by T L Drew
‘The boy murders the king, and yet no one cares! No one fights! They swear fealty to him – this is our chance to take the six kingdoms and become one realm, not two, and take control of it all.’
‘You cared not for the southern king,’ Jorgen reminded the old lord. ‘As long as it is you who resides in the Stone Keep, you do not care for who sits upon the throne.’
Amund drew his mouth into a hard, straight line, a silence falling upon him.
Jorgen turned to face his father. ‘Andor Grey will be a good king, no matter how he acquired the throne. He may have written lies to protect himself, but he’s a good man. He cares about his people. Continue the allegiance with him, father. You’ll have no trouble from him.’
‘You’re going to listen to the words of your stupid boy?’ Amund shouted at Reidar through grey whiskers. ‘He knows nothing!’
‘Quiet, both of you.’ Reidar ordered, anger in his aging voice. ‘There is little use in arguing; we must take time to think about what we’re going to do, without rushing into anything. We swore fealty to King Kodran, and it would be breaking an oath to bow to his murderer, and yet refusal to continue the alliance will certainly lead to war. This is not a decision we can make hastily.’
‘So only now you care about breaking an oath?’ Jorgen exclaimed, his thoughts returning to Ragnar Lienhart and his daughter, Caeda. He thought about Caeda too often. ‘You broke an oath once before, to the old King of Askavold.’
‘And I regretted it ever since.’ Reidar was quick to silence him.
‘May I leave?’ Jorgen asked, a lump in his throat, trying to push Caeda and Kodran and the princes from his mind. ‘I must write to Nazir at once; he can give us all the information that we need, the information I can trust.’
ANDOR
Andor Grey was plagued with dark dreams. Dreams of smoke and black ink and shadows that came from nothing. He dreamed of the dead, the dead who had been awoken, yellowing bones grinding against each other as they moved hauntingly. Dreams so dark that he was jolted from his slumber in a flash of foreboding darkness.
A warm, heartening body stirred restlessly at his side. Ruddy red hair in the bleak darkness moved past his tired bloodshot eyes, the hair of his brother’s wife, Abigail Black, a young woman who made him mad with fury and yet so in love at the same time. If only Margot and I had married the right brother, then none of this would have happened, she had told him long ago, and she was right. Andor remembered that day, over nine years ago, when a sixteen-year-old Abigail had been brought unwillingly to the coldness of the Stone Keep in the middle of the summer months to marry Goran Grey after the Great War had been won, a promise made by Kodran Grey, that if Reidar Black were to help the old man defeat Ragnar and his cursed army, then Reidar’s daughter would marry the heir to the throne of bones. Abigail had never truly cared to be the Queen of Askavold – she had only ever wanted a husband who loved her, who didn’t hurt her or lay with other women, and she had been given everything she didn’t want. Andor would have given her what she wanted, and he was determined to make it happen – after his anger with the young woman had subsided, despite the twisted thoughts of his brother residing on Solitude Island that frightened him.
What if he comes back? Andor thought worriedly, sweat beading down his porcelain skin.
Abigail was the first thing that he saw when he awoke from his nightmare, drenched in sweat and his heart racing with ferocity. Abigail stirred – he had woken her. Andor roughly pulled himself up in his bed and wiped the sweat away from his forehead with the back of his rough hand. Despite the sweat, he was cold, like the snow. ‘What were you dreaming of, my love?’ Abigail Black asked tiredly, her wiry arm falling over his flat stomach, her skin icy like the snow that fell lightly over the city in the darkest of nights.
‘I dreamt of black smoke and black ink,’ he muttered, collecting his thoughts, the dream plaguing and haunting his callous mind. ‘I saw the dead...’
‘Is it guilt that you feel, for what we did?’ Abigail asked under her breath, her eyes wide open now, gazing up at him with a stare so dark that they were nearly black. She shifted in the warm furs so close to him that Andor could feel her hot breath on his frozen skin. ‘He had to die, your father.’
‘He was no father of mine.’ The king muttered in the darkness.
‘And Goran...’
‘You were supposed to kill him,’ Andor whispered with daggers in his ocean eyes, sweat still blanketing his icy body, thinking of his brother’s cruel fate, a fate crueller than death. ‘He’s supposed to be dead and fed to the fucking dogs, not trapped on that bloody island with Thorbjorn’s ring still on his finger.’
‘I’m sorry Andor,’ Abigail’s words were sincere, her eyes desperate through the darkness, ‘but I knew if I told you of what I wanted to do, you would have never allowed it.’
‘No, I wouldn’t have.’
‘Death was too kind for him.’ Abigail Black hissed back, stirring further away from the King of Askavold, her warmth leaving his side. ‘He deserved the fate he was gifted.’
Andor’s voice suddenly rose, swift like the wind. ‘He’ll have a good, clean death when he returns to Tronenpoint.’
‘You’re bringing him back?’ Andor’s lover spat, her dark eyes widening in horror, pushing herself upwards so that her lean body sat tall in her bed, feeling the coldness of the empty chambers touching her skin as the cotton and the furs slipped from her torso. Andor twisted his gaze away from his lover, the blueness of his eyes falling upon the frozen, frosty window before his eyes – he dared not look at her when words slipped from his tongue.
‘Thorbjorn will leave Tronenpoint for Solitude, and he will return with Goran...and if he does not, my brother will die on that bloody island when I send my soldiers on a dozen ships to destroy the Afterling scum, something that should have been done a long time ago.’
‘Death is too good for him!’ Abigail seethed again, her eyes flaring with malevolence, speaking as though there was a bitter lemon on her tongue. His eyes returned to hers – he was used to seeing the anger in them, and she held that same anger as she stared at him.
‘Don’t look at me like that,’ Andor grumbled, his voice softening, slipping closer. ‘He would have suffered plenty in his time there.’
‘No amount of suffering can make amends for what he has done, and your wife is suffering even less.’
‘She is married to me – surely that’s enough. She wished to marry Goran, not I.’
‘Margot is a lucky woman that you feel some sort of mercy towards her; if it was up to me, she would be on Solitude Island with him, or better yet, hanging in the courtyard by her neck.’
‘We cannot kill her; if she dies, we go to war with the Frey, and we’re having enough problems as it is.’ Andor was certain, having thought about murdering his wife as much as he had dreamed of killing his father and his brother. ‘Give it time, Abby – the time will come when I make you my wife.’
‘Is that a promise, that you’ll be rid of her?’ Abigail asked, her voice softening as the corners of her lips turned into a subtle smile.
The king said nothing, closing his sapphire eyes, and allowed himself to sink back into the warmth of his lover’s bed. Abigail took his swift silence as a conformation of her desire to see Margot Rose hang from her neck. I do not wish to see her die, Andor admitted to himself as he slipped back into his cruel slumber, thinking of the children, and how they did not deserve to see their mother hang.
The morning came too slowly. His night was riddled with more nightmares he couldn’t shake. He sauntered through the twisting, endless corridors towards his throne room, clad in white fur and followed protectively by tall guards in grey suits. The Sky Knight refused to leave his cousin’s side; Thorbjorn had taken an oath. He was Andor’s sword and his shield, his protector. Thorbjorn swore to die for Andor if he must, and Thorbjorn was always true to his word – despite his betrayal of Kodran. Thorbjorn loved Andor like a brother, more than a blood
. ‘You must leave for Solitude Island before dawn,’ Andor uttered quietly as they made haste to the throne room through the dark, twisting corridors. It was a colder day than most, and through the snowy glass windows, Andor and Thorbjorn could see the fate of many of the southern slave masters in the courtyard, hung from the neck, their bodies swinging in the harsh wind – the King of Askavold had begun his campaign to end all slavery in his kingdom, starting with the south. Those who did not abide by Andor’s new law were swift to be punished. ‘There’s no other man I trust more than I trust you to see the job done on Solitude, Thorbjorn.’
‘What would you have me do, cousin?’ Thorbjorn asked, his brow rising.
‘You must learn the weaknesses of the Afterling before I send my armies – it is your highest priority; a man cannot tell which rumours reign true. Learn the truth of the gold mines, for the moment that the mines run dry is the day that we no longer have use for the savages in this realm. I will be rid of the Afterling regardless – there is no place for slavery left in my realm.’ Andor said, almost as though he spoke to himself, before stopping in his tracks in the dark hall. ‘Secondly, Goran’s ring belongs to you now, cousin; pry it from his hands if you must, but do not kill him. He is mine to kill when we storm Solitude Island and destroy the Afterling. However much I hate my brother, I will not allow another life to continue living in servitude. What Abigail Black does not know cannot hurt her; she lied to me, and I’m going to amend her mistake.’
‘You’re going to kill him? I thought you wanted him to suffer for all he has done,’ Thorbjorn was bewildered. ‘Not that I would have chosen that fate for him.’
‘He’ll suffer, although I’m certain he has already suffered enough,’ Andor was sure, thinking of all the tales he had heard from Solitude Island, yet worried further of Goran returning to Tronenpoint, seeking vengeance. ‘And yet I do not wish for anyone to suffer on that island; if it had been my decision alone, I would have given my brother a clean death in the throne room with father. I would have executed the Afterling slavers like the southern ones. Solitude has been profitable for the realm, with the mining of gold by those my father sent, but rumour has it that soon, the Afterling will be without any gold, and then they will be as useful as a horse without legs, and my brother should not be there. If I had known what Abigail truly wanted, I would have killed him right there and then, with Kodran. They would have died together.’
‘I will learn the truths of Solitude and make certain Goran’s neck is yours to break. Your will shall be done.’
‘Very good, cousin.’ Andor spoke pleasantly as the new king entered the throne room, a vast open space with stained glass windows and grey-black walls. He could see his throne, forged from the bones of the old kings being dismantled under his orders. Each bone was placed by servants in giant golden crates with the rest of their bones, a crate for each great king, each cursed man who had fallen into oblivion. Andor could not bear to sit upon the bones of men he had heard grand fables of, kings he aspired to be, people who had loved, and the new King of Askavold instantly commissioned a new throne, one not forged from the dead. The last skull was removed from the top of the naked throne and placed in a gold crate, the skull that belonged to Ragnar Lienhart, the great Wolf King that Kodran had overthrown, beheading Ragnar himself. The tales of Ragnar Lienhart had been grand, his body cursed, with the inhuman ability to shift his body from man to wolf. He had tamed a dragon and rode the great beast into battle. Andor knew they were true – he had seen them with his own eyes, fascinated, in awe of the man he had spent many months with over his twelve years before Ragnar’s life had been stolen from him. Yet the kingdom felt very differently of Ragnar Lienhart than Andor Grey did, for they did not want a cursed man ruling over them. Rumours and lies of the Lienhart family had spread through the six kingdoms that made Askavold. Kodran rose to power after years of loyalty and standing by the old king’s side, rallying armies from all six kingdoms, and stole the lands for his own, beheading Ragnar Lienhart in front of thousands and wielding his bones into Kodran’s cruel throne.
Andor Grey walked over to the golden crate that held the bones of Ragnar Lienhart before it was sealed. He saw what little was left of the once great king, a man who could twist his body from man to wolf, the bones of a man, having died in his mortal body. Andor was going to have a statue carved for Ragnar, to be placed above his resting place – Andor wanted Ragnar buried on a hill, overlooking his kingdom, perhaps near the Craghollow ruins, where Ragnar’s dragon had come from. Taking a deep, painful breath, Andor’s eyes darted swiftly to one of his guards with a heavy heart. ‘Rob Lienhart, son of the old king, is still alive.’ Andor told the solider, thinking of Ragnar Lienhart’s oldest son, one of eight of his children who had escaped Kodran’s blade. He would have been around twenty-seven-years old now, his hair dark like his father’s and his spirit just as strong. ‘He resides upon the Frozen Isles – I know that for certain. I do not know where, and I do not know what he looks like, but when you find him, give him this.’ The king handed a sealed letter to the guard, his eyes locking with the soldier. ‘With you, I command you take a small army. Hand him this letter, and do whatever you can to aid Rob Lienhart in his current struggles, if Lord Vilkas Whitehall does not do as I have commanded.’
‘What have you asked of Lord Whitehall, Your Grace?’ The soldier asked, his fingers curling around the sealed parchment.
‘He is to seize his war with the cursed,’ the king said, ‘and if he does not obey, war will come to him.’
‘Was that a royal pardon?’ Thorbjorn asked, understanding, although Thorbjorn knew the decision would not be popular throughout the realm once word reached the ears of the lords. The soldier who held the letter did not appear to be pleased, but nodded his helmed head, and turned on his heel, disappearing from the throne room in an instant.
‘The cursed men will make powerful allies.’ Andor said quietly, holding back the words he truly wished to speak. “Royal pardons will come to all the Lienhart’s that show themselves to be alive.”
‘Vilkas Whitehall will not be too pleased, Your Grace.’
‘Vilkas Whitehall is a blight on his lands, and he treats my sister no better than a dog.’ Andor spat, his words bitter, thinking of his brother-by-law who waged war with Rob Lienhart upon the Frozen Isles for no other reason than his hatred of those born with cursed blood in the veins. ‘He can stop fighting Rob Lienhart or I will take a new war to him.’
Thorbjorn Grey was quick to agree. Thorbjorn and Andor had loved the cursed men, before the Great War that separated mankind from the cursed bloods. Andor knew that Jorgen felt the same as he; Jorgen had once loved a cursed girl, he had even married her, not that many knew of his marriage. Jorgen had confided in Andor that the Prince of Balfold had helped his wife and potentially her siblings escape Kodran’s justice. Andor had always kept Jorgen’s secrets, and Jorgen had kept his.
The King of Askavold was thinking of all them when the golden crate was sealed, and two men in steel armour lifted the box and carried it away from sight. One by one the golden crates were sealed and taken out of the throne room, until all the bones of the dead kings and Kodran’s cursed victims were gone from sight, to be buried under the snow. Andor Grey remembered the day that Kodran had torn down Ragnar’s throne and built a new one from the Lienhart’s bones in the crypts. It had disgusted him even then as a child, who barely understood, but now it was over, and the bones were being returned to where they belonged, in peace, in the crypts, or buried upon the hills.
Silence fell over the throne room as Andor’s attentions were drawn to Hakon Grey moving down the long red rug that ran through the vast, cold room. Hakon passed by the men carrying the golden crates filled with the dead. His every footstep in steel boots echoed against the grey-black walls. Hakon was not alone; Abigail Black was on his arm, a smile on her face that Andor had never seen before. Goran’s departure pleased her more than any other. Her dress was a deep red to match her hair and mad
e from the finest of silk with black furs on her shoulders. As Andor looked upon the wife of his brother, he decided to keep his tongue silenced. Let her be joyous, he told himself, she has earned some happiness, after years of marriage to Goran.
Thorbjorn was quick to notice how his father was dressed in a knight’s armour, the Grey House’s sigil of the white fox upon his breastplate. A white cloak was pinned around his neck despite the heavy armour and the collar was lined with grey fur. Hakon’s head was still bald yet he had shaved his face, where a grey beard had been. He looked more skeletal than ever with the loss of his whiskers. The ring that Andor had taken from Kodran’s hand was placed upon Hakon’s finger; his skin around the black band looked as though it was burning, but Thorbjorn thought very little of it. Andor knew more about the rings than his cousin did. Jorgen’s ring had marked his skin. Thorbjorn greeted his father with little more than a smile; he did not like the way his father was looking upon Abigail Black. Andor noticed a strange look in his uncle’s eyes and sweat beading down his forehead, despite the coldness of the Stone Keep.
‘I am glad that damn throne is gone,’ Andor smiled over his shoulder to Hakon, walking over to the king’s uncle with the crown upon his dark head. ‘I always dreamed of destroying it.’
‘They can be laid to rest now.’ Hakon’s voice wasn’t as certain, less fond of the cursed men than his son and his nephew. In truth, he did not care for them at all; the old man had fought against them in the Great War. ‘Let us hope you’re not losing another ally in the hope of gaining a new one.’ He said, speaking of Vilkas.
‘You look as though you’re ready for war,’ Thorbjorn interjected, noticing his father’s weapon holstered on his hip and the armour that clad his thin body. Thorbjorn knew where his father was about to tread, but he also knew that Hakon had nothing to fear when it came to the westerners.
‘Where do you go, my lord?’ Abigail asked, surprise in her eyes.
