King Of The North (Book 3) (12 page)

Bjorn stood, signaling the remaining warriors to stand beside them. The small army of Northmen waited, weapons ready, and faces locked in an expression of determination. The snow continued to swirl, giving them brief glimpses of the necromancer, who appeared as a ghastly shadow in contrast to the stark white of the blowing snow. The archer, still poised to fire, waited for the order from Bjorn. The Jarl whispered his approval, and the arrow was loosed.

There was silence as the warriors awaited any sign that the arrow had struck its target. Within the cover of snow, a shrill cry was heard; distant, but approaching fast. Then, from out of the great cloud, a black, swirling object shot toward the archer. His eyes widened, and an audible gasp was heard as the strange projectile embedded itself in his chest.

The men scrambled as the archer began to convulse and shudder. His eyes rolled back into his head, and his mouth opened into a gaping maw of rotting teeth. An unearthly rattling came from deep inside, and evolved into a shrill screech that stung the ears of all of those around him. Bjorn hefted his sword, rushing the archer and chopping downward at his skull. The sword split the archer's head wide open and crushed him to the ground. From the shattered remains of his skull, tentacles shot out and wrapped themselves around the surrounding men.

The Northmen screamed in terror as the slimy appendages attempted to drag them toward the archer’s corpse. They hacked and slashed to free themselves, but to no avail. The tentacles healed themselves and continued lashing at them, pulling them in. The archer's body split open, revealing a giant mouth with the same rotting teeth. Appendages burst through his sides, pushing into the ground like roots. Bjorn fought against the tentacle that bound him, looking for Farouk in the chaos.

The Druid had grabbed the archer's bow and was approaching the mist with caution. He had the bow bent, ready to fire when the opportunity arose. When the snow cleared, and the dark form of the necromancer appeared again, Farouk shot.

The arrow impacted the necromancer's chest with an audible thunk. He wailed in pain with a cry that rivaled that of a banshee. Farouk dropped the bow, shielding his ears from the shrill sound. The necromancer grasped the arrow that protruded from his chest, struggling to remove it. Blood poured from his mouth, and his eyes, black and hollow, began to glow red with the fury of the dead. Farouk held forth his staff, calling on the power of the Great Mother. Green lightning shot from the tip, arcing toward the Necromancer and exploding into his body.

The blast cleared the snow completely, revealing the necromancer's now twisted form. He was smoking and scorched with the energy of the Earth. His flesh began to bubble and run down his face, and off the ends of his fingers. His leather tunic disintegrated, blowing away in the wind. With one final croak of defiance, the necromancer toppled forward into the snow, steaming and bubbling as he melted away.

The tentacles fell off of the Northmen, prompting them to rush at the beast that had evolved from the archer's body. They hacked at it with their weapons, chopping it to pieces and stomping it into the snow.

Farouk's attention was focused on the snow and fog that remained. Dark shapes were fading into view, signaling the approach of the necromancer's army. Within seconds, the Jindala company appeared, with an elegantly-dressed Sultan at the their head. Farouk ran back to the Northmen, who were shaken, but still alive. The creature had been slain along with the necromancer, and only chunks of the archer's body remained.

"What the Hell just happened?" Bjorn cried.

"I've never seen that spell before," Farouk replied over the rising wind. "But we have greater problems."

He pointed to the marching army that was rapidly closing the distance. "There's an entire legion of men," he warned. "At least one thousand strong."

The Northmen stared off into the distance, watching the large force materialize from the blowing snow. They were dressed in winter clothing: furs, white tunics, and armor that had been dulled to a drab gray. They came out of the snow in a seemingly endless horde, marching forward like drones.

"We must draw them away from the village," Bjorn said. "We can face them here, but when they kill us, they will follow the women and children."

"It is too late to flee," Farouk said. "Their archers would take us down before we got a fair distance. We must deal with them now. I can speak with them. Perhaps I can convince them you are working for me as scouts."

Bjorn shook his head. "No," he said. "We will not be cowards. We will fight, and give our women and children time to reach the summit. Cannuck will protect them from there."

Farouk nodded. "Then we stay. And we die together."

Bjorn clapped Farouk on the back, his face grim. "Are you prepared to die with us, Druid?"

Farouk drew his sword, looking over the Northmen with pride, accepting of his fate. "Today," he said, "I die as a Northman."

Yrsa and Silka led the women and children over the rocky trail that led to the summit of the mountains. On the other side, they would descend into the plains near the lake known as
Sjo av Doden
. From there, they would most likely encounter Cannuck's forces, and they would be safe. They would be escorted to Falgraf where they would be under the protection of the Great Jarl.

Silka turned to gaze down the mountainside, eager to see whether her kinsmen were still safe. In her heart, she hoped, most of all, that Farouk was still alive, and that he would survive whatever danger had come. She had lain with him not only for her tribe, but for herself, as well. The Druid had stolen her heart in the short time they had been together, and she knew through her own magic that she now carried his seed. She would want that child to know that its father was out there, somewhere, doing the work of the Great Mother.

She looked desperately for any sign below, seeing only snow and mist that had begun to roll down into the valley. There was nothing to see, and nothing to hear.

With a tear, she turned back to the path and fell in step behind her mother.

Farouk stood beside Bjorn, with the rest of the warriors standing behind them. Bjorn studied the approaching army, noting its size, and its makeup. There were pikemen in the front, swordsmen in the bulk, and archers, no doubt, in the back. From this vantage point, however, there were no leaders to be seen. Whatever Sultan Farouk had seen was no longer in the front ranks.

Not surprising.

"Lads," Bjorn said. "The doors of Valhalla are open. Let us make our arrival known."

The warriors cheered, raising their weapons in the air. Their war cries echoed over the rocks in the valley, and their calls to Kronos were louder than the howling wind. With one final cry, the Northmen charged.

The Jindala poised themselves for the impact. Their pikes were lowered, and their swords were raised. As the Northmen neared, they laughed at the sight of them; less than thirty men against one thousand. The odds were startlingly in the Jindalas' favor.

However, the ferocity of the charge was obvious. As the Northmen clashed with the front lines, their axes and hammers cleaved a large hole through Jindala defenses. Pikes were shattered, swords were struck from their hands, and the fierce cries of the barbaric winter folk rang in their ears.

Bjorn smashed his great sword at the nearest enemy, crushing his helmet, and cleaving his head in two. He followed up with a lunge at the next man, running him through with a guttural growl. Farouk's sword rang as it cleaved through his enemies, cutting them down one by one with fierce determination.

The remaining Northmen plowed through behind them, taking down the Jindala in great numbers. Their growls and yells outmatched those of the Jindala, and the servants of The Lifegiver began to part in fear. The warriors of the steppe had made their intentions known, and now, there was no stopping them.

Though surrounded by jabbing pikes, Farouk and his friends had no trouble dodging and countering as they worked their way toward the middle. Their own lives were forfeit, they knew, and their only hope was to give their kin enough time to escape. That, along with the reddening snow, gave them the courage and resolve to take as many Jindala with them to the afterlife as they could.

Farouk sought out the Sultan he had seen earlier, dodging attacks and slashing at his opponents. He gutted one Jindala, kicking him out of the way, and slashed the throat of another before his eyes caught sight of the decorated noble. He intended to kill the Sultan, leaving the remaining men leaderless.

It was then that a horn sounded within the Jindala ranks. The men suddenly backed away, leaving room for white robed figures to step forward. They splayed their fingers to cast spells, chanting guttural curses as wisps of darkness spread from their hands and engulfed Farouk and the Northmen.

It was a binding spell.

The tendrils of blackness tightened their grip on the allies, stopping them in their tracks. They were defenseless, yet still calling out to Kronos, and cursing the Jindala army. Farouk struggled against the magic, desperately trying to summon the Great Mother's power. But in his weakness, and the absence of his staff, it was of no use. He fell to his knees, seeing that the Northmen had done so, as well. But, as he counted them, he came to a sudden realization; despite the dozens of Jindala that lay dead and bleeding on the frozen ground around them, not a single Northman had fallen. It was a sign of the determination and skill of the people of the North. Farouk looked at them proudly.

Bjorn struggled against his bonds, spitting and cursing as he attempted to reach his weapon. The others were in a similar state. Farouk calmly waited for the inevitable. As the Sultan stepped through the line of men, he stopped and glared at all of them. He smirked at Bjorn, seeing that he was obviously the leader, and spat at his feet.

"Barbarians," the Sultan hissed. "Filthy, uncivilized creatures of this forsaken land."

He clasped his hands behind his back, looking at the ground as he walked among the prone Northmen. Farouk faced away, knowing the Sultan would recognize him. He knew this particular noble, and while not as vile and evil as Tyrus, he was no kind hearted man. He was Rahim, Destroyer of Saints. He had personally tortured hundreds of priests of Imbra during his reign, and now, for some reason, he was here in Jotunheim.

"Who killed my necromancer?" the Sultan asked. "Hmm?" He turned to a female warrior, who glared back at him with disgust. "Was it you?"

The woman spat at his feet, growling under her breath. The Sultan backhanded her, throwing her to the ground.

"I have no respect for a people who let their women do battle," Rahim said. "Women are meant to bear children, and serve their husbands. Only a fool would give a woman a weapon."

He passed by Bjorn, saying nothing, and stopped at Farouk. The Druid could see the man's boots as his head remained down.

"Look at me," Rahim said. Slowly, Farouk raised his head, looking the Sultan in the eye. Rahim smiled knowingly.

"Farouk al-Fayid," he said. "You consort with these barbarians? Where is your brother? Is he here too?"

"I serve the Great Mother," Farouk said. "And Azim serves
The Dragon."

The Sultan nodded. "So the rumors are true," he replied. "Your troops abandoned
The Lifegiver, and now fight with the enemy. I am disappointed."

"You serve the darkness," Farouk said. "The Lifegiver is a false god."

The Sultan smiled. "I am aware of this, Farouk," he said, stroking his beard. "And The Lifegiver knows that the people no longer believe he is Imbra. So, there is no need for him to continue the ruse. That is why he has unleashed his most powerful weapons on the lands that still resist him."

Farouk said nothing, staring back into the Sultan's eyes. Rahim crouched near him, looking him over. "I have an offer," he said.

"I am not interested," Farouk replied, turning away.

"Renounce your allegiance to the enemy and I will allow you to return to Khem to beg
The Lifegiver's forgiveness."

"I said I am not interested," Farouk repeated.

Rahim sighed, standing up and turning to his men. He walked toward the front line, turning back to Farouk as his men gathered around him.

"Crucify him," Rahim commanded. "Kill the others."

Chapter Ten

Traegus looked out over the sea from atop his tower on the tiny island of Hybras. His blue and gold cloak blew in the high winds, wrapping around him and flapping against his rotting frame. His face was covered in a bronze leper mask, as his true appearance was ghastly.

Through the mask, he could see that the sea was boiling roughly in the Southeast, and the skies above were dark and swirling in a spot near the shore of Eirenoch. Something was there on the ocean floor, he knew, and it was something that meant doom for the creatures who dwelled anywhere near its location.

What the object was, he could not guess, but its nature was that of the darkness, and not of this Earth. He could feel it. Its presence brought even the ancient Lich a sense of dread that chilled his crumbling bones. Somehow, he believed, the object was related to
The Lifegiver. It could be a portal, a weapon, or both. Either way, it did not belong here, and its presence was a disturbance in the natural order of things.

Jodocus must have felt it by now, he reasoned. But, if so, the Druid should have contacted him. Even Maedoc had not been in contact for a few decades. Traegus had been here on Hybras alone, studying the natural order of the universe and everything that resided within it. But this object was something that even he did not understand. Its closest analogue, according to his studies in physics, was something that could not possibly exist on Earth. It was the end of all things, the end of all matter and energy.

A singularity. It was just not possible.

And why would it be there, on the shores of Eirenoch? If
The Lifegiver wanted to completely destroy the planet, such an object would do so from anywhere, even in space. No, it had to be something else.

Lord Traegus,
his Druaga servant said from behind him.
The warriors are frightened of the storm. They can sense that something is not right.

Traegus turned to his friend. "Yes," he said. "The sea speaks to me, as well. The island is in great danger."

The Druaga approached, lowering its hood and looking out over the sea.

What is out there?

"I am not sure, my friend. But we must make haste to gather everything and flee. I think the time has come for us to return to Eirenoch."

The Druaga looked up at him, its large, lamp-like eyes saddened.
We are leaving?

"I am afraid so," Traegus replied. "Whatever is out there is preparing for a large burst of energy. Some kind of reaction to lying dormant. We must travel to Eirenoch and assist the allies in this battle. There is no time to wait for them to come here."

What of the island?

"Hybras will be fine," Traegus said. "It will feel nothing more than a small quake. But I fear that this object will upset the balance in some way."

Shall I prepare the gate?

"Yes," Traegus replied. "We will gather everything and travel to Southwatch. We will take up residence there. It was my tower, after all."

Very well, my Lord.

The Druaga bowed, solemnly returning to the tower. Traegus stood watching as he left, feeling the Druaga's sorrow. He knew the creatures had grown accustom to the island and its wildlife, and they would be reluctant to leave. But they had all been born and raised in Eirenoch, and it was their true home. They would readjust in no time.

Traegus wondered, however, if he, too, would adjust as quickly.

Taking one last look at the sea, the Lich turned to pack his belongings. He was needed on Eirenoch, and there was no time to waste.

The time had come to introduce himself to the Onyx Dragon and his Knights in person.

Adder and Jhayla took a secluded table at the Salty Dog. They were seated in a dark corner that rested atop a raised area along the tavern's rear wall. They had a good view of the rest of the place, which was occupied by a large number of commoners, a few off duty guards, and shady-looking characters that also sat in the shadows. The two thieves were definitely in the right place.

As they scanned the crowd for their target, a waitress brought them each a mug of ale, flashing a fake smile and collecting their coins. Adder lifted his mug to sip as Jhayla continued scanning.

"That's good," Adder said. "Almost as good as the ale my father gets from Calidor."

"Why doesn't he share it with the rest of the guild?" Jhayla asked.

"He saves the good stuff for himself," Adder explained, smiling. "And his wonderful son."

"Oh? You have a brother?"

Adder smiled smugly, setting down his mug and pointing off into the opposite corner. There, in a dark booth, sat an older man, scraggly and as shady as ever. His dark hair was long and unkempt, and his beard was untrimmed and tangled. However, his earth toned clothing was that of a cavalier: velvet, silk, and leather.

"Do you think that's him?" Jhayla wondered out loud.

"I don't know," Adder replied. "But he's got the look. Maybe we should buy him a drink."

"He doesn't have gray clothing," Jhayla remarked.

Adder laughed. "I assumed that Turin the Gray just meant that he was a bore. We'll find out."

He flagged down the serving girl who had brought them their ale. She approached the table, seemingly annoyed. "Yes?" she asked.

"What is that man drinking?" Adder inquired, pointing to their target.

"Turin?" she called him. "Whiskey, by the glass."

"Send him another one on me," Adder said, passing her another handful of coins.

She took the coins and wandered off, leaving Adder to turn and smile at his partner. "Well," he said. "I guess that's him."

Jhayla smirked. "Do you think?"

"We'll wait a minute before we go over," he said. "I'm sure he'll welcome...us." He winked at Jhayla, glancing down at her cleavage. She rolled her eyes, undoing her top button.

"Better?" she asked.

Adder smiled, nodding. Together, they watched the waitress take a bottle of whiskey to Turin's table. She refilled his mug, pointing at the two of them. Turin glanced over and nodded, then held up his mug in thanks.

"Alright," Adder said. "Let's go."

Turin watched them closely as they approached, sipping from his whiskey mug and eyeing Jhayla with a smile. Adder slid into the booth, allowing Jhayla to sit next to him. Turin said nothing, but sat in indifference as the two of them stared.

"Turin the Gray?" Adder asked.

Turin nodded, still silent.

"My name is Adder, and this my partner, Jhayla."

Turin turned to Jhayla, running his eyes up and down. "Thieves?" he asked.

"Of the Guild," Adder explained. "But we have of need of services the Guild does not provide, nor support."

Turin sipped his whiskey again. "I'm listening," he said.

"We are in need of information," Adder said. "But we believe the only way to get this information is to remove a certain someone and replace him or her with a spy."

"Remove?" Turin repeated, picking up his pipe and lighting it with the candle that lit the tabletop.

"Kill," Adder said.

"I'm a mercenary," Turin said. "Not an assassin."

"But you've killed before?"

"Of course," Turin replied. "As have you, I'm sure, and your pretty friend here. But why should I kill someone for you? And why does this person need to die?"

"I don't care how you remove this person," Adder said. "Kill him, maim him, break his legs. As long as he's out of the way, we're good."

"Then tell me what information you need," Turin said.

Adder leaned back, pulling aside his cloak to reveal the bandages Lucas had placed there earlier in the day. Turin's eyebrows raised, and he smiled.

"Earlier last night," Adder began, "I was wounded in battle with someone who claimed to be the Prince. I know for certain he was not Prince Eamon of the Northern kingdom, and it is my understanding that Queen Maebh does not have any children."

"So where do I come in?"

"If we can get someone on the inside to replace the royal surgeon, we can find out who this Prince really is."

Turin nodded, pursing his lips. "I know who he is," he said. "But that is information that will cost you."

Adder looked at Jhayla, who smiled. If Turin already knew the identity of this Prince, then there was no need for Adder or anyone else to put themselves in danger.

"How much?" Adder asked. "We have unlimited resources."

Turin laughed, swirling his glass, continuously glancing up at Jhayla. "I'm sure you do," he said. "But being a mercenary gets pretty lonely, and I find your friend quite pleasing to the eye."

Jhayla scowled, opening her mouth to retort, but Adder stopped her with a raised hand. "She is not for trade," Adder said. "Gold, all you want. That is all we can offer."

Turin leaned back in his bench, propping his arm up over the back, and gazed out the window. "That is my price," he said. "Take it or leave it."

Adder glared at him angrily, fighting back the urge to punch the man square in the face. He could sense that Jhayla was equally livid, and saw her left fist tighten as it rested on the table.

"I think we're done here," Adder said, finally. "Have a good day, sir."

Turin shrugged, keeping his eyes on Jhayla as the two rose and walked away. He watched them go, enjoying the view of the woman's hips swinging as she stomped after her companion. He chuckled, sipping on his whiskey and reveling in the outcome of the encounter.

He had gotten his entertainment for the night.

"Insolent bastard!" Jhayla hissed as the two exited the tavern. "Who does he think he is, propositioning a guild member?"

"This isn't over," Adder assured her. "We'll wait for him to come out. He can't stay in there forever."

"And then what? Beat the tar out of him?"

"Not quite," Adder replied. "He looks tough. How about we scare him a bit?"

Jhayla nodded, smiling smugly. "I like that idea," she growled.

The two made their way across the street to a nearby alley. Adder took a seat on a stack of crates, while Jhayla stood watch with her arms crossed.

"Remember what you did to that merchant in Gaellos who ripped you off?" Adder asked.

Jhayla nodded, smiling. "I remember," she replied.

"Knock him flat," Adder said. "I'll catch him and hold him still."

"Right."

It was less than a half hour before Turin emerged, staggering, from the tavern. He was shorter than he seemed in the booth, and not quite as formidable looking. Jhayla shook her head as she looked him over. She had never seen such a pathetic excuse for a mercenary.

"Here he comes," she said.

Adder stood, eyeing him with equal disdain. "Approach him seductively," he said. "Make him think he's getting what he asked for. I'll go around behind him."

Jhayla took off with a steady, swinging gait. Adder smiled as he watched her, enjoying the sensual way she moved toward the mercenary. Even he was fooled for a second or two. Chuckling, he dashed across the street, just out of Turin's line of sight. He would sneak up behind the man and be ready for Jhayla to make her move.

Adder was already enjoying himself.

Turin's eyes lit up as Jhayla approached him. He looked her over, taking in her curves, and licking his lips in anticipation. She was smiling, with a look of interest on her face. Turin knew that look.

"So," he greeted her. "Did you change your mind?"

"Maybe," she said, seeing Adder come up behind him out of the corner of her eye. "I just didn't want my friend to get jealous."

Turin chuckled. "Sure, young men are like that. Shall we go back to my room?"

Jhayla looked around, putting her hand on Turin's chest. He was sweaty and grimy. Not exactly the most attractive state for a night of...whatever strangeness he was after.

"I think we can take care of business right here," she said.

"In the street?" Turin exclaimed. "That's no fun."

"No," Jhayla laughed. "But this is."

Turin barely saw Jhayla's fist slam into his face. The impact knocked his head backward, and Turin heard his nose crack under her knuckles.

"Ohhhhh!" he yelled, grasping his nose. He stumbled backward, falling right into Adder's arms as the thief came up behind him and took him down to the ground. Adder held a dagger to his throat, the point making a dent in the man's flesh.

"I've got good news and bad news," Jhayla said, straddling Turin's legs and wrapping her shins underneath his knees. She pulled out a dagger as well, sliding it up his thigh and into his groin. It poked through the fabric of his trousers, coming dangerously close to his manhood. Turin's eyes widened with horror, and his struggling stopped.

"The bad news," Jhayla began, "is that you have two daggers on you; one at your throat, and one at your danglies. The good news is that if you tell us what we want to know, we'll let you go, all of you. And let me remind you that my friend here is not a murderer, so whose dagger do you think is more likely to do the job?"