Blood Of Kings: The Shadow Mage (12 page)

“Send someone else,” the duke had responded in his usual gruff manner.

“No. This is a thing I must do.” And that was that. Djangra had left a fretful duke behind while he searched the countryside for a witch, one powerful enough to follow the thin trail of magic left by the priestess of Eor, yet not so wilful that he could not bend her to his own. Now here he was, after travelling many days around Normand’s small duchy, standing in the spot where a witch made good an escape from a raging mob.
Had she used magic?
he wondered, he could find no trace of a taint that surely would have lingered, a faint crackle in the air, a taste of… of what? What does magic taste of? He mused. Cloves, he decided, bitter like cloves.

He climbed back down and approached the magistrate. “She was aided in her escape, you say?” he said.

“Aye, by a blacksmith. I have men out searching for the pair of them now. They won’t get far,” the magistrate answered. “Now, I have business to attend to…”

“You may attend to your business when I say you can,” Djangra answered, his voice low and even.

“And who in the name of the All Father do you think you are to be giving me orders?” the balding, official spluttered.

“We have established that already,” the mage said. He could sense the tension building from his own men at his back and those of the magistrate’s, fingers edged towards swords, feet shuffled on the cobbled street.

“Yes, you say you are Duke Normand’s counsellor. As a courtesy I have given my time and answered your question, but this is my town. This is…” Djangra interrupted by stretching up to whisper in the ear of the taller man. All colour faded from the magistrate’s complexion. Suddenly he clutched his chest as he sucked in deep breaths. He dropped to his knees, a strangled sound coming from the back of his throat. His men stared at him, confusion written on their faces.

“Well, help him up. The man has obviously taken a turn,” the mage instructed the magistrate’s guards. “Have a good day, sir.” He bowed to the kneeling official who was still struggling for air as his men gently eased him to his feet.

Djangra Roe calmly walked from the town square, Three men-at-arms, bearing the red dragon of Lenstir on their white tunics, fell in behind him. “This is not the work of any ordinary blacksmith,” he muttered to himself, as he mused over the tale he had been told of the witch’s escape and the role of the blacksmith. He doubted there were more than a handful of men in the entire kingdom who could boldly interrupt an execution, literally pull a condemned witch from the flames while slaughtering a handful of trained guards in the process.

“Horace?” he addressed one of the men-at-arms.

“Aye?”

“Do you think it possible to decipher a trail from all the tracks leaving town? If the girl is a witch she has left no signs of magic for me to follow, so, we must assume the rescue was all the work of our blacksmith… or whatever he is.”

“Aye, perhaps. A horse leaving at speed and carrying an armoured man and girl will leave deeper tracks than most, if they have not been trampled already.”

The mage looked into the pockmarked face of the warrior, briefly wondering the reason for his scarred skin, a pox of some sort no doubt, he decided. “They tell me you are the best tracker in Lenstir. I have been told your skills are legendary. The word mystical was used.” Horace’s expression remained the same; if he was affected by the flattery he showed no sign. “Is what they say true?”

“Aye.” The answer was simple and direct. Djangra smiled at the honesty of it. Surely there was no idle boast here.

“Do not fail me. I shall wait in yonder tavern. I have a strong urge to clear the dust from my throat.”

Horace nodded before ambling off.

The tavern was quiet with very few patrons to approach. Djangra instructed his remaining two men-at-arms to wait outside, no point in intimidating the locals if he wanted to glean some information from them. The ceiling was low, the room filled with smoke from a turf fire blazing in the hearth. Three off-duty guardsmen huddled together in a corner supping tankards of frothy ale. An old man appeared to be sleeping at another table with his sleeves soaking up liquid from an upturned cup, with his head resting on his arms. A woman, displaying ample cleavage and looking bored slouched against the bar. Her eyes shot to the entrance when the mage walked in, lighting up at the prospect of custom.

“Good day, sir.” A portly innkeeper with tufts of grey hair either side of a bald head, greeted the mage. “What’s your pleasure?” He wiped his hands on a stained off-white tunic. The woman sidled over, managing to display even more flesh than before. Djangra stopped her with a raised hand. Her eyes dropped in disappointment as she slumped against the bar once again.

“Wine would be nice,” he answered with a smile. “Tell me, friend,” he said, handing over a couple of copper coins in payment and then adding a silver to the small pile, “there was a witch burning here a day ago. You’ve a pretty good view of the square from here. Did you see much of what happened?”

The innkeeper scooped the coins into his hand before sliding them into a pouch which disappeared as quickly as it appeared. “Nah, not a lot. Jalia here.” He indicated the girl with a nod of his head, “she were right outside, saw the whole thing.”

“Is that so?” Djangra smoothed down his whiskers as he turned his attention to the girl. “Share a jug of wine with an old man, would you?” He slid a silver coin under her hand.

“Thank you, sir. That would be right nice.” She beamed. The mage took the jug from the innkeeper and poured a dark red liquid into two clay goblets. He handed one to Jalia with a smile and sipped from the other.

“So what did you see? Did she use magic to escape her bonds and the flames?”

“No, sir, it were that blacksmith… leastwise they say he’s a blacksmith. Never seen him before meself, but I wouldn’t mind gettin’ to know him a bit better, if you know what I mean. A fine figure of a man he was.” She grinned and quaffed the wine, spilling much of it down her chin. Djangra smiled a painted on smile and refilled her cup.

“They say he’s the blacksmith from the village Woodvale, up aside o’ the Great Wood. Nothin’ good ever comes out o’ that cursed forest,” the innkeeper joined in.

“How so?” the mage asked. “Enlighten a humble stranger to your fair land.”

“It’s haunted, sir,” the girl said. “Full o’ dark creatures and spooks that’d steal yer soul.”

“All them valley dwellers and other folk what live next to the forest are a bit queer in the head,” the innkeeper added.

“Is that so? So how is it you are so sure it was this blacksmith who rescued the witch?”

“She was his woman. Some o’ the magistrate’s guards recognised him. He attacked them several nights past when they was bringing her in for trial. They’ve been huntin’ him ever since,” the girl explained before helping herself to more wine.

“One o’ them guards is a regular o’ Jalia’s,” the innkeeper clarified.

“Ah, I see. So, how would a stranger find this village?”

“Go west out of town and follow the road for two days,” the portly innkeeper answered.

“Thank you, you’ve been of great assistance.” He placed two more silver coins on the bar. The woman’s hand snaked out to claim one for herself. Djangra smiled and turned to leave.

“Don’t go wanderin’ into that Great Wood. Folk who go in there often as not don’t come back out,” the innkeeper called after him.

His two men waited outside, leaning against the wall. “Horold, fetch the horses and bring them here. Ronwald, find Horace. Tell him we are leaving.”

“What if he hasn’t sniffed out the trail?” the man-at-arms answered with a question.

“Never mind that.” Djangra looked into the distance, a smile flickering at the corner of his mouth. “We’re riding west. West, in search of a hamlet and a haunted forest.”

Jarl Crawulf – Lady Rosinnio: Wind Isle

H
e opened one eye, struggling to exert the effort needed for that simple function. Ice water flowed through his veins in place of blood. He was beyond cold, he felt as if his very bones had frozen into strips of glacial ice. The muscles of his jaw clenched tightly as his teeth chattered uncontrollably. Hair – wet and greasy clung to his face. Darkness enveloped him; the sound of the sea breaking on rocks filled him with petrifying fear, making him groan and stir. Like a great, sea-creature rousing from slumber, he pushed himself up onto one arm. The effort required was too great, his own weight too much to bear and he dropped back to the hard ground. The smell of the ocean clung to him, lay thick in the air all around. His thoughts were too groggy to bring clarity to his thinking, everything felt out of focus to him. The how and the why of where he was, were questions beyond him, the where, even more so.
Falling
, he remembered falling. Perhaps he had sunk all the way to the ocean floor and was now in the dark realm of Baltagor, or had the Lord of the Sea’s trickster daughters lured him to his doom? As they had tricked countless sailors into the turbulent seas, since time began.
Surely death would not hurt so much.

He heard voices then. In the dark he could not tell if they were carried on the wind, from some far off place, or if they were close by and about to stumble on him. Either way it made no difference; he could not move. If he was not already dead, he soon would be. Perhaps the voices were the Soul Reapers come to harvest his soul for Boda’s Nacht Realm. Such thoughts filled him with dread. As a warrior, it was his reward to spend eternity feasting in the hall of Alweise and fighting his enemies on the vast plains and in the high, rocky reaches of Eiru, home of the gods. Could some trick of fate deprive him of his ultimate reward? Who knew the minds of gods?

Memories came back to him—he had fallen from the cliff—had he died with a sword in his hand? Or had the watery depths of Baltagor quenched his life? Would fate be so cruel as to judge him by the manner of his death? Pain wracked his body, shooting through him in icy, dagger-stabs. He dug his fingers into the ground beneath him, cutting his hands and tearing the skin from his fingers on loose stones and the hard rock beneath.

The orange glow of torches, flickering in the wind allowed him to see the cave he was lying in. Huge dark shadows danced around the wet and jagged walls. Was it the Soul Reapers or his enemies come to finish him off?

The voices were closer now. He tried to focus on the words, but they made no sense to him.

“Over here!”

He was found. He dug his fingers into the hardness of the rock beneath him, ignoring the pain of breaking nails and shredded fingertips as he tried to summon the strength to get away. Grunting with the effort, he shifted his body.

“Hold still.” Words drifted over him as blackness found him once again.

If he dreamed dreams good or ill, he had forgotten them when he woke. Although not quite as dark as before, it still took a little time for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. He lay on a bed with a straw-filled mattress beneath him. Stone walls surrounded him and above he could make out the dark reed of a thatched roof. The air was thick with the smell of wood-smoke and the strong scent of smoked fish. He reached his hand up to his aching head and felt a cloth tightly binding his scalp.

“You got a right nasty bang on your head there. The gods alone know how it is you were not dead when we found you in the cave. We was searchin’ for shellfish washed in by the tide when we found you instead. Come off a shipwreck did ya?”

Crawulf regarded the man with narrowed eyes, taking in the small dwelling as he did so. The stranger was stirring a pot hanging over the fire. The smell of a fish stew drifted over to Crawulf, making his stomach grumble. He realised he was starving.

“How…” he began, struggling to rise, before failing and slumping onto his back. His throat felt constricted, his mouth parched.

“How long have you been here? We found you three evenings past. You couldn’t have been in the cave more’n half a day, elsewise the tide would o’ come in and washed you back out to sea,” the man answered. “Here.” He handed Crawulf a cup filled with water. “Supper’ll be ready soon. I dare say you’d fancy a bite.”

The jarl of Wind Isle needed aid getting up before he could take the cup from the fisherman. Once in a seated position on the low cot he could see that his leg was bound in a wooden splint.

The fisherman followed his glance. “It’s broke,” he simply explained and returned to his stirring.

Unable to express the gratitude he felt, Crawulf simply nodded, then drank. He drained the cup in one gulp. Never before had he experienced such relief and delight as the purifying water slid down his throat.

“More?”

Crawulf nodded in answer. The fisherman refilled his cup and then ladled a watery broth full of thick pieces of fish into a bowl and handed it to the jarl. He savoured every bite, without a word, his entire focus on the simple meal, a better feast than any he had tasted in his own hall. After a second and third helping he mopped the remnants from the bowl with thick chunks of black bread.

The room was suddenly bathed in bright light as the wooden door scratched across the hard-packed earth and reeds of the floor. A small, plump woman entered the dwelling. She was dressed in the local garb of drab woollen dress under a thinner, sleeveless linen apron, a white scarf covered her head.

“He’s awake then,” she said. Her eyes narrowed in suspicion as she nodded in Crawulf’s direction.

“Aye,” the man simply answered. Two younger men followed her into the room, glancing at Crawulf before turning their attention to the steaming pot. “My woman, and two boys. Twas the lads who carried you from the cave. She patched you up.” The fisherman nodded towards his wife.

“More used to mendin’ nets and worn breeches, but I fancy you’ll live,” she answered.

The two boys took a bowl of broth from their father and took it to separate cots lined against the walls of the single-room dwelling.

“Was ya shipwrecked?” one of the boys asked between mouthfuls. Crawulf reckoned both to be not long into manhood. He nodded in reply, realising that none of them had recognised him. He thought it best to leave it that way.