Blood Of Kings: The Shadow Mage, Page 4

  “There are eight main isles that make up Nortland, as well as a smattering of other, smaller islands. This is Wind Isle. There is also Sea Isle, Sun Isle, Land Isle, Dark Isle, Rock Isle, Green Isle and Black Isle. We are the southernmost isle.” Rosinnio barely heard a word said by Crawulf, as she sat, biting her lip, beside him at the head table in the great hall. Dozens of other wooden benches filled the hall, each one, beneath a burden of half-eaten food and slumbering men. Rosinnio’s eyes could not be torn from the dark red patches staining the stone floor. They were not there when she retired with her new husband the night before. “The sunny southern isle, they call us.” Crawulf laughed.

  “There was bloodshed here last night?” Rosinnio interrupted her husband.

  “Hmmm?” The big Nortman followed her gaze to patches of blood. “Oh, yes, more than likely. The men can become excited and argumentative when they’ve taken ale.” He shrugged. “Black Isle is where my uncle, the king, rules from Castle Ice,” he continued, barely drawing breath.

  “But, my lord, so much blood,” she interrupted again.

  “Do not trouble yourself, my love. I doubt there were more than a handful of fatalities.”

  “A handful! You mean men died here? Were murdered in my name?” Rosinnio failed to keep the horror from her voice.

  “It is nothing…” Crawulf’s words were suddenly interrupted by a loud roar. A huge man, with long braided hair and a bushy red beard was bellowing so fast and loudly Rosinnio could not understand the words. She was reminded of her servant’s remarks earlier when she likened their speech to that of barking hounds. “Sit down, Rothgar!” Crawulf leapt to his feet. The big Nortman, who only moments before, had been in a drunken slumber continued to shout. “You are disrespecting my bride, Rothgar. Sit down!”

  Rosinnio could taste bile in her throat, she wanted to be sick. She was a daughter of the Emperor of Sunsai, and as such was unused to such explosive displays of violence, at least not at such close quarters. She had attended the arena games many times, where men often fought to the death, but they were far more distant in mind and body. Rothgar jabbed a finger in her direction, making her pale with fear. She had no idea what she should do. Sit where she was and say nothing? Run for her life? No one would dare address a member of royalty so, in the court of the emperor. She felt rooted to her chair. Even if she were capable of standing she was sure her legs would give way beneath her. Her new husband was roaring and exchanging insults with the man. Other Nortmen now joined in. Rosinnio searched with her eyes for her maidservant. She saw Marta standing in the shadows, her face as pale as Rosinnio’s own.

  Crawulf leapt over the table, an axe appeared in his hand. She had no idea where it had even come from. Rothgar was not expecting it either and received the flat of the blade in the face. One blow sent him crashing to the floor in a heap. “Get him out of here! Let him sleep it off with the hounds in the courtyard,” the big jarl fumed. When he turned back to his young bride, she could see a smile play at the corner of his mouth. He’s enjoying this, she thought. She had thrown up all over his boots the first time they met. A repeat performance was not far off.

  “W-what was he saying?” she stammered.

  “Do not concern yourself. He was drunk. In a few hours he won’t even remember anything happened.” Crawulf picked up a tankard of ale and finished it without taking breath, half of it spilled down his front.

  “What did he say?”

  “He called you a witch.” Crawulf shrugged.

  “I? A witch?” The words floated between them, she could not understand why anyone, least of all, one of her husband’s housecarls would label her so. She had spent the weeks, and especially the previous night contemplating her new life, and how she could possibly tolerate becoming the wife of a Nortman. Now she was beginning to wonder how long her life was likely to be with such animosity and suspicion towards her. “What is to be his punishment?” In her father’s court, such disrespect would result in the forfeit of a life.

  “Ack, the sore head he will have will be punishment enough.” Crawulf dismissed her strangled protest with a wave of his hand.

  “But, my lord, he called me a witch. He disrespected me, you said so yourself. He threatened me. I am your wife!”

  “Enough,” he barked. “I will make him apologise and that will be the end of the matter.” Crawulf suddenly rose again, pulling her to her feet as he did so. “Come, wife, all this fighting has stirred my blood. I have other sport in mind.” He laughed as he dragged her from the hall. Princess Rosinnio, daughter to the Emperor of Sunsai, blessed of the gods, bit back a protest and did as she was bade by her new husband.

  Duke Normand: Eorotia – The Thieves Citadel

  “Wowza! Kaboom!” The mage chuckled as rocks, fired from the swinging arms of trebuchets, arced through the air and crashed against the solid stone walls of Eorotia.

  “I am glad you find sport to amuse you,” Duke Normand spat as he watched, grim-faced, the assault on the Thieves Citadel. Behind him, his knights, resplendent in their red cloaks, calmed restless mounts as they waited impatiently for a breach in the walls, and for the real slaughter to begin.

  “Is it not often one witnesses such beauty in destruction, such grace. Not to mention the ingenuity in the design of the machines. They are like giant wooden swans.”

  “Have you been struck on the head?” the duke asked, irritably.

  “No, my lord.” The mage chuckled. “You and I just see the world differently.”

  “Well stop your jabbering, man.” Normand threw back a goblet of red wine, spilling much of it on his chin.

  “They say dragons once nested in these mountains.” The mage indicated the jagged peaks behind the city, with a sweep of his arm.

  “Dragons? Pah! Now I know your mind is addled,” Normand said, his words laced with scorn. “Are you to tell me you are a believer in dragons now?”

  The mage turned towards the duke, his eyes full of determination. “Oh yes, my lord. Oh yes indeed. I have seen, with my own eyes, the bones of huge creatures that could have come from nothing other than a dragon. Ancient bones dug from the ground while mining for precious stones deep in the Sunsai Empire. Dragons are real, my lord. Oh so very real.”

  Duke Normand held the mage’s eye-contact momentarily before turning away, with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Nonsense, nonsense and more nonsense.”

  A wave of excitement rippled through the spearmen lined up before him, as masonry dust clouded the air and chunks of the outer wall crumbled away.

  “Your men are anxious to partake in the coming jovialities,” the mage said, turning away from the duke again.

  “What of it?”

  “Your order to unleash, and unmuzzle them and allow free rein on the unfortunate citizens of the town, may have been…. hasty, in my, ever so, humble opinion.”

  “Oh just speak your mind, Mage. I have not the patience for your riddles and games. The ‘citizens’ of that city are nothing but brigands, whores and thieves. It has been a blemish staining the honour of my family for far too long. I would see it dismantled brick by filthy brick, and the inhabitants with it.”

  “Just so, my lord, and who would blame you? Perhaps, though, you are not seeing the wood for the trees in this matter. These mountains are a gateway to the south, and Eorotia is its key. Think of the huge trade caravans snaking their way around the mountain to avoid the very brigands you are about to put to the sword. Think of what they would pay to save a journey of hundreds of miles, especially if there were a warm welcome, and safe passage. They would be more than happy to pay a small levy, and pass a night or two in a hospitable town to break their journey, and spend some of their coin. Handled right, it could become a trading hub itself. Where would be the sense, for southern traders in travelling for weeks north, when they could unload their goods and make their profit here?”

  “I am a soldier, not a trader nor an innkeeper,” Normand responded.

  “Soldiers need gold too, my
lord.”

  A cheer rang out from the men, echoing through the valley. “The wall is breached, my lord.” A man-at-arms hurried up to the duke.

  “Ready the men to advance, Malachi,” Normand said, turning towards his most senior and trusted knight.

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Oh, and Malachi,” the duke called back the grizzled warrior. “See to it that the destruction of the town is kept to a minimum. And I want all of the priestesses accounted for.

  “My lord.” Malachi bowed, before running off to carry out his orders.

  Normand drew his sword. “Shall we, Mage?”

  “You are going in with the vanguard?”

  “Oh yes.” Normand smiled, a cold, humourless smile.

  “Well, I shall wait here, my lord, and leave you to your fun.”

  Normand pulled his helmet over his head, leaving the visor raised. He ordered his one hundred knights to dismount and join the front ranks on foot. They were his heavy horse, his battering ram, but there was no place for cavalry when storming a castle, and he would have his Dragon Knights—an order of fighting men formed by his great grandfather in the dim and distant past—around him when he entered the Thieves Citadel.

  He was hot and uncomfortable inside his armour. His legs and arms ached from the weight. His throat was parched, as dust and smoke from countless fires choked the air. Yet he was exuberant as he led his men over the crumbled masonry and into the town. Everywhere he looked, people milled about in panic, struck dumb by the chaos of war. A woman stood screaming in a street, blood staining the skin of her cheek and neck where she had been hit by flying shrapnel. A spearman drove the point of his weapon into her as he leapt bits of broken wall, silencing her screams for good. More devastation was wrought on the citizens of Eorotia, as Duke Normand’s warriors piled into the city.

  A thin line of defenders rushed to meet them. The duke’s knights led the charge against them with his spearmen following close behind. The ragged band of brigands was quickly broken and those not left lying silently in pools of their own blood, or screaming for their mothers, wives, or whores, fled from the savage assault. Normand passed a man on his knees, whimpering as he held a string of his own pink guts in his hand. The duke ignored him and pressed deeper into the city. Soon the pain-filled cries of dying men were replaced with the screams of women as the sack of the city began in earnest. There would be no mercy for the citizens of the Thieves Citadel.

  Normand led his knights through the mayhem; all were under strict instructions to round up the Shadow Sisters, priestesses of the Dream Cult. It was imperative that none of the white-robed women were allowed to escape. As well as their distinctive garments, his men would recognise the priestesses by a tattoo of an eye burnt into their foreheads.

  They swiftly put down any resistance and pressed deeper into the city. Normand and his knights ignored the fleeing citizenry, even as his foot soldiers put the town to the sword and began the rape and slaughter in earnest. The duke led his men onwards towards the town square, and there he found what he was looking for. Dominating the surrounding buildings and open spaces of the square stood an imposing structure. Two huge wooden doors were flanked by massive circular pillars. Above the entrance, carved into the stone was an eye. Painted in blue and black it stood out from the white façade of the building, as if it watched all who approached. The temple of Eor.

  “Bring up a ram, get those doors down!” Normand barked. “And fetch the mage here, now!” Knights scrambled to do his bidding, issuing orders and threats of their own to the common warriors.

  “My lord,” the mage greeted Normand, just as a loud crack echoed around the square. The double-doors guarding the entrance to the temple smashed inwards in a cloud of dust and splintered wood. The duke glanced at the mage, his jaw set in steely determination as he drew his sword. The air hung heavy with smoke and dust as all around him his men sacked the Thieves Citadel. Rape, slaughter and looting abounded. Normand ignored it all, as he stepped over rubble and entered, sword in hand, inside the Dream Cult’s temple.

  Inside the temple was dark. There were no windows or any other doors to give access to sunlight and all of the torches and lanterns lining the walls of the entrance hallway had been extinguished. The air was thick with the heady scent of burning incense. Normand pushed forward as men lit his way, rushing ahead with flaming torches. The duke glanced in the direction of the mage several times, making sure the practitioner of magic, and his only defence against the dark arts of the priestesses of Eor, was still at his shoulder.

  The long corridor opened into a wide, circular chamber, the high roof supported by towering columns. Men quickly filed into the chamber, putting flame to the sconces on the wall; their shadows danced across the marble floor. Their echoing boots broke the eerie silence. Normand stopped suddenly, letting his sword drop by his side as the flickering torches bathed the chamber in orange light. Lying, in a circle, with their eyes closed and their arms by their sides, as if in peaceful slumber, were the priestesses of Eor.

  “Are they?” he began, but a knight answered for him.

  “Dead, my lord.” He moved to each one, putting his cheek to their faces before touching his hand to their cold skin. “All of them.”

  “How many?” he asked irritably, even as he heard the mage’s mumbled counting behind him. Cautiously he stepped towards the bodies, the lifelike eye tattoo on each of their foreheads made him shiver involuntarily.

  “Thirty-two, my lord,” the mage answered.

  “One missing,” Normand answered, unable to shake the feeling of being watched by thirty-two false eyes branded onto thirty-two foreheads. “Make sure they are all really dead,” he said to the knight moving among the bodies. He drew his sword and plunged it into the heart of the first, before moving to the next. The duke then swung back towards the mage. “There is one missing!” he growled.

  “Aye, the high priestess herself,” the mage answered.

  “Find her!” he growled at the mage, before turning to his knights. “Tear this place apart brick by brick, until you have found her. Pull the city down if you have to, just find her!” He stormed from the chamber then, with the mage hurrying behind him.

  “Calm yourself, my lord. She will be found, and in the meantime you have my protection. She will not harm you,” the mage panted.

  Normand stopped and whirled around. “And is your magic powerful enough to protect us all? Can you guard the dreams of my men too?”

  “No, my lord, I cannot,” the mage answered, dropping his head.

  “She must be found! Tell me, why did they take their own lives?”

  “There is power in death, my lord. Especially if a life is freely given.”

  “She sacrificed them all to make good her own escape? Be on your guard, Mage,” Normand said and then barked an order to one of his knights. “Should I fail to wake from sleep, at any time before the high priestess is caught, slit his throat.” He pointed at the mage before turning to face the smaller man. “On your guard, Mage, the stakes are high!”

  The mage swallowed hard and nodded. “Of course, my lord.”

  “A purse of gold to the man who brings me her head, attached or not to the rest of her,” Normand bellowed to all within earshot.

  All around him was devastation and mayhem as his army put the Thieves Citadel to the sword. The blemish, for so long, staining the honour of his family would finally be eradicated, and the brigands and whores, thieves and assassins who populated the city would suffer badly at the hands of his soldiers. But the High Priestess of Eor had escaped. His greatest fear, literally his nightmare was loose, and likely thirsting for vengeance.

  “Find her!” he barked again and strode from the devastated city.

  Tomas: Woodvale Village

  The sun sank below the distant mountains, draining all light from the sky. Any sign of the trailing smoke had disappeared with the inky backdrop of the night sky. Tomas led the small group of men to the edge of town where they wer
e met by Rorbert, a village elder, whom Tomas knew had once served in the King’s Lancers. The loss of an eye and a severe limp that made him grumble in cold weather was proof that he had seen action.

  “Tomas,” the grey-beard began, unable to meet the blacksmith’s eye. “I’m sorry, Tomas.”

  “What has happened, Rorbert?”

  “The magistrate came. He…” Rorbert dropped his head. “Aliss…”

  Tomas heard no more. He was off and running as words drifted on the wind. He was unaware of the doors and windows being barred as he ran past, of husbands pulling wives, and wives pulling their children from the street.

  At the far end of the village the blackened carcass of his house stood stark in the moonlight. Behind his ruined home, his blacksmith’s workshop bore the scorch marks of the flames, but at least still stood relatively untouched.

  “Aliss!” he cried out, twisting this way and that, looking for his wife. “Aliss!” he yelled until his throat was raw and his voice hoarse.

  “She’s gone, Tomas. They took her,” Rorbert said softly, coming up behind him, panting.

  “Why?” Tomas asked, the anguish he felt in his heart clearly evident in his voice. In truth he was still in shock as he tried to fathom what had happened while he was gone. As he stood amidst the destruction of his home tears glistened at the edge of his eyes. “What happened here?” His eyes bored into those of the shorter man, searching for answers, searching for truth.

  “The magistrate was sent for, to report the missing babe. He and his soldiers were only a short distance away dealing with a matter in Dortia. He came straight away.” The grey-beard paused, rubbing greasy hands into his tunic.

  “Go on,” Tomas encouraged as he became irritated with Rorbert’s nervousness.

  “The story of the missing babe was related to him and he asked to speak with Marjeri. She… she,” Rorbert stumbled over his words.