by T L Drew
‘Why might this good news not pass your lips before now?’ She asked, pulling back from him. ‘Andor Grey might be able to give us what we want, and then this war will end before it has barely begun.’
‘Andor Grey is scared; something bad has happened.’
‘Like what?’
‘I do not know,’ Jorgen admitted, thinking of the letter he had received from King Andor on the leg of a raven the night before, written in a messy scribe and fear in his words as the king rode in a carriage towards Whitehold. Jorgen knew that something terrible must have happened for the king to leave his own city, to meet with a man who rode to war against the king’s own uncle. Jorgen dreaded to think of it. ‘You know as much as I know.’
‘I still don’t understand why you would not tell me sooner.’
‘Because you must stay here,’ he insisted, finding her eyes, seeing the bewilderment in them. ‘You, Erik and Elinor…’
‘I want to come with you.’
‘I thought you might say that – but my answer is no.’
‘I am coming with you.’ Nora said again, fierceness in her eyes.
‘Do you remember what you said to me, back in Knight’s Denn, the night that Erik and Elinor married?’ Jorgen asked his lover, taking her hands in his, trying to force a smile on his scarred face. ‘You told me of your fear, how you no longer wished to fight…you might see things that frighten you more than that night. I might die there, Nora, and worse so, you might die. For all I know, I could be walking into a trap. I can’t risk your life, nor my brother’s life.’
‘Do you remember what happened the time you left us?’ Nora Ostergaard asked bitterly, thinking back to Hakon Grey riding over the crest of the hill in the darkness, swathed in blood and guts, his sword risen in the air, swinging it around like a man possessed. ‘Erik and I would have died had it not been for your ring.’
‘You’ll be safe here,’ he said with certainty, ‘there are a thousand men remaining at Whitehold to guard these walls; it is the safest place for you to be in this moment; not with me, near the capital, near the Askavold King. Please Nora, I can’t have you die. I need you to stay here and look after my brother – heavens forbid if you were not there the last time to protect him…Erik would be dead, I fear.’
‘I’ll stay,’ she assured him, ‘but I wish you would stay here too.’
‘This is my war; I will fight it.’ Jorgen said, thinking back to his father Reidar, when the old King of Balfold had sent thousands of men to fight in the Great War, to kill the cursed men, and yet he had remained on his throne, the war out of sight and out of mind, unwilling to die for a cause. Although Jorgen did not believe in his father’s old cause, one that had brought him great sorrow, he could not understand why a man would not be willing to fight his own battles.
‘Please reconsider.’ Nora whispered, her voice as light as a falling feather, taking his hands and tightening her grasp.
‘I won’t sit on a throne while others fight for my cause,’ he assured her, kissing her cold forehead. ‘I cannot expect others to die for my cause if I am not willing to die for it myself. I have to take that risk.’
‘I know,’ she admitted to herself, her eyes laced with sorrow, wrapping her arms around him once more, closing her copper eyes, and praying silently to herself that Jorgen would be fine, and that Andor Grey could be trusted. They had been friends for years, she knew, but it did not make her any less frightened of what might happen, especially during times of war. ‘I just wish you could stay here with me behind these walls for the rest of time.’
‘Soon.’ Jorgen Black promised her. ‘I’ll have Anduin to protect me, and I’ll return to you before you know it.’
The King of Balfold said his most difficult goodbyes to those he loved as the sun began to set over the wintry castle, kissing Nora goodbye, embracing his young brother from his wheeled chair, and promising them he would return to them with haste. They lingered on his every word; he could see the fright in their eyes, wondering whether it would be the last time they saw him again, whether the King of Askavold would betray him, like he betrayed King Kodran. The western king mounted his ebony warhorse and turned her around due south, before kicking her forward, his dragon taking flight from the castle walls overhead, leading the way.
The young western king did not look back at those he loved as he rode further south than comfortable; his heart was heavy and his heartbeat was unsteady in his apprehension. He took Archer Rose and all the western lords with him on his travels – Jakub Krea and Samuel Caspian remained irritatingly close with any step the western king took. His dragon remained even closer. Almost a day’s ride passed them by through the wind and the snow before they reached a white field that stood between Whitehold and Tronenpoint; it was void of trees, mountains or fields of flowers, only flat lands plagued with white snow as far as the eye could see. Jorgen had been there before; there was nowhere to hide. It resembled a battle field, he thought. He prayed it wouldn’t become one. It was almost first light when they arrived; he had received word from the Askavold King to meet him at sun rise, and the time was almost upon them. He felt sick with apprehension.
Jorgen Black was waiting for the King of Askavold in the open field as he saw the king’s carriage approach with a thousand men, urging Anduin closer to him, to be at his side upon the snow. The dragon did as his king commanded, drawing himself across the ice to be at his master’s side, lowering his white scaled head with his colourless eyes upon the approaching silhouettes.
‘I will speak with the Askavold King alone.’ Jorgen shouted over his shoulder to his men; they were quick to gripe as the small army advanced, growing closer to them across the fields of ice. Jakub and Archer drew themselves forward, but the king’s hand rose, and ordered them no closer. ‘I will have Anduin to protect me; the rest of you will await my command before you take another step closer. This is between the Askavold King, my sister and I, and no other.’ He urged before words could slip from the lips of his eager companions.
The King of Balfold withdrew his black eyes from them and back to the small army in front of where Jorgen Black stood, waiting in the falling snow. Andor’s carriage came into clear sight; the army stopped across the field and the carriage door was pried open by a guard dressed in silver from head to toe. A smaller man with a crown upon his head and a red-headed woman stumbled out into the open air. Jorgen took a step forward, his eyes upon Andor Grey and his beloved sister. ‘Come, Anduin.’ The western king ordered, urging his dragon to walk with him. The creature did as he was commanded. Jorgen Black noticed how the King of Askavold’s army remained perfectly still; dragons were not foreign in the southern lands, their primary dwelling only miles from the capital city of Askavold in the Craghollow ruins upon the mountains that marked the end of the southern lands, but to see a dragon this close, right in front of their eyes, his feet touching the same ground they stood upon...they were raked with fear and bewilderment. Jorgen could hear the sounds of their king, urging them to remain where they stood as Jorgen and Anduin approached, his hand upon his longsword, in case anything went wrong.
The western king came to a stop as he reached the middle of the field, between Andor Grey’s army and his own. Anduin stopped beside him, eyes upon those the dragon wished to devour. Jorgen placed a hand upon the rough, icy scales of his dragon’s head as his voice carried over the wind. ‘I go no further!’ Jorgen Black bellowed, black eyes staring at the King of Askavold, Jorgen’s sister at his side. ‘I’d speak with you and my sister alone!’ He shouted to Andor Grey.
Jorgen quickly noticed Andor was quarrelling with those around him. He supposed they urged him not to go to Jorgen and his dragon without men to protect him, but Andor did not listen to their desperate pleas. The King of Askavold and Abigail Black took steps forward into the snow, leaving the small army of a thousand soldiers behind, advancing upon the western king. Jorgen took a deep, nervous breath as they drew close enough to see each of their faces through the snow. A
bigail appeared the way she had always done; her hair was so long that it touched the tops of her hips and shone the same colour as Nora’s did, a fiery red like the fires which had burnt down his city. Her skin was still as white as the southerner’s skin from her decade in the south. She appeared thinner than ever. Andor Grey still limped from the leg that had been taken from him; Jorgen could see that it still troubled him, especially in the biting cold, where the metal underneath the stump that remained caused his skin to go numb from the chill of the icy metal. His hair was outgrowing beneath his crown, the colour of rich soil, and his body was clad in the furs of the white fox, like Kodran had used to wear before his death.
Although Abigail and Andor had barely changed in the months which had passed them by since he had last seen his friend and his sister, Jorgen could see the confusion in the eyes of his sister and the southern king; Jorgen did not appear to be the same man who had left the south many months ago; he was scarred and rugged, his hair outgrowing and his usual stubble had transformed into a dark beard. He had a limp from the arrow wound, and there was a seriousness upon Jorgen’s face which Abigail and Andor had rarely seen. They were quick to notice that Jorgen was sober. The western king wore black furs over his ebony armour, his trusted long sword Night upon his hip.
‘It’s okay, Abby, he won’t hurt you.’ Jorgen urged his sister, almost chocking on his words as he spoke, motioning to his dragon as he saw the fear in her eyes. He had missed his sister more than he thought; although barely a thought had passed of her since the war in the western lands had begun, knowing she was safe in the capital of Askavold, he still missed her, now more than ever. He never wanted to let her go as she ran into him at the sound of his words, rushing passed Anduin’s giant wing and into her brother’s strong arms.
‘I thought you were dead,’ she cried into his shoulder, her arms wrapped tightly around him. ‘When I heard of what happened I was certain of it…when Andor told me otherwise, I did not know whether to believe it.’
‘It’s going to take a lot more than a war for you to be rid of me,’ said the western king as Andor Grey advanced upon the two siblings with his permanent stagger, without guards surrounding him, his full trust in the king of the western lands. His gaze lingered for the longest moment on the dragon with nervousness, but still Andor weaved away from Anduin’s teeth until he came closer to the western king. Abigail still did not let her brother go, taking his hand in hers, wishing never to let it go again.
‘We’re glad you’re alive,’ Andor said as he neared them, coming to a halt in the thick snow, his gaze shifting between the western king and the ice dragon that stood threateningly at his side. Jorgen followed his gaze to Anduin, taking in his every detail, from his large colourless eyes to his giant white scales. ‘I can only assume you learned a great deal about your ring.’
‘His name is Anduin,’ Jorgen informed him, gazing upon the silent ice dragon as Anduin watching Andor Grey’s every single movement, protective over his master. ‘He has proved a loyal beast – but I can assume you wish for my ring back now, as it was one of the first things to slip from your lips.’
‘I don’t want it, not anymore, it’s not why I have come to speak with you.’ Andor assured them, honesty in his cobalt eyes. The King of Askavold took a careful step forward in the snow towards Jorgen, watching the dragon cautiously with each movement he made. ‘It has caused my family enough troubles.’
Jorgen Black was quick to agree. ‘I have not seen you in months, and much has happened, my friend. You’re a king. There is much we must speak of in such a short amount of time – where do you and I even begin?’
‘We begin with my brother,’ Andor said surely, although he spoke the words as though there was something bitter on his tongue, spitting the words from his mouth. Jorgen felt Abigail’s hand involuntarily tighten around his as Andor began to speak of her husband. ‘I know you will ask about the fate of Goran, whether you cared for him or not, so let us get this ugly conversation done with before we address more important matters.’
‘Very well.’ Jorgen agreed.
‘Your sister sent him far away, after I killed Kodran with my own hand.’ Andor said with a touch of shame in his deep voice, watching Jorgen’s face carefully. The western king’s face didn’t change – there was no care in his eyes, only trepid curiosity, taking a step closer to the southern king in the thick snow. ‘Goran’s living on Solitude, as a slave, until I exterminate the Afterling.’
‘I told you I would handle it.’ Abigail interjected, her eyes falling upon Jorgen, pleased with herself, but careful not to show it.
Andor was quick to defend himself before words could slip from Jorgen’s rosy lips. ‘I wanted to kill him there and then, like my father, but your sister had other ideas that I was unaware of. Listen, Jorgen…about what we promised you, when we said we would not bring Goran any harm–’
‘–You admit you killed Kodran?’ Jorgen asked quietly, his eyes unblinking as he looked into the ocean blue eyes of the southern king. Andor Grey nodded his head carefully, with less guilt in his gaze than when he had admitted to his brother’s fate. ‘It matters not; I cared not for your father, as you know. He cared for me more than I ever cared for him; he was not a good king, and I know you will not follow in his footsteps.’
‘I won’t.’ Andor assured, noticing how Jorgen did not wish to speak of Andor’s broken promise.
Jorgen took a step closer to Andor. ‘But as for Goran–’
‘–I know it was wrong for me to leave him there this long, but I never intended…’
‘Let us hope that Goran doesn’t return and bite you on your ass,’ Jorgen said the words the southern king did not expect to hear, concern in his voice, not for the enslaved prince, but for his sister and her new lover’s sake. ‘This will haunt you if something is not done about him soon; you know him as well as I do. I do not wish to see harm brought to my sister, no matter how foolish she was.’ Jorgen said, his eyes fluttering disappointingly at Abigail, even as he held onto her hand.
‘I worry about a similar thing myself.’ Andor admitted, his gloved fingers scratching at his deep brown head. ‘Thorbjorn flew on the back of his griffin long ago to Solitude Island, not long after Goran was enslaved…he has not returned and I am fearing the worst.’
‘I am sorry to hear about Thorbjorn.’ Jorgen’s words were true, his black eyes finding the blue of Andor’s, and the western king took a step closer to the King of Askavold, placing a careful hand upon Andor Grey’s shoulder and lowering his gaze into his. ‘If Goran returns, you have my sword.’ Jorgen promised.
Andor’s eyes widened in surprise. ‘Truly?’
‘Truly – he will never be the king your lands deserve.’ Jorgen said, thinking of the slavery that plagued the Askavold lands before Andor Grey had taken the throne; all of Jorgen’s years in the Stone Keep were laced with anger and resentment as he saw the way that Goran Grey treated his slaves like they were his possessions, rather than human beings. Jorgen knew that if Goran came for the throne – and by some miracle, stole it back from Andor Grey – then slavery would once again prosper. It was one of the last things that Jorgen wanted to see happen. He had heard of what had begun to happen in the south with Andor’s new rule – the end of slavery, and Jorgen knew that Andor would stop at nothing to see it end. ‘To keep Goran from the throne is something I would truly fight for, now that I am the king of my lands.’
‘King Jorgen Black of Balfold and the western lands...it has a ring to it, does it not?’ Andor said, trying to stray Jorgen’s tongue from talk about the brother he despised, the brother he worried about returning for his head.
‘It would sound better to my ears if your bastard uncle hadn’t killed my father.’ Jorgen almost hissed the words, his thoughts wavering from the enslaved prince as Andor had hoped, and back to the most important matter that dominated the western king’s mind.
‘I’m sorry about Reidar,’ Andor uttered, his eyes finding the snow-covered fl
oor. ‘If I had known what Hakon would do...’
‘The order didn’t come from you, I know that.’ Jorgen was certain, taking a step backwards in the thick snow, his eyes rising to the grey clouds in the lightening sky on the early morning. ‘You just wanted your ring back and the alliance between our two realms to continue.’
‘Yes,’ Andor confirmed, still mindful of the dragon’s presence, careful with each movement he made with distrust of the giant beast at Jorgen’s side. ‘My uncle has gone mad – he was locked away in a cell after news found my ears of what he had done. He was supposed to stand trial.’
‘Was?’
‘I did not come all this way to speak with you, I must admit,’ Andor said. ‘In truth, I was heading north for another purpose…but something has happened, in my capital. Word reached my ears only days ago – I wrote to you as soon as I heard.’
‘What’s happened?’ Jorgen asked.
‘It’s my wife, it is, and Hakon,’ Andor began, ‘I’ve been told Margot has seized my city, and she is going to release Hakon from his cell…they’re plotting to rule together, proclaiming to be the new king and queen of Askavold, and Balfold.’
‘Shit.’ Jorgen said, scratching his head, his heart beat quickening in his scarred chest. ‘That was not the news I had expected to hear from your lips.’
‘And the worst thing is I cannot turn back now and deal with the problem – Margot knows I can’t. I’m going to be sailing north – Thorbjorn has been missing for some time, and I hope to find my cousin as I make my way to North Rock.’
‘North Rock?’ Jorgen’s voice was quick to change, and his face fell even harder, his eyes flaring with confusion and fear – Jorgen had heard the rumours, of who had returned to the palace that dominated his nightmares. Andor knew the truth, the truth that Jorgen had spent a decade trying to forget; Andor Grey was one of the very few people who knew what had happened to Jorgen Black in North Rock during the Great War, just before the old king’s head was struck from his shoulders. Andor could see the change in his eyes, the way the guilt plagued him, the way his body grew tense and rigid. ‘It’s Caeda, isn’t it? It was not just a rumour?’ Jorgen asked, almost chocking. ‘Kodran was frightened she had returned to the home she was once chased from.’
