A King Of Crows

by T L Drew

  ‘Thank you, Your Grace.’ Jorgen uttered quietly. He could feel all eyes upon him, disapproving. The lords and ladies were angry, but they dared not speak of it. The king smiled down at Jorgen and motioned for the twenty-four-year-old prince to return to his place between his sister and Andor Grey. Jorgen stood carefully and moved himself between them, searching for Andor’s eyes, but Andor would not meet his apologetic gaze. This does not belong to me, or to Andor, or to mankind – this belongs to Caeda, or Rob, or Jofthor, or the others, he thought, his eyes finding the ring. He slipped it upon his pale finger, and felt the heat coursing through him. There was quiet whispering in his ears, whispering he was quick to forget.

  ‘The tournament will commence shortly,’ Hakon Grey shouted over the crowd’s mumblings and guards began to guide the lords and ladies slowly from the throne room and lead them out of the castle and into the snow. Jorgen stayed still, fixed in place like a statue, his own personal guards moving around him and one behind Erik to push his wheeled chair.

  ‘Bad luck, brother.’ Goran flashed his ring at Andor Grey. The youngest son of the king said nothing, his eyes silently focused on the skull of Ragnar Lienhart.

  As the crowd began to filter slowly from the throne room, Jorgen found himself desperately seeking Andor’s eyes. Jorgen moved himself to the struggling prince who had urged himself away from the crowd so that he was alone near the empty throne. Thorbjorn and his father, Hakon, were stood silently beside their beloved Andor. ‘Go to him,’ Abigail urged Jorgen, but he dared not move, not yet. Hakon Grey and Jorgen were not even close to civil with the other, nor had they ever been. When Thorbjorn and Hakon left Andor Grey alone, ready to watch or fight in the tourney, Jorgen found himself weaving through the leaving crowd to Andor’s side. Abigail was quick to follow her little brother, and Erik was vacated from the throne room by the guard that pushed his wheeled chair.

  ‘You look dressed to fight,’ Jorgen uttered awkwardly as he noticed that Andor was clad in steel, a fox head etched into his silver armour, his steel limb exposed to the cold.

  ‘The armour will break my fall when I undoubtedly fail again to defeat my brother in combat.’ His voice was thoughtful and bitter.

  ‘If it is any comfort to you, I think you fight well considering the hand you were dealt.’

  ‘Spare me your pity. I know my talents, and swordplay is not one of those.’

  ‘He does not lie to you,’ Abigail insisted, watching over her shoulder in case her absence from her gloating husband became noticed. ‘With a little more training–’

  ‘–When I was a boy, I did not have the advantage of training with the greatest swordsman in the realm. I doubt I can surpass his talent and strength now, not with this damned leg. My only way to beat a man like my brother is with the element of surprise. I am smarter than he is, that much I know.’

  Jorgen's eyes widened. ‘You're truly going to fight him again?’

  ‘In due time.’

  ‘And this morning, at the tournament?’

  ‘I won’t get that far,’ Andor was certain, thoughtful. ‘I won’t make it past the first round.’

  ‘And you're willing to continue humiliating yourself?’ Jorgen said with disbelief, seeing how Andor's wounds were still ridden with dried blood from the previous morning. His strength was all but gone, and standing on his single leg was a difficulty from the fight the morning before. ‘You're going to get yourself hurt again; give up. You'll be doing yourself a favour. Surely it is not worth the humiliation.’

  ‘True humiliation,’ Andor said quietly, moving himself to face the Prince of Balfold and reached his hand to Jorgen's finger. The prince pulled the ring from Jorgen's hand and felt its burn on his skin. ‘Is that you wear this, and I do not have the honour. The world will see it on your finger and laugh at me with pity. I plead that you would kindly give this to me. It should be upon my finger.’

  A strange feeling overcame Jorgen as the ring left his touch. His heart pounded wildly in his chest and he suddenly felt all alone, darkness shrouding him. Sweat began to bead off of his forehead in the sheer cold in the seconds it was parted from him. ‘I wish I could, but I cannot give this to you, not yet. It would be an insult to the king – in time, my friend.’

  ‘And to keep it is an insult to me,’ Andor assured, dropping the ring from his touch. It fell back into Jorgen’s palm and he felt the strange heat of the small metal band on his skin. Jorgen breathed quiet a sigh of relief. ‘Sometimes it's a wonder whose side you are on.’ Andor shook his tousled head.

  Jorgen had already made his choice, but dared not speak the words aloud. ‘I did not realise I had to choose.’

  ‘You’re going to have to make a choice soon, Jorgen. My father has already made his.’

  ‘I choose you,’ Jorgen said surely, lowering his black eyes to Andor’s blue. ‘I have always been on your side.’

  ‘Good,’ the one-legged prince said with a breath of relief. ‘Then there is something I must tell you.’

  ‘You’re plotting to kill Goran,’ Jorgen whispered, his eyes flickering around the room. ‘I know. Abby told me.’

  ‘Abigail–’ Andor’s eyes flickered to the red-head.

  ‘–He’s my brother,’ she responded desperately. ‘I had to tell someone.’

  ‘Now you know,’ Andor said quietly, his voice barely a whisper in Jorgen’s ear. ‘You’re going to help us?’

  ‘No, and you won’t harm a soul, either.’ Jorgen almost spat the words, careful to keep his voice low. ‘There’s good in Goran, somewhere. One day I promise you that we will see it. Murder is not the answer. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll both forget this and never think of it again. I’m aware times are troubling for you both. Abby, you want to go home, to be away from the man who causes you sorrow, and Andor, I know what life is like for you here, with a father and brother that treat you no better than they treated the cursed men…but this idea, this plan, you don’t want this. It will cause more problems than it will solve, believe me.’

  ‘You have every reason to want them dead,’ Andor reminded him.

  ‘I do, I dream of it, but I won’t truly do it. I’m not a murderer. I won’t become like them, and neither should you.’

  ‘Instead you become a drunk instead of doing something about the people who have wronged us,’ Andor was quick to remind him. ‘You’re my friend, Jorgen. One of the closest people in my life. Join us – you won’t regret this.’

  ‘I won’t be a part of murder, and neither will you.’ Jorgen said surely. ‘I won’t see either of you hang. Promise me you’ll forget this madness and go on with your lives.’

  ‘Fine, so be it.’ Andor agreed. Jorgen’s eyes found Abigail’s.

  ‘We won’t harm anyone,’ she agreed.

  ‘Good,’ Jorgen breathed a sigh of relief. ‘You’re both angry, is all. You have the right. We all do, but time will pass, and you’ll be glad you did not do it. Believe me. When the time comes, I’ll give you this ring, like you deserve.’

  The cruel king’s bloody tournament came and ended in a series of brutal fights, painful jousts and a wave of peasants screaming outside of the walls in their anger towards the king as they froze in the perilous southern snow, a winter refusing to end.

  Jorgen Black had known the outcome of the king’s tourney before it had even begun – Goran Grey would reign victorious, with all other competitors too frightened of defeating the unstable prince who would one day be their king, a man who was named the king’s champion, to fight for the king in his old age. The young Prince of Balfold – although drunk – could have defeated Goran Grey if it would have pleased him, a master swordsman, at home with a blade in his grasp, and yet he had taken the fall upon the final round, his sword crossed with the other prince. Goran Grey’s anger was not worth the victory, Jorgen knew. He was angry at himself that he had taken the fall instead of showing Goran how skilled he truly was; he was angry at himself for not doing anything about the prince’s infidelity,
his broken wedding oath he had made to Jorgen’s sister, even though Abigail had assured her younger brother that she would handle it. Jorgen was her brother, and he had fallen asleep that night wondering whether he should have done something, despite her words and malevolent gaze.

  The Prince of Balfold placed the ebony ring of Hircane around a thin silver chain on his neck before he drunkenly returned to his wintry chambers after the evening’s drunken celebrations, staggering across the cold stone. There was much rum inside of him. Everything was a blur, and when he closed his eyes for just a moment, they didn’t open again, drifting into a drunken slumber.

  His sleep deepened and his mind came alive. A voice spoke inside of Jorgen’s slumbering head, a voice drowning in sorrow and pain, a voice he had heard before, but the words were faint and undistinguishable. Louder it became as he tossed and turned in his bed, trapped in his slumbering prison. ‘Blood must pay for blood,’ he heard. He gazed upon a glittering sea of flowing blood upon the stone floor. He felt the emptiness of oblivion fast approaching. ‘Winter will end when a debt has been repaid in blood.’ The voice was of a man; he had heard it before, as a child, as a young man, but the familiar voice felt a world away – he could hear Ragnar’s voice as clear as the day he had died, a powerful, deep voice, haunting, yet twisted with torment and suffering. It almost spoke in tongues – but Jorgen understood each and every word as his sleep deepened.

  Black eyes gazed at blood as it cascaded freely down the stony walls like a waterfall of crimson; Jorgen recognised the icy throne room walls of the Stone Keep, grey and white fox banners burning before his onyx eyes. Even though he could feel the heat of the dancing fire upon his icy skin, Jorgen was swift to know he was dreaming. It was no usual dream; blood cascaded freely down the walls, spreading like spilt wine. The fire danced over the banners of the white fox. Jorgen saw the king sat upon his throne, hunched over like a man older than his years, his throat severed by the cut of a sharpened blade, and the white furs that sheltered his body from the coldness of the winter was stained with his own crimson blood. The king’s crown had been pried from his oily head. Black ink oozed from aged cracks in the dark ceiling, ink he had only seen the night he tried so desperately to forget.

  Jorgen’s eyes were quick to jolt open as morning came. The ring was burning around the base of his swollen finger. The ring hadn’t been there when he had drifted into a nightmarish slumber, he remembered that much. ‘Blood demands blood,’ he heard the rumble of the old king’s voice in his weary mind. The words echoed through his head without summon. It spoke from inside of the ring – like a man trapped inside of the ebony band. Jorgen urgently ripped the ring from his inflamed finger; removing the chain from his neck, he slid the sleek ebony band back through the small metal links – where it had been before his slumber – and placed it around his neck once more, where it belonged. He flexed his hot, sweating palms in the darkness of the early morning as he tried to calm himself. ‘It’s cursed,’ Jorgen muttered to himself, wondering, scratching the dark stubble on his chin. ‘It’s fucking cursed.’ Jorgen spat the words from his tongue quietly as his eyes drew to the ring dangling from his neck, but the young man could not bear to rid himself of it. He supposed he was going mad, or the ring was toying with him – was it guilt, for what had happened in the north, a decade ago? ‘It was just a dream,’ he tried to convince himself, wiping the sweat that trailed down his ice-cold forehead. ‘It’s only a dream.’ Jorgen said again, even though he was not certain he believed his own words. He had returned to his chambers in the early hours of the evening, after the two princes of Askavold had bickered tiresomely after the late celebrations, and taken immediately to his bed. He couldn’t remember what they had bickered about – they were all too drunk during the celebrations. Jorgen had gone alone, and the ring had been on the chain around his neck. It had begun to make him do things that he was unaware of, or Jorgen was still drink. The thought scared him more than any other.

  He slipped tiresomely from the dark, warm furs and covered himself in a wine-coloured tunic and a southern cloak, lined with white fur, taken from one of the south’s plentiful snow coloured foxes. He armoured himself as quietly as he could muster; Jorgen was going home, and the journey could be treacherous. Although he could scarcely see in the darkness of the chambers, he grasped a quill in his left hand and sprawled across three pieces of parchment; one to his sister Abigail, one to Prince Goran and King Kodran, and the last to Andor Grey. He apologised to them all for leaving without a goodbye, and hoped they would understand, although he did not explain the true nature of his eagerness leave of the capital of Askavold and return to his father’s kingdom of Balfold without saying his goodbyes. Even though he was due to leave Tronenpoint that morning, Jorgen did not know whether he could say goodbye. Jorgen left the sealed letters on his desk; he knew Goran would come in the morning to search for him, with the hope of forcing the western lord to hunt with him in the White Woods before he took leave. Already packed from the prior morning in the darkness, he grasped his satchels and holstered his beloved long sword, Night upon his hip.

  Prince Jorgen took one final look over the frozen city of Tronenpoint from his chambers, and turned rapidly from the frozen, misty window. He wondered whether it would be the last time he would see the white city – he did not know whether he liked the thought or hated it. He didn’t look back. He crept silently from his southern chambers and into the deep darkness of the Stone Keep corridors. His guards that stationed themselves outside of his chambers were quickly alarmed. ‘Your Grace? Where are you going?’

  ‘We’re going home, to Crow’s Keep. We won’t wait until sunrise.’ The young prince answered under his cold breath, spying his soldiers in the darkness. ‘Fetch the horses and the rest of the men – I’ll ready my brother and be with you as soon as I can.’ Jorgen ordered, and his soldiers were fast to obey. He twisted his body in the opposite direction to his men, and as Jorgen walked with his satchel thrown over his shoulder, his thoughts kept coming back to Goran and his beloved sister; how could he leave her here, with a man who treated her the way Goran treated her, without doing something about it? He told himself to keep walking. He tried to ignore his thoughts, but eventually, Jorgen’s honour defeated his eagerness to run from the south of Askavold. Instead of turning the last corner back towards his brother’s chambers, he found himself turning on his heel and making his way to the prince. He threw his satchels to the stone floor and his fists found the large oak doors of Goran Grey’s chambers.

  ‘What are you doing, Jorgen?’ He uttered to himself as he found his fist knocking against the hard wood of the heir’s chambers. One, two, three knocks came before the weary prince of Askavold pried the door open and glanced upon the dark-haired man that stood outside of his chambers with dark eyes. Before Goran had a chance to speak, a voice rumbled from behind the Prince of Balfold.

  ‘I beg your pardon, Your Grace, but you cannot be here,’ two soldiers dressed in southern armour spoke as they patrolled the corridors, their bodies clad in grey coloured armour and light furs protruding from the crevasses.

  ‘I only need a moment alone with the prince,’ he told them, taking a deep breath.

  ‘Be on your way; this man is my friend.’ Goran insisted, and without another word, the soldiers were on their way, disappearing down the dark corridors and deeper into the night. ‘Jorgen? What are you doing here? The sun has not yet risen.’ Prince Goran grumbled as he rubbed his tired head and ran his wintery hands over his frozen arms.

  Jorgen opened his mouth, uncertain of what words would slip from his tongue. ‘I’m going home.’

  ‘Home? Solvstone?’ The prince uttered tiresomely. Jorgen nodded his dark head. ‘You are not due to leave the south until later today.’

  ‘I’m returning to Crow’s Keep and I’m taking Erik with me before sunrise. Tell your father I am sorry for leaving without a goodbye.’

  Goran grumbled, his green eyes narrowing at the western prince, his voice
low and tiresome. ‘Tell him yourself.’

  ‘I have no time – I’m leaving as soon as I wake Erik.’

  ‘Very well,’ Goran moaned with confusion. ‘Safe travels, friend.’

  ‘I’m not your friend, Goran. I have heard things, disturbing things.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘You and I are not friends, not anymore.’ The words slipped from Jorgen’s tongue, and quickly the young man was fast to regret them – Goran’s face fell further, his eyes narrowing, his brow falling. The Prince of Askavold moved further out of his chambers, urging his body away from the door and into the dim light of the flaming torches that lined the Stone Keep corridors.

  ‘What’s the matter with you?’ The prince stammered, scratching his stubbly chin. ‘Are you drunk?’

  ‘No, I’m sober, perhaps for the first time since I arrived.’ Jorgen was certain. His mind was clear, and he was angry. Goran Grey took a further step out of his chambers and into the dark corridors, his long black hair a tangled mess and his emerald eyes dull with exhaustion from the tourney. The prince crossed his broad arms across his exposed chest, breathing slowly, his breath oozing out of his dry lips like cold smoke.

  ‘What troubles you, brother?’

  ‘I’m not your fucking brother, either.’ Jorgen cursed with venom on his tongue. There was a power in Jorgen’s voice that Goran had never heard before. Goran’s eyes narrowed. ‘You are my troubles.’

  ‘Whatever you think I have done, it’s not true.’ Goran’s words were calm and collected. Jorgen’s anger flared, and the young lord reached a hand forward and thrust it into the Prince of Askavold’s icy neck. Goran’s eyes bolted open in shock as the Jorgen slammed Goran into the stony wall by his neck without a thought and felt his head smack against the dark stone, the ring around his neck growing hotter.