by T L Drew
‘And yet you wear yours proudly.’ Jorgen said, his face still pale and his voice little more than a whisper. The mention of the Lienhart family always brought his thoughts back to Caeda – thoughts that haunted him more than being parted with his ring.
‘It’s just a ring, brother.’ Erik said in his wheeled chair, shrugging his shoulders, speaking for the first time since Jorgen had entered their father’s tower. ‘You may as well hand it over.’
‘You don’t understand, Erik.’ Jorgen said quietly, avoiding his brother’s gaze.
Hakon only gave Jorgen a smile before turning his eyes back to Reidar Black. ‘There is another thing that is required to prove your loyalty, a great honour for both of our families. A wedding.’
‘And who is to marry?’
‘I am,’ Hakon said with a smile, his eyes moving to Jorgen. ‘I will wed Nora Ostergaard, for the alliance with the Arus – I know her mother well, the woman who rules the Arus, and I’m sure she’ll approve and continue her alliance with the rest of Askavold if there’s a marriage proposal to a royal involved.’
‘No,’ Jorgen snapped quickly as thoughts of Nora clouded him. ‘No, there’s been a mistake, she can’t marry you.’
‘She is to marry my son.’ Reidar Black interjected.
Hakon’s lips twisted into a cruel smile. ‘Not anymore. Her marriage to a Grey has been blessed by the king.’
It was an insult to the King of Balfold, despite Reidar’s dislike for Nora Ostergaard. ‘Why her?’ Jorgen snapped quickly. ‘She is to be my wife.’
‘I want her – for the alliance – and that is all that matters.’ Hakon said, enjoying the pained look upon Jorgen’s face. His mouth twisted into a crooked smile.
‘Why do you care so much, boy?’ Amund asked Jorgen through his grey whiskers, taking a step forward over the stone. Jorgen pressed his lips together as his heart skipped a beat. ‘It was an arranged marriage, between you and that girl.’
‘It’s more than that,’ Jorgen snapped, his eyes narrowing, his heart heavy. ‘I fell in love with her the moment I laid eyes upon her. You can’t do this.’
‘I can do what I please, from the moment your father agreed to surrender his kingdom to Askavold.’ Hakon’s eyes moved to Reidar Black. ‘Do you consent to this marriage?’
‘I consent.’ Reidar said without a second thought.
Jorgen snapped, his eyes were desperate. Hakon was smiling cruelly. ‘She can’t go south father, she can’t. Not him. She can’t marry him. Please, I’m your son, I will do what I must, whatever you would have me do, so long as she stays here. As long as she remains betrothed to me.’
Reidar was quiet, thinking. His bit his lip between his teeth, seeing his son’s unhappiness. ‘Is there nothing else we can give the king instead? She is just one girl – I am certain there are other daughters of Mary Ostergaard in the Arus you can wed.’
‘No. She is the one I want, and she is what I’ll have if you do not want to bring war to your lands. We appear to be at an impasse.’ Hakon was smirking as silence filled the room. ‘I shall take my leave for tonight, fill my stomach, drink your mead and rest my weary head, but I expect an answer by morning; a ring in my hand, and Nora’s hand in the other. Either each my hands are to be filled, or war will come to your lands, I promise you that.’
‘Very well; you will have your answer by morning.’ Reidar agreed quietly, his voice barely audible as his eyes fell upon his eldest son. Jorgen tried not to shout in rage as the uncle of the Askavold king and his guards disappeared from their gaze down twisting staircases and into the heart of Crow’s Keep. When Hakon was gone from sight, the sounds of their steel boots moving down the stone steps, Jorgen, Jakub, Amund and Reidar were left alone with their guards and their servants. Reidar’s gaze was quick to shoot to his eldest son.
‘You have to give him the ring Jorgen,’ Reidar said surely, taking a step closer to his son, placing a cold hand upon Jorgen’s broad, fur-coated shoulder. ‘He won’t accept fealty without it.’
‘I won’t.’ Jorgen said surely, clutching the ring in his palm tighter than ever before. He couldn’t rid himself of it, like it had become a piece of him.
‘You must give it to him, son.’
‘No, I won’t. I can’t.’
‘Please, Jorgen. It’s just a ring.’ Erik interjected from their father’s side.
‘You’ll do as your king pleases, for the good of the realm.’ Reidar added sternly.
‘No, it’s mine, it was a gift from the Askavold king, and he gave it to me. I need it, and it needs me.’ Jorgen’s voice was barely a whisper. Jorgen was suddenly desperate. His body had begun to tremble. He knew he sounded mad, but he had never felt an attachment to anything as much as he loved that ring, and he could not explain why.
‘Enough!’ Reidar shouted, his voice powerful like a raging storm. ‘It’s just a damn ring, boy, just a damn ring! Give it to me, now.’
‘No, there are dangers coming, and I need it–’
‘–You’re worrying me, brother.’ Erik said with fret in his dark eyes.
‘I have heard many ramblings of mad men in my years,’ Reidar snapped. ‘And son, you are sounding no better.’
‘It’s hard to explain father, but please, don’t make me give it up.’
Reidar’s voice grew quieter, dropping his hand from his son’s broad shoulder, falling to his side and let a deep, haunted sigh slip from his full lips between his dark whiskers. ‘My mind has been made; you’ll give Hakon Grey the ring in the morning, and he’ll have Nora’s hand if it pleases him. You’ll say no more words.’
‘Not her, not her too.’ Jorgen was practically begging now. His eyes were watering. ‘I’ll give the ring if I must, so long as she can stay. Those are my terms.’
‘That is out of my control. You know it to be true.’
‘I know Andor Grey better than most men. I know he killed his father. I know he did something worse to Goran. I know he would want to continue the alliance and for his ring returned, but he would not take Nora – he knows I love her. He is my friend, one of my dearest friends in this world. He wouldn’t do that to me, or take away our kingdom and make it a part of his. Andor is not greedy or selfish. He wants to make the world a better place. This is the old man’s wishes and nothing more, a ploy to anger me, to ruin my life. Hakon has always despised me. I’ll give him the ring, I will,’ it pained him to think about, but he loved Nora, and the thought of her marrying any other man than himself sickened him. ‘But I can’t see her go too. I love her.’
Reidar was too quiet. It was not the first time Jorgen had been disappointed in father, and he was quick to realise in that moment that his father was little more than a coward. Jorgen had only been a fourteen-year-old boy when Reidar Black had betrayed the old Askavold king, King Ragnar Lienhart of the cursed men during the Great War in the northern sands, for the usurper, Kodran Grey and his detest for those with cursed blood. Reidar Black had been more than a coward that day, a man without honour, like the rest of the world; he had betrayed the king he had aligned himself with. When Kodran had come with his vast army and gold to take the Askavold throne, he came calling for the aid of the Black family, calling for their loyalty and aid with promises of greater wealth, titles and marriage proposals. Fear and greed had taken Reidar. He betrayed the friendship of the Askavold king, and once Ragnar fell and his head was struck from his shoulders, the King of Balfold had formed a new friendship with the new King of Askavold. Without the support of the west, Kodran’s army would have fallen to the claw and fang of the cursed army, and that knowledge had been Jorgen’s greatest disappointed in his father, before now. Jorgen secretly held some of the blame for his missing wife on his own father; if Reidar had never aided Kodran in his war, Jorgen may still have his cursed bride at his side.
Reidar Black claimed to be a good man, but his actions spoke otherwise. He was selfish and frightful. Jorgen had been in the hot sands of the desert north, at the old king’s palace of Nor
th Rock when Kodran Grey had turned against his king. Before Kodran had become the King of the Askavold, Jorgen had spent his every summer in the north, not the south. He spent it with Caeda Lienhart, a girl he had loved, the girl he had given himself to, the girl who had given herself to him, despite the different worlds they came from, the different blood. He had helped her and her siblings escape that night, promising Caeda he would find her, a promise he had never fulfilled. He felt regret every time he thought about her, or heard her name, or heard men speak of the cursed men. He missed her. He had looked for her, for years, and he had never found her. He had broken a promise, and let the girl he loved slip through his fingers. Jorgen promised himself he would never let another person he loved be taken from him. He loved Nora now, and he wouldn’t let Hakon Grey steal her away, like the Grey’s had stolen his first love from him.
Although Jorgen was desperate to keep the ring at his side, he would sacrifice it, for her. He would give anything to keep Nora at his side.
‘Nora will go to the south, and she’ll wed whoever the king pleases.’ Reidar was stern after a long, cruel silence.
Jorgen’s mind was clear, and he was furious. ‘You’re a fool to believe Hakon’s words.’ Jorgen exclaimed, his voice rising devastatingly. ‘He aided the murder of his own brother! He raped and tortured his way through the Great War! Kodran was not the first king the old cunt has betrayed; he’ll betray you the moment you become more of a hindrance than a help. He’ll take your head from your shoulders and burn your city to the ground!’
‘Quiet!’ Reidar shouted heatedly, his face twisted as though he had tasted sour milk on his rough tongue. ‘You would have us go to war? Think of the hundreds of thousands of men who will die if we do not bend the knee and surrender our kingdom to Askavold?’
‘Then speak with Andor Grey, not his damn uncle! The king does not want what Hakon Grey claims he desires. The old man is a liar and he cannot be trusted. The king does not care whether Nora marries his uncle. Hakon’s words are like venom and I trust nothing that comes from his poisonous mouth. We should speak with the Askavold King, ask the king what he wants, and bend the knee if you see fit to, but you cannot surrender the west to the uncle of the king, without hearing the words come from the king himself. Trust me father, I know these men better than you ever will.’
‘My mind has been made up,’ Reidar spat, his voice angry and certain. ‘I’ll hear no more words from you, boy.’
‘Then you leave me without a choice,’ Jorgen said, although his eyes were already defeated. ‘I will go to war with you, if I must. I will rally the western lords. They won’t fight for you once they hear of what you intend, once they hear that you will sacrifice their laws and way of life for a southern rule. I won’t let you take Nora away from me.’
‘You have your mother’s spirit, I’ll give you that.’ Reidar gave his first mention of Jorgen’s mother since her death. ‘But don’t be stupid, boy. It’s just a ring, and Nora is not going to the grave. We must have peace, for the realm, for the people. Don’t start a war that we cannot win. If giving the king one ring and a wedding will save the lives of thousands, then you must do it.’
GORAN
The first night on Solitude Island was the easiest – cold, wet and barely clothed, but Goran, in that moment, still had hope. Goran’s second day on Solitude was worse than the first – he supposed was dying of thirst, his head pounding wildly and his throat rough and dry like tree bark. The third day was worse than the day before, and the fourth harder than the day before that. Eventually, he could barely count how many days he been upon the island, but somehow, despite his exhaustion, starvation and lack of water, he was still alive.
His body was ridden in lashes and cuts, but he was quick to heal, unlike those he suffered with. He supposed the thirst and hunger were beginning to play tricks upon his mind. He lost count of how many times his body had been lashed and beaten for his dying efforts, working in the Solitude gold mines during the daylight and locked away in the tower when the sun set over the island.
After several weeks went by in a blur of pain and hunger, he struggled to stand, gazing up into the open sky through a break in the mine, his eyes dry and hollow with prayers of rain. That day, no rain came to ease his suffering. The prince’s mouth was dry and his eyes burnt like hot coals. His throat felt like splintering sandpaper as he tried to swallow saliva, and then there was the hunger; the hunger alone was enough to drive him into a crippling insanity. For two days, not a single fistful of food had passed his dry, cracked lips, and day by day his energy was slipping away alongside all hope of ever returning home to Tronenpoint, to the warm embrace of Margot’s arms, to hear his children’s laughter, or to cut his brother’s throat.
He swung the pickaxe with little strength at the jagged rock, the rough edges growing blunt. He swung again and again until each swing grew weaker and weaker than the last. He had been in the mine since sunrise, and still they had found no gold. It was almost sunset.
Chauncey Rose was by his side, hammering the rock with his own blunt pickaxe. Like Goran, his emaciated friend had found no gold. The mines were dry and desolate, and the Afterling knew it to be true, but they continued to force their slaves to dig for more, desperate, knowing the gold was the only thing that continued the Solitude way of life – without the gold, the rest of the realm would have exterminated them decades ago.
‘Water,’ Chauncey coughed to himself, breathing dust down his raw throat. He wore nothing but a leather collar around his neck and stained rags upon his gaunt hips. His head had been shaved of his long black hair. Chauncey’s eyes had become hollow and empty and he wore the same branding upon his skin as Goran. ‘I must ask for some, some water...just a little...’
‘Ask for water and you’ll be lashed,’ Goran struggled to speak words from his broken lips and his dry mouth. He gazed over his shoulder and saw an Afterling guard patrolling up and down the rocky mine with his golden whip in his strong grasp. Every now and again, he lashed it against the rocky wall, threatening. If he heard them speak, they would be lashed anyway.
Goran and Chauncey had barely spoken a word to each other since their imprisonment; the two had been the closest of friends during their youth, but Chauncey still blamed Goran Grey for the fate that had become of them. Their closeness to each other – despite the silence and blame – brought each other a familiar comfort that no one else could bring as they shared in the horror that had been bestowed upon them. In their weeks on Solitude Island, they had seen things that they would never forget, things they wished they had never seen. All the faces of those they had seen die stuck in their minds like a cruel nightmare that would never end.
‘They make us dig, for nothing.’ Chauncey choked, the pickaxe barely held in his weak hands. He looked nothing like the man who had left Tronenpoint; brittle, skeletal and gaunt, his head roughly shaved and his once bronze skin had twisted into a sickly colour.
‘For gold,’ Goran corrected him quietly, gazing over his bare shoulder, ‘but there is no gold here, not anymore.’
Within the hour, they were moved into a deeper sector of the mine. It was a large room dug deep into the earth, where a vast circular wheel stood in the darkness, lased with ropes. It moved rock, so the Afterling could send them deeper and deeper into the earth to search for more gold. They were thrown towards the giant wheel, where they each took a hold of a free handle. They were ordered to push by a guard in golden silk.
Within twenty minutes of pushing the wheel, Goran and his friend were beginning to struggle with the weight of the wheel. Goran was pushing for them both with all the strength he could muster. Although he was a shorter man than most, Goran was strong. Sweat poured down Chauncey’s tanned forehead, breathing roughly and erratic. Goran knew that if he did nothing soon, Chauncey would not last much longer upon Solitude Island, his bones beginning to protrude from his skeletal like frame, growing rapidly weaker by the day. Goran hoped and prayed that when Chauncey fell, his death wou
ld be quick – he had accepted death to be their fate.
The young prince pushed harder on the wheel as Chauncey’s grip began to waver; he heaved with all his might as to keep his friend upon his bloody feet. One slip of his young friend’s foot and the boy would be dragged away, flogged until he could no longer stand, and dragged back to his cell where he would be left to rot. ‘Keep pushing, Chauncey,’ Goran urged, whispering over and over again as his friend’s legs continued to quake and buckle. ‘Come on boy, do not let them win.’
‘Keep pushing! Harder! Faster!’ The Master of Solitude – as he proclaimed – bellowed with frightening ferocity as he heard Goran’s voice over the loud turning of the wheel, but his eyes did not land upon the prince. He lashed his merciless whip – crafted from callous leather – against the splintering wood, threaded with nine tails, the sound echoing through the damp, dark room. The sound inflicted a fear like no other. It was a noise all too familiar to Goran’s ears. Many men on the island had died from infection and blood loss due to the Solitude Master’s nine tailed whip. Goran’s back was riddled in enough whip marks; he did not intent on receiving any more. He had learned his lesson the hard way.
He closed his mouth as the white eyes of an Afterling man shot upon him. Quickly, the prince in rags did as he was commanded and pushed harder on the splintered wheel. Keep quiet, and keep your head down, he thought as he helped turn the wheel in the baron mine.
The prince told himself not to look at the Afterling, especially the Master of Solitude. He was the man in control of Solitude Island, and staring at him in his eyes resulted in a painful, bloody lashing. Goran had learned that lesson when he had witnessed a slave gazing into the Master’s haunting white eyes, receiving three bloody lashes across his bare torso. Even so, Goran allowed himself a quick glance at the man in gold who ruled over the island of horrors. A quick gaze so that he knew who he would kill first if he ever returned to his throne, after he took Andor’s life with his own hands.
