A King Of Crows

by T L Drew

  ‘Can’t say the same about the King Reidar, though, I’m sorry to say.’ The man added, his hat torn from his head in his old hands, shaking his head, his eyes plagued with sorrow. ‘Hakon Grey murdered the king. The treasonous bastard will pay when the new king rides to war.’

  ‘My father’s dead?’ Erik asked, his eyes widening further, like he didn’t believe the man’s words.

  ‘I’m sorry to be the barer of bad news, my lord.’ The man bowed his head, eyes upon the crippled prince, quick to realise who he was in the presence of. ‘My prince.’ He corrected himself, lowering his head respectfully.

  ‘Jorgen’s the king…and he’s riding to war?’ Nora asked, trying not to think of Reidar, not yet.

  ‘He will ride for the south of Askavold once he has reached Knight’s Denn – the king will meet with the western lords and ladies and together Balfold will see justice served for our dead.’

  ‘Knight’s Denn,’ Nora uttered under her breath. ‘We must leave, now, before it’s too late, before Jorgen marches to war.’

  JORGEN

  Crow’s Keep wore gaping wounds that breeched the vast rocky walls. Stone crumbled at the base of the mountain in giant piles of dust and rubble. Even though the majority of Crow’s Keep was still intact, Jorgen knew that even once it had been rebuilt, he doubted he could ever be able to live within its walls, not after what had happened, not after all he had seen. When Jorgen closed his eyes, everything flooded back to him like a cruel, endless nightmare, a symphony of ringing steel and deafening screams like a powerful clash of roaring thunder, and the callous images of his father’s face as his eyes bulged, pleading for help as the rope around his neck took the air from his lungs, and the painful flashes of the blooded sword cutting into Reidar’s stomach which had stolen his life.

  Jorgen closed his ebony eyes as three of his surviving soldiers of the Night Cloaks cut his lifeless father down from the splintering frame, hacking away at the rough rope that held Reidar suspended in the air. He heard his father’s body fall to the blood-stained stage with a loud thud when the rope was severed, freeing Reidar from his wicked suspension. Jorgen couldn’t look, his black eyes focused upon the melting snow, praying any moment he would awaken from a nightmare, but he didn’t wake up.

  Jakub had already removed his own father’s bound body from the rough rope and said his final goodbyes as Jakub and his sister Elinor set fire to the pyre together, burning their father’s body into ashes on the outskirts of the decimated city, one of the remaining places around Solvstone that remained intact, untouched by the Grey soldiers. Jorgen hadn’t gone to pay his respects to Amund and his family – he knew they would want to be alone, to say goodbye to their father together, as he wanted, with his own father.

  Jorgen opened his eyes and saw Reidar’s lifeless face as they carried him with respect and silence to the pyre that had been built for him on the edge of the glistening water of Lake Solvstone, his father’s favourite place in the entire world, his own place of solitude and bliss, when he had been alive. It was where Jorgen had chosen for him to burn, where he loved the most. Jorgen could barely look at Reidar’s body as it had become stiff and discoloured, his guts still hanging freely from his butchered stomach. He had been hanging for too long – he could barely believe that no one had had the heart to cut their king down from where he hung in all the days that had followed since the attack of Solvstone. ‘Hakon Grey will die for what he did to you and to our people,’ Jorgen promised as his father was laid stiffly on the pile of wood and straw, a flaming torched placed into his gloved hand by a loyal soldier. ‘Hakon will die and I’ll get Erik back. I promise you – I won’t let him die, too.’ Although Jorgen knew his words were unheard, he prayed that his father knew he would be true to his word. The young man took a step forward in the dirt, taking one last, painful look at his father’s still face, and placed the flaming torched upon the straw at his father’s side. Silently, he watched his father’s body burn until there was nothing left but ash, like the rest of his city.

  That night, the moon was high over the decimated city, glowing over Lake Solvstone. Jorgen would have found it beautiful, if not for the fires that had only just begun to die, and the smell of decay that still filled his nostrils, not letting him forget what he had seen. He watched it as he sat outside of the destroyed city, his remaining men rallying to leave, and found himself at a battered table with a bottle of rum in front of him. ‘Here,’ Jorgen pushed the rum towards the only person who sat with him, sorrow filling his young eyes.

  ‘Where did you get that?’ Jakub asked, spying the drink before him as Jorgen shuffled painfully on his wooden seat, hunched over as the pain of the arrow wound in his shoulder still caused him great agony.

  Jorgen’s eyes glossed over to the young boy. ‘From the inn.’

  ‘There be no inn, not anymore.’

  ‘Some bricks still stand,’ Jorgen said, filling his cup, feeling the same sting course through his battered body as he moved too quickly to fill their cups. ‘And plenty of drink among the rubble with no one left to drink it but you and I.’

  ‘It is not ours to drink,’ Jakub said worriedly, pushing the drink away.

  ‘It’s one bottle of rum, Jake.’ Jorgen’s voice grew bitter, bringing the strong liquid to his cut lips, stinging the wounds. ‘You keep telling me what I should do, and yet I’m supposed to be your damn king – I’m no child, Jakub.’

  ‘You need some guidance, is all,’ Jakub said, speaking out of term. ‘Since you were wounded, you’ve been different…’

  I don’t care about my wounds, he thought, I care about those I have lost.

  ‘This here drink belongs to no one, not anymore,’ Jorgen’s voice grew louder, raising the drink to Jakub’s eye. ‘The inn keeper is dead, lying in a pool of his own blood underneath the stone. The old bastard has no sons to claim a pile of rubble and a few bottles of rum and ale which survived the attack. Please Jake, quieten your tongue and have a drink.’

  ‘I have never drunk rum,’ Jakub admitted, staring out to Lake Solvstone, thinking of his father, thinking of the men who now looked to him – a fourteen-year-old boy, becoming the Lord of the Emerald Isles. Jorgen could see the look in the boy’s eyes – he could see Jakub was frightened, frightened of doing the right thing, frightened of the wars to come.

  ‘Then you have not lived.’ Jorgen pushed the dark, pungent liquid closer to the boy’s pale hands. Jakub didn’t take the drink and ran his hands through his long blond locks. Jorgen shrugged and reached for his own cup of rum.

  ‘Don’t,’ Jakub urged, placing the palm of his hand over the top of Jorgen’s cup as the man drew the rum to his lips, blocking him from taking a sip. Jorgen’s eyes narrowed as Jakub pushed his cup down to the table. ‘You’re going to get drunk, aren’t you?’

  Jorgen leaned closer to the boy. ‘Remove your hand.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And why should I not drink?’ Jorgen questioned, his eyebrow raising on his pale forehead, his face hardening, even when it hurt the wounds on his face. ‘I think I have earned a few drinks, maybe a few more. I deserve to forget what I have seen. I burned my father today.’

  ‘I burned my father this morning. He is merely ashes in the wind now,’ Jakub reminded him, drawing his eyes away from the glistening lake as soldiers filling wagons and wounded blacksmiths forged weapons and armour around them. ‘And I don’t want to forget.’

  ‘I don’t want to remember what Hakon did to them,’ Jorgen admitted, unwilling remembering what he wished to forget. Despite what had happened to his father, he couldn’t deny that Amund Krea had also met a cruel and unjust end. ‘I saw it. I saw everything, Jakub. I saw the look in their eyes as the stools were kicked out from under their feet. I saw my father’s face twisting in pain as Hakon stuck that sword in his stomach after minutes of chocking and gasping for air as the rope stopped him from breathing. Then there is Erik and Nora...they’re missing, their carriage destroyed and their protector’s dea
d...It’s my fault. They’re probably dead, too. Why would I want to remember any of that?’

  ‘Because you cannot forget why we’re going to war,’ Jakub told him, leaning across the table, suddenly sounding older than his fourteen years. ‘We need you to lead us. Hakon Grey cannot go unpunished, and if you’re going to spend your time getting drunk and passing out in the mud, then you’re not going to be much help. We need a king. We will all die unless you sober up and become a fucking king for the people who are looking to you to lead us to victory.’

  ‘You’re just a boy,’ Jorgen said out of frustration, even though he knew Jakub was right. His thoughts trailed back to that blissful morning in the forest, when Nora had been lying in the pine needles, and Jakub had taken Jorgen’s challenge to shoot the rotten troll, and when Jakub’s arrow missed, he ran back for the safety of the city. ‘You were a cowardly boy, at that.’

  ‘Were. I’m not a coward, not anymore. I became a man when I had to be, when my father died and people started to look to me. Now leave that drink, and start using your head. Nora and Erik will never be found if you’re lying face-down in a ditch, your stomach full of rum.’

  Jorgen’s lips turned into a weak smile. His eyes softened towards the fourteen-year-old boy. He was wiser than he looked. Jorgen decided he liked Jakub then, in that moment. ‘You’re right,’ Jorgen agreed, but reached for his cup regardless. ‘But one drink won’t hurt.’

  The twenty-four-year old man was true to his word; he only let one drink pass his lips, and by the time the sun came up over the destroyed city, Jorgen, Jakub, Elinor and their army, as well as all who had survived the brutal attack on their home, began the short journey north-west, towards the town of Knight’s Denn, where the lords and ladies of the west, as well as Nora’s family who ruled over the Arus, waited for the arrival of the western king, ready to hear his words, and ready to ride to war.

  Jorgen took one final look at his city, and withdrew himself too quickly, as he prepared to ride for Knight’s Denn.

  A few days passed them by as they travelled with the weak and the wounded, and Jorgen could see Knight’s Denn through the breaks in the tall pine trees, a forest that spread all the way from Solvstone and surrounded Knight’s Denn in its entirety. The forest was lined with soldiers, different sigils upon their breastplates – he saw the crossed arrows over golden flames of House Arrow, the curled tentacles of the kraken of House Krea, and dozens of other sigils, including his own, the crow. Every lord from Balfold, the Emerald Isles and even the Arus were flooding into the small forested town.

  There were Houses and sigils he had never seen before, all filing into the small town built from wooden huts in the middle of a forest clearing, with a wide gleaming swollen river which was beginning to burst over the bank that passed through the centre of the modest town. Green, black and orange tents were erected in the trees and blacksmiths worked tiresomely outside of their log cabins, arming the soldiers, Night Cloaks and those who stepped forward to fight. Although their king – Jorgen Black – had not confirmed to the lords and ladies that they were marching to war, they prepared themselves, certain that the march south was imminent. The once quiet, peaceful little town of Knight’s Denn had become busy with thousands of bodies waiting to ride to war at Jorgen’s command.

  It all brought Jorgen back to a dark time, ten years ago, at North Rock, the old king’s palace in the desert north, just a fourteen-year-old boy, when the peaceful palace became a warzone in the middle of that dark night, Grey and Rose soldiers at the gates with their weapons, ready to kill all those inside with cursed blood in their veins...

  He had killed too many men that day – so many that they still haunted his dreams – but were quickly replaced with new nightmares of the what had happened in Solvstone. Although he would never forget his wife and that haunting night – the last time he had seen her face – the battle at Solvstone was quick to overpower them in that moment.

  His mind found itself wandering cruelly as Jorgen rode through the endless trees and newly erected tents to the heart of Knight’s Denn, over a stone bridge that crossed the rushing water, and towards a log cabin that was larger than most in the town. Guards were stationed outside of the doors, wearing armour branded with a crow of Jorgen’s House. They were Night Cloaks, sworn to protect him, to die for him. Inside of the Knight’s Denn hall, Jorgen knew that the lords and ladies of the west were waiting for him, waiting to hear what the new ruler of the western lands had to say. Many had not even seen his face, and those who had would scarcely recognize him from the young man he had been just a few weeks before. Although he was far from disfigured, the scars on his face healing quickly, but still remained prominent across his light skin and what was once stubble on his chin had grown into a dark beard.

  Jorgen dismounted his black horse. Jakub and their closest guards dismounted with him and moved behind their leader. The soldiers at the door bowed their heads in respect for their new king and moved to let Jorgen and his men pass, the soldier on his right opening the door for him as Jorgen moved into the log cabin in black furs and heavy shining armour, Night on his hip, the crow handle in his gloved palm. He walked with a limp from the arrow wound to his leg as he moved inside.

  The King of Balfold heard them before he saw them – they were bickering, the lords and ladies that waited for him. They were angry, desperate for vengeance, desperate for Hakon Grey’s blood to spill. ‘This is Andor Grey’s fault – he let Hakon loose in our kingdom!’ One lord shouted with ferociousness.

  ‘Aye, he should die too!’

  ‘The King of Askavold is just as at fault as the bastard is!’ A third agreed. ‘We’ll string him up at Hakon’s side!’

  ‘No – you’re all wrong,’ Jorgen interjected strongly as he moved into the dark, musty room, spying the lords and a single lady surrounding an oval table, shouting over one another. Their eyes all found him – gazing at him with confusion, double taking at a man who didn’t look like he had done before, but a confident man, a passionate man. ‘Andor Grey had nothing to do with this attack, I’m sure of it – he won’t die with Hakon Grey, but if he refuses to give up the traitor, then we may have no other option.’

  ‘Your Grace,’ a lord said as he took a step towards Jorgen, a lord Jorgen quickly recognised as Lord Samuel Caspian of Silvermoore, a man in his fifties with a grand silver beard and polished golden armour. Jorgen could see on the lord’s face that they were all staring at the healing scars upon his face. ‘My deepest condolences, about your father–’

  ‘–There is no need, my lord.’ Jorgen urged, a knot in his stomach. ‘There are more urgent things that we have very little time to discuss before word reaches the south that I am very much alive. I was left for dead, and that is what Hakon believes I am.’

  Despite his words, a woman moved from the crowd of lords and wound her arms around him. She was a small woman, red hair beginning to grey, and her skin tough like old leather. ‘Tell me she isn’t dead.’ Mary Ostergaard tried not to shed tears as her grasp on the western king tightened. He put his arms around the woman that was to be his mother-by-law, if Nora was ever found. Jorgen swallowed the lump in his throat.

  ‘She’s not dead.’ Jorgen urged, believing his words. ‘I’m going to find her. You have my word.’

  Mary Ostergaard pulled back from him, smoothing her dark garments, and returned to the table. Jorgen could see in her eyes that she didn’t blame Jorgen for her daughter’s disappearance – she knew that Jorgen loved her dearly and would have done all he could to protect her. Jorgen took a deep breath, gazing at all the lords before him, and stepped towards those who looked to him for guidance. Jakub followed quickly behind him and joined Lord Caspian’s side. ‘I know many of you lost someone when Hakon Grey came to Solvstone and attacked the city without warning, but I promise you, this is not Andor Grey’s doing. I know him better than anyone – if he had the fainted idea of what Hakon was going to do, the King of Askavold would have put an end to it before it ev
en begun. Our fight is with the king’s uncle, not the king himself, unless he refuses to give up the man who butchered our families and burnt down our capital.’

  They lingered on his every word. A young lord Jorgen was unfamiliar with came to a stand. ‘Do you have a plan, Your Grace?’

  ‘Not of yet,’ Jorgen admitted, scratching his chin. ‘The south is treacherous for those unaccustomed to it, and we’ll lose many men even treading across the border, let alone fighting in the snow, so that is my first concern.’

  ‘We could strike the capital instantly; they would never see it coming.’ Mary Ostergaard interjected, trying to hide the tears in her eyes, fearing for her daughter’s life. Several men were quick to show their agreement, and the rest were louder to show their disapproval.

  ‘Hakon will prepare for such a thing.’ Jorgen was certain, silencing them.

  Lord Samuel Caspian questioned his king. ‘You believe Hakon Grey wants us to attack Tronenpoint, Your Grace?’

  ‘No, not necessarily.’ Jorgen said, wondering if the next words to come out of his mouth were wise. ‘However, I believe that the ring on his finger is toying with his mind.’

  ‘What ring?’ Another lord, Lord Henry Arrow, asked with perplexity, scratching his dark stubble on his chin with large hands.

  ‘King Kodran had three very powerful – very cursed – rings in his possession before his death. I doubt he knew of what they truly were – I am still learning myself. He gave one to his eldest son, one to me, and kept another upon his finger. After his death, it was passed on to Hakon Grey. The rings once belonged to the cursed men; they forged them with their own blood. I believe the rings are as cursed as they are, and Hakon Grey wears his rings upon his finger with his every waking moment. I believe the ring has cursed him. The old man was a sick, twisted man before he was given it, and the ring has only made him worse. It’s very, very powerful, I can assure you, and he has to be stopped and the ring must be destroyed – or at least kept out of the hands of those with a tormented mind.’