Blood Of Kings: The Shadow Mage (28 page)

“You do not have to do this, my lady,” Brandlor said, offering her his hand as she clambered over the rocks, silently cursing herself for wearing a dress, even if it was plain and spun from wool, unlike the elaborate silk gowns she wore in her father’s palace. It would have been unseemly for her to wear the coloured breeches the men of Nortland wore, even if they would be more practical.

“Yes, yes I do,” she answered as the salty wind snatched her breath. “If I were a noble lady of Nortland, born on one of the other islands and married to Jarl Crawulf, would I not be expected to visit the seer of Wind Isle?”

Brandlor nodded his agreement but remained silent. She felt the comforting presence of the giant warrior Rothgar behind her as she stood at the mouth of the cave. She regarded the black, gaping opening as she would the widening maw of a giant serpent intent on swallowing her whole. The thought made her shiver.

“Do not fear Maolach, as I said, he is not like other men.” He handed her a torch and struck a flint to ignite a small flame. “Just follow the passage. Oh, and one other thing. Maolach will expect a gift, something of value.”

Rosinnio nodded and took the torch. The flame danced frantically in the wind, forcing her to hurry inside the cave before it was blown out altogether. She hesitated at the mouth, perched on the border of light and dark, her fear paralysing her muscles. Hers had been a privileged upbringing. Youngest daughter of the emperor, her every desire and whim catered for by an army of attendants. Never before had she known such fear, not even when her father informed her that she was to be wed to a Nortman and shipped off to the Pirate Isles—although that had been bad enough—not even when she walked, holding aloft a sword, into the midst of a battle in the courtyard of the castle. But this, this brought terror to a whole new level for her.

Tentatively she placed one foot in front of the other. The passage was damp and smelled of rotting seaweed and dead fish. The deeper she went the stranger were the noises made by the wind, like ghosts wailing in the dark. Every sound made her jump and whirl around, the flickering torch making monsters of her own shadow and that of slimy rocks. Her mind searched for an anchor and conjured an image of the palace gardens, she imagined the colour and the heady perfume of the flowers, but the vision only made her realise that she could not find a place in the world any more removed from those gardens than where she was.
What would Crawulf think of her fear? Or Rothgar?
They would simply laugh at her and march boldly into the darkness.

She saw a glow up ahead, gently pulsating, inviting, a haven from the dark; yet now she feared to move into the light.
A gift.
Brandlor had said the seer would expect a gift. She pulled a silver comb from her hair, hoping he would deem it suitable. Then she walked towards the light.

The passage opened up into a wider chamber. At its centre a fire burned, the dancing flames casting eerie shadows on the damp walls. The rocky floor was littered with animal and fish bones, and stank so much of waste and rot that it made her gag. She resisted the urge to cover her mouth and nose from the foul odours. She held her breath, afraid to make a sound, fighting the urge to turn and run. Up against one wall, what looked like a bundle of oily rags, stirred.

“Who disturbs the rest of Maolach?” a voice hissed from the rags, dragging out each S, putting Rosinnio in mind of a serpent from some child’s story she had once seen acted out. Only, no performer had ever sounded so sinister.

“Lady Rosinnio, wife to Crawulf, Jarl of Wind Isle,” she said, hoping her voice did not quiver as much as her heart. “I bring a gift,” she added and held out the silver comb.

The bundle shuffled forward into the orange light cast by the fire. A stooped figure wrapped in a cloak made from, what appeared to be, the feathers of gulls and other seabirds, stepped towards her. Lank, greasy hair hung in strands over his shoulders. He reached out with bony fingers, the nails crusted with dirt, and snatched the comb from her outstretched hand. “And what does the Lady Rosinnio wish from Maolach?” the voice hissed.

“I wish to see what Maolach sees,” she said, taking an involuntary step back when he regarded her with dark eyes, before turning them on the comb.

“Maolach sees much,” he said, reaching out to touch her belly and then screwing his eyes up to look at her quizzically. “Even that others do not wish him to see. Like a womb that should be full, yet remains empty.”

The small vial of the bitter liquid her handmaiden had procured for her sprang into Rosinnio’s mind.
How could he know of this?
she wondered.

“What do you suppose would happen to the childless wife of Crawulf should he fall in battle on some distant shore?” he asked, stepping into Rosinnio’s comfort zone. The smell of him standing so close made her gag again, but she hid it well—at least, she hoped so. Her answer was a shrug. It was all she could manage. “They would tear such a delicate summer flower into little pieces.” His hands roamed over her body while she stood stiff-backed, daring not to move. “But the mother of Crawulf’s child, they would fight for.” He turned away from her then and shuffled over to sit on a rock by the fire, inviting her, with a gesture of a pale-white hand, to take the one opposite.

She sat on the rock, glad to have the fire as a barrier between them. He said nothing, nor even seemed to notice her as his head slumped forward. She waited.
He’s fallen asleep,
she thought,
or died.
Her uneasiness only grew more intense as the silence continued. She pulled her cloak tightly around her as her mind recoiled from the memory of his touch. The sound of the sea drifted to her as her eyes were drawn to the hypnotic dance of the twisting flames. She allowed herself to be drawn there until she could see dark shapes forming at its heart. Figures from the past began to reveal themselves in the flames, lost memories of her childhood. Happy memories she was sure she would cherish forever, yet she had forgotten so many, she realised. When she looked up from the flames he was watching her.

“What do you see?”

“Nothing. I was just remembering some old friends,” she answered, wondering how long he had been watching her.

“Tell me,” he insisted.

“My sisters, there was an orange grove in the palace grounds. We would play there as children…” She trailed off as the memory brought a smile to her lips.

“Look again.”

She returned her gaze to the flames, feeling the warmth of the fire on her face. A clear image of Crawulf suddenly appeared to her. He was standing on a hill surrounded by his warriors. Rain lashed down on them, turning the ground into a treacherous quagmire. She could see him bellowing orders, though she could not hear the words. He bore a sword in one hand, a round wooden shield in the other. She grimaced at the sight of the savageness of battle, flinching as each blow was struck, as blood flowed freely down the hillside turning the ground crimson. Crawulf gritted his teeth as he fended off a sword strike with his shield before stabbing his attacker in the chest. She did not want to look, but she could not tear her eyes away from the images in the flames, as clear as if she were watching through a window. “Why? Why do men fight and kill each other? How can they boast and sing songs about valour… about this… slaughter?” She wrenched her eyes from the scene and looked up at Maolach who was staring at her intently.

“Eat,” he said, handing her a bowl of watery broth. The scent of the food wafted over to her, making her mouth water. She had not realised how hungry she was. She took the bowl hesitantly, fearful of what it might contain. She did not want to offend the seer of Wind Isle by refusing his hospitality. She brought the bowl, slowly, to her lips. Surprisingly, it was delicious. When she was done she handed back the bowl, very conscious of Maolach’s unrelenting stare. It was as if his eyes were drawn to her every movement, linked with some invisible thread.

“Look again,” he said.

She did as she was bid and returned her gaze to the blaze one more time. The flames parted to reveal Crawulf once again. This time he was alone. He was standing beside a massive tree. Its branches were bare of leaves; bark came away in thick strips from the gnarled trunk. The ground beneath his feet was covered in snow – Rosinnio had never seen the ground covered in a blanket of white before. Her eyes opened wide as the snow began to stir behind him, and a grey and bloodied hand reached out. She saw Crawulf’s face turn to fear as he stepped back from the emerging arm, then a head, followed by a torso, until finally a full body leaking fluids and maggots rose. She wanted to cry out, but was paralysed with terror. Skin peeled from the corpse’s head as it leered a lipless grin at Crawulf. The jarl raised his sword and cut it down. The dead thing—she could think of no other way to describe it—crumpled back to the earth. Crawulf stood with his back to the tree as the snow parted all around him, and more corpses rose from the ground. Rosinnio screamed then and tore her eyes away. Her lip trembled as her whole body shook.

“What did you see?”

Although it pained her greatly to relive the scene she told Maolach exactly what she saw. He regarded her for a long time before speaking. “You have been gifted with the hidden eye. Why would the gods bestow such a gift on a foreign harlot, unless they wish to mock me?”

Rosinnio’s jaw dropped. Never in her life had anyone dared call her such a thing. Outrage boiled inside her. Yet, her desire to receive an explanation of her vision overrode her anger. “What does it mean?”

He looked at her with those dark, cold eyes. She felt as if she were looking into twin holes in the cold earth. “You have seen the past, the present, and what has yet to pass.” His voice quivered, and Rosinnio thought she detected a hint of fear there.

“I do not understand. How can the dead rise from the ground?”

“A shadow looms over you. It bathes you in darkness. Even as I gaze upon it I can feel it trying to hurt me as it will cause pain to all who are close to you.”

Rosinnio dropped her eyes to the ground. “I…”

“No!” he bellowed, interrupting her. “Speak no more of it. The more you do the closer you bring it. It is an evil thing I do not understand, yet I sense that it knows you only too well. Leave me now.”

Rosinnio felt the compulsion in his words and yearned to leave. She fought that feeling. “If you can see the shadow then you know you must help me,” she persisted, even as she moved away from Maolach and the fire.

“Go!” he commanded.

Her legs, almost of their own accord, carried her to the entrance of the cavern. “Can it be stopped? If it has not yet come to pass, can there be a different future?”

“Perhaps,” he answered, and then walked slowly back to the cot by the wall and slunk down into it.

Rosinnio ran from the cave then, heedless to the dangers of running through the rocky passageway in the dark. Outside, Brandlor and Rothgar waited for her.

“My lady, we feared greatly for your safety. Thank the gods you have returned,” the counsellor greeted her.

“You did? How so?” She looked out towards the horizon, the sun had barely moved in the sky.

“You have been gone a day and a night, my lady,” the giant warrior Rothgar said.

Duke Normand: Eorotia

D
uke Normand sat beside a roaring blaze, letting the heat from the fire wash over him. He had commandeered the largest dwelling in Eorotia for himself while he resided in the mountain citadel. The closest thing to a keep was the Temple of Eor and he had no desire to sleep beneath its roof. One priestess still remained at large, Elandrial, the most dangerous of all. He would never rest easy while she still lived, even if Djangra Roe insisted that he was beyond her power. He did not believe it.

He watched in silence as the mage walked towards him, his boots echoing off the polished flagstones. He could feel his face flush as he downed another mouthful of brandy, the fiery spirit warming his insides even as the flames heated his outer body. Djangra dragged a wooden chair over to the fire and sat opposite Normand, he carried in his arms a collection of leather bound books. Even before he opened them, Normand could see that they were old, by the tops of the yellow pages and worn bindings.

“Are you rested, my lord?” Djangra asked.

“Well enough.” He still had a lump on his head the size of an egg where he smacked it against a tree and bruises aplenty from the mauling he had received from the giant beast.

“I’ve been searching the temple, seeking clues about this Dragon Lord. There are not a lot of books stored there, a lot less than you would expect. Most religious are pretty good at keeping archives. It’s possible they destroyed them while you were besieging the city I suppose.”

“And what did you find?”

“Tell me again, my lord, do you know who these people were? Or where they disappeared to after they dragged you away from your men?”

“It is as I already said,” Normand began irritably. “I was thrown by the beast and hit my head. I felt hands on me and voices whispering all around me.”

“And they called you the Dragon Lord?”

“Yes. No. Maybe. I don’t know. They said something about a Dragon Lord returning or some such nonsense.”

“So this Dragon Lord is a thing of worship for these people?”

Normand closed his eyes tight, his face twisting in pain. His head ached, and not just from trying to recall the events on the mountain. “The Dragon Lord will raise the dragon and bathe the world in blood,” he intoned the words he heard. A log split in the blazing hearth, flashing sparks into the air.

“Do you think it a coincidence that your own crest is that of a red dragon, my lord?”

Normand shrugged. “Have you discovered who lives in the mountains?”

“I’m told there are a number of hamlets populated by wild folk who keep to themselves. Even the brigands who occupied the city stayed away from them, and know little enough about them.”

“Are they followers of Eor, these wild folk?”