by T L Drew
‘Don’t fucking lie to me,’ Jorgen almost shouted, gripping Goran’s neck tightly in his strong grasp. The prince struggled for air, grasping Jorgen’s wrists as he tried to pry his hands from his neck. ‘I know what you did. My sister told me what you’ve done.’
The prince chocked. ‘I’ve...I’ve not...’
‘You have always been a bad liar.’ Jorgen hissed, something inside of him overpowering his calm nature. ‘There are people here who wish to see you dead; if you do not stop this damn affair you will find yourself buried.’
Goran kicked, and his icy cheeks begun to flush red.
‘You dare hurt my sister again, and I’ll kill you myself.’ Jorgen threatened, releasing the prince’s neck from his strong hands. Goran gasped as Jorgen pulled away. The young prince could see the seriousness in his companion’s eyes, flaring with hatred and malevolence towards him, and took a quick step back away from Jorgen, clutching his sore throat with his icy palms, coughing wildly.
‘I’m going to be the king,’ he hissed, chocking as he struggled to breath.
‘You’re not the king yet, and you’ll never be my king.’ Jorgen spoke strongly without fear, turning away from the prince. ‘I’ll see you next summer.’ The Prince of Balfold spun rapidly on the heel of his tough boots and grasped his satchel, each footstep echoing through the corridors of the Stone Keep, and he didn’t look back.
Several days passed him by in a blur of snow and ice. Jorgen’s journey north of the south of Askavold seemed to last forever. He dared not travel alone – the southern roads were dangerous paths with the creatures that stalked the realms of men in the shadows of the trees and under the surface of the ice – he took with him the only man that he knew for certain he could trust in dark times other than the small group of western knights and soldiers who accompanied Jorgen on his travels for his protection and his younger, crippled brother in a carriage behind. ‘I can go no further than the border,’ Nazir – Jorgen’s dearest friend in all of Askavold and a knight under Thorbjorn Grey’s command in the royal guard – said surely as they slowed their mounts, the snowstorm growing surprisingly heavier with every mile they rode north. They had wrapped themselves in thick furs. Nazir was more accustomed to the south’s climate than Jorgen was, despite coming from across the frozen sea from the treacherous, abandoned Isles of Mór. ‘My absence will soon be noticed.’
Jorgen hinted at a smile through the hammering snow. ‘Fret not, Thorbjorn Grey will be too busy to notice; trying to stop one prince from butchering the other is no easy task, not even for a knight as strong as he is.’
Nazir was quick to agree, snow catching in his dark hair. ‘I must admit that in times like these, standing between the princes is not the safest place a man can be – I begin to fear the worst for Andor Grey.’
‘I believe the city isn’t safe; I would leave now while you have the chance.’ Jorgen uttered a quiet word of warning, riding onwards, his voice barely heard over the heavy snow. It caught in his eyes, blurring his path.
Nazir saw a fear in Jorgen’s face. ‘What has you frightened, friend?’
Jorgen wasn’t sure how to answer. His dreams? The worrying looks in Abigail’s eyes? The way Goran and Andor’s relationship was growing even darker and more frightening with every year that passed them by? The way he had strangled the heir to the throne of bones with his bare hands? He wasn’t certain which had him more frightened.
‘You have not become superstitious, have you?’ Nazir laughed over the whistling wind. ‘If it is the “cursed blood” rumours that have you scared, then worry not. They are only tales to scare children and whores...and King Kodran, so it seems.’
‘I have heard no rumours,’ Jorgen let a small, nervous laugh escape his full lips. Nazir was a northern man, and they all had their myths and legends, and Jorgen pretended he had heard none of them. They were rumours of one of the Lienhart girls, and Caeda was the last person he wanted to think about, guilt shrouding him, even if it was not her in the desert north.
‘As I said, they’re only rumours.’ Nazir was quick to utter under the roar of the southern wind.
A large stony bridge, blanketed in a thick coating of fresh snow marked the end of the south of Askavold, stretching over a frozen river and into the western kingdoms of the Balfold, that Jorgen’s father, the King of Balfold and the west, ruled over. Another day to ride and Jorgen would be surrounded by lush greens and mountains without snow. In a week, he would be home, reunited with his father and the woman who held his heart, a girl who he missed terribly. The thoughts of them warmed him. ‘This is where I must leave you,’ Nazir said upon his mount. ‘Must you leave so soon? It feels as though you have barely been with us a month.’
‘Despite the south having a decade of winter, in the west, we only have six months a year at the most of snow and ice. Winter is taking my lands within in the next few weeks, and I must be home when it comes.’ Jorgen said surely, smiling to his friend with gloved hands cold to the bone.
‘Give Erik my regards – I have barely seen the boy from inside of his carriage. I hope we shall meet again soon,’ Nazir said with sorrow, riding his horse beside Jorgen’s mount. They pulled their beasts to a halt in the snowstorm. He had to shout over the roaring wind for his voice to be heard.
‘Perhaps, but this winter could be longer than the last, and until winter’s end, I will not return to the south of Askavold.’
‘Then let us pray for a short winter.’ Nazir said surely, although Jorgen didn’t quite feel the same way.
‘Ride fast,’ Jorgen sent Nazir a weak smile, thinking of all the dangers he may face on his return to Tronenpoint. ‘May the road be kind to you.’
Jorgen extended his gloved hand to his friend. Nazir shook it with a sorrowful smile. Jorgen had always found goodbyes a challenge, and kicked his mount onwards before he would change his mind about leaving. Jorgen’s men – members of the Night Cloaks – rode closely behind in the snow. He dared not look back at his young friend as Nazir turned his horse and disappeared back into the thick snow.
As he rode in his solitude, he thought of all the people he knew in the south; he hadn’t said his goodbyes to the king. Jorgen wondered if the king was angry at Jorgen’s sudden departure from the south without a word. He wished he had said his goodbyes to his older sister, Abigail; she would have cried when he said goodbye. He hated to see her cry, but he knew she could handle herself. She would have been furious at his outburst with the prince when she found out. He prayed Andor and Abigail would head his words.
Jorgen and his men rode endlessly for days without rest; his body felt like it was on fire, even in the cold. His thighs were raw and bruised. His hands were blistered and bloody. Jorgen’s body was weak from hunger; the men had shot deer and lit fires, but the harsh winds had put them out before they had barely begun, even in the shelter of the forest. He picked at stale, dry bread from his satchel and allowed himself a bottle of mead for the frozen road. Erik’s constant complaining about the cold drove him to a silent insanity, even as the boy sat within the warmer confines of a small carriage. The journey stopped Jorgen from drinking as much as he needed to – he spent the week sober. The longer he rode closer to his home of Crow’s Keep, the less snow that fell, and soon he was met by rain clouds and lavish green pine trees. The peaks of the mountains were without snow, and it brought him a familiar comfort of home. It was the smell of the pine and wet grass that filled him with the most joy of crossing back into Balfold. He had ridden throughout the night – he knew it was foolish, but his desperation to return to Crow’s Keep kept him going.
The city of Solvstone – where his father ruled – could be seen by tired eyes within the hour. He could see the city was that built around the base of the tallest mountain in the west, a city without large walls and on the edge of a giant, calm lake. There was only a fence and a small gate at the forefront of Solvstone. The forest surrounded the city, the lake and the mountain, quiet and beautiful but ridden with all man
ors of creatures, although the creatures rarely left the forest.
He was barely recognisable to the men on the gate, wrapped in thick layers of fur and the hood of his cloak pulled over his head to shelter his tousled head and face from the biting coldness of the ride. Jorgen quickly lowered his hood with his icy hands and was instantly granted entrance to his father’s city. His men slowly departed, returning to their barracks. He rode onwards, Erik’s carriage towing behind, over cobblestone paths through the streets built from stone with thatched roofs, and quickly he made haste towards the mountain. His father’s castle of Crow’s Keep had been built into the side of it; it looked like part of the mountain side. He dismounted his mare and made haste inside of the castle as a soldier removed Erik from his carriage and carried the young prince behind Jorgen, as quiet as it had always been with guards silently at their posts, stationed around Crow’s Keep. The servants were even quieter than the guards; something had startled them, and they barely gave their prince a look as Jorgen passed through the twisting corridors.
His bird was waiting for him when he entered his chambers; it had been over a month since he had last laid eyes upon his winged companion, a crow with a broken wing which Jorgen had nursed back to health when he had found him. Although his wing had been mended, the bird had not left the Crow’s Keep since, a loyal bird, attached to his master. Jorgen had named him Verath, after his great-grandfather, Verath Black.
The crow flew down from the top of the book shelf and landed upon Jorgen’s broad shoulder, squawking in his icy face. ‘I have missed you too,’ he smiled, roughing Verath’s silky feathers with his fingers. He spared himself no time to change out of his dirty southern furs and stained tunic before he made haste for his father with the bird noisily sat upon his shoulder, brushing his fingers over the soft feathers.
He found his father in his study. King Reidar Black of Balfold sat upon his desk, a quill in his right hand, his wrist making swift movements across rough parchment. ‘Father,’ Jorgen said boldly as he entered the study, a dark room ridden with books and scrolls and empty bottles of wine. There was a strange smell in the air. The fire in his study was lit, but Crow’s Keep was still cold, a chill similar to that in the Stone Keep. Reidar’s black eyes moved from his parchment to his son, dropped his quill, and came to a quiet stand.
‘I did not expect your return so soon,’ Reidar Black said softly with barely a hint of a smile, his hair a tousled brown mess upon his head and his skin as icy as those who resided in the south. The crown on his head was nothing more than a blank shining band placed on his dark head. He moved from behind his deck and embraced his son weakly. ‘I am sure that Nora will be overjoyed to see you home.’ His words were spiteful and sudden. Jorgen had expected it.
‘Where is she?’ Jorgen asked carefully, trying not to smile as he thought about his betrothed. She was the daughter of Lord Edward and Lady Mary Ostergaard of the Arus, his bride to be, and the key to an allegiance with the Arus, one of the six kingdoms within Askavold. He had missed her, more than anyone. Although Jorgen’s father had little love for the young girl, she had a mind of her own, and couldn’t be so easily tamed. She was a lady by birth right, but she was barely a lady at all. She had trained to be a healer, and she regularly tended to Solvstone’s injured, particularly the guards who patrolled Crow’s Keep and the servants who were found suffering with fevers in the winter months. Many a man who worked inside of the castle were found injured when attempting to hunt the creatures that lurked in the forests that surrounded Solvstone. Her desire to become a healer, serving the poor and the commoners rather than a quiet lady at Jorgen’s side irritated King Reidar Black greatly, but he desired the allegiance with Nora’s mother more than any. Nora’s father had died some years ago.
‘Don’t concern yourself with the whereabouts of that girl,’ Reidar’s words were bitter. ‘Your brother’s betrothed and her family have arrived safely in Balfold and will arrive to our hold within the week. Erik will be a married man soon, son. Perhaps it’s a good thing that you and Erik have returned early.’
‘I was only due to return home tomorrow,’ he told his father, ‘we rode hard.’
‘All the better to begin the wedding festivities early.’ Reidar said.
Jorgen only hinted at a smile, but no words came from his lips. Thoughts of his brother’s betrothed, Elinor Krea, only caused him irritation. Erik’s marriage had been arranged to the daughter of Lord Amund Krea from the Emerald Isles since his birth, a girl who had been only two years of age when Erik had been born. It was a marriage that would only cause Erik great misery, and Jorgen loved his little brother.
‘How is Abigail?’ Reidar asked, moving back towards his desk with his sights set upon a bottle of mead. Jorgen’s crow was squawking wildly on his shoulder; the bird cared very little for Jorgen’s father.
Jorgen decided not to tell Reidar of the truths Abigail had learned, or that he had threatened the future king of the realm. He dared not to tell his father what she had intended for her husband. ‘She is as well as can be expected in the south.’
Reidar detected bitterness in his son’s voice. He saw the frustration in his black eyes. ‘There must be a reason for your early return.’
I am only home a day sooner than he thought, Jorgen thought with irritation.
‘The south has become rather sour,’ Jorgen admitted, shuffling his feet upon the stone, desperate for a drink. ‘The snow is not all that’s inhospitable in Tronenpoint.’
‘I see,’ Reidar said, drawing his lips from the bottle of mead. Jorgen hoped his father might hand him a bottle. ‘I am glad of your safe return, as to dabble in the affairs of the prince’s war is not a safest place to stead, despite Abigail’s plentiful years between the two of them.’
‘Although King Kodran may not be too pleased by my early departure, I am merely glad to be home.’ Jorgen admitted, feeling the guilt of not saying his goodbyes to a man he believed he would never speak to again, if his bizarre dreams were to be believed. Reidar’s face grew evermore serious, the lines on his forehead creasing.
‘An early return home means an early marriage can commence,’ Reidar was fast to turn all conversation back to Erik’s unwilling wedding. ‘I shall have to see to new arrangements. It is best to host this wedding before the snow comes to Solvstone, is it not?’
‘Father, I have had a long journey; may I take leave?’ Jorgen tried to smile at Reidar. His black eyes were lased with fury, but he dared not speak his anger. Although he had just arrived home, spending another moment with his father would be a challenge – although he loved his father truly, the King of Balfold and the western lands was a difficult man to speak with. Jorgen was too tired and sore to try and smile at his father's words, not when Jorgen knew he would have to tell his seventeen-year-old brother that he would be married to a woman he did not love within the coming weeks.
‘By all means; rest and recover. I will see you at supper.’
He left as quickly as his aching body would take him. Jorgen wasted little time in searching for Nora; he could no longer wait to see her, not long enough to fill his empty stomach or rest his sore body before whisking himself to the cells in the heart of Crow’s Keep, four floors underneath the base of the tallest mountain in the western world. He had asked servants and guards, and each told him she was in the dank cells, tending to a new arrival in the green city. Each step below the surface of the ground was more painful than the last, but he wouldn’t let it show. It smelt damp below and the cold was almost as chilling as the Stone Keep.
He strode painfully through an iron door and into the dungeon. The first thing he saw was red hair. It warmed him, like the burn of the ring warm against the skin on his chest. Nora was leaning against thick iron bars, gazing into a cell with hopelessness. Her eyes were tired and her clothes were dirty and bloodstained. She had dried blood on her dress and her hands. Nora often spent her time helping those who needed her, and the visitor’s blood coated her. The twenty-year old gi
rl heard footsteps upon approach. She stood tall, moving herself from the tarnished bars, and swiftly turned her copper head towards him.
‘Jorgen!’ She almost screamed at the sight of him, bursting into a run even though her blood-stained dress caught around her ankles. Nora leapt up at him, throwing her wiry arms around him with joy and causing Verath to fly from Jorgen’s shoulder. The bird screeched at her as she tightened her grip on her betrothed. ‘I did not expect to see you until tomorrow.’
‘I missed you,’ he whispered in her ear, grasping her tightly and lifting her feet from the floor. He spun her around, place her down again, but she grasped him once more.
‘Next time, take the bloody bird with you; we have heard nothing but his cries for you.’
‘Next time I’ll take you with me,’ he smiled, his voice merely a whisper in her ear. ‘You would like the castle and the snow.’
‘And the princes,’ she smiled quietly, nudging Jorgen’s arm. Jorgen shot her a look, but quickly pulled her into his arms again. He had missed her more than anyone. When he was with her, his thoughts of Caeda Lienhart were pushed away.
‘You must tell me everything about your time in the south,’ the girl beamed, releasing her grip from him. ‘A month in the capital is a tremendously long time – not to mention the long travels.’
‘And I shall,’ Jorgen assured, breathing in a familiar damp smell, darkness shrouding him. ‘But I want to hear about you first.’
‘There is little to tell,’ Nora spoke to him with a sweet smile as she stood in the low light of a flaming torch mounted upon the mossy stone. ‘I have been trying to tend to a new arrival in the city for days, but he will let me nowhere near him.’
‘Perhaps I could lend a hand.’
‘Are you certain? You are not too tired from your journey?’
