Blood Of Kings: The Shadow Mage

  Paul Freeman

  Blood of Kings: The Shadow Mage

  Paul Freeman

  Copyright © 2016 Paul Freeman

  Published by Lir Press

  First Edition, 2016

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the author, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, locales is entirely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Jarl Crawulf: Wind Isle Castle, Nortland

  Lorian: Alcraz, capital city of Sunsai Empire

  Duke Normand: Besieging the walls of Eorotia

  Tomas: Woodvale Village

  Princess Rosinnio: Wind Isle

  Duke Normand: Eorotia – The Thieves Citadel

  Tomas: Woodvale Village

  Lady Rosinnio: Wind Isle

  Tomas: Woodvale Village

  Lorian: The house of Lorian, Alcraz, Sunsai Empire

  Duke Normand: Duchy of Lenstir

  Lady Rosinnio – Jarl Crawulf: Wind Isle

  Tomas: Woodvale Village

  Djangra Roe: Flagston

  Jarl Crawulf – Lady Rosinnio: Wind Isle

  Tomas: Woodvale Monastery

  Duke Normand: Duchy of Lenstir

  Lady Rosinnio – Jarl Crawulf: Wind Isle

  Tomas: The Great Wood

  Djangra Roe: Woodvale Monastery

  Jarl Crawulf: Wind Isle

  Tomas: The Great Wood

  PART II

  Jarl Crawulf: Seafort, the Duchies

  Duke Normand: Mountains of Eor

  Tomas: Alka-Roha

  Jarl Crawulf: Northern Duchies

  Duke Normand: Mountains of Eor

  Tomas: Alka-Roha

  Jarl Crawulf: Northern Duchies

  Lady Rosinnio: Wind Isle

  Duke Normand: Eorotia

  Tomas: The wild lands beyond Alka-Roha

  Lady Rosinnio: Wind Isle

  Duke Normand: Rothberry Castle

  Tomas: Temple ruins, wild lands of Alka-Roha

  Aknell: The house of Lorian

  Lady Rosinnio: Wind Isle

  Duke Normand: Duchy of Lenstir

  Tomas: Temple of Eor, wild lands of Alka-Roha

  Jarl Crawulf: Wind Isle

  Duke Normand: Eorotia

  Tomas: Temple of Eor

  Jarl Crawulf – Lady Rosinnio: The Duchies

  Duke Normand – Tomas: Hidden valley

  Lady Rosinnio – Tomas: Hidden valley

  Hidden valley, Mountains of Eor

  Jarl Crawulf – Tomas: Hidden valley

  Dedication

  For my family

  Acknowledgements

  Many thanks to Ivan Amberlake and Sharon Van Orman.

  Cover design: EJR Digital Art.

  Also by Paul Freeman

  Tribesman

  Warrior

  Taxi

  Season Of The Dead

  After The Fall: Children Of The Nephilim

  www.paulfreemanbooks.com

  Jarl Crawulf: Wind Isle Castle, Nortland

  Crawulf gazed over the battlements at the vast expanse of turbulent water, its iron grey reflecting the angry sky. He could taste the salt borne on the bitterly cold wind washing over the dark walls of the keep. Far below, waves battered the bottom of the cliff in an endless assault on the jagged shore, as froth from the boiling sea spiralled upwards. He pulled the bearskin cloak he wore tight around his shoulders, a vain effort to ward off the cold. His long dark hair, not yet speckled with as much grey as his beard, whipped behind him.

  “They come.”

  Crawulf spun around to face the source of the words, as his hand slid to the hilt of his sword. “Have a care, Brandlor. It is unwise to creep up on a man so,” he said, relaxing when he saw the thin frame of his advisor.

  “These old bones know no other way to walk, my jarl.” The wizened face cracked into a smile that stopped short of dark sunken eyes.

  A growl rattled in the throat of Crawulf before he returned his attention to the sea. “You are right! I see them,” he said, craning his neck as he spied a dark speck in the distance. “How is it you see these things before I, old man?” he asked as he watched a small ship being tossed from one swelling wave to another. “He will do well to make the channel in that soft bottomed, southern boat.”

  “He will make it. He has no choice with the cargo he carries. He will make it or he will lose more than just his life.”

  Crawulf glanced at the old man, as always finding his intense gaze unsettling. “The fat bellies of the southern ships are ill suited to these waters,” he insisted, thinking of his own smaller, sleeker ships – dragon-prowed sharks compared to the bloated whales of the southerners.

  “Aye, but he will make it.”

  Crawulf watched the ponderous craft draw closer to the rocks far below that had claimed the lives of countless vessels and crews down through the years. “How many of the king’s jarls would sabotage that ship if they knew what she held in her belly?”

  “All of them,” Brandlor answered. “Long years of planning will soon bear fruit. When your uncle dies, you will be king.”

  Overhead the sky grew darker as clouds whipped by a growing wind tumbled past. Sheets of rain, from a sudden burst, lashed the faces of the two men. Still they held their ground. “If he comes aground on yonder rocks all will be lost.” Crawulf returned his attention to the ship.

  “He will make the channel, my jarl. And you will be king.”

  “They will fight. Every one of them.” He scratched at coarse bristles once black, now flecked with grey. His hand reached for the leather grip of his sword as if even the mention of his rivals would summon them closer.

  “Yours is the stronger claim.”

  Crawulf turned two grey eyes on his counsellor. “Strongest but one,” he said.

  “Your brother is dead, my jarl. Died these past three years,” the white-bearded counsellor answered.

  “I will believe him dead when I see his body,” Crawulf snarled.

  “You worry overmuch. Your uncle will be dead before winter, and you will be king. You are his closest kin.” The two men turned once again to the distant vessel as it bobbed into view before disappearing again beneath another, white-capped, wave.

  “I’ll warrant the captain longs for sunnier climes and calmer seas,” Crawulf said.

  “He will make the channel, my lord.”

  Crawulf dwarfed his advisor, where one embodied the spirit of the bear whose hide he wore, on his broad shoulders, to stave off the bitter northerly wind, the other was frail, with thin white hair and wispy beard. He gripped the battlements with two, large, calloused hands. He could feel the raw coldness of the rough stone. The castle, like the cliff, was weather-beaten and constantly assaulted by the power of the sea, yet unbowed and defiant. “He drifts closer to the rocks. Does he even realise the peril he is in? Gods protect us, does he know how to do anything about it?” He leaned over the battlements, as if stretching a few short inches over the wall would give him a better view.”

  “He will make the channel, my lord,” the counsellor said. Unseen to his jarl, he raised his eyes skywards and offered a silent prayer to Alweise, father of the gods, beseeching him to allow the foreign captain to reach the bay, and safety. The king of gods sent his answer with a loud rumble and an electri
c flash across the sky.

  “Baltagor, Lord of the Sea is angry this day. If that ship goes down all will be lost,” Crawulf was shouting now to make himself heard over the breaking storm. The wind howled around the watchtower looming over them, casting a dark shadow across the rampart they stood on.

  “He will make the channel,” Brandlor insisted. His words were swept away even as they were uttered.

  Dark hair, unusual amongst the mainly blond and red-haired Nortmen, clung to Crawulf’s face, soaked within minutes of the downpour. “Look!” He pointed. “He’s changing course. He’s turning her!” Brandlor nodded sagely. The fat-hulled ship bobbed and tossed in the raging sea. “I should have sent one of my own ships. With a captain who knows how to sail these waters,” he said.

  “You know that was not possible, my jarl.”

  “Aye,” he answered softly. Slowly, as both men held their breaths, the fat ship rounded the headland and disappeared from sight. “She’s in the channel!” Crawulf beamed.

  “Gods be praised,” the advisor muttered.

  “I’m going down to the harbour to greet her.” Crawulf suddenly leapt into action.

  “Wait,” the counsellor called after him. “Let them come to you.” Too late, he was gone.

  The hollow clatter of shod hooves echoed around the keep as Crawulf and his housecarls filed out of the gate and made the short journey to the harbour. All the while the wind and rain grew in intensity. By the time they marched along the wooden pier they were soaked through, their moods as dark as the sky. Most of the fleet of sleek, single-mast longboats were tied up, leaving few berths for visiting ships. The jarl of Wind Isle, the southerly most island of the Nortland Isles, waited impatiently with his entourage as the pot-bellied ship sailed ponderously into the harbour, battered but unbowed.

  A nervous, swarthy-skinned captain walked down the gangplank, followed by several of his officers. “My lord.” He bowed extravagantly from the waist.

  “Well met, Captain. I witnessed a fine piece of seamanship today,” Crawulf said, inclining his head.

  “You have wild seas, my lord. I did not think we would make it.”

  “I was never in doubt, Captain. But praise the gods. And your cargo, is it safe?”

  “A little shaken, my lord, but yes, quite safe.”

  Crawulf beamed a smile at the news.

  “So where…” he began but stopped short when he saw a dark-haired girl, dressed in an unseasonal, and impractical, emerald green gown, so thin and delicate he thought she might be swept away by the wind. She glided down the gangplank with a stiff back, her hair tied on top of her head with ribbons and pearls. Crawulf’s jaw dropped. Never before had he seen such exotic beauty. “Princess Rosinnio,” he whispered her name.

  The princess approached him, curtsied, and promptly threw up all over his leather boots.

  Lorian: Alcraz, capital city of Sunsai Empire

  “Gods curse this heat,” the fat noble grumbled as he fanned his face with a silk cloth. Even the overhead canopy failed to keep him cool. He snatched a goblet from a tray held by a tall servant standing, stiff-backed, in the full blaze of the midday sun.

  “Oh, drink your wine and stop grumbling, Lorian,” a second man, seated beside him in the second tier of the arena said. Below them on a dusty playing field thirty men stripped to the waist and armed with sticks fought over an inflated pig’s bladder. Half of the players wore a red ribbon tied around their arm, the other half a blue one. A cheer reverberated around the arena as a melee broke out between the opposing teams. Neither of the two men reacted to the excitement.

  “What else is one to do in such heat?” Lorian complained. He leaned in closer to his companion, glanced about conspiratorially and lowered his voice. “Have you heard the latest rumour coming from the palace?”

  “No,” the second man answered, leaning closer.

  “Word is… the emperor has sent Rosinnio north.” He smiled as he sat back in is chair. He rolled a date between his forefinger and thumb before popping it into his mouth. Each finger, on a fleshy hand, bore a heavy gold ring.

  “Well stop looking so pleased with yourself, Lorian, and do continue.”

  Lorian mopped his glistening brow with a square of bright silk, shifted his huge bulk and smiled. “He has sent her to become bride to some king of the Pirate Isles.”

  “No! His favourite? Surely he would not subject his youngest daughter to such a life,” he said, looking thoughtfully over the fat noble’s shoulder.

  “Remember Brioni, his eldest? He sent her to the nomads of the Uncha Mort. She roams that desolate desert with all she owns packed on the back of a horse now. When it comes to politics he has no favourites. Poor Brioni, she was such a fun girl too. And now Rosinnio. The poor little bird will never see the sunshine again. They say the Pirate Isles are forever shrouded in mist, and the rain only ceases for the snow.”

  “How is it you come by such information, always ahead of time?” the second man asked as he stroked his trimmed beard, still staring into the distance.

  The fat man smiled. “I have my ways, my friend, I have my ways.”

  “Incidentally, I would not use the name, ‘Pirate Isles,’ in front of a Nortman or you will likely lose your head,” the man said, a smile spreading across his face.

  “Ha! I think it unlikely I will ever visit Nortland. The very thought sends a chill into my bones. Is this wretched game nearly over yet?” Lorian then grumbled as he turned his attention back to the thirty players almost made invisible by a swirling dust cloud. Barely had the fat man finished when a horn sounded. “Praise the gods,” he said, raising his eyes towards the clear blue sky.

  “Don’t you have a taste for clubs?” his companion asked. “Surely the sight of athletes in their prime is enough to stir the blood. Do they not at least whet your appetite for the main event?”

  “No, they do not. Watching two groups of men chasing a bladder and trying to hit it and each other with sticks does not appeal to me,” he replied, before turning around to his servant. “More wine. This jug is empty.” The servant bowed and silently took the empty vessel from his outstretched hand.

  “Do not think of it as sport, think of it as war. The two teams are opposing armies, the field of play a battlefield. From the sideline the generals give their commands and their troops act upon those instructions.”

  “You have not convinced me,” Lorian said.

  “You know it is not so long since they used the heads of captives instead of a bladder.”

  Three blasts of a horn sounded, sending an excited ripple through the crowd. “Ah, at last! Now we will see real battle.” The fat man grinned.

  “Who are the fighters?” the other man asked.

  “The Summalian, Bordron, and Rolfgot.” Lorian grinned. “A Nortman.” The grin turned to laughter.

  “Oh. How ironic.”

  “Yes,” Lorian agreed. “I do enjoy the little jests the fates throw at us from time to time.” A cheer rose and washed over the crowd as a fanfare sounded announcing the arrival of the combatants. They entered the arena from either side, to be greeted with a wall of thunderous noise. Lorian and his companion rose to their feet and joined in the applause.

  “Is it to the death?”

  “Yes!” Lorian beamed. “Yes, it is.”

  The crowd settled as an announcer walked into the centre of the arena. He first introduced, to muted applause, the Nortman, Rolfgot. A massive blond warrior strode confidently from a dark tunnel at one end. He was stripped to the waist; his hair fell loosely down his back. Muscles bunched and rippled across his back and down his forearms. In his hand he carried a huge, two-handed great-sword. He came to a halt yards before the announcer, spat once and glared disdainfully into the crowd. A rumble of boos echoed around the arena.

  “Huror, Huror! Where is that wretched man?” Lorian turned agitatedly in his seat.

  “You sent him for wine.”

  “Curse his eyes, how long does it take to fetch a j
ug of wine?”

  “Oh, calm down, Lorian. What is the matter?”

  “I wish to place a wager on the bout. They will not take it once the fight has begun. Huror!” the fat man bellowed.

  “Yes, Master.” The servant hurried over, placing a jug in front of Lorian.

  “What took so long?” he snarled.

  “The crowd, Master. It is not so easy to pass through it.”

  “Never mind. Here, take this, and place five gold crowns on the Summalian. And see that you get favourable odds.” He fished the coins from a purse on his belt and dropped them into the servant’s open palm.

  “Yes, Master.” The tall servant bowed deeply before closing his fist around the coins and turning away.

  “Five crowns?” the other man whistled. “What about a side wager? What odds on the Nortman?”

  Lorian looked at his companion with narrowed eyes. “Are you holding information back from me?” he asked suspiciously.

  “No, of course not. The other man laughed. “I pride myself on being a good judge of men, and I like how he moves.”

  “So you would wager your intuition against the three times arena champion?”

  “Yes.”

  “Very well.” Lorian grinned. “Ten gold crowns will get you twenty.”

  “Twenty? An unknown against the undefeated arena champion? Make it fifty.”

  “Fifty?” Lorian spluttered a mouthful of wine. “Do you take me for a fool? Anything could happen out there.”

  “Forty then.”

  “Thirty, no more.”

  “Done!” The other man grinned.

  A thunderous noise rolled around the arena. The two men could feel it reverberating up from the platform where they stood. All around them people were stamping their feet and clapping their hands together, chanting a chorus of, Bordron! Bordron! An ebony-skinned giant strode towards the centre of the arena. He wore a leopard skin loincloth, the head still attached and hanging over his shoulder. Strapped to his left arm was a round wooden shield, in the other he carried a long spear.