by Steve Feasey
Finishing her drink, she smiled at him. ‘Thank you, Lann. For everything.’ Her voice still sounded strained, and he guessed it must hurt her to speak. As if reading his thoughts, she shook her head. ‘I’m fine. You are a good healer, Lannigon Gudbrandr.’
‘You taught me well.’ He leaned forward. ‘Those creatures in the forest … What were they?’ he asked.
‘Kurgyres. They seek to take the thing most precious to each and every one of us living in this realm: our essence … souls, if you prefer. And if they had taken much more of mine, I would have surely died. It was fortunate you came when you did.’
‘Thanks to Halbe,’ he said, looking about him to see if the house wight was lurking in the shadows somewhere.
‘Kurgyres are not usually so bold,’ she said. ‘And I have never heard of them working together as they did against me. They are usually sneak-thieves, creeping up unexpectedly on their victim while they sleep.’ She shook her head.
The fire spat a small ember on to the hearth. ‘Before I was attacked I saw your god,’ she told him.
‘Rakur?’
The witch nodded, but seemed reluctant to continue.
‘What happened?’ he prompted.
‘He told me I would have need of the black blade in the near future. He was right. No ordinary weapon could have saved me from those monsters.’
She stared into the fire.
‘How did they come to be in the woods? I thought this place was protected by powerful majik.’
‘That is a good question.’ She leaned forward and placed her cup on the hearth. ‘The young necromancer you saw in your dream? His name is Kelewulf, and he is the son of our former king, Horst Rivengeld. The boy is possessed by a lich.’ She paused when it was clear her nephew had never heard the term before. ‘The undead soul of a powerful sorcerer,’ she explained.
‘Together they are trying to form a link between this world and the Void. In doing so, they are eroding the barriers that separate the two realms. These rifts between the worlds will become more common as the two continue to look at creating a more permanent opening, more so in places of majik, like this forest.’ She gave a small shrug. ‘Kurgyres are opportunistic creatures, and I was not paying enough attention.’
‘Neither were they,’ Lann said, glancing at the sword by his side.
‘No, they were not. And thanks to you, they won’t be back, to this world or any other.’ Fleya took a moment to study her nephew, thinking how much older he seemed; he had changed a great deal in such a short period of time. Although Lann had asked the question, this was not the first time Fleya had pondered the circumstances surrounding the creatures’ appearance in the wood. First a wyrewolf and now kurgyres had appeared in Lann’s vicinity, and she now suspected they had come here to kill him, and that Gord, and now herself, had merely been unlucky victims. Not wanting to scare her nephew, however, for now at least, she decided to keep her theories to herself. ‘The god Rakur also told me how we might find this young necromancer,’ she said.
‘He told you where Kelewulf is?’
‘Oh, come now. Do you really think the trickster god would come right out and tell me the location? No … but he did tell me who might know.’
There was something in the way she said this that told him she was already worried about whatever lay ahead. He waited.
‘King Mirvar’s son, Erik, is the key. He is in prison for his father’s murder, but I believe that Kelewulf is the real killer. We have to go to Stromgard and prove his innocence.’ Fleya stood. She moved towards the front door and picked up the large bag she kept next to it.
‘That sounds straightforward.’ Lann looked over at her, noting how she was checking the contents. ‘What aren’t you telling me?’
‘Rakur also told me we only have five days in which to save the new king. Two of these have already been wasted during my recovery. We must leave for Stromgard today.’
Stromgard
11
Erik Rivengeld looked across at the big, sleek rat sitting in the middle of the prison cell they both occupied. The creature used its front paws to comb its face, before turning its attention back to the morsel of bread that had fallen to the floor.
Why, rat, with all the other places in Stromgard you could be, would you choose to be here? Erik thought. He had no such choice. He had to either remain in this desolate prison, or else admit to something he had not done, and pay with his life.
Murder.
The word was bad enough. It had a nasty sound to it. And the particular murder he was accused of was the most heinous of all.
Patricide. Regicide.
A sob escaped him. The desperation he felt threatened to crush him, but he could not allow that. He could not give in to despair and self-pity. Not now. Taking a deep, shuddering breath he imagined what his father would say to him right now.
Don’t you cry, boy. You are a Volken prince.
No, not a prince; not any more. He was a Volken king. A harsh, humourless bark escaped him.
A king? A king in chains, with blood and dirt in his beard.
Astrid had been to see him yesterday. She believed him. The question was: did he believe in himself? Because there was a tiny part of his brain that whispered that maybe, just maybe, he was not innocent of the crime. The doubt came from the blank spots in his memory – two or three days when he could not remember where he had been and what he had done. Two or three days during which Mirvar was murdered. What if a madness had come upon him, and he’d done the deed without remembering? Or maybe it was the other way round, and murdering his father had caused his mind to erase the wicked act and the moments surrounding it? But why? Why would he kill a man he loved so much?
When his father had acceded to the throne, Erik could not help but wonder what it would be like to be king. Then, he saw only the glories of the role: the great stone chair in the longhouse, the white bearskin robe, the bejewelled sword hanging at his father’s side. And at times, when he was off guard, he’d allowed himself to anticipate his father’s death and how he would take Mirvar’s place on that great seat. But these were merely the imaginings of an immature young mind, and in the years that followed, Erik came to see the terrible burdens of the role. The weight of responsibility for the people of Stromgard and the kingdom beyond rested so heavily on his father’s shoulders that it threatened to crush the great man at times. It was an onerous load Erik was only too happy not to have to carry.
That word floated into his mind again.
Murder.
His father had deserved a hero’s end. He should have died with his people, axe and sword in hand, charging into battle and cutting enemies down like wheat. Instead he had died in his bed, writhing in agony. Erik’s cousin, Kelewulf, had volunteered to ride out in search of an antidote for the poison, leaving just as the witnesses started coming forward: people who’d told how they’d seen Prince Erik at some of the less reputable market stalls, buying the articles necessary to kill a man. The witnesses were many, and they spoke of how the prince went about his work with little care for who saw him. The same items had later been found hidden in his room, along with discarded clothes reeking of the vile concoction he’d prepared. And just like that, to the people of Stromgard, he’d gone from a beloved king-in-waiting to a monster.
Majik. Dark majik was at the heart of this. Groaning, Erik rested his head in his hands. What part had Kelewulf played in all this? As a youngster, his cousin had let slip his interest in majik. But without any formal training in the Art, Erik didn’t see how Kelewulf could be capable of weaving a web of corruption and deceit of the kind he now found himself trapped in. And even if he was, why would he do such a thing?
Not for the first time since his arrest, he remembered the incident in the boatyard …
A few nights prior to his father’s murder, Erik, unable to sleep, had been out walking. Without knowing why, he found himself down by the harbour, where, except for a few stray dogs and the seals hunting out in the waters of the bay, he
was alone. Or at least he thought he was, until he caught the sound of two people speaking. Walking towards the source of the noise, he noted the unmistakeable glow of a lamp from the building where the longships were built. The place was out of bounds for almost everyone but the shipbuilders, and none of them would be here at this time of night. The previous year, some coastal villages had suffered attacks after their own seagoing vessels had been sabotaged, so as Erik crept forward he loosened his dagger from its sheath, cursing himself for not having a weapon of more substance with him. As he paused at the open door he realised he recognised the voice he was hearing.
Without announcing his presence, he crept through the opening, coming to a halt in the shadows, from where he saw Kelewulf standing next to the hull of a wooden longship. The lamp his cousin held at his side illuminated an ornate and freshly inked tattoo he’d had done on the back of his hand. Kelewulf was talking in a strained voice, but for the life of him, Erik couldn’t see to whom the words were directed.
‘Why does it have to be so? Teach him a lesson, I said. Not … not this.’
Erik, thinking the other person might be hiding in the shadows, was surprised when his cousin went on, answering his own question.
‘Chaos, remember? You wanted chaos.’
‘Surely there is someth—’
‘You went into this venture willingly. You agreed with—’
The young man stopped then, his body tense, his head cocked to one side. ‘We are not alone.’
Kelewulf twisted around, scanning the shadows. A trick of the light made it seem, if only for an instant, that his eyes were completely black.
Knowing he stood little chance of creeping away without being seen, Erik stepped out just as the light was swung in his direction, making him screw up his eyes and throw his hand up.
‘What are you doing here?’ Kelewulf asked in a sharp voice. ‘Are you spying on me, cousin?’
Erik forced a smile and gave a shrug. ‘I was unable to sleep and went out for a walk.’ He paused, narrowing his eyes at his cousin. ‘Besides, I might ask you the same thing. It is a strange time to be out wandering around the shipyard.’
‘Yes. Yes, it is a strange time to be about.’ Kelewulf said, attempting his own smile. ‘I, too, was unable to sleep.’ He reached out a hand, touching the hull of the vessel next to him. ‘They are fine things, these new longships. They will allow the people of Stromgard to launch raids further afield than ever before.’
Erik nodded. ‘Well, I should be getting back. To try and grab a morsel of sleep before the dawn, eh?’
He was almost out of the door when his cousin called out to him again.
‘I can make you up an infusion that will help you sleep. I shall bring it to your rooms tomorrow.’
And with that, Kelewulf had turned and walked away, leaving Erik alone in the darkness.
Dreuvn Val … and Beyond
12
The journey from Faun Forest to Stromgard was full of wonders for a boy who had never strayed from home. Despite the urgency of their trip, and the need to make good speed, Lann couldn’t help but admire the views and sights afforded him during that first day’s hard ride, and he bombarded Fleya with question after question about what they saw. At the end of the day, tired and saddle-sore, they stopped on the crest of a hill overlooking a wide valley below.
Having set the ponies to graze, Lann joined his aunt on a rock, where he sat chewing on an apple and looking down on the valley beneath them. It was eerily silent; no birds sang in the skies overhead, and nothing could be heard from the banks of trees that stretched out on either side.
‘It’s so quiet,’ he whispered.
‘This is Dreuvn Val,’ she said, nodding down at the landscape. ‘A terrible battle was fought here many years ago in which the Volken people defeated a great army from the West.’ She was silent for a while, her eyes roaming the geography of the place as if seeing things that were invisible to her nephew. ‘The enemy, the Hasz’een, was a fearsome warring race that had destroyed all the peoples they’d come up against in their march east across this world.
‘They are a cruel and ruthless people. Unlike the Volken, there is little honour in battle for them, and no love of the land, or the creatures and plants that live on it. The Hasz’een see the mountains and rivers not as precious living things, but as inconvenient barriers preventing them from getting where they want. No, war is all they truly care about, and they use it as a means of taking what they most prize: slaves. Those poor unfortunates left alive after their conquests are taken from their lands to work on Hasz’een cities in the West – huge, ugly places that are made of stone and rock. Those too weak to make the journey are put to the sword.
‘So when the Hasz’een arrived at the lands of the Six Kingdoms, the Volken King Mjor was forced to come up with new strategies to ensure his people survived. He withdrew his forces ahead of their army, running as if afraid of them. He eventually stopped his people here.’
She pointed down into the vale, and when Lann looked again he was surprised to see a mist had filled the place. Things moved about in that miasma, figures of men and women moving around, readying themselves for battle. He fancied he could make out the clank of the blacksmiths’ hammers as blades and arrowheads were prepared for the battle.
‘The Hasz’een invaders, having conquered all before them, thought the fight was won and that the Volken had been broken. But Mjor was a wise ruler, and his actions had been carefully planned.’ She gestured towards the land behind them, but Lann was too busy studying the fascinating scene in the mists below. ‘Primed for what they believed would be an easy victory, the army from Hasz made camp in the lands to our rear, on the other side of this ridge. The Has’zeen army, outnumbering the Volken by almost two to one, were overconfident, and their preparation was not as meticulous as it should have been. They drank and sang for two days and nights, shouting and beating drums that could be heard by the Volken below. When they attacked on the third day, coming over this rise and pouring down into the valley, the ground shook so badly beneath them it was like an avalanche. Great beasts led the way – huge creatures with long horns growing from the front of their faces were ridden by men who forced them crashing into the front lines of the Volken.’
Mouth open, Lann watched as the defending army in the mist below began to defend themselves against this invisible enemy.
‘It was in this way that the Hasz’een usually broke their enemy. The mere sight of these formidable armoured beasts was enough to make an army turn and flee. But the Volken are no ordinary people. They held firm, hacking at the creatures’ thick legs with long axes or unseating the riders with spears until they were ankle deep in a sea of blood.’
Lann saw the front line of men and women wield these fearsome weapons. Many of them fell unmoving on the ground, only to have their place taken up immediately by those behind them.
‘Hasz’een archers came next, and they turned the sky black with waves of arrows that rained down on to the Volken force. But the Volken people are strong and steadfast as the mountains they live among, and the shield wall held. Despite their losses, a great shout went up from the defenders when the archers were called to halt. Now it was the Volken defenders’ turn to drum. They beat their axes and swords against shields, and taunted the archers for failing to penetrate their defences. They pointed at the horned beasts lying dead at their feet and roared in defiance. The insults were deliberate and well chosen. Enraged, the Hasz’een commanders ordered their main force down into the valley. This was the moment the Volken king had been waiting for. The fighting in those first few moments was horrifying. Sharp iron cleaved flesh and sinew, and the earth quickly turned red.’
Lann winced as he watched countless figures fall to invisible blows.
‘Fight as hard as they might, the Volken knew there was no way they could hold off the Hasz’een …’
‘But,’ Lann said, shaking his head at the carnage. ‘There is a “but” to this story,
isn’t there?’
‘Yes, there is a “but”. King Mjor had held back a large part of his army and stationed them in those woods on either side of the valley.’ Fleya gestured towards the trees. ‘Once the Hasz’een were fully engaged with the Volken warriors in the belly of the valley, these new forces came down from either side, trapping the enemy.’
As she said the words a new mist poured in from the attackers’ flanks, covering everything with its whiteness.
‘We won.’
‘Nobody won that day, Lannigon, except Kria, the goddess of death. The losses to both sides were awful, but more so for the invaders. With no means of escape, only a single Hasz’een warrior was spared to leave this valley, sent back across the waters to warn the Hasz never to come back to the Six Kingdoms. King Mjor ordered the slaughter of every other surviving enemy. It was not an order he gave lightly. There was no honour in it, and it was not the Volken way. But he’d decreed it necessary if the westerners were to be convinced never to return and try again.’ She paused. ‘I hope I never see anything like it again.’
‘You were there?’
She nodded and turned to face him. ‘I was. And so was your mother. We, and others of our kind, treated the sick and dying after the battle. Those we could not save we made comfortable, and we made sure each Volken man and woman was laid on the funeral pyres with iron in their hands so they might join their fellow warriors in the great halls.’
‘What of the Hasz’een dead?’
‘King Mjor ordered they be left in the open for the birds and wolves and flies to feast upon. Your mother and I hated to do that, but we did as we were bid.’
He looked over at his beautiful aunt and gave a little shake of his head. ‘I always forget how old you are.’
‘Despite your blade giving you the ability to see me as I really am?’
‘I choose not to see that.’
‘Why?’
‘Hmm?’
‘Why do you choose to see me like this and not as I really am?’
