Blood Of Kings: The Shadow Mage (43 page)

“This is the Princess Rosinnio, of Sunsai and Wind Isle,” Crawulf answered, then added. “And my wife.”

Normand’s eyebrows shot up. “Well, this is a most interesting development. Doubtless it is an important piece of news worthy of consideration, in the outside world. However, right now there are more pressing matters.”

The circle of stones began to rock as the mist shone with an eerie silver light. The dark shape hidden there grew, stretching upwards and outwards. While the remaining tribesmen now formed a line in front of the Shadow Mage and began moving up the valley towards them. She could feel strands of dark magic probing her mind as Suilomon sent out tentacles of power to entrap her. She brought the horn to her lips once again, just as a blood-freezing roar rent the cold valley air. One of the large boulders shattered.

She felt the strong arms of Crawulf pulling her back and away from the stone circle as debris landed at her feet. Six of his men remained alive, all raising their shields over her as small stones and larger chunks of rock shot forward from a second exploding stone.

“I think it would be best to leave now,” Crawulf said.

“Agreed,” Normand concurred.

“No.” Rosinnio shook him off. “Not while Harren Suilomon still lives. He will hunt us down. He will unleash terror unto the world like no other seen before.”

“Worse than he has already done?” Normand asked.

“Far worse.”

“What must we do?” Crawulf asked, resigned now to following his wife’s lead.

“I can feel the grip on whatever monster he is calling loosen. The link has been weakened.”

“I saw the dream-witch fall,” Normand said. “Perhaps she was aiding him. This was, after all, once her domain.”

“Yes, perhaps,” Rosinnio answered. “If she possessed power she likely was.”

Another stone burst apart, while another bowel-loosening roar came from within.

“What will happen if the link between the two breaks?” Crawulf asked.

“I… don’t know,” Rosinnio answered before bringing up the horn and blowing a long note, just as before. Only this time, nothing happened.

“Look!” Crawulf gasped. A crack appeared in the horn snaking its way up the centre until the bone instrument fell from her hands and turned to dust. “Well, bollocks to that,” he said and hefted his sword once again as another boulder shattered, leaving the circle half broken.

***

Tomas’s eyes snapped open. He grimaced and flinched as pain shot through him. “Don’t move,” Aliss said softly as she laid her hands on his chest. He could feel a soothing warmth emanate from her touch, slowly flowing over his body and easing his hurts.

“You were always a fine healer,” he said, his voice cracking. She smiled sadly and took his hand in her own when he reached up to touch her face.

“It’s all I ever wanted,” she said.

“We can leave this cursed place,” he said. He could still sense the charged air as the taint of magic hovered all around. In the background he could hear men cry out in pain, the smell of blood clinging thickly to his nostrils.

“You walked into the flames for me, Tomas,” she said gently rubbing his cheek, “and now I’m giving you back your life. Flee from here. There is nothing for you but pain and suffering in this valley. Elandrial is dead, killed by your own hand. But she made false promises to us, Tomas. She was never going to help us, just as Harren Suilomon led her false. She thought she was calling her god, but that was never his intention. He harnessed her power, and through her mine to call upon a beast he means to unleash upon the world. His only desire is to destroy.”

“You mean to stop him?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know if I can, but I will try.”

“I will help,” he said, pushing himself up, ignoring the pain.

“No,” she said, her strange swirling eyes boring into him. “I need for you to survive… I need that.”

“I’m not afraid to die,” he said. “If your intention is to sacrifice yourself then we will die together.”

“You still don’t understand, Tomas. I am already dead. I’ve been so since you carried me from the flames.”

“I won’t leave you.”

“I can’t do this if you are here.” Tears streamed down her face. “Please, I need to know you are safe.” She leaned in and kissed him then, the saltiness of tears mingled with the metallic taste of blood. “Go.”

He shook his head and dragged himself up, pain lancing his side and back where the blades of the tribesmen had pierced him. “I won’t leave you,” he said, his jaw set in firm determination. She nodded sadly, helping him up.

The Shadow Mage and his tribesmen warriors were advancing on the remnants of the duke’s warriors who were lined defensively just beyond the circle of stones. The large boulders began shattering and sending chunks of flying rock outwards, one by one.

“Those stones are inscribed with words of power, charms to seal closed a gateway. The Shadow Mage is trying to break those locks. Elandrial was aiding him. She created a link between herself and me in order to use the magic growing inside of me. I could feel her draining me, using me to boost her own power, but I could touch her mind also and see what she and Suilomon were trying to do. There is another here, who opposes him, whom he fears. This I could also sense when we briefly touched minds through Elandrial.”

“Djangra Roe, the mage,” Tomas said. “He’s dead.”

“No, another. A woman. It was she who broke the spell binding the wraiths of the Nortmen to Suilomon.”

“Perhaps we may be of some assistance to her then.”

“Yes,” Aliss answered, smiling weakly. “That is my intention.”

***

Barely a score of warriors remained from Normand’s and Crawulf’s combined men. Together they faced at least five times that number, as the winter sun slowly bled a fierce crimson light into the overhead clouds. Black-robed tribesmen advanced warily once again, one eye on the circle of stones and what was barely held back by their ancient power. The Shadow Mage’s words of power could be heard drifting across the valley, stabbing the air around the cairn.

Crawulf picked up an undamaged shield from the body of one of his crew and joined the line of Normand’s men facing the tribesmen. There was no need for words; all were drained physically and emotionally. Those men still alive had faced mountain-men, fierce warriors from the south, spears of magic thrown at their ranks and wraiths of men no blade could kill. He caught Normand’s eye as the duke clapped his men on the shoulder, encouraging and praising, dispelling fear as a good commander should. The two lords the Fates had thrown together on this battlefield, men who should be enemies but found themselves on the same side, nodded to each other. Then the blood-letting began again.

Like a dark wave they charged across the valley, shouting war-cries in their own language, words that held no meaning for Crawulf, yet somehow he understood; it was not about the words, it was about filling the heart with rage and joy, fierceness and hatred, anything to quell the fear. The impact was loud and savage as men who knew they could kill or die on this day, came together.

Crawulf smashed the iron boss of his shield into the face of a charging man, his own momentum driving the round metal into his cheekbone. The man fell screaming as Crawulf stabbed down with his sword, before turning to face another. Dark eyes full of hatred glowered at him for an instant before life drained from them and he toppled backwards, his lifeless body held up by the snarling warriors coming behind him. Either side of him, Crawulf’s men—those few who yet lived—fought, as all Nortmen do, without fear of death, their only concern that the gods witness their bravery and they do not dishonour themselves before man or god. Beyond them, Normand’s men fought with a methodical savageness. Every stroke, every movement contained fury.

The sound of a colossal crack rent the air then, and it seemed as if time stopped. Men in mid-blow turned away from their opponent, even those dying on the blood-sodden earth strained to see as the final stone split down the centre and piece by piece fell apart. The mist cleared and Crawulf stood, mouth agape, fear overwhelming him with invisible bonds, restricting all movement.

The sound of Rosinnio screaming snapped him back. He saw her fall onto her back, her body convulsing on the ground. He searched for the fat body of the Shadow Mage. Somehow he had moved through the battle and into the ranks of Normand’s men. He held the duke on his knees—seemingly powerless—while he gripped his head in both hands, a jewel dangling from a golden chain between his fingers.

“I am developing an intense dislike for that mage,” the jarl of Wind Isle snarled. “Janri, help her. Get her to safety,” he instructed one of his few remaining men, while he turned to face the horror that had appeared where the circle of stones once stood.

***

Aliss watched the battle unfold, feeling as if she were waking from a dream. Her last real grip on reality had been when Tomas had left their home in the middle of the night to search for Marjeri’s babe, supposedly snatched from her cot by wolves. What had happened since then?
I died, Tomas walked into the flames and carried me out.
The old witch in the Great Wood had brought her back from the embrace of the All Father, but had used dark magic and the blood of an innocent to do it.
That was wrong, and now the debt shall be repaid.

Elandrial had been fooled by the Shadow Mage who brought her an army of tribesmen and promised to return to her, her realm, the sacred mountain of Eor. But his intention had always been to bring chaos into the world. He was a parasite living off the life-force of others, his own body long since destroyed. Balancing the lives of those whose bodies he stole against his own, prolonging his own existence, exchanging their lives for his own.

Aliss’ heart and mind had been exposed to blood magic, the darkest of all powers when the witch swapped one life for another. It had changed her appearance, and planted a black seed within her… yet, that was not her. All she ever wanted was to help people, to ease the suffering of others, and to live her life with Tomas. It was she to whom women unable to conceive visited seeking a charm to aid in the planting of a seed. She who was called when a child or beast of the field fell ill, or a farmer needed a broken leg splinted. Her reward was to be raped and sent to the pyre, her home torched, her man beaten. Yet they had endured.

The magic she possessed that was at the root of her was not the blood magic of the old witch or the Shadow Mage. It was of the earth, gifted to her by the All Father. She could feel the life of the valley all around her, the seeds in the cold earth waiting for spring, the animals hiding from the beast of man, but all around them, watching, even the patterns of the air, meaningless to most, but a map to the future and the weather it would bring. Above all, she could feel the fear and confusion of that which Suilomon had called from beyond the stones. Tomas had told her he sensed its evil. It was not evil, it was no demon taking shape, even as she watched the Shadow Mage drift, like smoke, through the battlefield until he held his prize in his two hands: Duke Normand poised, albeit unwilling, to become his newest host. It was simply a beast, not unlike those of the forest, but out of place, out of time. It did not belong in the world of men and that is why it seemed evil to all who saw it, all who felt it. Harren Suilomon did not understand this either.

Often, while trying to heal a farm animal, or soothe the hurts of a beast of the forest she would touch its mind, ease its pain and fill it with reassurance, feelings of warmth and calmness. When she touched the mind of the summoned beast it felt like a hammer blow, the sheer weight of its emotions threatening to overwhelm her. She could feel its fear, feel herself being submerged by the depth of its feelings; she could feel herself being absorbed by the creature.

When she looked, she saw through its eyes the creatures running from her, milling in fear, not unlike the hunters, of her own world, she and her kind were wary of, although their skin was lacking the green hue to it, those that sought to ensnare her kind with their nets and long sharp teeth they carried in their hands. When she stretched out her arms, thick leathery wings unfolded. She longed to take to the safety of the sky, where the little creatures with the stinging teeth they threw could not harm her; to float on the air, through the clouds, to feel the heat of the sun warming her. She looked up at the towering, ice-capped peaks around her, that is where she would be safe, that is where she needed to build a nest.

The little creatures ran from her when she began to rise. She could taste their fear as she recognised another feeling – hunger. As she stretched her wings to their full length and floated on the air just above the fleeing creatures she saw one who filled her with a strange sensation of warmth, overriding her instinctive need to hunt. He was kneeling beside a female. She could feel his sorrow, leaving her with a burning ache in her chest.

Tomas.

She felt a sharp tug on her mind then. It jerked her attention away from the two lone creatures. One was calling to her, hurting her. This one wished to possess her. She could feel him tugging on her mind, forcing her to obey his commands. She felt her chest burn as she unleashed all of her rage. Flames engulfed the little running creatures, scorching the earth, before she beat her heavy wings and aimed for the sky.
My name is…
for the briefest of moments an image of a blonde-haired girl filled her mind… and was gone. The open skies and the lofty heights of the mountains waited.

Jarl Crawulf – Tomas: Hidden valley

C
rawulf stood to face the terror emerging from where the stones once stood. A massive creature unfurled leathery wings, the skin of its body reddish-black scales. When it opened its mouth to roar, the noise rooted him to the spot, freezing the blood in his veins. “Feergor!” he gasped. “Is this the end of time?” A smile snaked across his lips. “I thank thee, All Wise, for granting me a death beyond all deaths!” he roared above the noise of the dragon. He flung away his shield and gripped his sword two-handed ready to die a glorious death at the hands of a god.