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

Ceor watched Ulrich as he left. He felt pride in knowing that Ulrich trusted him enough to leave him in command. It was an honor. He would not let his King down.

Before he was able to sit back down on his cushion, Adder ducked into the tent.

"So," Adder said, smiling. "Ulrich has left you in charge?"

"Yes," Ceor said, flatly, annoyed with the thief's presence.

"The guild has ordered me to follow Ulrich's commands. So I should report anything odd to you, then?"

Ceor picked up his axe to resume sharpening its edge. "I suppose," he said. "Why?"

Adder sat down on the ground in front of Ceor, using his finger to draw in the dirt. "Here is Gaellos," he said, making a small depression. "And here is Faerbane."

Adder drew a clump of trees to the west of Faerbane, along with a tower and some crude triangles that Ceor assumed were mountains. He then pointed to a spot somewhere near the north of the forest.

"My scouts," Adder began, "were in this area yesterday. They tell me that there were bodies hanging in the trees. Many of them. Dressed in the cloaks of Rangers."

"So?" Ceor replied. "This is a war, Adder. People die."

"Yes, I am aware of that," Adder said, frustrated. "But these robes are those of the Rangers of the North, as were the robes of the men who lay dead beneath them."

"What's your point, thief?"

"My point is that we have two companies of dead Rangers. The deadliest and most effective warriors of stealth in the kingdom."

Ceor was silent, contemplating the meaning of Adder's words.

"Two of them," Adder repeated. "One company defeated and hung on display, and one seemingly ambushed, their esteemed leader beheaded. His head missing."

"Who would be capable of doing this?" Ceor asked. "Surely not the Jindala?"

"Definitely not," Adder said, nodding. "That's my point. Only another company of Rangers could have done this, and the Jindala, being from the desert, would not have Rangers familiar with the forest. Both companies were caught off guard. I know the Rangers. They are never caught off guard."

"Ulrich said another company of Rangers had gone missing," Ceor said. "But if these two companies are known, then what company would be left? The remaining Rangers were found dead in the north weeks ago. Ulrich said so."

"Right," Adder said. "Queen Maebh is not known to employ Rangers, or any other special forces, for that matter. Only foot soldiers. The identity of the attackers is suspicious."

Ceor thought for a moment, trying to make sense of what Adder was saying. To the Northman, it sounded as if Adder were implying that the attackers were, themselves, Rangers. But that could not be. He knew the various companies of Rangers to be a brotherhood of sorts, bound to protect the forest, and the lands as a whole. They were an honorable legion of soldiers skilled in stealth and subterfuge. Not easy to kill. Not even easy to track down. And definitely not ones to break their oath to the kingdom, or each other.

"I am not a tracker," Ceor said. "Or silent or stealthy by any means. It would be best if you took your men to investigate and report what you find."

"Alright," Adder agreed. "I will take my finest cutthroats, and Jhayla, my partner. She is a good tracker, like me."

"Good," Ceor replied, not entirely sure what a cutthroat was. "Report back to me when you know something."

Adder nodded, slapping Ceor on the shoulder. The Northman glared at him as he exited the tent, annoyed, but impressed with the man's skills. He would have to remember to put those skills to other uses when they were needed.

"It's tough to be in charge," Ceor said out loud, turning to the metallic dragon. "But I'm sure you know that."

Titus was silent. Ceor shrugged and went back to sharpening his axe.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, and the moon dominated the sky, Jodocus watched the dark horde of filthy, vile creatures emerge from their cave. They crawled over each other like maggots, oblivious of their kin, desperate for the taste of flesh. Their sounds were horrifying, their stench unfathomable. These were the undead, creatures of the night that craved blood, and could create others like themselves with their bite.

Their existence was unnatural, and not known for centuries. Jodocus, with the help of the Priests of Drakkar, had destroyed all of those that once roamed the island, many hundreds of years ago. But those were small in number; isolated sightings, few attacks. These were many. Never in his thousands of years on this Earth had the Druid ever fathomed the existence of such a large number of wights. The prospect of their devastation horrified him.

He would need to consult the Priests of Drakkar again. He knew, however, that Erenoth and his acolytes were engaged in transporting the Knights of
The Dragon back to Morduin. It could be several days before they were able to assist. His only choice was to find Khalid and his priests. With their help, he may be able to cleanse the land of the scourge once again.

Swallowing in disgust, Jodocus turned, sensing the presence of someone or something else behind him. As he gazed into the darkness, he saw what he feared. Ten large, man-shaped beings slowly tread through the trees. They were sniffing the air, scanning the forest for something unknown. Jodocus stepped to the side, not fully aware of their nature, or if they could sense his presence. He stood in silence as they drew near, his heart racing with a fear he had never felt in his long life.

He could feel the very darkness and evil emanating from them as they passed. It seemed as if they were shrouded in an unknown force; something alien, something primordial. These were the creations of The Lifegiver, he knew. They were beings similar to those The Dragon had fought in the beginning, only having once been living men. Jodocus knew this. He felt the absence of their souls, as if their bodies had been twisted and defiled, their souls tortured and imprisoned to ensure their allegiance.

A single word echoed in Jodocus' mind. Enkhatar. The Dragon spoke it to him. They were once the Keynakin, the elite and honorable guard of Khem, under the leadership of Sulemain. Now, animated by darkness to serve the Lord of the Abyss himself. Their armor was not that of their true identities, but was a vile, black, and brutally spiked shroud of torturous plate. The Druid could only imagine what lie on the inside, gouged into the decayed flesh of their former bodies, tormenting them into submission.

Jodocus nearly felt sympathy for them.

As they continued away from him, the Druid heard a distant flapping sound. It was the sound of wings, like a small bat. He searched the darkness, unsure as to why a bat would be flying in such a thick forest. His question was answered as a tiny, humanoid creature came buzzing toward him. He ducked as it flew past, nearly smacking him square in the face. The creature stopped, flying back to him and hovering in the air for a few moments. It was a homunculus, he knew. He had once made one himself. He smiled at it, his kind eyes causing the tiny thing to squeal.

Then, as soon as it came, the homunculus was gone, buzzing away to follow the Enkhatar and their horde.

A thought came to the Druid's mind. Someone had created this creature to follow the Enkhatar. But who? Who felt the need to keep these evil beings under watch? There were only a few people he knew of who could create a homunculus, and they surely would have told him. He would have to find this person. If they were on the side of nature, then perhaps they could be of assistance.

Jodocus called upon the power of The Dragon to guide him. He would follow the trail the homunculus left, and it should lead him back to its origin. There, he would either find an enemy, or a possible ally.

He hoped it was the latter.

Chapter Three

The coast of Jotunheim emerged from the fog that crept across the sea. It was a welcome sight for Farouk, who had been at sea for days. His journey, which should have only taken him a day and a half, had unfortunately been extended by the loss of one oar. An encounter with a harmless, but annoying sea creature had caused him to lose his grip on it as he attempted to swat the flapping, barking beast away.

Farouk breathed a sigh of relief as the rocky shore came into view just a few yards away. He was glad to see solid ground, as uninviting as it looked, and he struggled to guide himself toward it. His fingers were nearly numb already, and exposing them to the cold as he rowed with his one paddle threatened to freeze them solid.

The rocks were slippery as Farouk pulled the dinghy onto shore and stepped out. His legs quivered, not only from the cold, but from being cramped up in the small boat as long as they were. Still, he welcomed the solid surface, and collapsed onto the pebbles joyously.

There was a thick drizzle in the air, making the environment even more unpleasant than the cold had already made it. He didn't lie still for long, knowing that if he fell asleep, he would likely freeze to death. He stood, looking around at the shoreline. He knew that the first thing he must do is find shelter. He had a few days worth of food left, and plenty of water, if needed. What he did lack was protection from the rains that the dark sky told him were coming.

Near the bank, a shallow depression was worn into the dirt wall. This gave him an idea. Turning to the small boat, he dragged it as hard as he could, overturning it and leaning it against the natural alcove. He then removed a layer of his clothing and spread it across the edge, sealing the gap between the boat and the dirt. It was crude, and drafty, but it was better than nothing.

Farouk crawled inside, squeezing through the gap he had left, and pulled his equipment inside. There was enough room for him to sit up straight or lie down without exposing himself to the elements, and the protection the shelter gave him from the wind was a welcome feeling. Despite this, it was still cold, and as night approached, it would only get colder.

Farouk reached for his staff, hoping the light that he could conjure would provide enough warmth to get him through the night. Calling on the power of the Earth, he willed the staff into life, creating a dim red ball of light at the end. He let it build slowly until it was just the right brightness to remain comfortable. He felt its warmth start to fill the shelter, and he closed his eyes as its comforting blanket of magical heat enveloped him.

Fortunately for any Druid in his current situation, such a minor spell could be maintained without much thought. He would be able to sleep and still keep the light burning. As he relaxed and felt the effects of his journey, the added warmth began to make him drowsy. He spread a few cloaks down on the cold, damp pebbles, wrapping himself in a few more, and laid down to rest.

As Farouk lie in contemplation, he realized how much easier it could have been had he been able to simply teleport to his destination. But, as Jodocus had said, one can only teleport near living things or precise locations with which one was familiar. Inanimate objects or unknown places did not provide an anchor for the spell. He chuckled at the irony of such a powerful spell's weakness. Perhaps in the future, he could alter the spell on his own, and remove such limitations.

Exhausted, the Druid closed his eyes, listening to the calming sound of the cold sea lapping against the shore. Within minutes, he was asleep.

Farouk awoke early in the morning before the sun had risen. He shivered with the morning cold, wrapping himself tighter within his blankets. Despite the magical warmth of his staff, the makeshift shelter was still cold enough for him to see his breath. He lie still for a few more minutes, letting his body become fully awake.

He began to feel hunger pangs, and reached into his pack to fetch a swatch of dried meat and a roll. He would need energy for the day's travel ahead, and the specially blended jerky and bread were made for such purposes. They would provide him with enough energy to fuel his aging body, such as it were, until such time as he perfected the spells that would do the same.

As he emerged from his shelter, he saw that the sun was beginning to show its corona on the horizon. There was a slight sprinkling of snow falling, and the temperature was only slightly above freezing. Nevertheless, he repacked his belongings and went on his way, leaving the dinghy leaning against the bank.

He kept a rolled parchment at the top of his pack for easy access. With his spells, he could inscribe the landscape using only his thoughts and what he beheld with his own eyes. He would be creating a map in real time; one that he could use to recount his adventures in these rough lands at the top of the world. But, on occasion, he would be curious enough to check its accuracy as it was being inscribed. There was no reason to keep it at the bottom of his pack.

Looking ahead, he saw a rocky trail that led into a forest of dead trees. These were trees that could not bear the weather this time of year. Further on, he was grateful to see firs, which kept their greenery all year around. At least, he thought, there was some life in this wasteland of ice and snow.

He stepped onto the trail, and began his ascent into the tree-lined hills. The forest itself offered some shelter from the wind and snow, but blocked what little light the emerging sun would provide. So, he willed his staff into life, causing the tip to glow with heatless, blue light. It was sufficient to light his way, but dim enough not to attract the unwanted attention of any predators.

Farouk saw very little wildlife as he trudged up the slippery, rocky slope. These were a few birds here and there, a rustling in the underbrush, but no major encounters. He would occasionally hear the distant howling of wolves echoing through the forest, and was relieved to know that they were too far away to be of any concern. His attention could stay focused on the path ahead.

Near an area where the path winded around an outcropping of rock, Farouk heard the voices of men. Not wanting to risk being mistaken for an enemy, he rushed to the underbrush and hid as well as he could. Remembering the new power given to him by the Dryad, he willed it into action, blending in with the trees and weeds fully. There, he waited.

Three men came into view. They were stout men, wrapped in furs, bearded and bushy haired, and carrying fishing spears and nets. They were quite obviously heading toward the shore he had just departed. He let them pass, but would remember to be wary of their return. If they saw his shelter, they would, no doubt, investigate. He wasn't taking any chances.

Just when they were about to disappear down the path, they stopped and crouched. They appeared to have been startled. Farouk scanned the forest around them, straining to see in the dim light. Dark shapes began to emerge from the shadows, closing in on the men as they stood terrified.

"Vargar..." one of the men whispered. Farouk recognized the word as the totem animal of Wrothgaar's tribe.

Wolves.

The men drew their spears, moving back to back in a circle, prepared for the inevitable charge of the wild hunters. Farouk was torn between remaining in the shadows, and helping the men. He did not want to risk being seen just yet, but did not want to ignore the plight of men he could easily help.

Perhaps his magic could be of use.

Farouk closed his eyes and concentrated on the wolves. In his mind he told them the men were not worth their trouble. Their meat was spoiled, and their blood diluted with wine. He projected this thought into the minds of the animals, hoping they would back away and let the men be. But it seemed that the wolves were determined to have their meal. They hunted mostly at night, Farouk knew, and since the night was turning into day, they must be desperate.

Before he could act, the wolves charged. A dozen of them poured over the rocks and through the trees toward the three men. They tightened their circle, pointing their spears out in an attempt to defend themselves. The wolves surrounded them, outnumbering them four to one. Farouk had to act, or the men were doomed.

He burst forth from his hiding place, and stood tall at the top of the hill. Dismissing his magical cloak, he raised his staff in the air and willed it into life. A bright burst of light issued forth, its brilliance flooding the path and startling the hungry wolves. The men were startled as well, but maintained their defensive position. Farouk circled his staff in the air as he walked toward the attacking beasts. They backed away, fearful of the blinding light that swirled mysteriously through the air.

With a thrust of his staff, Farouk sent a small ball of energy at the feet of the pack's leader. It exploded in front of him, causing him to yelp and jump back. Another ball of energy followed, breaking the morale of the entire pack. They turned and ran back into the woods, disappearing into the shadows again.

The men stood in place, their spears still gripped tightly. Farouk lowered his staff, and allowed the light to dim. The men stared at him in fear, unsure as to whether or not he was an enemy. In their eyes, Farouk guessed, he was an intruder; dark-skinned and out of place. He would appear as a Jindala.

"Go in peace, my friends," he said in the common tongue of the mainland. "I mean you no harm."

"Who are you?" one of them asked. "And what is your business here?"

"I am a Druid," Farouk replied. "And my business here is such. Continue to your destination in peace."

Farouk then turned and walked away, continuing his trek around the outcropping and up the path. He sensed that the men did not follow him, which was a relief. He had revealed himself too soon, but had he not, the three men might have been dinner for the wolves. Taking that into account, his first encounter with the Northmen had been a positive one.

One that the three men would probably not soon forget, nor ignore.

The sun was high in the sky when Farouk reached the peak of the trail. It ended atop a wide ridge that overlooked a valley below. In the distance, snow covered mountains loomed in the sky, breaking up the horizon, and adding an air of beauty that the desert born Farouk had never known. Sure, he had seen mountains, but never mountains such as these. Their snow covers continued down their slopes and onto the highlands below, creating a smooth, soft landscape that contrasted sharply with the milder climate below. Jotunheim seemed to be a land of perpetual winter and spring at the same time.

He gazed out over the beauty he saw, eager to explore more of this strange land. Whatever dangers lie before him were minor compared to the splendor of the land itself. He wondered what a Druid of this land might be like. Would he wear white robes? Were there even Druids here?

Determined to find these and other answers, he focused his mind on his destination, and stepped down toward the valley.

The two hunters had heard the strange noises again the night before and had come out early in the morning to investigate. It was nearly noon when they found a large, chaotic pattern of tracks. They were not the ordinary tracks that a man would make, or a horse. They were drag marks, scuffs, and other strange impressions left in the ground by unknown means. The two men stood in confusion, neither one having any idea of what could have passed this way.

"What do ye make o' this, Geoffrey?" Bain asked.

Geoffrey scratched his head, unsure whether or not the two of them were even looking at tracks. "I'm not sure," he said. "Maybe Aeli would know. She knows more about strange things than either of us."

"They're definitely tracks, though," Bain said. "But not a man's. See how sometimes ye see a foot, then ye don't. It's like whatever passed this way couldn't walk in a straight path and couldn't stand on its own feet the whole time."

"I see," Geoffrey lied.

"Let's follow 'em to be sure." Bain suggested.

The two men walked along the wide forest path, following the loosely placed tracks. For the most part, they seemed to be heading in the same general direction, but each member of whatever group it was had moved around randomly within. It was unexplainable and filled the two hunters with apprehension.

Ahead, Geoffrey could make out the vague silhouette of a figure in the distance. He squinted in the afternoon sun, trying to make out the man's identity.

"Say," Geoffrey said. "Isn't that Helgen, the rancher?"

Bain looked ahead, his vision no better than his partner's. "Aye," he agreed. "I think so."

The two men mounted their horses and rode the distance to the unknown man. As they approached, they saw that it was indeed the rancher. He wore his customary bright green clothing, his wide-brimmed hat, and his dirty brown leather boots. He seemed to be staggering somewhat, as if he had been drinking; which was no surprise.

"Helgen!" Bain called out. "Have ye been drinkin' this early?"

The man made no response, but continued to stagger down the path. Bain turned to Geoffrey, who returned his glance and pursed his lips knowingly.

"Helgen," Bain called again. "Stop a minute. We need to speak at ye."

When Helgen did not turn yet again, Bain dismounted. He cautiously reached for his halberd, grasping the shafted weapon with both hands as he came up behind the rancher. He reached out to touch the man's shoulder.