by T L Drew
‘To the Arus, my lady.’ A lie slipped from Hakon’s thin lips. ‘They are yet to swear fealty to the new king.’
In truth, Hakon was riding to the west of the world, but not as far as the Arus. Andor had asked for his uncle to undertake a journey to Balfold, to the capital city of Solvstone, where Jorgen Black lived. Abigail Black had grown up in the castle of Crow’s Keep where Hakon was due to tread. The king wanted reassurance of a continued friendship between the two kingdoms, and proof; he wanted his ring back, and only Jorgen could give it to him. They dared not to tell Abigail of their intentions in case problems began to arise. Jorgen would not give up his ring so easily, but Andor hoped with the death of Kodran, he’d be more willing. Jorgen would no longer have any man to take offense at returning it to its rightful owner. Andor knew that Jorgen would be swift to continue a friendship, if the ring wasn’t involved.
Andor knew that questions of what had happened to Kodran and Goran would not be so easily believed. Jorgen would prove challenging, and even though it would be Reidar Black who would ultimately make the decision whether to continue the alliance with the new King of Askavold or go to war, Andor Grey knew well that Jorgen had his father’s ear. Reidar was weak compared to his son. He hoped it would go smoothly. If anything were to happen to Jorgen, he wouldn’t so easily forgive himself.
‘Very good, Lord Hakon.’ Abigail Black smiled, believing Hakon’s words. ‘I hope the journey fares you well.’
‘Thank you, my lady.’ He kissed her on the cheek, although he shook like a wild dog. He was sweating profusely, although there was no fear in his eyes. Hakon Grey was far from himself, Andor could see.
Thorbjorn said his quick goodbyes to his father and his new king. Hakon said his goodbyes to Andor before his swift and sudden departure. Andor found himself alone in the company of his silent protector, Nazir, and Abigail Black.
The day passed Andor by in a blur of faces and promises to the poor. He gave orders to free the remaining slaves in holding throughout his city and set up shelter for those recently freed, with food and water and clean beds to sleep in, sheltered from the harsh coldness of the south. In that moment, even though he tried to help those in need, Andor decided he didn’t like being a king. He’d wanted a better world, and he knew with his father or his brother on the throne, that day would not come so quickly. Andor tried with all his might.
That night, for the first time since he had murdered his own father, Andor Grey decided to face his wife and her children, those she had led him to believe were of his seed for several years.
He had tried many times since that night to speak with her, but when he would reach the door, he would hear only tears through the wood, turn on his heel and walk away. She mourned Goran, he thought, the true father to her children, and it hurt Andor Grey more than anything else – or she was a great actress. He hoped in his heart that she had not loved Goran, that he was merely a person to bed in order to spite Andor, but her tears told another story, if he believed them.
He had loved her once, and that love was not so quick to leave him.
Andor took a deep breath, put his hands upon the doors, and let himself in.
The first thing he saw was Rollo Grey. He was a young boy, sat upon the floor, playing with a wooden sword, his hair black like his mother’s hair. It hurt him to look upon the child, knowing that Rollo was not of his seed and resembled his older brother more than he, but Andor put on a smile, walked over to the child, and embraced him, tousling his hair. Rollo was overcome with joy to see the man he believed to be his father – he hadn’t seen him much since he had taken the throne. He sat with him for a moment, silent, although the child did not understand his father’s quietness. Then Andor turned to the crib, stared down at the baby that lay inside of it, and touched the cheek of the infant, her skin cold and pale. He smiled at the child with love, even if he hadn’t brought her into the world. They were still of his blood, and he loved them like he loved no other, even when it hurt him to look upon their faces.
He turned on his heel and saw his wife. Her face was red and blotchy from crying which had seized to end since she had been given the news of Goran’s disappearance, the true father to her bastard children. She was frightened also, that perhaps Andor had leaned the truth of her children’s origins; unknown to Margot, Andor had always known.
Margot led him into her chamber away from the children’s ears and closed the large oak door. It was a grand room, one they had once shared, but a year had passed them by and Margot was yet to let Andor back into her bed. ‘Where is he?’ Margot asked quietly so that her son could not hear as he played in the neighbouring room with his toy sword. Her eyes were bloodshot and sore from crying, her hair was a dark, tangled mess, and her thin frame was rapidly growing thinner. Her skin was paler than it had ever been, even though she had come from the Frey, close to the northern desert, where their skin was almost golden in colour.
‘Who?’
‘You know who I speak of.’ Margot hissed, her body shaking as though she was cold. ‘Is it true, that your brother is living upon Solitude Island?’
‘I have no brother.’ Andor spat, turning on his heel and pouring himself a glass of fine red wine. He did not want to look her in the eyes; every time he glanced at her, all he ever saw was her betrayal. He had been a good husband. He had cared for her, treated her like a queen before she was one herself, and gave her everything she wanted. He gave into her every whim, every desire. He never lay with her unless she wanted him to. Andor never even told her that he knew of her infidelity.
Andor Grey hated how he had loved Margot. After everything she had done to hurt him, he still cared for her, and nothing could change it. He wished he could hate her, the way he hated his brother. He took a deep sip of wine, then another, until the glass was gone. Andor poured himself another. To face her was harder than the cut across his father’s throat.
‘You cannot avoid my questions forever.’ Margot said angrily, pacing the room in her black dress. She cried no more tears, her face set in stone. ‘I deserve to know the truth.’
‘And I did not?’ Andor drank the courage to ask, his eyes avoiding his wife. He removed the furs from his body and stood in his dark tunic, drinking more and more wine. ‘Did I not deserve to know of your infidelity? Did I not deserve to know that my children were not of my own seed?’
Margot uttered no words for a brief moment. Silence echoed through room. ‘I... they are your children.’
‘And my brother of all people you could have lay with.’ Andor spat, staring at the walls with a lump in his throat and his heart pounding inside of his chest. ‘And I was the fool who let it continue for so many years.’
Sad sounds left her lips. Andor could hear her, but he dared not to look.
‘I can see through your tears,’ He spat, taking another sip of wine. ‘They don’t fool me anymore – you don’t care for me, or for my brother. You care for no one but yourself.’
The sounds of her crying came to a sudden halt. Her voice grew angry once more. ‘I hate you,’ Margot hissed, kicking his good leg. He felt the slight pain reverberate through him. ‘I have always hated you. I never wanted to be your wife. One day, my children will know who their true father is, and they will hate you just as much as everyone else does. You’re disgusting. You make my skin crawl.’ She motioned to his leg, her face twisted in fury. ‘I am glad he did that to you. I wish he had have done the same to the other one. I wish you had died when your leg was taken from you.’
Margot’s words hurt him like nothing else ever had, and like Andor had done his entire life, he took a breath, swallowed his words, and suppressed everything he felt. The king took another sip of bitter wine until the bottle was empty.
‘Hakon told me that Goran was sent to Solitude,’ Margot said surely when Andor did not respond. ‘You would not kill your own brother.’
‘Would I not?’ He said, thinking about when he cut his father’s throat. ‘That shows how little you kn
ow me. I killed Kodran, with my own hands.’
‘And I could tell the world the truth.’ Margot threatened.
‘The world already knows, and the world does not care – do you truly think they believe the story I told?’ Andor glanced into her eyes. They were bloodshot and tired and angry, but she knew his words were true. ‘Where are the armies? Where is the rebellion against my rule? No one cared for my father. No one cared for my brother. The world is glad they are gone.’
‘Goran’s alive, I know it to be true.’
‘Whatever helps you sleep at night.’ He spat, hurt. He turned away from her once more.
‘And wherever he is, Solitude or not, he’s going to come back for me and the children, and then he’s going to kill you.’
All her words were puncturing his heart. Every word she spoke angered him further, like she knew exactly how to push his buttons. He took a deep breath and reached for another bottle of wine, and finally, with her words continuing to spill angrily into his ear like venom, he couldn’t bite his tongue any longer.
‘I could have you killed for your infidelity,’ Andor almost shouted, spinning on his heel to face his wife. ‘In the north they would stone you for such a thing. In Albon, they would do worse. And worse so, you are the wife of the king. They would cut you up while you were still breathing. Flay you alive, perhaps. I could have the same thing done to you. Your title may be ‘queen’, but you are not the queen. This is my kingdom, and if I truly wanted you dead, then you would be, but that is not what I want – not yet. You hate me so much? Then so be it; you’ll live in my castle until the day you die of an old age. You’ll spend every waking moment with me if that will bring you the deepest of sorrow.’
‘I would rather die now than spend another decade with you.’
‘Then jump, no one is stopping you.’ Andor motioned to the balcony, throwing his glass. It shattered into thousands of tiny fragments as it hit the stone. He spun on his heel, twisting his body towards the door, grasped his white furs and sped towards the door as fast as he could on his metal leg. He slammed the doors behind him and Andor did not look back.
HAKON
The old man had been here before, on this dark, haunting road.
It was dim and cold like the crypts of Tronenpoint, the way he liked it, the dead whispering over the splintering winds as Hakon Grey rode gruellingly through the bleak burial site of those who had been mercilessly slain during the Great War, in one of many battles that had been fought, an icy field where the cursed men had taken a victory. They had been at their greatest strengths when the battle had been won. Hakon Grey had been there that day. He had barely made it from the battlefield alive, three bloody stab wounds in his concave stomach and a deep, agonising gash across his chest. He still wore the scars. Hakon had barely been able to hold a blade, yet still he was alive, and ready to shed more blood over the western lands – the man’s mind was turning into one that was not quite his own.
The pain all came back to him as the old man and his men rode silently through the snowy field. Memories of that day flooded back like a callous nightmare he could never quite shake. I thought that day would be my last, he thought as he rode onwards, snow falling lightly from the grey clouds and melting upon the baldness of his head as it touched his skin. He had lost many friends and allies that day, as Ragnar Lienhart had flown from the bleak skies and burnt Hakon’s men alive on the field. The dragon fire had turned the skies red and melted all the snow that blanketed the field as it burned everything in the creature’s sights. Those who remained were left for the picking of his cursed foot soldiers, giant wolves bounding over the field and leaping through the wild flames on hind legs, taller than any man Hakon Grey had ever seen. Hakon had been lucky to not feel the dragon’s flames dancing over his icy skin, like many of his men. ‘We must ride harder, my lord.’ Lord Hakon heard the voice of a young sell sword. Henry, Hakon thought his name was. ‘This place is as cursed as those who died here.’
Hakon Grey scoffed. ‘There is no use in fearing dead men, boy.’ The old man could feel their presence. The ring was burning wildly on his finger, and he was quick to disbelieve his own words, but the commander wouldn’t dare let his men know that Hakon secretly believed the tales, especially after all he had seen in his many years upon Askavold soil.
‘I’ve heard stories, terrible ones, my lord.’ Henry – or was it Harry? – spoke with a frightful tongue, riding behind his commander with little distance between them.
‘Stories told to scare women and children, nothing more.’ Mercer-One-Eye was certain, riding his warhorse closer to his skeletal commander. ‘The dead are dead. Do not fear what cannot breathe, fear the living. The living are far more dangerous.’
Hakon slowed his black mount as the wind whistled menacingly, hitting the baldness of his head and his face without his whiskers. The trees were skeletal, haunting and still scorched by Ragnar’s dragon fire. He could still smell the resonance of death in his nostrils, despite a decade passing them by. The silence was deafening, and those who had pledged loyalty to the king’s uncle and those who had been paid heavily to follow his every order were silently frightened of the cursed lands. Hakon could see the fear in their eyes as he glanced over his shoulder as they came to a stop behind their lord, listening to the silence, smelling the death and decay that clung to the lands like a parasite. ‘My lord, I plead that we take another path; I heard stories that Caeda Lienhart has returned home, and that she can raise the dead.’ The young sell sword Henry – or Harry – was quick to stammer.
‘Shut your whining mouth boy, before I shut it for you.’ Hakon spat, listening to the changing winds. ‘I’ll hear none of the Lienhart bitch, none of the dead, nothing of curses.’
‘But, my lord–’
Hakon thrust his fist through the bitter air without summon. His gloved hand smacked into the younger man’s thin mouth. The old fox could feel teeth breaking in the boy’s mouth at the crash of the ringed finger colliding with the young man’s broken lips. ‘I said, shut your mouth.’ Hakon Grey barked as the young man let his grasp on the reigns of his horse drop, bringing his cold hands to his bloody mouth, letting a groan of pain slip from his split lips. The young man was quick to obey and rode onwards behind his commander with newly silent fear, clutching his broken mouth in a blooded hand.
‘That was cruel, even by your standards, old man.’ Mercer’s lips twisted into a rotten smile. He patted the hunched back of the young man as he rode past Henry, moving closer to the old fox on the black of a black horse. ‘You would have thought after all this time you would learn a lord’s courtesy.’
‘And I would have thought you would have learned after all these years at my side to keep your tongue still. I don’t pay you for your words, old friend.’
‘No, you pay me for my sword, but that doesn’t mean I can’t try and make an old cunt like yourself lighten up a little, no offense meant of course, my lord.’ Mercer grinned to the man who was barely older than he was. Hakon couldn’t help but give his companion the smallest of smiles – they had known each other for over three decades, and fought side by side in more than one war.
Although Mercer was nearly as old as Hakon was, his strength beginning to decline and his movements quick to slow, Hakon had a sense of loyalty to the old mercenary, as the old mercenary had for his lord. Despite his weakening frame in his older age, Mercer-One-Eye was still stronger than many young knights in Askavold, and one with almost forty years of experience as a mercenary behind him, which Hakon needed more than his strength. He would not have left Tronenpoint so hastily without Mercer’s hardy protection.
The long, bleak road through the snow and the burnt, dead trees led Hakon and the men deeper into the field where the battle had waged a decade prior. The smell of the smoke was still clinging to the soil like a plague. Hakon’s grey eyes found the sharp mountains of the west through the dark clouds, and urged his mount forward, faster, his ring burning on his finger underneath his black leath
er gloves. They were collecting sweat as he rode. There were skeletons of the dead protruding from the sand and soil; Mercer’s single eye was glued to the dead as they rode onwards. His words once more came without summon.
‘Were you here, when the dragon came?’ Mercer-One-Eye, Hakon’s most loyal protector and a man barely younger than his lord, spoke to his commander through a black-bearded mouth as he urged his horse to ride beside Hakon Grey. Mercer’s remaining eye glossed over the scorched plains and black, ashy trees. He saw the dead men that had died as beasts. Hakon’s head nodded slowly as he saw what Mercer saw. He remembered that night clearly like a summer sea, despite the loss of blood that leaked from his plentiful wounds and the blows he had struck to the rear of his head. The battle had barely lasted hours. The dragon burnt everything in Ragnar’s path. The cursed men bound into the field on horseback and hind legs, baring iron blades and sharp tooth and fang to kill any man who survived the dragon fire. Hakon had hidden far from the dragon when the sandy coloured beast had flown through the dark, foggy night and into the plains as the soldiers treaded north, to take the fight to the cursed men. Hakon had heard the beast coming before he saw the flames burning his men. He remembered the agony that coursed through his body when the cursed men on horseback stabbed him, again and again, leaving him for dead, the smell of burning bodies surrounding him and the sounds of screaming echoing through his ears. Some of the wild flames had caught his sword hand as he hid among the dead. He had hidden for hours, bleeding into the snow and soil until the cursed men had left, journeying further south. Hakon watched the dragon take flight before he left the battlefield and made haste to the nearest settlement for his wounds to be treated. They said he was lucky. He was nearly a dead man when the healers began to tend to his wounds. Hakon proudly wore the scars, having taken the lives of many cursed men that day before he was left with no choice but to hide, his wounds spilling with blood.
