by H. J. Cronin
‘How did my father escape?’ asked Johan, mesmerised by the tale, but grieving for the family he would never meet.
‘I was coming to that before you interrupted,’ Ardag said light-heartedly. ‘Your father managed to escape with you – you were maybe six months old. My father was the first to respond to the Vandalore clan’s attack, he flew in and rescued you and your father, and then brought you both back to my home. That was the first time I saw you. My father insisted that you be kept safe, and suggested sending you to another world until you were of an age to return, but your father said no. He wanted to be with you. Eventually, though, my father persuaded him that it was the best thing to do, the only way his clan would survive. Only one with magical blood could come with you, which was where I came in. I watched over you and helped you grow in that other world, we even fought in a war together, which of course you do not remember. My father set a time for your return so that when you reached a certain age, you would be transported back to this world, the real world. At that moment you died in the other world and returned home.’ Johan nodded his understanding. ‘Your father died twelve years after we left. He remained with my father for a year and then sought a way to stop Count Darkool if he ever returned – even the Night Hunters didn’t know how to stop him. So this brings us to where we are now, in a cold forest in another part of the world, seeking out the one person who knows what to do: the Lone Druid.’
Johan smiled at Ardag’s last few words, and then sighed, thinking of the horror his family went through; he felt extremely proud of a father he never knew. He said nothing to Ardag, who realised how much his tale of Haramithir had moved Johan.
The small party walked on in silence for another hour or so before they reached a small glade where they came upon a bizarre sight. In the centre of the glade was a small dwelling made from wood, much like the houses of the town, but curiously no snow fell on the grass that covered the ground around it. Although it still felt cold, the grass was beautifully green and looked as if the sun constantly shone on it.
The company approached a moon-shaped door with strange writing on it. Chief Folkmar knocked twice and the door opened inwards. ‘Johan, Ardag, and Finnvid, come with me, everybody else wait outside,’ he said.
‘What about Bry? We won’t go anywhere without her,’ Johan protested.
‘The seer does not pass information in the presence of women,’ the chief replied sternly and walked on into the dwelling.
Bry put her hand on Johan’s shoulder and said softly, ‘I will be fine here. I have these big men protecting me, go on in.’ Johan paused for a moment, then nodded and followed the others into the dwelling.
The atmosphere inside the hovel was mysterious and peculiar. Dead animals lined the walls and ceiling. A strange smell filled the air, a kind of rotten vegetable smell. In the centre there was a small rounded table lined with different types of apparatus, which Johan assumed was for some kind of alchemy. Sitting at the table was a woman in a black robe, the hood pulled up onto her head, staring at the new arrivals. She had grey, wrinkled skin, broken black lips and long, damp-looking grey hair; most shocking of all was the single eye in her forehead and empty sockets where a normal person’s eyes belonged.
‘For what reason does the chief of the Mjorn come to my home?’ the crone asked in a hoarse voice.
‘We come to seek information, Seer of the Cold Wood,’ the chief announced.
‘You bring outlanders to me, Chief Folkmar. Why do you bring outlanders into my home?’ she said coldly.
Johan, unsettled by the situation, spoke up, ‘I thought you could see into the future, why do you play games if you knew we were coming?’ Chief Folkmar shot him an angry glare.
‘Foresight takes great effort to perform. I do not sit here predicting when people will come to see me, young man,’ the seer replied, staring into Johan’s eyes with her single eye, causing him to shudder. She then looked back at the chief and continued, ‘What information do you require, Chief Folkmar?’
‘These outlanders come telling tales of an evil in their lands that will spread and engulf this world in darkness,’ the chief replied.
The seer sat back with a disturbed look on her face; she stroked her chin and paused, considering. The companions looked at each other with puzzled expressions. The crone continued stroking her chin and then looked up at the men in front of her.
‘What is this evil you speak of?’ she asked.
Ardag cleared his throat and explained to the seer the troubles of Wilmurin; he included everything from the beginning to the moment they had left their land. The seer sat silently, absorbing all the information. Chief Folkmar also listened attentively as Ardag explained the situation, and even shuddered when Ardag told them about the destruction of the world they knew.
After Ardag had finished the seer began her response, ‘A horrible tale it is, Ardag, your land is indeed on the brink of destruction and only Johan can save it.’ She paused for a moment before continuing, ‘You come here seeking this hermit in the Cold Wood. I can tell you where he is, but why do you need foresight?’ she asked, directing the question at Chief Folkmar.
‘If the druids venture into the Cold Wood alone they will become lost and die,’ Chief Folkmar began. ‘With our aid they have a better chance, but I will not risk the lives of my people for outlanders unless you can confirm that this Count Darkool may indeed reach these shores.’
The seer nodded and thought for a moment. ‘Very well,’ was all she said. She stood up from her table and walked over to another at the back of the room, which was covered with various otherworldly items. She picked up a jar, a branch, a bone, and a small white bag, walked back to her guests and placed the items on the table. ‘I shall perform a foresight spell: a jar of eggs, one day before they hatch, a branch from a dead tree, a bone from the hand of a giant, and a bag of bone dust. I will look into the future and see if Count Darkool will come here.’
She placed the branch and bone into a large mortar, sprinkled the bone dust on top and tipped the jar of eggs over the strange ingredients. Now using a pestle she beat the ingredients into a thick paste. She picked up a small bottle from below the table and looked up at her guests, who looked back at her curiously, and she smiled. ‘A bottle of ale to make it taste nice,’ she said with a wink. She poured the ale onto the paste and mixed again. The mixture was a strange colour; she poured it into a jug and drank it.
Johan found it hard not to gag at the sight; he had never seen witchcraft before, and neither had Ardag, who flinched at the spectacle. The seer closed her eye after drinking the mixture and laid her head down on the table. Suddenly with a gasp she sat up and her eye glowed green, wide open as if looking past her guests and into the distance.
‘I have seen him!’ she bellowed. ‘High Count Darkool is his name! Wilmurin is in flames, its people enslaved and butchered. No living things draw breath. There is no light or song. Once the living have been devoured, High Count Darkool will send his vast legions abroad, they swallow the beauty of the world and all in it. Millions call him master, the sea is vanquished of life and eventually High Count Darkool reaches Jotun. Your tribe, Chief Folkmar, is in your son’s hands and is wiped out by an endless horde of undead warriors who have already walked over the world.’
Johan swallowed in fear, as did the chief. Silence followed; no one dared to speak a word. Johan broke the silence, ‘You see Chief Folkmar, the world we know is in grave peril.’
‘Indeed it is, Johan,’ the chief replied, staring blankly at the seer. ‘The seer predicted that three outlanders would come to Jotun to seek aid and that has been fulfilled. Her foresight is trustworthy, we must act immediately.’
‘Is the future changeable?’ Ardag asked.
The seer laughed before speaking, ‘The future has been seen and is set in motion, but the future can always be changed, Ardag, son of the Eagle.’
‘We must do something immediately Chief Folkmar,’ Johan said to the chief. ‘We have little tim
e.’
Chief Folkmar nodded. ‘We return to my home now to draw up plans for the journey to meet this Lone Druid, he is a hermit living deep in the Cold Wood, and the road is perilous.’
He made to leave when the seer stopped him, ‘One moment Chief Folkmar, I request a private audience with Ardag.’
Ardag looked bewildered, but before Johan could challenge the seer, Ardag gave him a comforting look to tell him that he was unafraid. Chief Folkmar looked at the seer questioningly and then nodded. Johan and the chief left Ardag alone with the seer, Johan feeling slightly apprehensive.
The seer stared at Ardag who in turn gazed back at her. ‘Do you know why I have asked you to stay, Ardag, son of the Eagle?’ she asked him.
‘I can only guess you have further information for me,’ he replied.
‘I have seen the world as it is, I have seen your home. Your family,’ she said not giving away her intent.
‘My family…?’ Ardag asked the seer, feeling somewhat uneasy.
‘I will come to that matter once I tell you about Johan,’ replied the seer, pointing towards an empty chair to her left, signalling Ardag to take a seat.
‘Tell me of my family!’ Ardag demanded, becoming angry.
The seer put a long, bony finger to her lips to silence Ardag. ‘I will tell you of your family, but first I must tell you what I have seen of Johan,’ the seer reasoned.
‘Go on,’ Ardag said, containing his rare temper.
‘I have the power to see what will be if the world is left untouched. I also have the power to see what will happen if you are successful,’ the seer said, then paused for a moment as Ardag absorbed her words. ‘I have seen a great battle on Wilmurin involving hundreds of thousands of soldiers on either side. The battle is eventually finished, I could not make out any of the combatants save for you and Johan. You were standing over his lifeless body.’
A look of horror spread over Ardag’s face; he cast down his eyes and fought back tears. He then looked back up at the seer, seeing no emotion in the witch. He spoke softly, ‘How will he die?’
‘This is a question to which I do not know the answer, but Johan will die if you succeed, that much I do know,’ the seer replied, as kindly as she could.
‘How will I tell him?’ Ardag asked.
The seer thought for a moment before speaking, ‘I would advise you to keep it from him. If he hears of this it may jeopardise the whole quest.’
‘I cannot keep this from him,’ Ardag responded boldly.
‘Your responsibility is to protect Johan so that when his time comes he is ready to fulfil his destiny,’ she replied coldly.
Ardag considered the witch’s words. ‘Very well then, I will not tell him, although I feel I should. He is the priority,’ he conceded. He paused for a moment before continuing, ‘Now, what of my family?’
‘My vision of Wilmurin showed me some news that you will not take kindly,’ she said carefully.
‘Go on,’ Ardag said, pressing the matter.
‘Your father, the Eagle, is dead, as are your wife and child, killed in cold blood at the hands of the enemy,’ the seer sadly.
Ardag was silent for a moment, as myriad thoughts filled his head; he wept, but quickly controlled himself. His wife, his child, and his father, all dead. He managed to utter only a few words, ‘How did they die?’
‘Your father was slain by High Count Darkool in a great battle. Your wife and child were slaughtered by an evil that has not been known on this world, a lich king called Shalon. He is coming for you, although where he is I do not know.’
‘A lich king?’ questioned Ardag, rage building up inside.
‘A skeletal king of the dead, powerful in magic and dealing death to the living. There is only one who is more evil than he and that is High Count Darkool. This Shalon is coming for Johan, I fear he is coming to Jotun as we speak,’ the seer said, sighing.
‘How can we defeat him?’ Ardag asked, his thoughts running wild.
‘Be careful, Ardag, he is both clever and powerful. More than a match for you and your friends,’ the seer warned.
Suddenly Ardag’s eyes lit up as a thought came into his mind. ‘Recently I have noticed strange sensations in my body, a magical feeling. I wake up with knowledge of spells that I never had before. This explains it all – when my father died his ability passed on to me.’
‘I can sense the power in you, Ardag,’ the seer said; she walked over to Ardag and placed both of her hands on his face. ‘Oh yes, I can feel the power, every day it gets stronger.’
‘What does this mean? Could I challenge this Shalon?’
‘Only the gods know, you may need to start using the spells you have become aware of, get used to them and understand them. Prepare for an eventual confrontation with this coming abomination. If you reach the same level of power as your father, your strength could be enough to stop the lich king.’
Ardag smiled and nodded, accepting his new responsibility. ‘Can I prevent Johan’s downfall?’ he asked, with a sudden change in mood.
‘The past can never be changed but the future can always be altered. It is not by chance you have come to me. I have passed on my knowledge of Johan’s death so that you can work to alter his destiny. Keep him close and change the course of the future.’
Ardag nodded again and sucked in a deep breath. He had to be brave and strong for his friend. The seer bowed her head; she clearly had nothing more to say. Ardag said his farewell and left the small dwelling; the cold outside hit him like a knife, – he had become so used to the warmth inside that it made the outside feel colder. His companions were waiting for him. They smiled at him; his eye caught Johan’s so he smiled back, feeling a sadness inside from the information he had just received from the seer. Thoughts of his wife and child never left his mind.
7
Darkool’s Prisoner
Bethegar and Parmeus stood in front of High Count Darkool looking like beggars. The High Count laughed. ‘King Bethegar and King Parmeus,’ he mocked. ‘Welcome, I trust you are enjoying your stay here in my camp?’
They looked at him blankly, Bethegar fighting back an urge to retaliate.
Darkool continued. ‘I shouldn’t call you kings any more, now you are nothing more than pathetic men without a clan. Your war is over, gentlemen, soon you will both perish.’ He motioned to a guard who came behind Parmeus and kicked him to the floor. Darkool approached the floored man and stood above him, like a beast looking at its prey. ‘It is time for your clan to meet its demise, Parmeus.’ With that he pounced on Parmeus, sunk his fangs into the man’s neck, and drank him dry. Bethegar could do nothing to stop the sadistic count as two guards restrained him.
Bethegar snarled. ‘I promise you one thing,’ he said to Darkool through gritted teeth. ‘It may not be now, but one day will be your downfall and there will be a druid standing above your corpse.’
Darkool laughed and mocked Bethegar. ‘I do not have an end, I am infinite, I am powerful, I am a god. Your corpse will be long gone – worm food – whilst I will sit upon my throne, enjoying an endless reign.’
Bethegar spat and stared at the High Count defiantly. ‘Your end will come, Darkool, I may not be the one to see to that but I know it’s coming.’
Darkool cackled. ‘You speak of this Johan, son of Haramithir? He cannot dictate my end. Do you not know? I have a very dark and powerful servant seeking out that boy as we speak. He will destroy Johan and all who are with him. He is Shalon and he is a lich king, more powerful than even the Eagle. Johan will meet a brutal and horrific end at the hands of my servant.’
Bethegar tried to hide his shock; for the first time in a long time he was speechless. If Darkool knew so much about Johan, and if what he said about this lich king was true, then the boys’ journey was futile. Johan, Ardag, and Bry would all be killed. Bethegar missed his younger sister dearly; he felt utterly helpless, here, in a tent, in the middle of the enemy camp. All he could do was hope that the companions would find a w
ay.
‘Your words are like poison, Darkool,’ Bethegar snarled. ‘I will neither listen nor entertain you.’
‘You are not here to entertain me, you are here to witness the downfall of the last stronghold –the one that belongs to the Clan of the Lion – once this clan falls, Wilmurin is mine,’ Darkool said in a sinister tone.
Bethegar scoffed and shook his head. ‘Your victory will not be complete, it never will. There will always be resistance, long after the clans are all gone,’ he said defiantly.
Darkool looked irritated by Bethegar’s comments. ‘Then I will crush every inch of resistance – no one can stand against me,’ Darkool said, slamming his fist into his other open hand. He pointed down to the corpse of Parmeus and continued, ‘I started with your comrade. Lerthayl will be the next morsel of resistance to be crushed, and then, you.’
Bethegar laughed at High Count Darkool; the count lunged at Bethegar and grabbed him by the throat. He lifted the large druid off the floor, choking the bound man. Bethegar managed to utter a few words, ‘You will never triumph.’
‘You fool, Bethegar, I already have won this war,’ Darkool said, gazing into Bethegar’s bloodshot eyes. He dropped the druid to the floor and stared down at him. ‘I never lose. I have been brought back to bring order to Wilmurin, to the world. Having so many kings is absurd, there should only be one who makes choices, only one who can rule, that is my destiny. I crave world domination so that the world can be ruled by one, by me. Once resistance is wiped out and the population has been decimated to a more controllable size, then we will have peace. The dead will rule for eternity whilst mortals come and go, forever serving us.’
