by T L Drew
‘–There’s no need,’ the western king rose his hand and nodded his healing head. ‘It is the fault of mine that we come to you at such an hour. I should be sorry.’
‘What can I do for you, my king?’ The old man asked, bowing his head in Jorgen’s presence.
‘Our king wishes for a wedding to be held in the chapel after sunrise,’ Jakub Krea interjected, taking a step closer to the high priest in the snow, pushing his light blond hair from his full face. ‘As you know, soon we ride to war, and time is running out for the Krea and Black Houses to align once more.’
‘Who do you wish for me to marry?’ The High Priest ignored Jakub’s words, his eyes finding the western king. Jorgen’s gaze flickered to Erik as he sat in his wheeled chair behind the king; Erik gazed upon the snow-covered floor, and Jorgen was quick to know the look in his brother’s eyes were anything but joy. He was blaming Jorgen for the marriage, but it was too late now to turn back. Jorgen had little choice.
King Jorgen’s gaze returned sullenly to the priest. ‘My brother, Prince Erik Black of Solvstone will wed Elinor of House Krea of the Emerald Isles before our army rides to war. I know it is of little time, but I ask that you can try and make this happen.’
‘Why yes, yes of course, Your Grace.’ The old man was certain, his feet fumbling in the snow. ‘Is there anything else I can do for you, my king?’
‘No, that is all. I thank you, good sir. I am sorry again for the late intrusion.’ Jorgen’s lips tried to twist into a smile as the old man returned to the solace of his tent, disappearing from sight, but the western king’s wounds on his face still caused him great pain. His lips fell back into a hard, straight line as Jorgen was left alone in the darkness with his brother, his brother’s protector, Jakub Krea and few soldiers of the Night Cloaks at their sides. ‘I’d have a moment alone with my brother, if you wouldn’t mind waiting upon the borders of Knight’s Denn for my return.’ The western king said to Jakub Krea, his skin having turned to the colour of ice.
‘As you wish, Your Grace.’ The young boy nodded his tousled blond head and moved from the sound of Jorgen’s voice, waiting with his soldiers on the edge of Knight’s Denn, although very much still in plain sight. Archer Rose stayed with the king and the prince as he stood behind Erik’s wheeled chair.
‘What do you want from me?’ Erik asked as the three men were left alone, although they could feel Jakub’s eyes on them at the edge of the swarming settlement, waiting for his king. Erik’s voice was bitter and twisted, his gaze spiked with weariness and disappointment. ‘You have asked enough of me already, Jorgen.’
‘I know that this is not what you want, brother, but trust me–’
‘–Trust you? Why should I, after this?’
‘I’m your brother, and your king. I am doing what I believe to be best.’
‘You’re the king, but you let a boy control you,’ Erik’s aggravation worsening as he gazed at his brother with furious black eyes from his sturdy wheeled chair. ‘You’re sober – for the first time in a long time, because of him. You’re marching to war because of him. You’re marring me to a woman I don’t want to marry, because of him.’
‘I march to war for our father, for our people who died.’ Jorgen interjected, his eyes narrowing.
‘And you’re letting a fourteen-year-old boy control you, whether you admit it or not.’
‘A fourteen-year-old boy with an entire army behind him in their thousands, men we need, and we need Jakub Krea, however young he may be,’ Jorgen uttered, but quickly his gruff voice softened. ‘Elinor is a beautiful girl, and she’s kind – there are worse people our father could have chosen for you. He chose her well.’
‘Father’s dead – I don’t have to marry her because you say so.’
‘Brother or not, I am your king now, and you must do as your king pleases, even if the choices I make bring me displeasure. You think I want this? To force you into a marriage you do not want? The last thing I want is to bring you unhappiness, brother, but do you not want to see the man that took our home and our father pay for what he’s done? You and Elinor share a sorrow, and a passion to see justice for your losses – you do not know her, and she does not know you, but without the Krea’s, we will never see Hakon pay for what he has done, and surely one small sacrifice is worth Hakon Grey’s downfall.’
‘I don’t know if it’s worth it – I am not sure if father would even want us to march to war.’ Erik uttered under the bitter air, gazing at his lap.
‘We have not spoken of that night, not truly,’ Jorgen said, finding his brother’s eyes. ‘You would feel the same way as I feel if you had seen it, if you had been there when he died, if you had buried him…’
‘It doesn’t feel real yet, like he’s not truly gone.’
‘He is gone, and our home has been left in a pile of ashes and rubble.’
‘How did he die?’ Erik asked for the first time since he had heard of his father’s death.
‘You don’t want to hear the answer,’ his brother said, staring down at him. ‘Just know that if you had seen him die, like I saw him die, you would want Hakon to suffer for what he has done. If you had seen our home days after the southern army left Solvstone, saw what was left…you wouldn’t think twice about marrying Elinor Krea – you would just do it, so that our father might rest easy, knowing justice was about to come to Hakon Grey.’
‘Jakub wants this, not you – can you not convince him otherwise?’ Erik begged, his eyes holding hope.
‘He’s adamant that our families will join together again,’ Jorgen said with certainty. ‘Abigail is wed to Goran, and I am to marry Nora. You are the only Black left who is free to marry.’
‘May I be so bold?’ Archer took a step forward in the snow from behind Erik’s wheeled chair, his eyes finding his king. The western king nodded his dark head before Archer’s gaze loomed down to the prince. ‘We all lost someone we loved that night, some more than others, but everyone in the western lands has suffered – my lord, Erik, please listen to our king – he just wants what is best for all of us, to rid the world of the man who destroyed our home and took those we loved from us. No one is safe until Hakon Grey is defeated.’
‘I do want Hakon to stand trial. I want him to pay for what he did to father, and our home,’ Erik said, thinking of his father. ‘I will marry Elinor Krea, if there is no other way to join forces with the Krea family.’
‘I’ll talk to Jakub once more, to see if I can falter his mind. You’re doing the right thing, Erik – Elinor’s a kind, strong girl.’
‘I know.’ Erik admitted, his eyes finding his twisted lap, Archer’s lips sealed and his tongue still as they stood in the snow. Jorgen’s gaze shifted back to Jakub Krea and his soldiers; they waited calmly as the snow fell upon them from the breaks in the trees, waiting for their king’s command to return to his side. The western king motioned for the fourteen-year-old boy to join them, and as quickly as Jorgen gave the order, Jakub and his men marched from the border of Knight’s Denn across the crunching snow and returned to Jorgen’s side. The western king spoke strongly to Archer. ‘Take my brother to his cabin. Keep a watchful eye upon him – do not let him leave the town – Nora fears there may be more Grey soldiers inside of the forest, searching for you all. I’ll see you both when the sun rises over these lands.’
Archer was quick to obey his king; he turned on his heel, moving his lean, armoured body behind the prince’s wheeled chair, and pushed Erik Black through the snow towards the sleeping town of Knight’s Denn, disappearing into the darkness. Erik didn’t say goodbye to his brother, or even look at him in his black eyes.
‘Does something trouble the prince?’ Jakub asked Jorgen Black as Erik and Archer became void from sight, and Jorgen began to move in the crisp snow back towards the town at a slower, more careful pace, his leg still riddled with an incurable pain that had come from the wound of Hakon’s arrow. The constant agony grew deeper with each careful step Jorgen took, despite the return of
the ring healing his broken body faster than when he was without it. Jakub and his soldiers moved slowly behind the king.
‘Erik is not impressed about this marriage,’ Jorgen uttered under the icy air, gazing into the night’s sky, filled with a thousand stars, thinking of his brother, wondering if he was doing the right thing. ‘He hates me for this. I doubt he will ever forgive me.’
‘It must be done,’ Jakub insisted, moving to Jorgen’s side as the king staggered with difficulty towards the town. Jakub tried to assist him, but Jorgen was quick to shrug him away. ‘Our two families must join together again and face our common enemy – we all want Hakon Grey to pay for his crimes.’
‘We have the common enemy – is that not enough?’
‘No.’ Jakub was certain, having listened to Amund Krea’s ramblings over the many years before his death. ‘My father married my mother in times of war…it brought their families together, and they fought together. My grandfather married my grandmother in the same way…it’s the way it has always been; I want my sister to marry into the royal family, and that is our price for our army.’
Surely your army should fight for nothing, to see justice served, for both of our fathers? Jorgen thought, but he kept his tongue still. He could not risk losing Jakub’s vast army.
‘Is there no changing your mind?’ The king of the western lands asked with hopefulness.
‘No, it must be done, Your grace. I believe all that is left to do is celebrate.’ Jakub moved his small body so that he was standing in front of Jorgen. He had to tilt his head towards the sky so that the young boy could look into the face of his king.
‘There’s no time to celebrate, however badly I need a drink; there’s still much left to do before we leave the west.’ Jorgen was certain. In truth, he had no reason for celebration; his father was dead and he was riding south to war. The thought frightened him, chilled him to the bone. All he had to celebrate was the safe return of his brother and the woman he wished to marry. ‘These men do not know the south like I do, and you know even less than most. We have to survive the cold, the creatures and the Hakon’s armies and mercenaries. We don’t even have a plan, Jakub.’
‘We have a larger army, yours and mine combined.’ Jakub said as Jorgen turned on the heel of his leather boot and made haste back towards his tent. He moved quickly now despite the limp that still plagued him. Jakub followed behind the King of Balfold irritatingly close as they weaved through endless black and green tents, and sauntered by exhausted men who forged sharp blades and heavy armour for the wars to come. Wagons and carts were pulled through the forested town, filled with food for the long journey, even though the moon was still full and high in the night’s sky. Jorgen worried they didn’t have enough food to feed their entire army.
The King of Balfold found Jakub’s eyes, his voice suddenly harsh and laced with fret. ‘If we cannot feed our men, if we cannot teach our men how to fight against the southern creatures, or teach them how to survive in the harsh coldness of the south, then numbers will not matter. We’ll have no bloody men left.’ Jorgen was careful not to show his irritation. He continued to forget Jakub’s young age; even though neither of them had ever led an army into war, Jorgen was older and wiser. He had read thousands of books on war and strategy, and he knew the south better than any western man after his decade of summers in the south, even though they rode into a southern winter. Jorgen was unaware that the long decade of winter over the south had ended with the death of King Kodran, but the snow still remained. The snow had never left the south. ‘What do we do then, if we make it far enough south, what do we do when we get there? We cannot simply attack the capital; Tronenpoint is well guarded, high in the mountains, a perfect fortress. They have dozens of giant crossbows lining the walls in all directions and thousands of guards at every post, every entrance, not to mention half a million people – innocent people – living inside who don’t wish to be caught up in the middle of a battle.’
‘We could surround them so that they cannot leave the city.’ Jakub suggested. ‘They’ll run out of supplies soon enough.’
‘The poor used to starve in the streets, back when Kodran was king.’ Jorgen remembered as they reached his tent and pushed their way inside of the thick fabric. They were met with candlelight and moved themselves to opposite ends of a large table that stood in the centre; a map of the six kingdoms of Askavold and the two kingdoms of Balfold unravelled across the rough wood. Jorgen gazed down at the parchment, his eyes hovering over Tronenpoint. He knew Andor well. Too well. ‘The new king would make sure nothing like that would ever happen again. He’ll make certain that in case of a long winter, his people won’t starve. He’ll have enough food and supplies in the walls of Tronenpoint to feed his people for years – besides, it is not Andor we are at war with, it’s his bastard uncle. His uncle does not rule Tronenpoint. Our war is not with the capital, unless Andor refuses to hand Hakon to us.’
‘Then what do you suggest?’
‘Here,’ Jorgen’s finger landed on the map directly north from Tronenpoint, south-east of Solvstone. ‘Whitehold is where we should go.’
‘Whitehold?’ Jakub questioned, catching the King of Balfold’s dark, haunted eyes as Jorgen leaned his body against the table, hands on upon the rough wood, running his finger over the map.
‘Whitehold is Hakon Grey’s home.’ Jorgen smiled, thinking about the giant stone castle by the sea, bordered by a lavish white forest on the other side. ‘Before the Great War, he spent his entire life there. Thorbjorn Grey was born within the walls, and his mother died inside. A few thousand men hold it now, keep it guarded for Hakon’s return. It’s well supplied, but it will be easier to take than the capital or any other settlement in the south. Innocent people won’t die taking it; a lot of innocents would die should we try to take Tronenpoint – the men inside are Hakon’s guards and mercenaries, not the southern king’s men. Hakon will lose a lot of men and a lot of supplies should we take Whitehold instead – it is the old man we wish to fight with, not the southern king, and taking Whitehold will affect Hakon Grey and no other. Our armies can hold out there for a long time, if need be, and it will surely make a statement to the king’s uncle that the west is coming for him, and we’re not to be messed with. From Whitehold, we can plan our next attack, and perhaps by then the king may have even decided to negotiate with us and give us what we came for.’
‘Do you think Andor Grey will give Hakon Grey to us?’ Jakub questioned.
‘I hope so – I have something he wants.’ Jorgen said quietly, thinking of his ring as it dangled from his neck, returned to the silver chain, warm against the skin of his scarred chest. ‘I’ll give him the ring, and he will give us Hakon – I hope. Andor is my friend; perhaps I can convince him of what must be done.’
‘Then it’s decided; we ride for Whitehold.’ Jakub was quick to agree.
The night came and went in a blur of doubts about Jorgen’s plan – he wasn’t even certain Andor would make such an exchange, but he hoped and prayed to his gods until Jorgen’s sleepless night came to an end. Nora had barely slept as Jorgen had tossed and turned, thinking only of the wars to come, and whether he was doing the right thing. The morning came fast, the sun rising over the forest, hitting the town through the breaks in the pine trees, the snow coming to a sudden halt. It was as soon as the sun came over Jorgen’s tent that Jakub returned to the king’s tent and walked with him and Nora to the chapel on the edge of the town, bordering the weaving river which was almost frozen entirely from the cold, crossing over the slippery bridge built from red brick. Erik was pushed in his wheeled chair by Archer, who had yet to leave Erik’s side, meeting with the king outside of the chapel as the sun grew brighter through the breaks in the tops of the white trees. The time passed them by slowly as Erik’s sorrow grew; Jorgen felt the guilt washing over him as he made his way into the chapel at his brother’s side, taking a seat at the front of the dark building, and listened.
Endless rows of flaming t
orches littered the light brick as the priest’s gruff voice drowned in his ears like water crashing over him. Jorgen watched the flickering flames dancing behind Elinor Krea’s blond head, fixated, as she repeated the priest’s words, promising to be Erik’s bride. Jakub gave her away, to be wed, in his father’s absence. The western king tried not to look at his brother’s sorrowful eyes as the guilt began to eat away at him. He focused on the flames. In a blur of hundreds of faces and sorrowful words, the wedding was over, and Jorgen felt numb and guilt for his brother, even as his new bride laughed and smiled, holding her hand in his as Erik remained seated in his wheeled chair, Archer behind. She did not notice how Erik’s eyes were ridden with sorrow, how he didn’t want to be her husband – Jorgen hoped that Erik would one day forgive him.
They left the chapel with cheers of Jorgen’s soldiers, a celebration beginning for two families that had once again joined together in holy matrimony. They drank long into the night, music and dancing, a large feast before the long journey south and into the cold at sunrise.
When the celebrations began to die, Jorgen and Nora parted from the drunk men and women, moving through the trees and finding their tent, just bordering the town of Knight’s Denn. Archer was quick to escort them, positioning himself on guard outside of the black tent as his king moved inside.
Jorgen dropped Nora’s cold hand and walked towards a wooden stand at the edge of the giant tent, shelving endless bottles of liquor. Although he had drank vast amounts at the celebration that continued outside of the tent, Jorgen wanted – needed – to drink more. His vision was clouded, but he reached his hand forward, grasping his palm around a bottle of ale, and drank it rapidly. Drinking made him feel like he was at home again. It made him feel like nothing was wrong. He reached for another and another, until he was barely balanced. Reaching for a new bottle with his body swaying, he felt a hand upon his wrist, straying him from grasping another bottle. Nora’s touch upon his skin was icy cold. ‘Enough drink, my love.’ She urged, smiling at his side. Jorgen could not return her smile.
