A King Of Crows

by T L Drew

  Nearby the Afterling heard the clash of blades; they were drawn to the sound like hunters searching for their prey. ‘Don’t be a fool!’ Thorbjorn shouted over the roar of clashing metal. He could already feel the weakness in Goran’s strikes; his body was laced with open wounds, bruises and broken bones. He was in no fit state to duel with the greatest knight in all of the six kingdoms of Askavold. Goran’s parries were weak, and each swing was weaker than the one that came before. Thorbjorn fought with ease, pushing Goran backwards in the mud with each contact of their blades. Pained sounds escaped Goran’s cut lips as he forced himself to fight, his strength faded from his broken body.

  ‘You truly thought you could beat me?’ Thorbjorn scoffed, swinging a final blow. The powerful clash of their blades caused Goran’s blooded sword to leap from his shaking grasp. The blade fell into the mud, and Thorbjorn pointed his steel towards his broken cousin. ‘You’re weak, cousin. You’re a fool to think you had a chance.’

  Thorbjorn drew his blade from Goran and holstered it upon his hip. Goran’s eyes were lased with bewilderment. The Sky Knight drew his rough hand downwards towards his cousin to help him stand. ‘Just kill me already!’ Goran shouted, smacking Thorbjorn’s hand away from him as he lay in the mud, bleeding, weak. ‘Everything I have ever cared about has been stolen from me! Margot, the children, my father…I’ll never see them again. My body and my mind are in so much pain, Thorbjorn. When the Afterling find me, they won’t kill me like they kill the rest of the slaves; they’ll keep me alive, as ordered by my damn wife, until Andor comes for my head. I cannot live on this island for another month, cousin. I cannot bare the pain any longer. Please, just kill me, before they come! I’m begging you…’

  ‘You’re not mine to kill.’ Thorbjorn said bluntly, turning on his heel and leaving Goran lying in the dirt. He could hear Goran’s tearful sounds escaping his lips, begging for death. Thorbjorn began to walk away from the battered prince, and he didn’t look back.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Goran yelled weepily, his voice echoing through the dark forest.

  ‘To find my bloody bird,’ Thorbjorn spat, trudging in the mud and moving towards the ocean. Thorbjorn heard quiet sounds, as silent as a whisper at first, growing louder towards them. He knew it was the Afterling men, coming to recapture or kill the slaves who had freed themselves from the towers and the mines. ‘Stay here, they won’t kill you.’ Thorbjorn was certain, shooting Goran an icy look. ‘They have their orders.’

  ‘I don’t understand; you’re leaving me here? You’re not going to kill me? You’re a heartless bastard, Thorbjorn Grey.’ The young prince mumbled in the mud, his eyes turning to anger.

  ‘They have been paid heavily to keep you alive by your wife. They wouldn’t dare kill you – not with the gold she gives them, as you are well aware. If I kill you, they’ll kill me, I care more for my own life than I care for yours. Good luck – I fear you’re going to need it, Goran.’ Thorbjorn was quick to disappear into the darkness away from Goran’s eyes. The prince had no time to come to a stand before the sounds of heavy feet crunching over fallen branches drew closer and closer and the roaring of the Afterling men was frightfully near. The prince leapt to his feet as quickly as his pained body could muster and backed himself quickly to the sands, his eyes facing the forest. He had forgotten to retrieve his blade.

  GORAN

  ‘There you are!’ Goran heard the deep growl of the Master’s distinct animalistic voice. The giant man broke through the bushes and took a vast step onto the sands with golden sandals on his large feet. He wore a new mask upon his face. It was still fresh with blood, cascading from the cut lips, from the Master’s own mouth. The blood did not belong to him. The Master was laced with blood and guts of the escaped slaves, and his scythe was drawn and poised.

  Goran backed towards the water and felt the cold sea washing over his bare feet. He touched the ring and felt the burn as fear over took him as the Master’s men appeared from the trees in the darkness and onto the sand behind their demonic lord. A hundred white eyes landed upon the prince. He suddenly felt so small and so helpless. The men advanced on him, and Goran frightfully twisted his ring upon his finger and closed his eyes, waiting for them to take him back to the haunting southern tower where torture awaited him. He thought about the creature that had pulled Chauncey and Cyr below the surface of the water. The ring compelled him to think of it, however much it hurt. He tightened closed eyes, thought about the giant grey tentacles that had ripped from the water, and the ring listened to him.

  Suddenly the water began to rise.

  Goran opened his eyes. Giant grey tentacles ripped from the water, however this time, it was not in his tormented mind. It was real. They clashed over the sands and whipped and curled through the air towards the trees, twisting in all directions. Goran Grey watched with bewilderment as the tentacles around him ignored the prince and grasped around the giant waists of the Afterling soldiers and pulled them from their feet, whipping their bodies into the air before pulling them down underneath the surface of the crashing water.

  The prince realised that he was no longer imagining the effects of the ring; there was magic in it, and he was using it. He could feel the darkness of the ring’s power coursing through him as the water continued to quickly rise, washing around his knees and up to his waist as the creature in the sea continued to grasp the Afterling men and drown them underneath the waves. The Master and his remaining soldiers cut and slashed at the tentacles, barely cutting at the kraken’s thick flesh.

  ‘I won’t go back to the tower! Throw down your weapons, and I shall call the creature back to the depths!’ Goran shouted over the panic. The Afterling were quick to run back to the trees and to heed Goran’s words. Blades fell to the ground in a clash of steel falling upon steel. The Afterling threw their weapons to the floor. The Master refused to do as the prince commanded – Goran could see the Master’s anger in his white eyes beyond the fresh mask of human skin tied to his head. The kraken reached from the sea towards the Master of Solitude. It almost caught him. The giant man slashed his blade at the tentacles with power and without fear.

  ‘Throw down your blade!’ Goran shouted again as the kraken tried to grasp the Master. It touched the Afterling’s skin and knocked the blade from his grasp. The Master quickly leapt back as it tried to grasp him.

  ‘Send it back! Send it back to the sea, now!’ The Master finally shouted with desperation to the Prince of Askavold, the weapon void from his hands, and backed away from the kraken towards the safety of the pine trees on the edge of the sand.

  Goran twisted the burning hot ring on his finger again. He thought about the creature, and told it silently to still. The creature did as Goran asked, and withdrew itself back to the sea. The water began to reduce, exposing his lower body from the waves – not that he knew how he had done any of the things that had happened.

  ‘How did you do that?’ An Afterling man asked, taking a step forward with wide eyes, frightened. It was the first time that Goran had seen a flash of fear within the eyes of the Afterling. He thought that nothing could frighten the haunting, demonic men.

  ‘He is cursed.’ The Master uttered, his hands curling into fists.

  ‘There’s a demon inside of him.’

  ‘He has cursed blood in his veins.’

  ‘What if he is a god?’ They all pondered frightfully.

  ‘He’s no god,’ the Master spat. ‘He’s a weak, little man.’

  Goran ignored their words. The Afterling men walked back towards him, their feet once more touching the sand. ‘Take another step closer and I will call the beast back.’ Goran Grey shouted over their words, and the Afterling man stepped away back to the mud of the forest on the edge of the eerie beach.

  ‘You cannot stay there forever, by the sea.’ The Master added as his companions grew suddenly silent, his voice deep and haunting. There was a hint of a smile on his cut lips beyond the spine-chilling mask. ‘At some point you’re going to hav
e to move, and then we’ll drag you back to the tower in which you came from.’

  ‘No, you won’t.’ Goran was confident, feeling the burn of the ring on his scorched finger – it was his only chance at freedom, and he was going to take it. ‘I want my freedom, and I’m going to have it.’

  The Master laughed low and cruel. His voice echoed through the trees. ‘If the king’s whore wasn’t giving us with mountains of gold to keep you alive, I would have gutted you already.’

  An idea suddenly appeared in Goran’s tortured mind; it was an idea he prayed would work. He had a powerful ring on his side and the Afterling had an unknown enemy making their way to Solitude Island. Goran made a silent prayer to the gods that his idea would work, and words began to spill worryingly from his dry, cracked lips.

  ‘I’m more use to you as a free man.’ Goran was quick to say, praying. ‘You’ll have no use for all that gold if you’re dead.’

  ‘Was that a threat, boy? I will cut out your tongue when we drag you back to the tower.’

  ‘No, not a threat,’ Goran was sure, his body shaking. ‘The king sends an army to kill you, all of you.’

  The Master laughed wickedly from the trees. The white-eyed man took a confident step towards Goran, his body towering over the southern prince. Goran twisted the ring desperately on his finger, and the kraken’s giant tentacles broke from the water, whipping in the dark air. The Master stopped in his tracks.

  Goran’s voice held desperation. ‘My tongue speaks the truth. The king’s army is coming for you.’

  ‘You’re lying.’ The Master scoffed, his eyes upon the kraken’s tentacles drawing back to the depths. ‘The king has expressed great interest in the continuation of Solitude’s gold and our trade deals with the capital.’

  ‘My brother knows that your mines have run dry. Thorbjorn Grey told him.’ Goran’s voice was certain. ‘An army is coming to kill all who are left upon this island.’

  ‘You’re trying to trick me so that you can keep your tongue.’

  ‘I’m not, I swear it, to the gods. I have heard the words come from Thorbjorn Grey’s own lips, only moments ago.’

  ‘Thorbjorn is a trusted knight. Why should we believe you?’

  ‘Because I have nothing else left to lose, but you do,’ Goran said, his body unable to stay still. ‘I’m going home, and I’m taking you and your army with me. Fight for me, the rightful king of the six kingdoms.’

  The Master laughed, low and callous. ‘Fight for you? We make you a slave, torture you, feed you flesh, and you want to be our allies? To let you command us? You will kill us the first opportunity you have.’

  ‘I want my brother’s head. I want the throne that is mine by right. I want the six kingdoms. I’ll do whatever I must; join forces with whoever I can if it means seeing that happen. Fight for me, and you’ll have your freedom from this island. The Afterling will no longer be confined to Solitude, and the Afterling way of life can continue for centuries. I ask for your army and your ships, so we can sail to the capital together and kill those who have wronged us.’

  ‘And if I refuse?’

  ‘Then I will flood this fucking island right now, and I will have you all drowned.’ Goran twisted his ring. The water began to rise again. ‘Or I can have the creature feast upon your flesh.’

  The Afterling backed away from the rising water. It washed over Goran’s feet and grew closer to the white eyed men. The kraken surfaced on the water, staring with giant white orbs at the creature’s prey, waiting for the command of the ring. The Afterling and the Master silently took a step backwards towards the forest at the sight of the frightful beasts through the darkness.

  ‘Make me Lord of the East when you sit upon the throne.’ The Master’s eyes lingered back and forth from Goran Grey to the kraken in the water, white eyes glowing in the darkness over the ripples of the rising water. ‘Swear it to me, and you’ll have everything the Afterling have to offer to see that the six kingdoms of Askavold falls to you. Swear it.’

  Goran didn’t think twice before he stepped forward over the sand. ‘I swear it.’

  From the forest, Thorbjorn Grey heard every single word as he hid in amongst the tall pine trees, watching the skies with prayers that Aela would fly to him. Goran knew his cousin was close. Goran knew that Thorbjorn would hear their every word he had spoken to the Master.

  ‘You have to find my cousin before he flees the island,’ Goran gave the Master an order as he moved from the sand to the forest where the Afterling stood, waiting. ‘He will tell my brother of our intentions. Andor cannot know that we’re coming.’

  ‘Find the southern man!’ The Master shouted to his men, searching for his blade. ‘Find him, and kill him!’

  JORGEN

  Jorgen had done all he could to try and destroy the ring as his belief that it contained dark, twisted magic grew; he bashed it with a war hammer, he threw it to the bottom of a lake, he tossed it into the blacksmiths flames, but whatever he did, he awoke with it back upon his finger the following morning when the sun rose over the tops of the dark mountains, with no memory of how it came to be there. It did not want to leave him.

  Within days, his time to destroy the ring was gone, and Jorgen Black and his men began the long, perilous journey south – and although deep inside, he didn’t want to destroy the ring, he believed that the ring was cursed, and ultimately, it might be his downfall.

  Behind Jorgen, his men that remained trudged behind him begrudged in the thick snow. Henry Arrow, Jorgen’s strongest warrior and lord from Crowstown, led four-thousand men in a different direction; they marched towards Whitewatch, a smaller hold that Jorgen’s army could effortlessly apprehend without losing a single man taking it – they were loyal to Hakon Grey, rather than the Askavold king himself. Jorgen Black knew that the Lord of Whitewatch – a small, overweight, fearful lord by the name of William Ansfrid – would surrender his hold to them the moment he saw the army appearing through the snow over the horizon, and bend his knee to the western king. Taking Whitewatch would be a small victory in the war to come, but without Whitewatch, the Grey’s would be without one less hold, and without a lot less men to fight for them.

  With a small group of his army marching for Whitewatch, Jorgen and his remaining men crunched over the dry snow towards Hakon’s castle of Whitehold, their cheeks flushed with cold. They had all come down with fatigue. Several of Jorgen’s men had caught a fever. Others had been mauled by the fierce creatures of the south. Several dragons had flown down towards his men as they reached the open air and tried to take the men their desired for their food as it had become scarce, but Jorgen had succumbed to his ring, and called the great beast’s away, not that he knew how – and he was suddenly relieved he hadn’t managed to destroy the thing that had saved him several times, as well as saving his brother and his wife-to-be. The dragons listened to him when he ordered them to leave. He supposed that the ring was capable of controlling the great beasts of the sky – it made perfect sense to the western king when he thought about the man who had once worn it, how Ragnar Lienhart had tamed griffins and dragons and used their will to fight for him in the Great War and battles prior. He told himself not to use the dragons for his own will – if he had to use the ring, it would only be to save the lives of his men, despite the badgering of Jakub and Henry Arrow in his ear, begging with king of the western lands to use it for his own purpose – to win the coming war, like Ragnar had done, even though the old king of Askavold had died after his dragon had been shot from the sky. But as Jorgen thought about Ragnar, he remembered that Ragnar, with his inhuman blood and cursed ring, was still defeated by mankind.

  Jorgen’s thighs felt like they were on fire. He had ridden endless hours upon his black warhorse, unwilling to rest, fixated, the bitter chill against his flushed cheeks. He was doing all he could not to think about the ring on his finger, and concentrate on the mission at hand; taking Whitehold. Hakon Grey’s Hold was the most desirable place in all of the wintery south to
take for their own.

  Jakub and Elinor remained close by to Jorgen, riding behind him, trying to keep up with the fast, determined rider. He kept Nora and Erik even closer as the crippled young boy rode on his brother’s horse, holding onto Jorgen’s furs. Everyone was cold to the bone and so hungry they were wasting away as they passed the southern border, long days still remaining until they reached Hakon’s castle. ‘Your Grace, we must stop.’ Jakub shouted over the roar of the wind. ‘The men need to rest. You were right; we knew little of the south – we are unprepared and not as hardy as southern men.’

  ‘We will take cover in the trees.’ Jorgen said as he slowed his horse. ‘We can light fires in the forest, but we must have plenty of men on patrol. There are other kinds of creatures in the woods.’

  Barely a night passed of rest and warmth by large fires before the army moved once again, their bodies wrapped in furs as they rode towards the south where the weather grew worse. Many men who had slept didn’t wake again, bodies frozen solid in the snow. The further that they rode south, the more snow fell and the colder it became. Jorgen knew this land all too well, even if his men didn’t – finally a decade of spending his every summer in the unwelcoming south was beginning to pay off.

  They rode from another dawn until dusk. The western king knew these woods; he had been here before, just off of the king’s road astray from the eyes of travellers and soldiers patrolling the roads, a forest several miles from Hakon’s old castle. He slowed his men as he led the way over frozen rivers and icy wooded hills as silent as his men could muster.

  ‘Stop.’ The western king ordered, raising his gloved hand, halting his small army that rode behind him. Jorgen Black threw his leg from his black horse and dismounted, his boots crunching underneath the snow as his black eyes lingered through the breaks in the white trees, his eyes finding the very castle that he and his army had rode hard to apprehend. Jorgen urged his body forward to the last row of trees before his body would be exposed to the guards of Whitehold, where he could see the castle in the distance, a modest castle, he thought, for a man like Hakon Grey. There was a small lake between the forest and the castle and behind the castle was the shore, where the waves were crashing over the land with thousands of white horses. The entire grey brick castle was small in comparison to the Stone Keep, a giant wall surrounding it, only a main gate facing south that led into the confines of Whitehold. Hakon housed many soldiers inside the walls, but not inside the castle itself. Jorgen had been inside Whitehold – just once, when he was younger, before Hakon Grey had grown bitter towards the young man, back when there was peace. It felt like a lifetime ago.