Blood Of Kings: The Shadow Mage (20 page)

Tomas was ushered back outside by the old crone once he laid her on the bed. As he left, his eyes lingered on the empty cradle. He waited at the entrance for most of the morning, listening to the tortured cries of his woman coming from within. Eventually Haera beckoned him in. “All is done,” she said, nodding her head up and down. “She no longer carries the dead child.”

“Our baby,” Aliss whispered weakly.

Tomas knelt by her side, “I know.” They were the only words he could bring himself to say. He stroked her forehead and cheek, marvelling at the transformation. The gods only had one miracle to bestow that day.

“I wish to return home,” Aliss said after two days of rest.

Tomas stared at her, unsure how to proceed. He took her hand in his own, much bigger one. “We cannot, love. We can never return there.” She made no reply, simply dropped her head, sadness evident in her eyes. A barely perceptible nod told him that she had already accepted this, even if she still had no memory of the reasons why.

“Where shall we go?”

Tomas shrugged and shook his head. “I know not.”

“I know,” Haera, who had been hovering behind the blacksmith, cackled. “I know, I know, I know.”

Suddenly light pooled at the entrance as the door was flung open. A well dressed, middle-aged man with a trimmed beard and shoulder length grey hair stood there. “My name is Djangra Roe, and I am in need of a witch!”

“That is no business of mine,” Tomas answered, glancing at Haera.

“A young one, capable of following a trail of magic,” Djangra said as he walked into the hut, “with a protector by her side.” He walked up to Aliss, who struggled into a sitting position, smiled before taking her hand and brushing his lips against it. “I can sense a darkness in your soul,” he said to her, his smile broadening. “Perfect.”

“What is it you would have us do?” Tomas asked.

“Find somebody for me, and kill them.” Djangra turned to face the blacksmith.

“Begone from here. I am nobody’s assassin!” Tomas responded angrily.

“This is my price!” Haera interjected suddenly. “You swore! Pay the price or the blood magic will unravel.” Her eyes glowed in the firelight.

Tomas rubbed at his temples, aware of Aliss staring at him in confusion. He felt like a hare stuck in the hunter’s snare. “Who is it you would have us kill?”

“You have heard of the Priestess of Eor?” Djangra smiled.

“Have you lost your wits? The dream witch?” Tomas glared at Djangra.

“I see that you have. This task requires somebody with magic in their blood to find her, and the heart of a killer to complete the deed. I think I have found them.”

“This is my price! This is my price!” The old witch hopped on two feet behind Djangra.

“And then what?” Aliss spoke for the first time.

“What would you like?” The mage turned back to face her.

“We have no home, no place to go…”

“I have powerful friends who can help you build a new life, away from any transgressions of the past.”

“No,” Tomas stated resolutely.

“I can do it,” Aliss said.

“Yes, yes, yes.” Haera beamed from behind them.

“My three men-at-arms will accompany you and offer any assistance necessary.”

“Begone from here now,” Tomas growled at Djangra.

Aliss’ eyes narrowed as she appeared to look off into the distance. “Yes,” she simply said.

PART II

Jarl Crawulf: Seafort, the Duchies

T
he folk living near the costal town of Seafort had become used to raids from the Nortland pirates over the years. Countless generations had suffered at the hands of the Nortmen. They had learned to build a stout wall of stone around their town, and when the dark, sleek ships emerged from the morning mist, they would sound the alarm and flee, with whatever possessions they could carry, to the fortified town. There they would wait out the storm of pillaging Nortmen until they grew tired of torching empty farmsteads, or the duke arrived with his men-at-arms and chased them back to the sea. Never would the raiders attempt to attack the garrisoned town, with high walls and reinforced doors made from the strongest oak… until now.

Crawulf had a fire raging inside him, fuelled by the thirst for vengeance, a need to lash out at those who had sent warriors to his door and poison into his wife’s food. But he did not know who they were or where they came from. He did not even know why they had attacked him. He cursed himself over and over for rashly killing Erild without bleeding him dry of whatever he knew. In the meantime the company of lordless men who had attacked his stronghold after luring him from the safety of its walls had weakened his position in the race to succeed his uncle as king. The men of Nortland were hard, uncompromising men. They would never follow a leader who was weak, and allowing a bunch of swords-for-hire to assault your castle and almost murder your wife was not a sign of strength. So, he needed a big gesture. He needed to reassert his claim as the best man to become king of Nortland when his uncle died.

When the men of Nortland went raiding, it was usually in small groups, with three or four ships. With their shallow hulls they could run right up onto the beach having traversed vast oceans or sail up a river to penetrate deep into the territory of their victims. Raiders were what they were, getting in and out quickly, often leaving devastated communities in their wake.

The fleet that darkened the early morning horizon, emerging out of the huge emptiness of the Nort Sea, as the sun first cast its rays into an equally vast, empty sky, was a hundred and more ships in strength. Far too many for the shepherds, who first spied them from their vantage point on a cliff rising out of the sea, to count on all of their fingers even if they put them together. Those ships carried hard men, hungry for war and spoils, and supplies to mount a lengthy campaign. Crawulf was going to war, and his men were a tempest feeding off his hatred and anger. They laid waste to the surrounding countryside, burning isolated homes and poorly defended settlements—usually abandoned by the time they got there—torching the fields and homes of the fleeing folk. Any slow-moving refugees or brave folk willing to put up a fight they killed or raped before moving on destroying and devouring all in their path.

Every Nortman dreamed of a glorious death in battle, for without such there would be no eternal afterlife feasting in the halls of the gods; no glory at Alweise’s side in his eternal struggle against his enemies. Each man took to raiding and warring with relish.

“It will take time to bring down that gate,” a man clad in mail and holding a double-bladed axe in one hand said to Crawulf as they watched a group of warriors assault the reinforced wooden door with a crudely made battering ram, while others did their best to protect them with upraised shields from a selection of missiles raining down on them from the walls. Crawulf’s own archers sent wave after wave of arrows at the defenders to deter them and make them duck for cover. Meanwhile more warriors used wooden ladders and ropes with grapple hooks to attack the wall in various locations, an effort to spread thin the defences inside. He watched as one man was bludgeoned by a heavy piece of masonry thrown two-handed from the top of the wall. The assailant, in turn, toppled from his lofty perch, pierced in the chest by three arrows. A warrior rushed from the waiting ranks to take up the place of the downed man.

“There!” another man shouted, pointing to a section of the wall where several Nortmen had made it to the top and were now fighting hand to hand on the rampart.

“Send more men to help them,” Crawulf growled, as he watched his warriors clamber like ants up rickety ladders. At the same time a loud crack came from the direction of the wooden door. A flicker of a smile touched the corner of Crawulf’s mouth before he pulled his iron helmet on and drew his sword from its leather scabbard. A satisfying crash and a cloud of dust signalled the destruction of the main door into the town. All the while more and more snarling Nortmen made the top of the wall.

As Crawulf advanced on the town, with the vast majority of his war-band formed into ranks, with their round wooden shields held before them, they were met by a much smaller shield-wall. This is where the men of Nortland excelled, in the butchery of hand-to-hand combat. They were not comfortable at laying siege to towns or assaulting castles, but with a sword or axe in hand and an enemy before them their hearts sang. And why wouldn’t it when waiting for them, after they fell in battle, was the eternal reward of The All Wise. The jarl of Wind Isle was no different to the rest of his men. He had a formidable reputation as a fighter and relished the rush each new battle gave him.
Was there a better way to feel alive but in the midst of the savagery of battle?

Locking shields with the men either side of him, he signalled for the line to move forward, the gates to the town now hung from broken hinges, leaving a yawning gap for the Nortmen to go through. Waiting beyond the thick cloud of dust was treasure, and women. Once the defence had been beaten into submission the real pain would begin. Arrows and stones fired from slingshots bounced off his shield and mail armour, not all were as lucky, the screams hanging in the air were testament to the skill of the archers on the wall. Each gap was quickly filled by another though, and the line moved steadily toward the town.

The defenders, made up of townsfolk, farmers from the surrounding countryside and a poorly trained militia, emerged slowly from the town. The Nortmen banged their wooden shields with their swords and axes while they hurled insults at the wavering line before them. As valiant and defiant the townsfolk were, they were not trained warriors; even if they were, the sight of so many snarling, fearsome Nortmen baying for their blood, would likely as not ended in the same result. Barely had the attack begun when the enemy line broke and ran. Crawulf led the advance, cutting down with a single stroke, a boy barely old enough to shave. His sightless eyes stared blankly at the sky as his body was trampled into the mud by the heavy boots of the men following their jarl. Crawulf slashed at another as the frightened defender turned from the advancing Nortmen. He screamed as he too fell forward into the dirt, his killer barely registering his existence.

Once they passed through the gate and into the town all was chaos. The raiders who had already made it over the wall had begun setting fire to the thatched roofs and dwellings made from wood. Thick, choking smoke hung heavy over the town while the stench of blood and worse filled the air. The heat from the burning buildings made breathing unbearable as people screamed and ran this way and that seeking an escape. There would be none for most of the folk of Seafort, who had wrongly thought themselves safe behind their stout walls of stone. The cries of women rang out, hauled to the ground and violated where they lay, while their men were butchered wherever they were found. Small children stood amidst the carnage, blank expressions on their faces as their young minds grappled with the destruction around them. Once the fight was gone from the townsfolk the real suffering began. For them their town had become The Hag’s fiery Pit, where The All Father had abandoned them. The raider’s blood was afire with lust for women and violence, having fought their way into the town, watched many of their brethren fall beneath the walls, now was the time of retribution on the defenders.

Crawulf stood by a well at the centre of the town square. Cupping his hands, he dipped them into the cool water and brought them to his lips. Fighting in a shield-wall was thirsty business, even without the raging fires all around him. Even to trained fighting men, carrying a heavy wooden shield on one arm and swinging or stabbing with axe or blade in the other, was tiring work. After a few mere heartbeats the muscles of arm and back would begin to burn, as the mail-clad warrior hacked his way through battle. His legs would ache, his head throb from the rush of blood and the fear of dying. Men had their own way of coping with the pain and fear, Crawulf knew. Some drank before a battle to dull the senses and give them courage, others prayed to their gods. Some, though they were rare, became consumed with battle-rage, often seeming to grow physically, would attack with devastating savagery, and with no thought to their own defence. These men both instilled fear in the enemy and inspired their own brothers.
Rare is it to see a man succumb to the rage of a berserker.

“Jarl Crawulf.” A Nortman approached Crawulf, his face darkened by dirt and dried blood, splashes of crimson covered his mail shirt and drawn sword. “Here are what’s left of the town elders. They attempted to escape through a hidden door in the wall as we broke through the main gate. They would have made good their escape had they not been so laden down with boxes of treasure.” The warrior dumped several wooden boxes onto the earth, to emphasise his point. Crawulf saw silver coins and trinkets of gold spill onto the ground.

He regarded a sorry collection of townsfolk with narrowed eyes. “Nail them to the walls so that all who pass this town will bear witness to their cowardice,” he said coldly, ignoring the pleas for mercy, and when none came, the sobbing.

Crawulf gave his men full rein to make the citizens of Seafort suffer through the night, before calling a halt once the sun began to rise over the still burning town. Any who were still left alive, mainly young women and children, were chained together in a long line and marched slowly back towards the fleet of ships waiting beyond the beach.

“How long before they arrive do you think?” a chosen man called Olf asked Crawulf as they stood watching the weeping line of new slaves, linked by chain around their necks.

“If he comes with just his knights and men-at-arms, tomorrow or the day after.”

“But he will not come with just his warriors,” Olf replied.

“No. He will not. He will gather an army to face us, it will take time to call in the peasants from the fields.” Crawulf looked inland towards the rolling hills and patchwork fields of tended crops stretching into the distance.