by T L Drew
‘Jakub already tried to stop me from drinking.’ Jorgen admitted, although he was finding it a greater task than he originally thought it would be.
‘Then perhaps you should stop,’
‘I’ll try to make tonight my last.’ He promised, although his voice quietened. He had never truly thought of himself as a drunk; he just liked to drink, to forget his problems, the things he had seen, but his enjoyment had soon turned into a need with each passing year. At first, he enjoyed it, then he relied on it to carry him through times he didn’t much care for, and then he had become reliant, but the king of the western lands knew that Jakub Krea was right – and he had to stop, if he wanted to win the war to come. When he drank, it clouded his judgement, and made him stupid.
He remembered the first time he had become drunk on wine, like only days had passed him by; it was weeks after he had lost his wife, Caeda, when the Great War had come to a bitter and bloody end with the taking of Ragnar Lienhart’s head. Jorgen had searched high and low for Caeda, scouting the desert north on horseback, dying of thirst in the unbearable heat. All he found was sand, ruins and the dead, but his young wife was not among them. He had ridden then to the safety of Tholon, the city behind the Great Gates in search for her, but Caeda was not there, either. He had searched the city for days. He searched for blue eyes laced with freckles of gold. In his sorrow, he had staggered tiresomely to a tavern on the outskirts of the desert city, where all it had taken him was one bottle of rich red wine to cause Jorgen to slip into a deep drunkenness he couldn’t shake. It had made him forget about her, about those he had killed to protect her, even if it was just for one night. Since then, he had taken solace in the drink, and without it, everything haunted him and came rushing back to his dark mind like a cruel nightmare he could never escape from.
‘Erik will forgive you.’ Nora said as Jorgen put back the bottle upon the shelf, touching his short black beard. ‘He was happier tonight, after the ceremony.’
‘When he had a few to drink.’ Jorgen reminded her.
‘He loves you. He’ll come to understand.’
‘I chose to listen to that boy instead of what my brother wanted.’ Jorgen snarled, his eyes flickering back to the bottles of liquor, and then back to his future bride. ‘Why did I listen to him?’
‘You feel pity for Jakub,’ she said truthfully, finding his black eyes. ‘I do too; he’s lost his father, he’s become the Lord of the Emerald Isles at only fourteen-years-old…there’s a heavy weight on his shoulders. He’s doing what he thinks is necessary, even if it is not.’
‘I suppose you’re right.’ Jorgen said, his eyes finding his feet as he gazed at the floor beneath him. Nora could see the frustration in his eyes, and knew that although Jorgen wanted to talk about it, the guilt was too much to handle, and it was turning him back to the drink he knew he should avoid. She moved closer to him, relieved to be back at his side, and let her hand slip into his.
‘I feel as though I have barely seen you since we found you,’ Nora said, her lips turning into a smile. ‘There’s much we haven’t spoken about, things we should say.’
Jorgen knew that Nora was speaking of his father, Reidar Black – she had heard the news, that the old King of Balfold was dead, and that Jorgen had claimed his father’s title of the Crow King, but barely a word of his father had slipped by his lips. Jorgen did not want to talk about Reidar, but yet, his every thought was dominated by that night, dark and cold, blood shrouding his vision, and the pain that he felt, the pain of his father’s death, and the pain of his wounds as the arrows flew menacingly into his flesh...
The western king found his eyes closing as Nora’s fingers traced over the rapidly healing wounds upon his face; since the return of the ring, his wounds appeared to be recovering quicker, much to his relief, but the pain still coursed through his face, as well as the arrow wound upon his shoulder, and the crack that had pulsed through the rear of his head and the limp caused by Hakon’s arrow in his leg. Her touch relaxed him. He felt himself warming, despite the coldness of her hands.
‘When you’re ready to talk about him, I’m here. I’ll listen to every word that comes from your lips.’ Nora’s voice almost became a whisper as she traced her fingers along his skin, and Jorgen breathed a quiet sigh.
‘I can’t talk about it, not yet.’
‘Hakon is wounded,’ Nora uttered, taking Jorgen’s hand. ‘Perhaps he did not make it back to the south – there would be relief in that.’
‘Wounded? How?’ Jorgen asked, his eyes flickering open, suddenly alert.
‘I had a knife. I stabbed him, in the eye, before I ran into the forest.’
Jorgen’s lips turned into a smile. ‘Perhaps I was wrong to not let you fight,’ he uttered, staring into her eyes. ‘But you know if something were to happen to you–’
‘–I won’t fight,’ she said, moving into him. ‘It had always been a dream, to be a soldier or a warrior...but when I saw Hakon and his men, charging over the crest of the hill...that changed. It’s one thing to dream, but to see true horror...to see the men around you slaughtered like animals...you were right to try and send us away, and if it wasn’t for the ring...’ her voice trailed off, her eyes finding the powerful ebony ring, dangling on the silver chain from Jorgen’s neck. ‘It gave me strength – I was fearful before I put it on my finger. I do not know whether it is dangerous, or a blessing.’
‘Neither do I,’ Jorgen admitted, gazing into her copper eyes.
THORBJORN
Demonhold was the most frightening place of all, Thorbjorn had decided as he sat in the low flickering candlelight, staring out of the clouded window into the darkness of the night. Haunting screams echoed through the air all the way from the southern tower, coursing through his ears, tormenting him – he could scarcely comprehend what was happening to the slaves in the southern tower, what kind of torture was being inflicted upon them, what the man in the human-leathered mask did to their bodies.
‘Your Grace, the gold mines are dry,’ Thorbjorn scribed the words upon rough parchment, a quill in his tough hands as he desperately tried to ignore the pained screeching from the Solitude slaves. He knew that soon, with his letter to the king, their suffering would end within the month, and the horrifying seven-foot man with a mask of human skin would be destroyed, like he deserved. ‘There is nothing left upon Solitude Island. Deploy the men, and end their way of life. There is no place left on this earth for the Afterling. I have seen horrific things. I will have returned to the Stone Keep within the week. Thorbjorn Grey.’ The knight dared not to speak the words aloud in the presence of his company – he could feel her eyes upon him as he wrote at a crooked desk in the low light of the flaming candle. He finished his words and dropped the quill back into the thick, black ink upon the old desk. He dared not to let her see the words he had written upon the parchment.
‘Who do you write to, my lord?’ A beautiful white-eyed girl with a small straight nose and bronze skin uttered from Thorbjorn’s warm bed, rolling over in the furs to gaze upon him. Her hair was as black as the ink he scribed with, and touched the tops of her hips when she stood. He hadn’t asked her name, but the young Afterling woman had been in his company since he had left the southern tower of Solitude Island, a woman from the village outside of the Master’s ebony castle of Demonhold, where Thorbjorn resided during his visit to the haunting island. Not far from the castle, Aela waited for her master upon the sandy beaches on the edge of the forest, and Thorbjorn was eager to leave the eerie castle and return to his wintery home in the south – he even prayed for his night to quicken so he could leave when the sun rose over Solitude.
‘I write to my cousin.’ Thorbjorn replied as he rolled the parchment before she could see his words, sealed it with hot wax, and tied it swiftly to the leg of a caged raven. He let the bird fly from the window and into the dark night before slamming it closed in the hope of masking the slave’s screaming.
‘The King of Askavold?’ The white-eyed girl
asked, her eyes widening.
Thorbjorn nodded his head as he sat himself back in his chair and ran his fingers over the deep brown braids in his hair. The girl rolled eagerly from his bed and moved towards the knight, her long, dark hair flowing loosely around her hips as she moved.
‘I would love to see the capital,’ she smiled, running her hands through Thorbjorn Grey’s dark, shoulder-length hair. ‘The Stone Keep, the legendary arena, the Craghollow ruins, the southern dragons...’
Thorbjorn scoffed as her hands landed on his shoulders and her lips found his neck. ‘And all the fucking snow.’
‘It sounds beautiful.’
‘It was, once.’ The Sky Knight remembered, a time before Kodran Grey had taken the six kingdoms of Askavold for his own, when the snow was light and the winters were short. ‘It will be beautiful again, now that my cousin sits upon the throne. The decade long winter has come to an end, but it still snows. It’s still winter. Soon the summer will come and my cousin will make Askavold what it once was again.’
‘You love the king?’ The girl asked carefully.
‘More than anyone.’ Thorbjorn admitted.
He was quiet for a moment as the woman continued to run her soft hands over his skin. He took her arm and pulled her forward, slipping her into his lap.
‘Come to the south with me,’ Thorbjorn whispered impulsively in her ear, thinking of all the Afterling that would soon die upon the island once the letter reached Andor’s hands, once he sent his army in their ships to destroy them in their efforts to make Askavold a greater kingdom. ‘I’ll show you the capital.’
‘I cannot leave the island.’ The girl said with certainty. ‘The Afterling are forbidden to leave Solitude.’
‘I am the commander of the king’s army,’ Thorbjorn’s lips tilted into a smile. He was barely serious, but the girl was beautiful, and it almost made him wish he could truly take her home. ‘I am the brother Andor wished he had...I am his flesh and blood...I’m certain the king will let me take home one prize.’
The girl smiled into his ear as a loud sound echoed across Solitude Island.
They heard the sudden blow of a loud horn. It sounded near, yet a whole world away. Thorbjorn hadn’t the slightest idea what it meant as it rang through his ears deafeningly over the sound of the screams in the southern tower.
‘What was that sound?’ Thorbjorn asked as the horn continued to blast through the forest. The girl’s eyes widened and she was quick to jump from Thorbjorn’s lap.
‘An escape,’ she said, moving towards the door and grasping her hand around an unused blade. ‘A group of slaves have escaped from the mines.’
‘Are you certain?’
‘We hear the sounds all too often,’ she assured, placing her hand on the door. ‘You must stay inside. My family and I will find and execute them all.’ By family, Thorbjorn assumed she meant the other Afterling.
‘He will be coming for me,’ Thorbjorn spoke, almost to himself, grasping his blade and holstered it quickly upon his hip. His thoughts were focused upon Goran Grey. Thorbjorn knew that his cousin would be aware that he was residing inside of Demonhold, and the southern tower of Solitude was close by. Demonhold could be seen through the tops of the trees from the haunting, spiralling tower. Aela was in the forest alone, tied to a tree, and Goran would be thinking of an escape. ‘He’ll head for Aela.’
‘Who?’ The girl asked curiously, but before Thorbjorn could answer her, he had bolted from his dark chambers and into the eerie black stone corridors. White-eyed Afterling were running rapidly through the castle, spears and scythes in their hands as they came to the call of the horn. They were barely dressed for a fight, clad in their usual golden silk cloth around their hips and golden sandals upon their feet. Thorbjorn followed behind with his hand on the handle of his long sword and found himself in the open, dark night, the rain falling lightly over Solitude Island. The Afterling men disappeared into the trees, and Thorbjorn made a break for the beach where Aela had been tied to a rough tree.
Thorbjorn could hear the rumble of slaves charging through the forest. He heard them meet with the ends of Afterling spears and scythes, coupled with deadly screams through the trees as blades met with skin and bone. Thorbjorn ran as fast as he could through the falling rain with determination to reach Aela before Goran did, if he was free upon the island. Thorbjorn didn’t doubt that Goran had found a way to escape his chains; Thorbjorn knew that his cousin was determined to do anything he could to leave Solitude Island and take revenge on the brother and wife who had cast him away to a life of servitude and endless torment.
The clouds blocked the light from the moon, leaving Thorbjorn blinded in the darkness of the night. He could hear the waves lightly crashing over the beach as he moved himself from the coast and towards the bordering forest over the sounds of the slaves suffering coming to an end. A quick death, Thorbjorn thought. The sounds of hooting owls and crickets sung to him, and Aela had grown louder than ever as he approached his beast. She was frightened and bucking as she struggled against the rope. Thorbjorn moved himself to his bird, untied her, and readied himself to mount his beast as his feet left the sand and found the mud of the forest floor. ‘We’re going home now, Aela. We must leave as soon as we can.’
Aela abruptly kicked her hind legs out from underneath her. A loud shriek escaped from her beak and her eyes suddenly changed. ‘What’s wrong, girl?’ He asked, running his hands over the silver feathers that blanketed her. Aela bucked again, almost as though she heard something that Thorbjorn couldn’t quite hear. She shrieked for a second time.
Thorbjorn tried to calm his bird; she was always such an obedient griffin, fearless and strong, but Aela was startled. She was as frightened of Solitude Island as he was. ‘Easy, Aela!’ He commanded, but the bird did not listen. She outstretched her wings, knocking Thorbjorn painfully from his feet, and her hooves left the ground. Thorbjorn’s body crashed into the thick mud. He felt a cracking in his body. Despite the pain, he jumped to his feet, coughing, and drew his eyes to his bird. Thorbjorn spat blood from his full lips.
‘Aela!’ Thorbjorn screamed at the top of his lungs, his eyes in the sky as she took flight into the darkness of the night. ‘Aela, come back! Come back for me!’ Aela could not hear her master’s words as the frightened griffin flew over the island.
‘It appears the great Sky Knight is without his wings,’ a voice came from behind him. It was a familiar voice. ‘Not even the most loyal of beasts stays for a man such as you.’
‘You startled her,’ Thorbjorn spat, turning on his heel to face the voice. He knew it was Goran Grey appearing through the darkness from behind the trees, hunched over in pain with a blade in his hands. There was blood dripping from the point, soaking the soil beneath his feet. ‘She will return for me.’
‘Not if there is no man to return for.’ Goran threatened, limping ever closer to his cousin. There was a stab wound upon his shoulder, Thorbjorn noticed, gushing with blood, clinging to his skin.
‘Threaten me again, and I might be inclined to kill you myself.’ Thorbjorn warned.
‘You won’t kill me,’ Goran was certain, his face in the darkness growing clearer, spying the cuts and bruises that plagued him, the new scars that lingered on his skin, the blood that blanketed him. Fresh blood cascaded from his hands, his blade, his fingers… ‘Without your wings, you are just as trapped as I am on this damned island.’
‘Aela will return for me.’
‘And so you already said,’ Goran’s voice was laced with bitterness. He took a pained step towards his cousin with his blade poised, blood continuing to drip from him, malevolence dancing in his emerald eyes. ‘But until she does, you’re alone.’
‘And so are you; I noticed you are without your northern friend.’
‘Chauncey is dead.’ Goran told him, his body tensing.
Thorbjorn’s lips turned into a cruel smile. ‘Chauncey was a cunt.’
Goran moved closer to his cousin with his blade p
oised.
‘Take one more step, and I’ll–’
‘–You’ll kill me? Doubtful. If you wanted me dead, you would have killed me already. You want me to be free.’ The prince said with certainty.
Goran’s words made a low laughter erupt from Thorbjorn’s throat. Thorbjorn drew his shining blade from the holster upon his hip. ‘Would I not?’ Thorbjorn took a step towards his cousin, pointing his long sword towards the hunched man. ‘With all due respect, you’re a fucking idiot, Goran.’ Thorbjorn snapped, raising his sword. ‘I would kill you myself, but when the king’s army comes to rid Solitude Island of the Afterling, Andor Grey will join them, and he wants to take your head himself. In a month, the king’s army will arrive on Solitude with one goal; to eliminate the Afterling once and for all. Without the gold, there is no use for these so-called men and their primitive ways. The new king has begun an anti-slavery initiative. Everyone is going to die – and Andor will kill you, bring your head back to the capital, and mount it on a spike.’
‘What did the slaves do to deserve this?’
‘They are all here for a reason,’ Thorbjorn reminded him. ‘Your father sent all the southern criminals here for their crimes. Rapists and murders and the like all live here for what they have done. This island will be cleansed of cannibals, demon worshippers, rapists, murders and treasonous bastards – and I cannot wait to see our king take your fucking head from your shoulders.’
‘And you’re going to die here with us.’ Goran smiled a bloody grin.
Goran’s sword cut through the air in the blink of an eye. Thorbjorn rapidly parried against Goran’s blade.
