman, a foolish promise, for a jarl must have an heir, but back then he was young and the second son of the jarl of Wind Isle. It was never supposed to be he who would inherit his father’s seat; the Fates have strange ways indeed. Spur-of-the-moment vows made by an unthinking young noble are quickly set aside when important alliances and the improved state of coffers are at stake. He had accepted the Emperor of Sunsai’s offer without a second thought when the proposal was put to him. It had helped greatly when he first met his young bride and her soft olive skin and round dark eyes had lit a flame of desire in him. Truly, he thought, the gods had favoured him with such a match. Yet, he thought, there was more, much more to this young girl from the far south than first realised.
He walked up behind her and felt her tremble beneath the fur. The voyage had been hard on her. Anything she ate or drank was immediately lost over the side. She looked small and frail to start with. Soon she would be nothing but bone covered in a thin layer of skin. “The men are becoming anxious, we have sailed almost the length of the Duchies. If we encounter any of their warships they will think we ar
e raiding and attack us,” he said. His heart ached when he saw how weak and pale her complexion had become from the lengthy voyage on a rolling sea. At least whatever gods were watching over them… watching over her had favoured them with a relatively calm sea and no sight of storm clouds on the horizon.
“I know,” she said, her voice cracking. “I will know it when I see it.” He noticed that she still clutched the horn close to her chest.
“How is it the gods of the north are speaking to you? Do not your own gods favour you anymore?”
She shrugged and looked into his eyes. “The gods use whatever tools they deem fit, northern or southern,” she answered before her head slumped forward.
He crouched down beside her. “Lay your head on my shoulder and rest for a while,” he said. She smiled but shook her head.
“There!” she suddenly cried, becoming animated.
Crawulf peered into the distance and saw a small fishing village, sheltered in a natural cove, in the distance. A wooden jetty stretched out from the beach along which small craft were moored.
“If nothing else, this should be entertaining.” Crawulf grinned before he began bellowing orders to wake his slumbering men. Some folk were set to get a surprise this cold winter morning.
By the time they docked and began clambering onto the pier, a greeting party of armed villagers were awaiting them.
“We will need to buy horses and food enough for a long ride, several days,” Rosinnio said as Crawulf helped her off the boat.
The jarl of Wind Isle went to meet the hostile fisher folk with a grin on his lips and a pouch of silver coin in his hand. There was nothing like silver to reassure folk that they came in peace and only wanted to trade. The villagers quickly overcame their fear and agreed to sell them supplies and horses, but insisted they must then leave. Even a wolf bearing silver would not be permitted to spend the night in the sheep pen. In truth Crawulf was happier to have his ship retreat back to sea and out of sight once he and a dozen of his men mounted their overpriced horses and followed a foreign princess, guided by the gods, into the unknown.
***
They made camp in a forest nestled at the foot of a large mountain range after two days hard riding. Light drained from the overcast sky as they tethered their horses in a small clearing, a safe distance from the road, and lit a fire to chase away the chill of night. Although not as cold as the harsh north, there was still the sting of ice in the air making their breaths mist when they spoke. Rosinnio, although becoming more accustomed to the colder climes of the north, still yearned for the heat of a southern sun. At least I am on solid ground, she thought, the horror of a long sea voyage still fresh in her memory. All around her men spoke quietly in their harsh, guttural language. She could pick out a word here or there, but in general it was still a mystery to her. Thankfully when they spoke to her they used the common trading tongue and no longer bellowed at her, using their own words. The sound of men moving in armour rattled in the cold air as she stared into the hypnotic dance of the flames, men who had followed her… followed Crawulf. She was still not sure why he had agreed to the journey.
Her eyes searched for her husband. He was standing with a small group of his men, talking and laughing quietly, totally at ease with them, and they him. He still terrified her. They all did, yet he had followed her so far away from his home, simply because she had asked him to. What did he expect to find at the journey’s end? she wondered. Perhaps he was just pandering to the whims of a spoiled princess from a distant land, allowing her to make a fool of herself. I will become one of you. I will make you a good wife.
Her eyes grew heavy as the glow of the writhing dancers warmed the skin of her face. She pulled the fur cloak tight around her shoulders, letting the sounds of the Nortmen and the scent of the forest drift over her until they shifted to the edge of her consciousness. Her breathing settled into a slow steady rhythm as the pull of the flames drew her closer and then beyond into the realms of sleep.
Her eyes snapped open as two small shadows drifted across the blaze. The shadows formed a ring of white around them until she realised two eyes stared back at her from the flames. Who are you? she thought, lazily, still in a dream state, sleep weighing heavily on her. Then she heard a sound, a voice whispering on the wind… her name. Someone was calling to her. The eyes in the flames stared at her with pupils made of mist and shadow, dark orbs with the power to touch her soul. The Shadow Mage!
An arm of flame suddenly burst from the fire towards her. She could feel its heat, feel its rage as it attempted to engulf her in fire and pain. She was frozen, mesmerised by the eyes narrowing in hate. A face formed at the heart of the fire, a face of orange and yellow flame with two dark shadows for eyes. The mouth opened and she heard a single word – die.
Fear froze her even as the creature’s fiery grip burned her, igniting the cloak of fur she wore.
Voices called to her from the forest, her name borne on the breeze. She remembered a previous dream where Crawulf had come to her and fought for her, she focused on that memory. Suddenly the monster in the flames hissed and began to steam. She looked up and Crawulf stood over her, an empty waterskin in his hands from which he’d poured the contents over the fire.
“The fire,” he said, confusion on his face. “It attacked you.”
She looked down at where her cloak had been burned, the smell of singed hair and flesh lingering in the air. She brought her hand up to her cheek and felt the heat there… pain. “The Shadow Mage,” she answered.
“Are you hurt?” he asked, concern in his voice. She was, but she shook her head. A howl rent the air then, followed by another, then another.
“He knows we’re coming.” Rosinnio tried to fight the fear welling inside her, but could not control her voice from trembling. “He is sending creatures of darkness against us,” she said, tears formed in her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she added, her voice dropping to a whisper. “I’ve killed us all.”
***
Crawulf stood at arm’s length from his woman, seeing the terror in her eyes and how she fought it. Her cheek was red and blistered from where the fire had snaked out a pillar of flame at her. She was talking about things he had no comprehension of. He did not understand the ways of the gods. He sacrificed to Baltagor at the beginning and end of a voyage, leading a goat into the sea where its throat was cut and the blood allowed to flow freely into the waves. He prayed to Alweise that he would one day die with a sword in his hands and journey to The All Wise’s hall to feast and make war on the enemies of the gods, the dark elves and dwarves of Boda. He left any other concerns to those with ears and eyes open to the gods, such as Maolach, and now his woman, a princess from a far distant land, who could see things he did not understand, speak the language of the gods.
As the howling increased all around them, he quickly ordered torches lit illuminating the small clearing they were camped in. If this mage wished to send beasts to attack him, demonic or not, let them come into the light. His men formed a ring around him and his woman, shields, mail, flesh and bone, this was what he understood. The forest was alive now with the sound of howling as each call was answered by another and another, then another.
“Wolves,” a man said.
“They will not be ordinary wolves,” Rosinnio answered, her voice shaking. “Strike their heads.”
Crawulf beat his sword off his wooden shield. His men picked up the rhythm, the sound reverberating around the trees, an answer to the beasts howling, a defiance to whatever horror lay beyond the light. Grim-faced Nortmen, hard as the coats of mail they wore, immovable as the mountain looming above them. Tell your gods and your men, we are of the Isles and we defy you.
Their eyes shone silver in the darkness, reflecting off the light of the torches and the moon overhead, their howling and yelping closing in around the Nortmen, making them feel as if the very forest was alive, that the trees around them were coming against them. It mattered not.
Silence. Then a fallen branch s
napped and chaos erupted from the darkness. Small flashes of grey, brown and black flew through the air, hounds cast from the Nacht Realm, with flesh and fur hanging off them, fangs exposed through blood-filled grins and snarls. They attacked the ring of men attracted by the warm glow of life surrounding them. A dozen swords and shields came up as one throwing back the demonic pack as the beasts attempted to render flesh with teeth and claws. Black blood gushed from wounds inflicted by the hard steel of the Nortmen’s swords and axes as the magic that was their life force bled from them with each cut.
A huge beast, decayed flesh hanging from its bones, leapt over the wall of men. With eyes burning and with a maw dripping poisonous bile and blood, it flew through the air towards Rosinnio. Crawulf swung his sword in a wide arc, slicing clean through the neck with one blow. Another followed barely before he could catch a breath. He shoved up his shield, knocking it onto its back before stepping over it, once again decapitating the beast with one blow. Bodies piled in front of the men, yet more came, and from the sound of the howling forest there was no end to them.
