Blood Of Kings: The Shadow Mage

Paul Freeman

Blood of Kings: The Shadow Mage

Paul Freeman

Copyright © 2016 Paul Freeman

Published by Lir Press

First Edition, 2016

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the author, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, locales is entirely coincidental.

Table of Contents

Jarl Crawulf: Wind Isle Castle, Nortland

Lorian: Alcraz, capital city of Sunsai Empire

Duke Normand: Besieging the walls of Eorotia

Tomas: Woodvale Village

Princess Rosinnio: Wind Isle

Duke Normand: Eorotia – The Thieves Citadel

Tomas: Woodvale Village

Lady Rosinnio: Wind Isle

Tomas: Woodvale Village

Lorian: The house of Lorian, Alcraz, Sunsai Empire

Duke Normand: Duchy of Lenstir

Lady Rosinnio – Jarl Crawulf: Wind Isle

Tomas: Woodvale Village

Djangra Roe: Flagston

Jarl Crawulf – Lady Rosinnio: Wind Isle

Tomas: Woodvale Monastery

Duke Normand: Duchy of Lenstir

Lady Rosinnio – Jarl Crawulf: Wind Isle

Tomas: The Great Wood

Djangra Roe: Woodvale Monastery

Jarl Crawulf: Wind Isle

Tomas: The Great Wood

PART II

Jarl Crawulf: Seafort, the Duchies

Duke Normand: Mountains of Eor

Tomas: Alka-Roha

Jarl Crawulf: Northern Duchies

Duke Normand: Mountains of Eor

Tomas: Alka-Roha

Jarl Crawulf: Northern Duchies

Lady Rosinnio: Wind Isle

Duke Normand: Eorotia

Tomas: The wild lands beyond Alka-Roha

Lady Rosinnio: Wind Isle

Duke Normand: Rothberry Castle

Tomas: Temple ruins, wild lands of Alka-Roha

Aknell: The house of Lorian

Lady Rosinnio: Wind Isle

Duke Normand: Duchy of Lenstir

Tomas: Temple of Eor, wild lands of Alka-Roha

Jarl Crawulf: Wind Isle

Duke Normand: Eorotia

Tomas: Temple of Eor

Jarl Crawulf – Lady Rosinnio: The Duchies

Duke Normand – Tomas: Hidden valley

Lady Rosinnio – Tomas: Hidden valley

Hidden valley, Mountains of Eor

Jarl Crawulf – Tomas: Hidden valley

Dedication

For my family

Acknowledgements

Many thanks to Ivan Amberlake and Sharon Van Orman
.

Cover design: EJR Digital Art.

Also by Paul Freeman

Tribesman

Warrior

Taxi

Season Of The Dead

After The Fall: Children Of The Nephilim

www.paulfreemanbooks.com

Jarl Crawulf: Wind Isle Castle, Nortland

C
rawulf gazed over the battlements at the vast expanse of turbulent water, its iron grey reflecting the angry sky. He could taste the salt borne on the bitterly cold wind washing over the dark walls of the keep. Far below, waves battered the bottom of the cliff in an endless assault on the jagged shore, as froth from the boiling sea spiralled upwards. He pulled the bearskin cloak he wore tight around his shoulders, a vain effort to ward off the cold. His long dark hair, not yet speckled with as much grey as his beard, whipped behind him.

“They come.”

Crawulf spun around to face the source of the words, as his hand slid to the hilt of his sword. “Have a care, Brandlor. It is unwise to creep up on a man so,” he said, relaxing when he saw the thin frame of his advisor.

“These old bones know no other way to walk, my jarl.” The wizened face cracked into a smile that stopped short of dark sunken eyes.

A growl rattled in the throat of Crawulf before he returned his attention to the sea. “You are right! I see them,” he said, craning his neck as he spied a dark speck in the distance. “How is it you see these things before I, old man?” he asked as he watched a small ship being tossed from one swelling wave to another. “He will do well to make the channel in that soft bottomed, southern boat.”

“He will make it. He has no choice with the cargo he carries. He will make it or he will lose more than just his life.”

Crawulf glanced at the old man, as always finding his intense gaze unsettling. “The fat bellies of the southern ships are ill suited to these waters,” he insisted, thinking of his own smaller, sleeker ships – dragon-prowed sharks compared to the bloated whales of the southerners.

“Aye, but he will make it.”

Crawulf watched the ponderous craft draw closer to the rocks far below that had claimed the lives of countless vessels and crews down through the years. “How many of the king’s jarls would sabotage that ship if they knew what she held in her belly?”

“All of them,” Brandlor answered. “Long years of planning will soon bear fruit. When your uncle dies, you will be king.”

Overhead the sky grew darker as clouds whipped by a growing wind tumbled past. Sheets of rain, from a sudden burst, lashed the faces of the two men. Still they held their ground. “If he comes aground on yonder rocks all will be lost.” Crawulf returned his attention to the ship.

“He will make the channel, my jarl. And you will be king.”

“They will fight. Every one of them.” He scratched at coarse bristles once black, now flecked with grey. His hand reached for the leather grip of his sword as if even the mention of his rivals would summon them closer.

“Yours is the stronger claim.”

Crawulf turned two grey eyes on his counsellor. “Strongest but one,” he said.

“Your brother is dead, my jarl. Died these past three years,” the white-bearded counsellor answered.

“I will believe him dead when I see his body,” Crawulf snarled.

“You worry overmuch. Your uncle will be dead before winter, and you
will
be king. You are his closest kin.” The two men turned once again to the distant vessel as it bobbed into view before disappearing again beneath another, white-capped, wave.

“I’ll warrant the captain longs for sunnier climes and calmer seas,” Crawulf said.

“He will make the channel, my lord.”

Crawulf dwarfed his advisor, where one embodied the spirit of the bear whose hide he wore, on his broad shoulders, to stave off the bitter northerly wind, the other was frail, with thin white hair and wispy beard. He gripped the battlements with two, large, calloused hands. He could feel the raw coldness of the rough stone. The castle, like the cliff, was weather-beaten and constantly assaulted by the power of the sea, yet unbowed and defiant. “He drifts closer to the rocks. Does he even realise the peril he is in? Gods protect us, does he know how to do anything about it?” He leaned over the battlements, as if stretching a few short inches over the wall would give him a better view.”

“He will make the channel, my lord,” the counsellor said. Unseen to his jarl, he raised his eyes skywards and offered a silent prayer to Alweise, father of the gods, beseeching him to allow the foreign captain to reach the bay, and safety. The king of gods sent his answer with a loud rumble and an electric flash across the sky.

“Baltagor, Lord of the Sea is angry this day. If that ship goes down all will be lost,” Crawulf was shouting now to make himself heard over the breaking storm. The wind howled around the watchtower looming over them, casting a dark shadow across the rampart they stood on.

“He will make the channel,” Brandlor insisted. His words were swept away even as they were uttered.

Dark hair, unusual amongst the mainly blond and red-haired Nortmen, clung to Crawulf’s face, soaked within minutes of the downpour. “Look!” He pointed. “He’s changing course. He’s turning her!” Brandlor nodded sagely. The fat-hulled ship bobbed and tossed in the raging sea. “I should have sent one of my own ships. With a captain who knows how to sail these waters,” he said.

“You know that was not possible, my jarl.”

“Aye,” he answered softly. Slowly, as both men held their breaths, the fat ship rounded the headland and disappeared from sight. “She’s in the channel!” Crawulf beamed.

“Gods be praised,” the advisor muttered.

“I’m going down to the harbour to greet her.” Crawulf suddenly leapt into action.

“Wait,” the counsellor called after him. “Let them come to you.” Too late, he was gone.

The hollow clatter of shod hooves echoed around the keep as Crawulf and his housecarls filed out of the gate and made the short journey to the harbour. All the while the wind and rain grew in intensity. By the time they marched along the wooden pier they were soaked through, their moods as dark as the sky. Most of the fleet of sleek, single-mast longboats were tied up, leaving few berths for visiting ships. The jarl of Wind Isle, the southerly most island of the Nortland Isles, waited impatiently with his entourage as the pot-bellied ship sailed ponderously into the harbour, battered but unbowed.