by T L Drew
‘I am yet to see this king,’ Nora said as faint as a whisper, leaning her arms over the stony wall as she watched the soldiers approaching the castle gates. ‘I hear he’s incredibly charming.’
‘He can be,’ Jorgen insisted, thinking back to many occasions over the years where Andor’s charms had wriggled him out of trouble. ‘There is good in him, I’ll admit, but I can’t see him, not yet, not after what he’s done – how can I trust him, when he broke his word? I’d rather leap from this balcony.’
‘And yet you know that Reidar will insist on your presence when the royals speak with him, so if you’re going to jump, you may as well get it over with.’ Nora grinned up at her taller love, her red hair blowing gently in the bitter Balfold air. She nudged him with her elbow as the sounds of Verath – the crow upon Jorgen’s shoulder – squawked at her, protective of his master and his black feathers shining almost blue in the low sunlight over the city.
‘Easy,’ Jorgen ran his fingers over the bird as his black eyes returned to Nora Ostergaard. He took a sip from the bitter red wine in his rough hand. ‘And what would you do without me? You would be far too sober, entirely alone in this world and married to a man you despise before my father would even have a chance to arrange my funeral.’ Jorgen smiled as he stared down at the carriage that came to a sudden stop in front of the castle gates. Verath’s squawking grew louder, angrier. A man dismounted a warhorse, skeletal and old. Andor Grey did not come to Solvstone with the old man, but Verath’s eyes would not leave the skinny man, angry. Jorgen’s face fell. ‘Yet today is not the day I jump, and you shall remain drunk and unwed; the so-called king does not travel to Solvstone with the old man – although Andor is preferable to him.’
‘Who is he?’ Nora asked, seeing the skeletal, balding man as he moved himself towards the castle, guarded by the men in steel. There was a black-haired mercenary behind the bald man, tainted with grey, an eye missing from his face. Jorgen had seen him many times, in the south, Hakon’s pet, Mercer-One-Eye.
‘He is Hakon Grey, the worst of the lot.’ Jorgen sipped his wine with bitterness, running his fingers over the soft feathers of his companion. ‘He is the uncle of the king and killer of his own blood. He let his men rip babies from their mother’s breasts and butcher them like cattle during the Great War. He tortured and raped countless women and children, with that man at his side.’ Jorgen motioned to Mercer.
‘Hakon is the father of Thorbjorn Grey?’ Nora asked curiously. One face she remembered well was Thorbjorn’s, the way he had smiled at her on the one occasion he had come to Balfold some years past, kind but strong. He looked nothing like his skeletal father, broad and tall, bearded and his eyes warm despite the cold colour of them. She stared down at Hakon Grey, his eyes icy and haunting, his body short and thin.
Jorgen nodded. ‘Thorbjorn is a good man, not like his father.’
‘I remember the stories you told me of Hakon Grey,’ Nora said, staring down at Hakon, his skin so pale she could almost see through it. Her stomach twisted at the remembrance of the stories, tales of war, rape and torture he had inflicted upon men and women throughout his life, and now the bony man was entering the city she called home. Hakon Grey’s face was as haunting as the stories she had heard of him. He had raped and butchered his way through the Great War and showed no mercy. Many a Lienhart had been slaughtered at the end of his blade. He had never denied the torture of those taken captive by his own hand. ‘What do you think he wants?’
Jorgen began to worry as he watched the Grey army and their leader tread closer to the Crow’s Keep. ‘I don’t know what he wants, but it is not going to be good; Kodran is dead, Goran is gone and Andor Grey sits upon the throne of bones; if the world wasn’t already in a dire state then it is about to get a lot worse for us, if my father doesn’t agree to continue the alliance with Askavold.’
‘You worry too much when you’re sober,’ Nora said, filling his cup although her hands shook. ‘No one likes you when you’re sober.’
Jorgen ignored her words, his mind fixated with concern as Hakon Grey disappeared behind the castle gates, the enemy inside of his walls. ‘I can assume Hakon is here to bargain with father; he has Abigail at the castle and without Goran to protect them, Hakon can use them as leverage to get whatever he wants.’
‘Andor will protect her.’
‘I hope so.’ Jorgen said, thinking of his older sister. ‘Yet it was Kodran who kept Hakon in line over the past decade.’
‘Do not worry yourself about your sister; Hakon won’t hurt her and she can look after herself. Besides, you have nothing worthwhile to the Grey family. Your father was Kodran’s friend.’
‘That’s where you’re wrong.’ Jorgen mumbled, twisting the ring that dangled from the chain around his neck. He grew concerned and his bird squawked louder as he sensed his master’s discomfort. ‘Our family has ruled this kingdom since man first set foot upon these lands, the largest kingdom bordering Askavold, rich with fertile soil and bursting with trade, when all the Grey family has is snow, snow and more fucking snow. If Hakon wants these lands he’ll try and trade Abigail for them and father will refuse. Abigail will die.’
‘You’re being melodramatic,’ Nora rolled her eyes. ‘They do not want your land.’
‘Then why does he come?’ Jorgen asked, his voice rising. In truth, he was more worried about his ring, whether Hakon Grey had come to Solvstone to take the ring on Andor’s behalf. ‘I wrote to Nazir when news came to me of King Kodran’s demise and Goran’s disappearance, but he is yet to return a letter, something Nazir has never failed to do and now I am left worrying.’
‘It’s simpler than you think, my love.’ Nora quickly broke his ramblings. ‘Your father and Lord Krea are yet to agree to the alliance – you know it to be true. It’s nothing more than that. You have become paranoid, Jorgen.’
He knew that her words were true. Jorgen was truly paranoid. The ring had an unexplainable hold on him, and he was at a loss, knowing that Andor would wish to see it returned to him.
Cold rain burst swiftly from grey clouds, showering their bodies as they stood upon the balcony. ‘Come,’ Jorgen urged as rain began to shower the gloomy city. The morning was a dark one. He took her by the arm and sheltered underneath the stone ceiling carved into the rough mountainside. His chambers were as dark as his room in the Stone Keep, but this was home. He removed himself from his chambers and into the dark hallways, shutting the doors behind Nora as she slid beside him.
Footsteps clattered over the stone floor of the Crow’s Keep as Jorgen and Nora silently strode arm in arm through the mountainside castle. They turned the corner and saw the skeletal man in a full shining suit of gleaming armour and fur around his shoulders. His white cloak touched the stone, trailing behind him. Hakon Grey moved himself with a small group of soldiers, including Mercer, to Reidar Black’s study, and stopped in his loud steps as he saw Jorgen Black before him. Jorgen drew his body to a halt, stopping Nora with him.
Jorgen involuntarily found himself silently admiring the silver glare of Hakon Grey’s polished armour. He appeared dressed for war.
Hakon Grey silently drew his dulling eyes from Jorgen to Nora, calculated and calm, thin and old. He saw her hair as fiery as the dragon flames that had burned wildly during the Great War, and eyes the colour of bright copper. He raked her body, his eyes moving up and down her slender frame, a small, spine-chilling smile appearing on his gaunt face as he gazed upon her beauty, and Jorgen moved closer to Nora protectively, a worry growing deeper inside of him. He hated the way Hakon was looking upon her, and Nora could feel it too. A discomfort grew inside them both at Hakon’s cold, haunting gaze. Jorgen pushed Nora protectively behind him. Hakon’s thin lips curved into a twisted, cracked smile. ‘Nora Ostergaard, I can safely assume. Jorgen speaks well of you in the south. A pleasure it is, my lady. You look just as your mother once looked.’ Hakon approached carefully, grasping her hand and kissed it with his thin, dry lips, making her skin crawl. Jorg
en drew closer defensively. He knew what Hakon Grey was, and he knew what the man was capable of. ‘It is a shame that only now do I have the honour of meeting a beauty such as yourself since you have become a woman, even though I have had the pleasure of your betrothed’s company all these years.’
‘And what a pleasure it was.’ Jorgen uttered sarcastically through a fake smile.
‘I’ll be seeing you very soon, both of you.’ Hakon grinned unpleasantly at Jorgen Black before he trudged onwards, his men following past Jorgen and Nora. Hakon Grey grinned back at the red-headed girl over his armoured shoulder before the old man disappeared from fretted sight.
Several long, worried hours passed by before Jorgen was called to his father’s tower instead of Reidar’s throne room. He had escorted Nora to the safety of her chambers and cautioned her to lock herself inside – he ordered many guards to station themselves outside of her locked doors. His father’s tower room was far from a tower; the room was the highest floor of the Crow’s Keep, yet was built deeper into the face of the mountain. It was always dark in there, only one small window to shed light from the low sun. The warmth of the roaring fireplace greeted Jorgen as he entered the tower in the low evening, yet the atmosphere was far from warm. The skeletal man stood in front of the flames, a cup of fine wine in his bony hand and guards on either side of his thin body, clad in steel armour and white furs.
‘Come, my son.’ Reidar uttered as he saw Jorgen begrudgingly entering the tower, a vast room surrounded with shelves of books and parchments, quills and ink, tattered chairs and dimly lit lanterns, a room that had once been Jorgen’s sanctuary from the world outside of the castle walls when he was but a boy. Now the room had become tainted by the presence of Hakon Grey, a murderer and a renowned rapist. Jorgen’s eyes fell upon Amund Krea. He stood half hidden behind Jorgen’s father.
Jorgen moved deeper into the room, summoned by his aging father, and a servant handed him wine. He felt Hakon Grey’s cold gaze upon him, a gaze Jorgen knew better than most, a gaze that had filled him with dread on his every trip to the capital of Askavold. Jorgen was quick to notice a burning ring upon Hakon’s finger. It had once been Kodran’s ring, and it filled Jorgen with dread. He quickly wondered if Hakon felt any effects of the ebony band like he did, spying the burning skin around the old man’s skeletal finger.
‘Of course, you know my son, Jorgen, Lord Hakon.’ Reidar Black motioned to his son, his dark hair a tangle and his tunic as dark as the winter nights.
‘We ran into each other earlier this day,’ Hakon took a sip from his goblet. ‘And I had the pleasure of meeting his red-headed betrothed.’
‘Nora Ostergaard?’ Reidar asked unpleasantly. Hakon’s head nodded lightly. ‘I would not say it would be much of a pleasure.’
‘Your son is a lucky man.’ Hakon disagreed, his head twisting around the tower room, taking in all he could see. ‘I have not entered this castle since before the Great War for the six kingdoms of Askavold, yet not much has changed. It has been ten years. I wonder, do you still have–’
‘–Why do you come? You don’t travel all this way for nostalgia.’ Jorgen asked abruptly, taking a sip from his cup of red wine. Anger had consumed him at the sight of Hakon Grey and the way he stared Nora with lust had enraged him. Jorgen could feel the ring burning him against his skin, hotter in his rage. ‘Have you come to discuss the whereabouts of Goran Grey? Have you come to murder my father, like how you slaughtered your own king and brother? Or do you come to return my sister to where she belongs now that you have disposed of her husband?’
Reidar stepped forward. ‘Jorgen, that’s enough–’
Hakon Grey laughed quietly, shaking his head with annoyance. He took a step closer to Jorgen, lowering his voice and staring into his eyes with a cold greyness. He was so close that Jorgen could smell him, musty like an ancient ruin and damp like the walls of Solvstone’s crypts, and his breath held the foul stench of mutton. ‘Whispers in the south echo through the streets of you, Jorgen Black, some call you a prince, others call you the bastard of Balfold and nothing more, fables of a bastard boy born from a tavern whore and ripped from her breast, raised into royalty as the heir to Balfold...so which is it, boy? Prince, or bastard?’
‘Watch your tongue, old man, before I cut it out.’ Jorgen threatened, staring down at the old man with venom on his tongue. It was more than a threat, but a promise. Jorgen risked a look upon his father; Reidar was furious at Hakon’s insults to his family in his own home, but mad at Jorgen for his threat to a guest in their hold, but Jorgen believed it was deeper than that; the rumours angered Reidar, the rumours of his son being fathered by another man, or the rumours that Jorgen was his bastard. Jorgen had heard the rumours, but he did not believe they reigned true. Reidar’s face gave little away.
Hakon merely smiled at Jorgen’s threat, unaware how serious his words had been. ‘I am no bastard; I am the rightful heir to the throne of Balfold, and one day you’ll pay for your words.’ Jorgen said with certainty as Hakon’s tongue remained still.
‘That’s enough!’ Reidar commanded his son before returning his gaze to the skeletal man. ‘Jorgen may not be hospitable and polite to a guest in our home, but the boy is correct. Your arrival in Solvstone is a great concern to us, especially in recent times with the death of the Askavold king under suspicious circumstances, so please, tell us, why do you come to our home?’
Hakon was quiet for a second, calculating, deliberating his gruff words. When Hakon spoke, his words slow and careful, his eyes returning to Reidar Black. ‘My king, Andor Grey, wants to secure the friendship between our two kingdoms, despite of what news I am sure you have heard. You have yet to align with the new king and that brings him great concern. The lords of the south, the Frey, the north, Albon and the Frozen Isles have all sent word to the king or visited him in the south to declare their loyalty to Andor Grey, although the Arus appears to have forgotten. The rest have all bent the knee, but we have heard nothing of the loyalty of our western neighbours.’
‘Why should we?’ Amund Krea was quick to interject. ‘The boy murders his own father and blames it upon the heir, and yet he expects a friendship between our two kingdoms? Why should we align ourselves with a treasonous bastard?’
‘Be careful with your words,’ Hakon warned, raising a thin finger. ‘Askavold – except the Arus, so it seems – don’t appear to agree with you, Lord Krea.’
‘And what should happen, should we refuse a continued alliance?’ Reidar asked, uncertain if he wished to hear the answer.
‘Then we shall meet you on the battlefield, if we must.’
‘I’ll take my chances.’ Amund spat. Hakon barely seemed irritated; he knew that if Reidar were to swear loyalty to the new king, then Amund would quickly follow. Jorgen also knew it to be so.
‘That is not my wish,’ Reidar Black was quick to speak over his ally. ‘Enough blood was shed when Kodran took the throne; I do not wish for more death to come to these lands.’
Jorgen knew that his father’s words were not selfless with the desire to see innocent lives spared; Reidar Black was frightened at the thought of war between the Black family and the Grey family. The westerners would be outnumbered if they went to war with Askavold. Reidar was not a man to take risks, even though the westerner’s numbers were great – during the Great War, it was favourable to side with mankind, and it was what Reidar had done to save his own skin. ‘What should happen, if we agree to an alliance?’ Reidar asked carefully, staring into the greyness of Hakon’s haunting gaze.
‘The west will no longer be an independent kingdom – Balfold and the Emerald Isles will become part of Askavold, with one king – my nephew, Andor Grey. You will follow the laws of the south, and come to the king’s aid when called. Our laws and ways will be yours.’
‘Andor would not ask this of us,’ Jorgen interjected, finding his father’s eyes. ‘I know him well – he’s my friend.’
‘Quiet, Jorgen.’ Reidar urged, his eyes warning h
is son. ‘I do not want a war.’
‘Father, listen to me–’
‘–We will accept your king’s wishes.’ Reidar agreed, his eyes finding Hakon, ignoring his son. Jorgen knew that agreeing to Hakon’s terms meant that Reidar would sacrifice the westerner’s own way of life, and it would not be popular with the lords of the west, although Jorgen kept his mouth closed, bewildered.
‘Is that a promise of loyalty?’ Hakon Grey asked carefully.
‘Yes.’
‘My king’s ring, if you please,’ Hakon said in a sure response, extending his palm to Jorgen. ‘Our king requires token of your fealty.’
Jorgen did not move. His heart pounded in his chest and the ring against his chest burned deeper. Fear consumed him at the thought of being separated from it; Jorgen could not explain the attachment he had to the small black band, crafted from ebony ore found in the depths of the sandy north, but he could barely tear himself away since Kodran Grey had first placed it in his hands. He felt as though there was a great power in the ring that scared and thrilled Jorgen at the same time. Whether it was cursed or blessed, there was magic in the ring, and magic that had Jorgen’s mind consumed and obsessed with it. Even as Jorgen refused to wear it upon his finger – where he might be able to use its hidden power that he had yet to explore – he could still feel the magic coursing through him and the burn upon his skin made sure that Jorgen didn’t forget it was there.
Hakon took another step closer to Jorgen. All eyes were on the young prince. Jorgen was as still as an ebony statue, the colour gone from his face, and realised his hand was involuntarily clutched around the ring over his dark tunic. It burnt his palm, but it warmed him when he felt so cold at the thoughts of being parted with it. ‘I understand your attachment to it,’ Hakon said quietly as Jorgen refused to put the ring in his open palm. ‘I have grown rather attached to mine in the short time it has been with me. There’s power in it. Ragnar Lienhart died wearing one – your ring, I believe – and he had a special kind of blood. The ring in my hand was to be Jofthor Lienhart’s when he and his mother returned from their visit to her family upon the Frozen Isles, but they never came home. Rob Lienhart was supposed to be given Goran’s ring – these rings were not meant to be worn by mortal men. Perhaps you should spare yourself the burden of carrying it.’
