A King Of Crows

by T L Drew

  He could barely comprehend that Erik, and even Elinor, were never coming back as he dragged the pointed end of his long sword in the light snow, finding himself in front of them on the outskirts of the Hold, frozen in place, quiet and still. He gazed at his brother, his face creased in pain, the knife half drawn across his throat, a frozen blooded trail spilling down his torso, eyes bulging in agony. His eyes glossed to Elinor, the sword frozen inside of her chest, her mouth ajar as she screamed. He stared at them both for the longest of time, Hakon Grey lying in the snow at his feet, his mind void of thought, with only a heavy heart and a lump in his throat that he couldn’t shake.

  After what felt like an eternity, his body cold to the bone as the snow fell lightly into his dark hair, he placed his hand to his brother’s cheek. He wasn’t warm anymore; he was still and lifeless, frozen in an icy coffin, his face frozen into the pain he felt as the knife dragged across his throat – Jorgen prayed Anduin’s Ice had ended their suffering.

  ‘Your Grace!’ Jorgen heard Jakub’s voice below over the hillside; he wasn’t alone, accompanied by hard riders, all who had survived Hakon’s attack on their camp, weapons ready to fight – but the fighting had already ended. Jorgen’s eyes found Jakub, leading the charge, riding hard on the back of a white horse. Nazir, Archer, Lord Caspian and many others had survived the attack on their White Woods camp.

  Jakub slowed his mount, seeing the dead, the frozen bodies and the blood, a dragon perched calmly on the Whitehold walls, and silence that filled the air, a battle won, with only a man and his dragon. ‘Jorgen,’ Jakub’s voice quietened as he approached the king, few of their men remaining, dismounting from his warhorse. The king said no words, the lump still stuck in his throat, his eyes returning to those that he’d lost.

  He heard Jakub’s footsteps moving towards him. ‘Elinor? Is that...is that her? Is that my sister?’ Jakub’s voice broke, crunching towards what had been his sister, staring at the glass like statue, the blade through her chest.

  ‘I was too late,’ Jorgen chocked, staring at their faces, biting back the urge to give up. ‘Anduin ended their pain.’

  Jorgen didn’t want to look at the young boy’s face, but he could hear him, trying not to cry, touching the frozen statue of what had once been his beloved sister.

  ‘Where is Hakon Grey?’ The voice from Lord Caspian asked from on top of his white warhorse, riding towards them, his eyes finding the frozen dead, his voice quiet.

  The western king motioned to the still man upon the floor, continuing to bleed, his chest rising and falling with difficulty. ‘He’s not dead,’ Jorgen told them, his eyes finding Hakon’s unconscious body, lying in the snow, bleeding, without an eye and without a hand. ‘I wouldn’t give him an easy way out, certainly not when he claims to have my betrothed.’

  ‘I’m going to kill him myself,’ Jakub leapt forward, clutching the handle of his blade, ready to draw, his eyes filled with tears and hatred.

  ‘No, you’re not,’ Jorgen spat, pushing Jakub backwards with all the strength he had left. ‘Killing him now...he won’t know how it feels to lose everyone he loves – death is too quick, too good for him, after all he’s done, Jakub. His life cannot end with a sword in his chest; he will suffer, like no one has ever suffered before, do you hear me? He will feel what we have felt – and worse – before his life ends.’

  Jakub could no longer fight his tears – they fell down his flushed cheeks, sniffling in the cold, and he released his grasp upon his sword, letting Jorgen embrace the young boy, crying into his shoulder.

  ‘I have to know what he has done to Nora,’ Jorgen told him, ‘only then we can kill him.’

  ‘What are we going to do with him, Your Grace?’ Henry Arrow asked, gazing at Hakon’s still body, lying in the snow, blood staining around him as Jorgen comforted the fourteen-year-old boy.

  ‘Have him tended to – I don’t plan on him bleeding out before we return home.’ Jorgen choked on his words, his arm firmly around Jakub.

  ‘Is that it?’ Lord Caspian asked. ‘Is the war over?’

  ‘The war has only just begun,’ Jorgen told them. ‘The Queen of Askavold was his ally...and so she too is our enemy; we won’t rest until all who have wronged us face justice. Margot Rose will try to take Hakon Grey back from us.’

  ‘And I will stand with you.’ Jakub told him, pulling backwards, feeling what Jorgen felt, their minds both twisting into desires of vengeance, without anything left to lose.

  ‘For now, we ride for home – Hakon Grey will face justice in the west, where he took our fathers.’ Jorgen said surely, turning his gaze away from the dead, and his dragon took flight. ‘Search the castle for my betrothed before we depart. Search everywhere,’ he commanded, a lump in his throat. ‘We must find Nora.’

  They did not find her.

  A day and a night passed them by before they begun the long ride home – a place that had been burnt to the ground, a city that only years could repair, but they would rebuild everything that was taken from them, and destroy all those who had taken it. Hakon had awoken, his wounds tended to, so he would face whatever fate that Jorgen would decide. Jakub rode beside his king, silent and vengeful, a wagon pulling behind them, carrying those that they loved, those who had died, who they would return to where they belonged – in the west.

  Anduin roared overhead, the dragon’s powerful songs filling the air.

  Jorgen led what was left of his army upon a black mare, two rings upon his finger, and Hakon Grey trailed behind, tied to the back of Jorgen’s horse, walking behind in the snow with painful, icy feet, a hand void from his body. ‘Don’t fall behind now, old man,’ the western king spat over his shoulder, his eyes landing upon the old man who looked only pitiful now, pitiful and entirely alone. ‘We have a long way yet to go.’

  EPILOGUE

  Goran’s feet touched land for the first time in what felt like an eternity, snow under his skin. His wounds had healed, but the prince hadn’t, and his determination to kill his brother was more powerful than ever, the ring comforting on the base of his finger.

  Only the thoughts of ending the life of Andor Grey pressed him onwards as he endured the long, painful journey across the howling sea south of Solitude, and Goran’s thoughts had become twisted and consumed.

  The grass was frozen solid underneath a blanket of fresh snow, but relief washed over the prince, for the first time in weeks his feet did not stand upon filthy, splintering desks, and upon the snow behind him stood an army, an army of white eyed men, ready to obey his every command. They still had many days left to sail until they returned to Tronenpoint, but as the snow fell down from the grey clouds and touched against his skin, Goran knew that he was finally home.