by T L Drew
Copyright © T L Drew 2018
The Author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction.
The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the works of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior permission of the author.
A KING OF CROWS
Book One
T.L. DREW
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
JORGEN
THORBJORN
GORAN
JORGEN
ANDOR
HAKON
GORAN
JORGEN
GORAN
THORBJORN
NORA
JAKUB
JORGEN
NORA
JORGEN
GORAN
JORGEN
THORBJORN
GORAN
JORGEN
ANDOR
THORBJORN
MARGOT
JORGEN
GORAN
MARGOT
THORBJORN
NAZIR
JORGEN
ANDOR
JORGEN
EPILOGUE
PROLOGUE
‘We should not be here.’ Tovar urged his commander, his face panicked as the sun scorched his tanned skin. He could see nothing before his eyes but endless fields of white sand. ‘This is a cursed land; no other is foolish enough to cross the border into Cakkinaki territory.’
‘Does the desert frighten you? A soldier such as you should not fear the tales.’ Ser Ivar replied with the hint of a smile on his thin, dry lips, their small army of twenty men trailing behind them begrudgingly in the sands. He was mocking the old man, his eyes dancing with arrogance.
Tovar's face fell into a scowl as his mount rode onwards across the hot sands. ‘It is not the desert that frightens me,’ he said with certainty, ‘the likes of men have no business in cursed lands. There are dead here that we must not disturb – some tales come from a place of truth, my lord.’
‘We have seen no dead.’ Ser Ivar replied surely, despite the knowledge that they rode across lands where blood had been shed in a glorious yet devastating battle decades past. ‘All we have seen are merely mounds of fucking sand that never seems to end.’
‘Why do we even tread north, my lord? Our orders were to protect the gate.’ Ari – the only female knight that guarded the walls of Tholon – said softly, fear in her voice.
‘Were being the correct word, Ari; have you not heard the rumours, girl?’ Ser Ivar Castle was quick to snap, his words like poison on his tongue. ‘There are whispers echoing from the furthest northern points, tales of a Lienhart child taking flight from the Isles of Mór and landing upon Askavold sand, and tales of another finding his place upon the ice of the Frozen Isles – Vilkas Whitehall will deal with the traitors in the south, and we are to deal with those in the north. If a Lienhart child has returned to our lands to take back the throne from our king, then we have a duty as Askavold men to learn if this rumour speaks truths. If Ragnar’s children have returned, then our king will surely kill them.’
‘How do you kill a cursed blood?’ Ari asked, ignorant of the tales. ‘How do you kill a person who commands them? Rules them?’
‘Ragnar Lienhart cursed these lands, and his children will bring the curse with them. If they are anything like their father was, then we have much to fear.’ Tovar was quick to interject.
‘There are no curses here, and until we have proof that they are nothing more than rumours, we do not return to the Great Gates of Tholon; we have orders from our king, and we cannot disappoint.’ Ser Ivar insisted with his gloved hand upon the handle of his fine long sword. The knight was not dressed for the desert, his cloak heavy and the collar lined with brown fur. His gloved hands were collecting sweat – he was a southern man, accustomed to the snow.
Tovar's mouth tightened, his mount slowing in the heat of the scorching sun. His dark eyes drew to his commander. ‘And then you condemn us to join the army of the dead, Ser.’
‘Do not fear, old man. You shall live to fight another day upon the Great Gates.’ Ser Ivar said confidently. ‘We will learn whether his bastards have returned, and then we will return to our barracks with a belly full of honey and mead and pockets full of gold. There are no curses upon these lands and no cursed bloods, only tales to frighten southern men in the hopes that they will think twice before crossing into the north. Ragnar’s children are just like you and I. They have no dragons or cursed blood or whatever tales you have heard. Now quiet your tongues and keep yourselves alert. The tribesmen are close, and they will tell us all we need to know.’
Ser Tovar quietened himself; there was little use in arguing with his southern commander. Ser Ivar was not a superstitious man, unlike his company. Although he believed in the return of the cursed men that was prophesied centuries prior to destroy mankind for their betrayal and all they hold dear, Ser Ivar did not believe that the dead would awaken when the sun set over the desert. Tovar and Ari believed otherwise. Before Ragnar Lienhart was beheaded by the new king, the northern men believed he muttered a curse, a curse that they trusted would come back to haunt them, and his children were all very much alive. He had many children who wished to see their father avenged. Although Ser Ivar was barely old enough to have fought in the Great War that plagued the desert north, Tovar remembered it well. He had fought in the war. He had seen what the cursed bloods were capable of. He saw what they could do, what they could become, and it was a miracle that mankind had taken victory. Tovar and the northern men feared the return of Ragnar’s children more than anything, for mankind’s betrayal of the cursed men. They wished to return to the safety of the city of Tholon, where they would be protected by the Great Gates from the harsh desert, where they did not feel eyes upon them in the sands and a menacing darkness in the air that promised blood. These lands had once belonged to the cursed men, and their bodies lay underneath the surface of the sand, waiting for nightfall. Their deaths had been painful and their lived taken unjustly by the mortal king. Ser Ivar did not believe in such superstitions; he was young, fearless and strong, born from lords and riches, unlike his company. He had heard the stories, but he didn’t believe. He had been born in the snowy south, whereas his company had been kissed by the harsh sun over the north. The common folk from the north believed the lore, and each step deeper into the desert frightened them more than the one that came before.
‘We must quicken our pace.’ Ser Ivar insisted as the heat began to subside in the growing darkness. The quietness of the darkening desert was more foreboding than ever to those who had been born across the border. ‘There is a tomb close by, I can feel it. They said they would be inside.’
‘Ready yourself, girl.’ Tovar ordered a young Ari quietly, drawing his silver blade from the holster upon his hip as he held himself upon his black mare. ‘Nightfall is nearly upon us, and the dead will wake soon if the rumours are true.’
Ser Ivar's mount threaded through sandy rocks that lead towards a dark mound. The two northern knights followed swiftly behind their commander with their small army, hands upon their blades as the darkness began to shroud their sweating bodies. They urged their horses up a sandy slope leading towards the dark mound, a stony tomb concealed underneath the white grains, grey stone pillars barely visible in the darkness as they protruded through the sand. The wind changed on their approach, and sand washed over them, catching in the
ir eyes and dry mouths. ‘The tribesmen were true to their word; the tomb is here, and they should be inside.’ Ser Ivar was certain, pulling his mare to a halt.
‘What if it is a trap, Ser Ivar?’ Ser Tovar insisted, his voice barely a whisper over the swirling sands. ‘The tribesmen would not betray the cursed bloods, not for the likes of mankind. Their loyalty is forever, and you cannot kill what is forever.’
‘The cursed men and the tribesmen have been defeated before,’ Ser Ivar reminded the older knight. ‘We do not need the tribes to betray the Lienhart children; we just need to know whether they have returned to the sands of the north, and the king will deal with the rest.’
The king had become paranoid with the tales that a child of Ragnar Lienhart had returned to the realm. The king had taken the throne from them, and King Kodran had become obsessed with their return for revenge, despite ten years passing them by and still no Lienhart’s had returned to take the throne. Ser Tovar did not know whether they had come home, but he knew in his heart that the lands were cursed. To enter the tomb was to die, and Tovar uttered his prayers, accepting his fate to come as Ser Ivar Castle tied his horse to a stony pillar and ordered his men to do the same.
‘Ser Tovar, lead the way.’ Ivar Castle ordered the trembling old man as his feet touched the hot sand. ‘You are a northern man, born and bred, and you will know the likes of these tombs better than I.’
‘The tribesmen would not meet with us in such a place. This is a trap of sorts. Ser, I have not crossed into these parts of the desert in the past decade, not since the war, let alone a northern tomb, and I know in my heart that this is a mistake–’
‘–That was an order, old man.’ the southern commander hissed loudly in the growing darkness, his hand upon his drawn blade. ‘I will not have you cowering in the sands like a child.’
Ser Tovar silenced his tongue. He moved from Ari's side, his legs a tremble and sweat rolling off of his wrinkled forehead. The old man reluctantly obeyed and took a frightened step towards the dark opening with heavy chainmail. The rest of Ser Ivar's men stayed hesitantly behind their commander. Until ordered, they would not follow Tovar into the unknown.
The temple was smaller than Ser Tovar had expected. Perhaps it was because it was buried underneath mountains of sand. As he moved his body closer, his dark eyes landed upon a narrow stone door, stood between two ebony coloured pillars, weathered and old. There was the head of a wolf etched into the stone, and the carving of a man on the second pillar. A dragon’s head was on the frame of the thick doors, and a griffin, and a sea monster he wasn’t certain even existed. He knew that it had once been a temple of worship for the cursed men before their demise, where men who could distort their bodies into beasts came to pray to their gods. He had seen temples like it before, but never had he entered. A sudden gust of powerful wind smacked against Tovar's body as his shaking hand touched the stone door. He felt a darkness taking him.
‘Well? What do you see? Any tribesmen?’ Ser Ivar shouted to him from beside his tied mount, struggling to see Tovar's quaking body in the growing darkness.
Tovar shouted back to his commander. ‘A closed door,’ the knight took a step backwards. ‘We should not go inside; only those with cursed blood can enter these walls.’
‘I've heard enough of your superstitious nonsense, Tovar. Open it! That's an order!’
He looked away from his commander, holstered his shining weapon, and extended his empty palms to the thick stone doors. His skin made contact with the stone once more, filling his body with an unexplainable dread. The stone was smooth and soft from years of beating by the wind and the pale sand. Tovar pushed his rough hands against the smooth doors and heaved the door inwards, the stone scrapping across the temple floor as he pushed it ajar, the screeching of the rock filling his ears as though it was warning him away. More wind blew out of the temple and hit Tovar's flushed cheeks, throwing sand in his eyes and mouth. Sand clung to the grey whiskers on his broad chin. The aging knight could see nothing but darkness through the open temple doorway. ‘Ser Ivar, the door is open.’
‘She knows we’re here,’ a man stammered from amongst the small crowd of armoured knights and soldiers. ‘She will send the dead for us!’
‘You,’ Ser Ivar pointed to one of his men with a gloved finger, his eyes rolling with frustration. ‘Silence your tongue and stay here, guard the horses, and come with haste if called. The rest of you, follow me.’
Ser Ivar gushed past Ser Tovar and disappeared behind the stony door of the cursed temple with his blade poised. Ari, Tovar and the remainder of the soldiers followed their commander into the cursed temple with haste and trepidation. Ser Ivar showed no signs of fear, but urged Old Tovar to lead the way deeper into the ancient ruins.
The flaming torches were lit and carried by the soldiers as they ventured into the temple; the walls were black stone, like the ebony pillars and the corridors were narrow and twisting. The walls appeared wet. Ser Tovar noticed dozens of strange markings and symbols etched into the bricks, the likes of which he had never seen before, and the old man knew he was further from home than he had ever been. The wind continued to breeze through the silent corridors of the temple, sending a chill through the men in the middle of the desert. Each step the soldiers and knights made over the stony floors echoed and broke the silence of the cursed temple, adding to their apprehension. They wondered when the last men had entered the temple before them. The cobwebs told Tovar it had been years at the least. ‘They won’t be here.’ He uttered quietly to Ari and she knew Old Tovar’s words would become true.
They all walked slowly and silently until the corridor began to abruptly widen and a pair of stony doors met them, wide open and leading into a circular, dark room. Ari, Tovar and Ser Ivar stepped inside of the heart of the temple, but Ivar was quick to notice that his soldiers dared not follow. His head turned to face his men. ‘What do you wait for?’ He asked bitterly. ‘Move yourselves.’
‘Sorry Ser, we go no further.’ The superstitious men all agreed. They were all from the north. ‘Ed’s words were true – she knows we’re here.’
‘Who is she?’
‘The Lienhart girl.’ The soldier whispered. ‘The bitch will be the death of us all – she can do things that the likes of us cannot even dream of.’
‘Come, now.’ He hissed, ignoring the soldier’s frets, but no men moved, still as steel statues. ‘Very well, you'll wait here.’ Ser Ivar ordered his men, although he had little choice. He turned on his heel and accompanied Tovar and Ari; they were at the heart of the temple, quiet and dark, wanting to turn back, to join the soldiers in the eerie corridor. They stepped inside of the circular room, flaming torches in their hands, and walked along the walls. There were small candles already strangely lit inside the room, stood upon dusty tables next to old quills and dry ink. There were broken wooden chairs, splintering in piles. It smelt old and stale. A small stand stood in the middle of the room holding a closed black book, tattered and scorched. There was no other exit or entrance, the only room inside of the dark temple. The remainder of the soldiers waited in the corridor, gazing inside, plagued with fear.
The heart of the temple was as silent and still as the rest of it was.
Old Tovar saw more of the strange etchings in the stone in the light of his flaming torch. He lowered the light slowly, following the markings, until his eyes landed upon an old wooden box, long and dust ridden. ‘Ser Ivar,’ Tovar whispered, his eyes glued to the rectangular box that lay upon a deep stony shelf. ‘I believe I have found a coffin.’
‘This room is filled with the dead,’ Ari interjected, placing the flaming torch upon the floor and pried a box open. She saw a skeleton before her, rotting flesh still clinging to the bones like a parasite. Quietly, the three companions removed the lids from the coffins, exposing the dead to the light of the flaming torches until every coffin had been opened. Some of the dead were not that of men; they had never seen such corpses, half twisted into man and half broken
into beasts. Several bones were that of giant wolves, larger than any wolves that Ser Tovar and his companions had ever seen.
Ser Ivar gazed into the open coffin with a scowl. ‘There are no tribesmen or Lienhart’s here, only the dead.’
‘What are they?’ Ari asked, staring down at the bones of a giant wolf, too young to have witnessed such a thing before the war.
‘Cursed men,’ Tovar was certain.
‘It’s nothing but a giant wolf,’ Ivar scoffed. To Tovar, it was more than a giant wolf – it was once a man, cursed with a kind of power that mankind could never understand, so they feared it, and destroyed it.
‘A temple in the middle of the desert should not be so cold,’ Tovar noticed as he gazed at the dozens of coffins that lined the circular room. ‘Why is it so cold?’
‘The tribesmen lied to us,’ Ser Ivar spat with annoyance, ignoring Ser Tovar's words. ‘Why they would send us here is a mystery. Do they not wish to help the men who protect the deserts?’
‘As the stories say, many of the Cakkinaki tribes worship the coming of the cursed men,’ Ari informed her commander warily, taking hold of her flaming torch once more. ‘The longer we are here, the more danger we are in.’
‘Enough with the superstition,’ Ser Ivar ordered, moving himself to the centre of the circular room. He neared the stand and grasped the black tattered book, the leather stained and distorted by fire. He grasped it in his hand and waved it in the air with annoyance. His voice rose to a shout. ‘The only thing in here is a fucking book! No tribes, no curses, just a book! Heads will roll for this!’
‘Look,’ Ser Tovar snapped with urgency, pointing his wrinkled finger to the ceiling above them. Their gaze followed the old man's finger; a dark liquid, like black ink, oozed down the stony walls. It appeared as though the ancient brick bled black blood, slowly dripping to the sandy marble floor. Ser Ivar threw the book to the stone floor and moved towards the walls, seeing the black ink for himself. He touched it with his gloved hand.
