Blood Of Kings: The Shadow Mage (16 page)

He was alone as he fought the rage of Baltagor, Lord of the Sea and the servants of Boda, Mistress of the Shadow World—the Nacht Realm—as they stood united against him. He roared his defiance at all of them, even as salt water clogged his throat and stung his eyes. The howling wind along with the demons borne on it competed with the roaring sea to deafen him, and still he shouted back his defiance from the prow of his ship. He clung to the serpent’s head, knowing that his crew had all been washed overboard, the blood-red square sail hung in ribbons from the single mast, with strands of rigging whipping in the air. The strong odour of brine clung to his nostrils as each wave deposited more and more water into the boat. White horses, riding mountain-high waves, snarled biting and kicking as they washed over the jarl of Wind Isle.

A loud crack behind him told him that the mast was gone, as the planks of the deck snapped and splintered beneath his feet. A round shield flew past his head, wrenched free from where it had been secured to the side of the boat, with those belonging to the other crewmen. Crawulf raised his sword and laughed.

“He’s waking!” Words drifted on the wind, floating past and into his consciousness.

He opened his eyes and saw the woman of the house jump back when she saw him stir. She had felt the grip of his fingers around her throat once before and was wary to get too close ever since. He growled and nodded, and then shifted himself so that he could sit up. The woman handed him a bowl of boiled oats before hurrying away.

“I was dreaming,” Crawulf said. His head spun as he regarded the bowl in front of him.

“Aye, we heard,” the fisherman answered. A younger man chuckled as he looked up from his own bowl of porridge. “You cried out,” he explained with a smile on his face. “I am thinking it was not such a pleasant dream.”

“The black dwarves of Boda were tearing my flesh with their claws searching for my soul,” he answered grimly.

“Did they find it?” the boy asked.

“That which is not there will never be found,” Crawulf snarled.

“Everybody has a soul,” the fisherman answered. “Just some are blacker than others.”

Crawulf spooned the porridge into his mouth. “I am feeling much rested, although my leg is still useless,” he said between mouthfuls. “Can you take me somewhere? You will be paid well for your trouble.” He could still taste the salty seawater, smell the brine and kelp over the earthier aroma of the reed-thatch above his head and the wattle-and-daub walls surrounding him. He shivered at the memory of the dream, despite the heat thrown off from the fire at the centre of the room.

“Aye, if you wish.” The fisherman dug something out from beneath him then. Whatever it was, it was wrapped in cloth. He handled it as if its contents would bite him at any moment. He stood up and approached Crawulf. “This belongs to you I’m thinking. We found it in the cave.”

Crawulf took it from the fisherman’s hands, snatching back the cloth. A smile crept across his lips at the sight of his sword. The weapon handed down to him from his father, and to he from his. “Aye, this belongs to me.”

“We want no trouble,” the fisherman said.

“You will have none,” Crawulf answered. “You saved my life, where others would have left me to die. You could have looted my carcass and waited for the tide to fill the cave again and wash me out to sea. Instead you brought me into your home and cared for me. I am in your debt, and you will be well rewarded.”

“You didn’t come off no shipwreck, did you?”

“No, no I did not.” Crawulf said, his mouth set in a grim line.

“Father! Father, come quick!” they were interrupted by the cries of the man’s second son.

Suddenly the small hut was awash in light as the main door was flung open. A young man stood in the entryway, panting and heaving. The skin of his face was covered in a sheen of sweat, which stuck his hair to his forehead. “Father…” he began again before stopping abruptly. His back stiffened as thick, red liquid bubbled out of his mouth.

Crawulf watched open-mouthed as a blade erupted from his chest. Time froze for an instant, before reality crashed in with violent intensity. The fisherman screamed, “Noooo…” His second son, sat, rooted to his chair, his mind clearly not comprehending what his eyes were telling him. A high-pitched wail of a grieving mother pierced the air, shaking Crawulf out of his reverie.

The dead boy’s body was flung aside as pandemonium erupted inside the house. A man, wearing mail armour under his heavy cloak and an iron helmet on his head, burst into the room. The blade he carried in his hand shone crimson in the firelight as he jabbed it at the fisherman’s head. Another followed behind. Crawulf could hear others shouting and roaring behind them. The wailing of the fisherwoman was suddenly cut off abruptly. Crawulf barely registered her body slumping to the earthen floor, her blood splattering the rushes.

As quickly as he could, Crawulf shook the cloth off his sword and swung his legs off the bed. Agony lanced through him from his shin and all the way up his back. With gritted teeth and watering eyes, he ignored the pain, to stand awkwardly on one foot. The first of the intruders, his weapon now dripping crimson from the blood of the father as well as the son, swung towards him. Crawulf blocked the arcing blade with his own and stabbed with a sharp vicious jab at the man’s face. The blade caved in his cheekbone and pierced his brain, killing him before he had time to cry out. Crawulf wrenched his weapon free, letting the man slide to the ground. A second snarled a curse at him as he raised his sword to strike. Crawulf lost his balance as he attempted to take a defensive posture with only one good leg. The stumble saved his life. He felt a tide of air as the warrior’s sword flew past him.

Another scream snapped his attention away from his opponent for the briefest of instants. The fisherman’s second son lunged at the warrior with a spiked hook on a pole, catching him unawares. He drove the fishing implement into his chest, the ferocity of the blow driving through his boiled leather armour, to pierce soft flesh and grind bone. The warrior fell with a look of shock on his face.

More crowded into the small hut, beating down the fisherman’s son by weight of numbers, although a number took sore hurts from the enraged boy as they dragged him down. Crawulf found himself hoping the boy lived through the ordeal. He stood impassively, waiting, while the men formed a line in front of him, hard men, men who had seen battle and death. If he was to die this day, it was better to greet the gods with a sword in his hand and the blood of his enemies on the blade.
Far better than shivering to death in a dank cave.

“So who wants to die first?” he snarled. The effect he had hoped for was somewhat lost when he accidentally put weight on his bad leg and an involuntary grimace wracked his body.

“Well, well, well, look at what just washed up into our nets.”

Crawulf squinted at a newcomer, framed by sunlight as he stood in the open doorway. “Well met, Jarl Crawulf,” he said, a humourless smile formed on his lips. “Take him!”

Crawulf’s sword was useless to him as he was bundled to the ground. He roared in agony as he was manhandled by at least four men. Fire erupted in his leg until he blacked out from the pain.

Tomas: The Great Wood

T
he Great Wood loomed in the distance as the first flush of dawn bled a crimson glow into the sky. Tomas kicked his horse on, requisitioned from the monk’s stables, towards the dark wall of trees. Cradled in his arms was Aliss, appearing to sleep soundly, thanks to the healing charm placed on her by Brother Joshan. Appearances were not all they seemed, and he knew somewhere, deep inside her subconscious, that she suffered greatly. Joshan, his old friend and one time mentor had said she was beyond help, her injuries too severe. He also knew that there were other ways of accomplishing things, darker paths that men like Joshan feared to travel.

The wood stretched across the countryside for hundreds of leagues, as long as it was wide. Its hidden depths harboured many secrets few men had even heard tell of, let alone seen. Rumours and stories abounded about what lived in the very darkest places of the forest; occasional sightings of malformed creatures and beasts to terrify a man’s soul added to the mystery and power of the place. It was a place to be avoided by folk if at all possible. Apart from the demons and ghosts who lay in wait for unwary travellers, it was also home to some of the worst kind of men in the Duchies, brigands and villains using its reputation to hide themselves from honest folk. Tomas knew this well – he was once one of them.

There was a time of darkness, shortly after he had fled from the anger and spite of the king, whose relative he had slain in a duel, when he was forced to leave behind the king’s Royal Guard, his family for the previous years, his home. He hated to dwell upon it; memories of those days shamed him, and yet, those reflections constantly seeped into his mind, like a mist drifting through the forest, unstoppable, a constant thing, always all around, yet untouchable. He and Joshan had taken up with a gang of brigands. They were waylaid by them one summer morning as they journeyed through the Great Wood, farther east to the place he now found himself. They were rough and nasty, and robbing travellers was no strange thing to them. Yet, they were no match for an outlawed knight and fighting champion of the Royal Guard. Tomas and Joshan had fought them off easily, but instead of killing them or even leaving them somewhere to be found by the local magistrate’s men, they forced them to take them to their camp, deep into the forest, and they joined them.

Tomas had been full of anger at the time. He wanted vengeance, he wanted to hurt the king who had robbed him of a life he had fought harder than most for. He had not realised how much he loved being honoured and feted as a part of the Royal Guard, how much the camaraderie of his sworn sword brothers meant to him, until it was snatched from him. They were known as the Shields of the Realm; sworn to defend the king with their lives, honour-bound to each other.

Well, he was born a commoner, the son of a blacksmith, and when push came to shove, his brothers abandoned him. His king declared him outlaw, because he had fought and killed a member of the aristocracy. The bitterness was a vile-tasting thing in the back of his throat. He knew not how to fight back, but marshalling a gang of cutthroats and rapists seemed like one way to strike a blow at the time. Joshan had argued against it, of course, but Tomas was too hot-headed, too angry, and so they had become part of the folklore of the Great Wood. How life had twisted and turned in on itself for a simple blacksmith’s son.

By the time he reached the unending line of trees, the sun had broken over the horizon, bathing the valley in a bright golden glow. Tomas knew that even the sun’s brilliant white light, and warmth would find it hard to penetrate to the very depths of the forest, to where he knew he must journey. He freed a small bag of provisions he had tied to the saddle and slung it over his shoulder. Hanging across his back was his sword, cleaned now of the blood of the men he had killed, yet the stain of the deed would linger for much, much longer. Once he had Aliss securely cradled in his arms, he slapped the horse’s rump and let out a sharp cry, trusting the beast would find its own way home. It would be of no use to him deeper into the forest, where the foliage became thick, along with the dank, cool air.

Aliss had not made a sound since he had fled the monastery. He knew Joshan had put a charm on her, to ease her suffering and put her into a deep sleep. He could not help but wonder if she would ever wake from it. Joshan said she was beyond his help. The old monk had a great gift for healing Tomas knew well—it was a bitter irony that the only other he knew capable of helping Aliss was herself. Magic was a rare thing in the world—if he could not help her, was she beyond all aid? Such thoughts had plagued him the entire journey. He was tired, his body ached, and he couldn’t remember the last time he had slept. Was he just prolonging her agony? He didn’t want to lose her, couldn’t lose her. Was it so selfish to desire to save the woman he loved? Joshan had said he would ease her journey into the afterlife. Was Tomas wrong to deprive her of this? Or should he do all in his power to help her live?

He warred with himself incessantly as he walked, his burden growing heavier with each step. On more than one occasion he stumbled over an unseen root or trailing vine. The damp, musky odours of the surrounding vegetation and rich earthy smells of the forest floor were like an opiate, seducing him into an overwhelming tiredness. He yearned to stop and rest, to sleep. Perhaps when he woke, he would realise it had all been a dream; a dark, terrible nightmare.

When he finally did allow himself to rest—either that or he would fall down where he stood—his dreams were dark and terrible. A blood-lusting monster attacked the village in the valley, slaying all in its path. Only, he was the monster.

His head throbbed from lack of sleep; his traitorous mind sent him thoughts and feelings of doubt and shame. He held his wife close to him. He didn’t want her to die. She had saved him, saved him from himself, and a life of villainy and infamy. He thought he had blocked out much of his past, certainly some of the more heinous deeds he perpetrated, but it was Aliss who had done that. She had given him a chance at a better life. He was once a hero, then branded traitor—unfairly in his eyes—then turned outlaw. He was many things in the eyes of men. She saw past that; she drew out the blacksmith’s son, accepting him, and all his faults, for who he was. To lose her would mean losing himself.

His attention snapped back to the present at the sound of a footstep on a fallen branch. He remained motionless, head bowed as if still in a slumber. Whispering voices drifted on the wind, making him tense. His instincts urged him to flee, to leap up and run from any approaching danger. He fought that desire with cold determination and waited.

Like shadows they melted from the darkness of the forest and into his makeshift camp. One by one they edged closer, sensing easy prey. The first approached, dagger in hand, as the others made to surround Tomas and Aliss. Two sleeping travellers, lost in the Great Wood, easy pickings – not so. In a heartbeat Tomas was up, with a twist of his wrist the would-be thief’s dagger dropped to the forest floor and he was launched across the small clearing. The others, all wearing dark, hooded cloaks, stepped in closer. They paused when Tomas unslung the sword from his back.