Blood Of Kings: The Shadow Mage (15 page)

“Erik, please. He is your son, not one of your soldiers. Have a care,” Lady Isabetha said.

Duke Normand swung around to her, his eyes blazing. “Yes. He is my son, and one day he will be duke. This is not Rothberry Castle where his greatest care will be which coat to choose for the king’s feast. Here, we are surrounded by enemies. To the south only a mountain range separates us from barbarian hordes only too eager to plunder our lands. Those mountains are filled with brigands, spies and the gods know what else. Huge white-furred creatures who walk upright like men wander down from the highest peaks and attack travellers, gutting them with claws as big and sharp as daggers. Surrounding us are large, so-called, friendly duchies. Yet, they raid my lands, carrying off whatever they can find, and then attempt to place the blame on each other or marauding brigands. Their aim? To destabilise us until we are so weak that they may walk in and take everything for their own. When I protest to the king, I am met with a wall of silence. Yes, he is only a boy, but in the south boys need to become men very quickly, or they will surely perish.”

Lady Isabetha took a step back from the furious onslaught of the duke. Her lip twitched and she instantly regained her composure. “White-haired beasts that walk like men?” She arched an eyebrow. “Bedtime tales for children I think.” Two full lips, painted a deep red, parted in a smile.

“Often as not they will begin feeding before their victim is even dead. They are particularly fond of the heart and liver.” Normand did not return the smile. “Now tell me – why have you come all this way south, from the comforts of the king’s court?” His eyes bored into hers.

“Can a lady not visit a… friend?” She ran a painted fingernail up the centre of his chest and let it trail off when it reached his chin.

Normand snatched her hand squeezing it until she flinched. “No,” he answered before bringing the hand up to his lips and kissing it tenderly. She laughed then and stood on the tips of her toes, reaching up to kiss him passionately. He crushed her against the stable wall. He breathed heavily in her ear, “I want you. Now.”

“Here? In front of all your men?” He could feel her hot breath on his face.

He grabbed her by the hand and marched back towards the castle, dragging her with him. She giggled as she tried to keep pace with his long strides.

After their lovemaking they lay side by side on his fur-covered bed, both staring at the ceiling.

“Why did you never marry again, after… after your wife died?” she asked him.

He turned to regard her, pausing to drink in the sight of her lying naked beside him, assessing every curve as he would a theatre of war on the eve of battle. “Are you interested in the role?” His answer elicited a laugh from her.

“Gods no. One of us would not see the end of the year if you and I were to marry. I would end up as food for one of your mountain beasts, if I hadn’t poisoned your soup first.” She laughed again. “Your boy’s eyes look so sad. He has never known the love of a mother, has he?”

“He is cared for well enough by the servants.”

“It is not the same,” she said, a note of melancholy in her voice.

“It is enough for me, and it is enough for him. Now tell me why you have come. I enjoy our trysts, somehow though, I doubt you have travelled all this way because you yearned to be with me.” He pushed himself off the bed and began pulling on his breeches. He felt her eyes on him as she cast an appraising eye over his lean and muscular form. “Fetch me some wine,” she said.

“Fetch it yourself. I have much to do,” he barked

“Typical man. Satisfy your needs on a woman and then abandon her, wineless and cheerless.”

“Why are you here, Isa? You arrive unannounced, like a surprise storm blown down from the mountains. You make love to me while you tell me I do not know how to raise my son correctly. Do you wish to take the boy from me and teach him the ways of the king’s court?” He flung his arms out in exasperation.

“That would be no bad thing. You teach him to ride and fight well enough, but there are other skills a man… a future duke needs to know.”

“Enough! Tell me what you are doing here.”

“Very well. The king sent me.”

“To spy on me?”

“Yes,” she answered, her eyes locked on his. Was there an edge of doubt… of fear in her voice?

“Why?” he asked.

“Why did the King send me? Or why have I admitted it to you?”

“Both,” he answered before walking across the room where a jug and two goblets sat on a table. He filled both cups with dark red wine and handed one to Isabetha.

“Would there have been any point denying it? You are no fool, Erik. You knew why I was here the moment you set eyes on me.”

“As spies go, you are not without benefits.” He smirked.

“Could any other get so close to you?” She smiled back.

“No,” he answered. “So, tell me why His Majesty has sent you to ingratiate yourself with me.”

“The king is concerned with your action on the Thieves Citadel. He is worried that you went to war and invaded another nation without consulting him first. Your aggression has put him in an awkward position.”

“Another nation?” he spluttered, spitting wine across the floor. “A nest of villains and cutthroats. The only thing saving that wretched place for all these years was that cursed dream cult – which I’m happy to say no longer exists.”

“Yes, the Temple of Eor. You desecrated it and murdered all of the priestesses…”

“They were not murdered. They took their own lives.”

She arched her shapely eyebrows at his answer before saying, “Erik, his majesty has been asked for your head.”

“My head? By who?” he snarled.

“Never mind that. The other dukes are nervous.”

“Tell me who has petitioned the king for my death,” he said in a low, even voice.

Isabetha ignored him. “There are others who are not happy. The high priestess has influence in the Sunsai Empire, and other lands have worshippers of Eor. They all bring pressure to bear on his majesty.” She paused to sip some wine before continuing. “You’ll be pleased to hear he has refused those requests.”

“I am happy his majesty has finally found his own voice. His father would never…”

“His father is dead and not the king,” Lady Isabetha interrupted him. “Listen to me, Erik. his majesty could change his mind on a whim. Today he has sent me, tomorrow it may be the axe-man with an army at his back.”

The clay goblet suddenly exploded in Normand’s hand. Blood and wine trickled between his fingers. “Were you also instructed to fuck me, to soften me up?” he said through a clenched jaw.

“No. That was for me,” she answered.

“So what does he expect of me, if he does not want my head?”

“In public he is demanding that you withdraw from Eorotia.”

“No,” he said, not allowing her to finish. “I will not return the rats to their nest. I will not have my lands plagued by hordes of brigands and thieves.”

Isabetha spoke calmly. “In private he wants fifty percent of everything. He knows well that those mountains are bulging with stolen gold.”

“No.”

“Then you will die, Erik. The king values many things, but none so high as gold.”

Lady Rosinnio – Jarl Crawulf: Wind Isle

L
ady Rosinnio, wife of Crawulf, jarl of Wind Isle and all of the surrounding seas, sat in her sturdy, oak chair at the head of the feasting hall. In front of her, her husband’s chosen men sat around on long benches, drinking ale and squabbling amongst themselves. Beside her, Crawulf’s carved chair remained empty. The flames from torches sitting in sconces on the walls flickered from the wind sweeping though the stone corridors of the castle. Outside, beyond the safety and disputable comfort of stout walls, a storm raged, an icy wind whipping down freezing rain from the north.

It had been three days since they had defeated the invader. Three more days that Crawulf had not returned. In that time, although they had nodded respectfully, acknowledging her role in the victory, her husband’s chief men had refused to take orders from Rosinnio.

‘
They will not be commanded by a woman, even less an outlander,’
Brandlor, Crawulf’s chief advisor had explained. Yes, respect for her since the battle had grown in their eyes, but she was not the jarl of Wind Isle, merely his wife. As a result, nothing had been done, as the chosen men argued amongst themselves. The gates to Wind Isle Castle had remained barred – no one went in and no one left. Rosinnio had attempted to argue that men should be sent forth to ensure any surviving raiders were captured or had returned to their ships. She had wanted search parties to look for Crawulf, for surely he must be in serious peril, or worse, to have been missing for so long, and at such a time.

They are nervous. They have been attacked at the very heart of their power and their jarl is missing. They are frightened, but will not admit it to each other or themselves.
Brandlor’s words echoed in her mind. “What must I do?” she had asked.

“For now, wait.”

She was sick of waiting. She felt the presence behind her of the giant warrior, Rothgar. He had not left her side since the battle, glowering at all and any who approached her, even sleeping outside her door at night. She could do little else but picture him as a faithful hound. The thought brought a smile to her lips, even if she was puzzled by the huge warrior; a man she had wanted put to death for insulting and threatening her.
I will never understand these Nortmen—never be one of them.
“I wish to retire. I am weary and still feeling the effects of the poison,” she said to the grey-haired counsellor who hovered nearby. Always, it seemed, on hand to offer a word of advice. She could not help but wonder how much of it she should listen to.

“Yes, my lady. Bed-rest will aid your recovery.”

She nodded and gingerly extracted herself from the hard, uncomfortable chair. It was no lie that she still felt aches and cramps, the after-effects of being poisoned, but she had another reason for wishing to leave the hall and the watching eyes of her husband’s warriors. As she expected, Rothgar slipped into step behind her and her handmaiden as they made their way silently down draughty hallways. When they reached her chamber, Rothgar took up position outside of her door.

“Come,” she beckoned to him, biting her lip at the confused expression on his face. “I wish to speak to you,” she added.

He nodded and stepped into the room, clearly uncomfortable being inside his lord and lady’s bedchamber. Rosinnio poured wine into two cups and handed one to him.

“My lady, I…”

“It does not sit well with you, being served by your jarl’s lady?” she asked, finding herself enjoying his discomfort. “Come sit.” She sat on a wooden bench, inviting him to join her. He rested the great Nort-axe he carried against the wall, shifted his sword around his waist and sat, cup in hand, his eyes shifting from Rosinnio to her handmaiden and back again. “We did not make a good start, you and I…” she began. Rothgar shifted uncomfortably. “The fault was mine. It is taking me time to become used to the ways of Nortland and its people. It will likely take me a lifetime to even scratch the surface, but I will try.”

Rothgar nodded, a growl rattling in his throat Rosinnio could not decipher.

“You are loyal to your jarl, and quite possibly the bravest man I have ever known.” She meant the words. She had been awestruck by not just his courage at facing his enemies, even though they had far superior numbers, but by the sheer brutality of the encounter. It was her first and only battle. Rothgar had been by her side for the duration of it, as she strode into the courtyard—some would say stupidly, others inspired—he had circled around her, beating back all who approached; killing in a wild frenzy, until the invader had fled. “I would ask a favour of you.”

“My lady, I…”

“Crawulf must be found. His battle-chiefs will take no action without him. They have sat in that hall, bickering and drinking with no decisions being made. I am his wife, but they will not listen to me… will not take orders from a woman. So I am begging you.” She slid off the bench and onto her knees. “Go find him for me, bring him back.”

“And if he is dead?”

“Well, at least we will know.”

“I am thinking that may not be a good situation for you. Your life will be in the hands of a new jarl,” the big warrior said.

Rosinnio’s head bowed. She had assumed that if her husband was dead then they would just return her to her father. Was it possible that a new jarl would wish to end any possible threat to his position by ensuring Crawulf’s line ended with him… but they had no children. She would never understand the ways of the Nortmen.

She looked up fiercely then. “Well, then so be it.”

Rothgar stood up and nodded once. It was as much of an answer as Rosinnio would get. He reached a hand down to her to help her up off her knees, and then turned and walked briskly from the room, snatching his great, two-handed axe from the wall by the door.

“These Nortmen are a mystery to me and that one above them all,” Rosinnio’s handmaiden said.

“Yes, I agree, he is a strange one. I think though, he will do as I asked. He has a peculiar sense of honour, but one made of iron.”

“Or love.”

Rosinnio swung around to face her handmaiden at that. “Love?”

“Do you not think him a little in love with you? The way he has followed you, snarling at any who approach you.”

“No.” The former princess laughed. “Not that one. The loyalty he has shown me is merely an extension of the esteem in which he holds his jarl. If only the rest would act more like him.”

“I’m not so sure that would be a good thing,” the servant girl answered, before both of them began to laugh.

***

The black sea boiled beneath him and crashed over his head as Crawulf rode each tumultuous wave sending his flimsy craft high into the air and crashing down again. The wind whipped at his sodden beard and hair, icy cold on his skin and eyes. All around him the screeches of the Death Riders—dark dwarves riding black hounds with wings and red glowing eyes—hunted for the souls of lost seamen in order to enslave them in the dark caverns of the Nacht Realm.