by T L Drew
Goran hadn’t believed the tales. He wished he had.
The Afterling King tried not to watch – but he ate the meat with them, trying to convince himself that taking Andor from his throne was more important than what conspired on Solitude Island, and let it happen again and again until it felt normal.
Several weeks then passed Goran by. They were almost running out of time before Andor’s army came. He drank with the Afterling and walked the docks with the Master, surveying the progress of the northern tower slaves as they built his armada. He barely thought of the slaves as his desire for revenge dominated his every thought. Goran was desperate to go home, and the time was fast approaching – he was quick to forget that only a few weeks prior, he had been one of the slaves, dreaming of escape, praying for a way out.
‘We still don’t have enough men,’ Goran Grey spoke bluntly to the Master of Solitude as they watched the slow construction of their fleet, the docks being walked by Afterling men brandishing whips. ‘My brother has an entire army...and we have but a quarter of the men he has, perhaps even less, and if he has managed to get the Black family to align with him, then he’ll have the most powerful kingdom in the world behind him.’
‘An army of a hundred Afterling men can defeat one thousand. We’re stronger and faster.’ The Master of Solitude was quick to interject, pacing along the docks, his nine-tailed golden whip grasped tightly in his giant bronze hands. They passed by dead slaves having fallen from hunger and exhaustion as their bodies lined the docks.
‘It is still not enough.’ Goran muttered under his breath as the Master lashed the whip in warning to a group of slaves carrying planks of splintering wood, their pace slow and staggering. The whip caught with the skin on the back of a man’s calves, causing him to scream, before they quickened their laboured pace. Goran didn’t blink an eye, thinking of revenge. ‘How do we get more men? The people of Askavold won’t be so quick to follow a man with an Afterling army.’ He uttered as the Master continued to lash his wicked whip.
‘We can do it alone.’ The Master insisted over the screams of the slaves he lashed upon the bloodstained docks. Goran’s thoughts quickly turned to Margot – she was the queen now, and even so, her father’s army would follow her every word, her every command. Her father was Lord of the Frey – with several thousand men at his disposal. ‘I need to send a raven to Queen Margot – if she chooses to fight against her husband, who I know will take no convincing to betray him, then perhaps we will have enough men, with her father’s forces behind us.’
‘That is risky business, little king, to send a raven into the heart of the city in which we plan to steal from the king, especially to send a letter into the Stone Keep itself.’ The Master said in a dark voice, unconvinced.
‘If we attack the city with so few in numbers, then we fare no better than dead men.’ Goran assured, knowing every entrance and exit, every twist and turn, and every guard’s station upon the walls. ‘I know the city – I lived there my entire life. I know my brother and I know who will be stood behind him. Reidar Black…Emery Steel…William Ansfrid and even Hakon’s mercenaries. I have my power, but I am certain he has power too, and if the Black family has aligned themselves with my brother, then they have double the power that I possess.’
The Master pondered Goran’s words, his free hand void of his whip running down the dreaded locks of his black hair, the ends touching his golden waist. ‘If the letter falls into the king’s hands, or someone other than the queen’s, then they will know we are coming.’
‘It may be our only option.’
‘And what of this Black family?’ The Master asked, staring at the smaller man through the holes in his mask. ‘How do you know they will fight beside your brother?’
‘I don’t – but Jorgen Black always had a weak spot for the bastard,’ Goran explained, thinking about the man who had forced his hands around Goran’s neck and grasped forcefully at his throat until he could barely breath. ‘It would surprise me none.’
‘You’re telling me that the wife of the man we are trying to murder if our only chance at taking the throne?’
‘We send a raven to the queen – she mothered my children. I doubt she would let the letter fall into the hands of someone who might betray us, and if we kill her husband, she will remain queen; I’ll take her as my wife, after I kill my own.’
‘It is not much of a plan, but it appears to be all we have,’ the Master agreed, watching as their few ships were nearing completion. There were barely enough to take all the Afterling soldiers. ‘A few more days and we should be ready to set sail.’
Goran doubted it, but soon they would run out of time.
The sound of rapid footsteps caught Goran’s attention; he turned his head to face the sound, spying a young Afterling boy clad in a sweaty golden tunic and an unused blade upon his hip, speeding across the slippery docks in the lightly falling rain. The Master too heard the boy’s swift approach, tightening his hand upon his golden whip like a man on edge, ready for anything, and relaxing his broad body once his eyes fell upon a man of his own kind.
‘My king, my master,’ the young Afterling man ran across the docks, his bronze face reddening and his breathing laboured, slowing his speed as he approached the Afterling King and the Solitude Master. ‘I come with news, from the south.’
Goran stepped closer to the young white-eyed boy, his interest peaked. ‘What have you heard?’
‘King Andor has left Tronenpoint, due north, they say,’ the young man informed him, his body bent over double as he struggled to make words.
‘What reason does my brother have to tread north?’ Goran questioned.
‘I do not know, Your Grace,’ the boy said between breaths, ‘but the capital has been left the hands of Emery Steel, during the king’s absence.’
Goran scoffed at the name; he knew that the fat lord of Hollow Keep would align himself closely to his younger brother. ‘What does this news matter to me?’
‘Within a few days of the king’s absence, Emery Steel was murdered, and the capital of Askavold has been apprehended; the city has been lost to your brother, Your Grace, and still he does not ride back from his trek north.’
‘Are you certain this is true?’ Goran asked, and the young Afterling man nodded his head. ‘Who has taken the city?’
‘Queen Margot.’
Goran’s heart began to beat wildly in his chest. His emerald eyes were quick to find the Master of Solitude, wide and desperate. ‘We must set sail now,’ he insisted, urgency in his voice. ‘We must make it to Tronenpoint before my brother returns from his travels, before his army come to reclaim it; we may have the men that the queen needs to defeat Andor’s army, when he returns, and keep a hold of the city.’
‘But the armada is not yet complete,’ the Master interjected, his white eyes gazing over all of their ships, how they were so close to completion.
‘It matters not – we go with what we have, before the bastard returns.’
MARGOT
Margot embraced the old man, feeling how thin he had grown as her arms wrapped around his small frame, seeing the eye void from his face as she let him go. Although she had heard about what had happened to Hakon’s eye in the western lands, seeing it was far worse. The moment her gaze fell upon the eye, she was not full of sympathy; she was laced with anger she could not control. Mercer could see the anger in her eyes and took a step backwards, void from her sight. ‘You’re a bloody fool Hakon,’ Margot seethed at him with a dark gaze like there was acrimonious taste on her tongue as Hakon walked free from his cell, following Margot to the end of the long staircase which led from the cells to the confines of the Stone Keep. ‘We take Askavold first, then Balfold, what made you think this was a good idea, to go against what we had discussed? What we had planned?’
‘Margot, listen to me,’ Hakon begun, but the young mother stepped before him with solemnity, wrath dancing in her shadowy eyes like lambent flames.
‘No, Hakon, you will listen to me; we
had a fucking plan. Acquire one of those bloody rings, take the south, then take the west. What was going through your imprudent mind when you killed the western king and left his son for dead? Are you a bloody fool? I never took you as one, not before now.’
‘Left his son for dead? Jorgen Black is dead.’ Hakon spoke with certainty, reaching for her arm.
‘He’s alive,’ Margot said confidently, stepping away from the old man. ‘He’s alive and he’s coming for you.’
‘No, he can’t be.’
‘Your Grace, I was there, I saw Jorgen Black fall…there is no way he is still alive, not after what we did to him. You could not even see his face, with all the blood that stuck to him, and arrows piercing his flesh. He was dead when we left him, I am certain of it.’ Mercer said with surety, defending his commander.
‘That may be so, but before the departure of my husband, I overheard talk, that the new King of Balfold is very much alive, so I sent someone, to see if my husband’s words were true…and it is more than true. Jorgen Black is alive, and he rides south as we speak. He’s coming for you.’ Margot’s voice was beyond concerned. She tapped her foot wildly over the stone floor, her eyes meeting with each of the one-eyed men. She could see the fear on Hakon’s gaunt face, a beard on his chin that was not there when he left the south. He had been in a cell for too long. Margot had left him in the cell for longer than she had intended, especially when she had to kill Emery Steel first. She had done it herself with the pointed end of a knife, her first direct kill with her own hand.
‘The god’s have forsaken me, and they saw it in mind to return Jorgen Black to our lands from the dead.’ Hakon stammered, his head lowering to the stones, his heart racing in his gaunt chest. ‘There must be something we can do.’
‘This is your problem, Hakon, so bloody deal with it before you mess things up further.’ The queen said, turning on her heel over the arctic stone, drawing her flaming gaze from him.
‘Margot, listen,’ he grasped her wrist, turning her to face him, her eyes meeting with the one that remained. ‘You know why I did what I did – I don’t regret it. Balfold is almost ours, we just need to be rid of Jorgen Black – he’s weak, wounded and careless.’
‘He’s not the only problem – you may be free from your bindings and the city may be in our control, but Andor is still alive, and he is still the king.’
‘He’ll die in the north. We just need to wait, and in the meantime, we deal with the western king.’ Mercer interjected from behind the Queen of Askavold.
‘And how do you plan on doing that? I cannot spend my life cleaning up Hakon’s messes.’
Hakon looked desperate. ‘I’ll think of something.’
‘I should just throw you to the crows – let them deal with you.’ Margot uttered, her eyes finding the old man, before releasing a frustrated breath from her rosy lips and her body eased in her anger. Her eyes softened. ‘This is your last chance; mess up again and I can no longer help you.’
‘I won’t, trust me, I’ll deal with the western king. I’ll find a way.’
‘Start with the second in command of the king’s guard, Nazir.’
‘Nazir? He knows nothing – we tried to pry information from him, but the boy does not know what you think he knows.’ Mercer interjected.
‘Then you have not tried hard enough,’ she spat with venom at Mercer One-Eye, her fury returning as quickly as it left her. ‘Hakon, you have a special touch – you can make men talk. My husband whispers in Nazir’s ear, tells him things others do not know. Nazir is also a dear friend of Jorgen Black. I have seen them together numerous times in the Stone Keep during the summer months, and the boy is known to visit the western king in the western lands. He knows many things; the weaknesses of both of our enemies, and if he still fails to talk...he’ll fight for his life in the pits. He will talk if he survives.’
‘Are you certain that’s wise?’ Mercer asked.
‘Like you care what is wise and what is not; you get your damn gold.’
‘Aye, that may be so, but I still know a good idea when I hear one, and killing the boy in the arena won’t give us the information we need.’
‘If he does not talk from torture then it’s doubtful he ever will,’ she said with certainty.
Several days passed them by; Mercer’s torture had failed, and Hakon took the mercenary’s place. Still, Nazir did not talk. He was a strong boy and his tongue remained silent. They tried everything they could think of; Hakon ripped fingernails from Nazir’s bronze fingers one by one, broke several of his ribs, cut and slashed at his skin, and even jarred the end of a small dagger into his mouth, as Andor had done to Goran. He put him on the rack, waterboarded him, and even hammered nails into his feet to find the information Nazir knew. ‘What did Andor Grey whisper in your ear, the day he left Tronenpoint?’ Hakon asked, twisting the knife deeper into Nazir’s shoulder as he lay bound upon a blood-stained rack in the dark dungeons of Tronenpoint. Margot watched closely, perched upon a chair in the corner of the room, as pretty as a picture amongst the gore. ‘What did he tell you? What did his words mean? What secrets does he tell you?’ Hakon said again, louder over Nazir’s screams, the colour almost gone from his bronze skin. He twisted the blade deeper. Blood ran down Nazir’s torso like a crimson waterfall, but still he did not talk. He spat from his broken lips, smacking into Hakon’s gaunt face.
Hakon wiped the spit with the back of his blooded sleeve, pulled the blade from Nazir’s shoulder, and narrowed his remaining dull eye. ‘Is Jorgen riding south, to take my head?’ He asked another question, despite days of interrogation. Nazir said nothing through pained breaths, his brown eyes glassy, but there was still strength in him, enough to keep him from talking. Nazir was determined not to tell them what he knew; the King of Askavold and the King of Balfold were two of his dearest friends, and he would rather die than reveal what he knew. Margot could sense it.
‘He’s not going to talk.’ Margot said with frustration, coming to a graceful stand in the foul smell of the dark dungeons, her hand finding its way onto Hakon’s shoulder, urging him backwards, away from the tortured man. ‘It has been days and still he refuses to speak. He knows things, many things.’
Hakon lowered his hand with the blade in his palm. He let out a sigh of frustration as Margot moved from his side and in front of the rack where Nazir was bound. She gazed into his deep, brown eyes. ‘Nazir, you’re going to listen to me,’ she said, her eyes narrowing, careful her ebony dress did not touch the blood that split across the filthy floor. ‘You’re going to be released from the rack. You’ll be granted a few days to recover from what Mercer and Hakon have done to you, and then you will fight for your life in the arena. Survive and we’ll give you another chance to tell us what you know.’
Nazir spat at her feet, and kept his mouth closed.
The day came and went before the annual games – which were held in the centre of Tronenpoint in the legendary frozen arena – were to commence, a tradition which Andor Grey had abolished within his very first week upon the throne, a tradition which Hakon and Margot were not quite so keen to be rid of, and the common folk of Tronenpoint did not appear to be too displeased with its sudden return. Margot could hear the sounds of cheering, bloodcurdling screams and steel clashing against steel in the bitter cold with a grin on her face from ear to ear.
The vast population of the city were in attendance to the dark open arena, built from brick so dark it was almost black and lined with snow and ice. The queen watched from the highest point of a tall grey podium, her father on her left, roaring as the men fought in the snowy pits, and Hakon Grey on her right, as each sat on neighbouring throne-like chairs. Hakon was clad in the finest white furs which had once belonged to his brother, the furs he had died in, the blood still faintly staining them. There was a newly crafted leather patch across the eye that had been taken from Hakon and a newly wielded blade upon his hip even as he sat upon his throne-like chair, crafted from dragon bone. A crown had been p
laced upon his bald head; Margot wore a similar one herself, crafted from a simple silver, without jewels or gems, placed upon her long black curls and on top of Hakon’s bald, scarred head, the self-proclaimed king, and the self-proclaimed queen, working together. Margot sat among grey and white banners, soldiers and mercenaries, Mercer One-Eye protectively stood behind his fellow one-eyed companion. Her daughter cried frustratingly in her arms as Margot’s eyes flickered from Hakon, as he sat proudly, smugly, and fiercely upon his chair, moving from the Crow Killer into the perfect view of the pits, where a man lay beheaded in the snow and another holding a bloody sword. ‘Take her away and quieten her,’ Margot ordered a girl slave from behind her, forcing the young infant into her arms. ‘I can’t cope with her crying.’
‘Of course, Your Grace.’ The slave girl quickly nodded her head and took baby Morgwais from her mother, the child crying wildly with fear of the sounds that coursed through the bloody city. Margot heard Hakon chuckle from her side as the infant was carried away.
‘She should get used to these sounds,’ Hakon spoke to Margot as the crowd roared, another head sheered from their body in the pits. ‘Morgwais will hear these things as she grows. She’ll see them, and learn to enjoy them as we do.’
‘Morgwais is too young,’ the queen said with certainty, ‘she is but a year old.’
‘It’s never too young, right lad?’ Hakon’s attention was drawn from Margot Rose, his eyes finding her eldest child, a boy who was barely five years of age, Rollo Grey, standing at his mother’s side between Margot and the Crow Killer, his face straight, his gaze staring down into the pits, a sight too horrific for such a young boy to see. The boy did not appear to hear Hakon’s words. The old man put a hand upon Rollo Grey’s shoulder; the five-year-old boy turned his dark eyes to Hakon. ‘Do these sights frighten you, boy?’ Hakon asked Rollo, feeling Margot’s eyes upon him, listening to his every word over the sounds of death and steel.
