Cold From The North, page 28
part #1 of The Onyxborn Chronicles Series
Showcasing the Onyxborn and the saviour of their cause would bring them back to readiness before the offensive against the Shingal and the Southerlands began. It would let them see the power they had and hasten their steps to victory.
Nevea had another idea, though, a striking one that caught the king off guard. She wanted to deal with the fleet herself. At first, the King argued against it, saying she must save her strength for the battles to come, but the young sorceress had insisted. She told him she had been storing her powers for years in Broadheim and that she too wanted to show the men at the heart of their cause what she was capable of.
Unwilling to upset his prophesied sorceress, King Nadreth agreed to the idea.
The King watched as Nevea sauntered down the beach towards the shore a few more paces away, the waves rushing and retreating peacefully in the morning tide. She let her long-hooded robe fall to the floor, unveiling her dark red armour, the edged scales of which were menacing from the squared-off shoulders to the built-in bracers. On each of her delicate fingers, she wore one ring, and then two rings encircled each thumb. All of the rings were an opulent black. A sea breeze whirled around her as she walked, causing her flawless silver hair to flow like the waves of the Blades.
The king watched as the prophesied girl began creating a whipping, circular motion with her right hand. With that, she pulled a small cloud of smog from nowhere and let it hover above her outstretched palm. She uttered words to the mist in a whispery dark tongue, and then, with a strong breath, she blew the ball out of her hand and off towards the sea.
Nadreth watched her, mesmerised. She was calm, powerful, and elegant, everything that had been promised.
His eyes moved to the ball of smoke as it flowed towards the sea. Nadreth squinted. As it began to morph, he was sure it was getting larger. The ball went from the size of a fist when it left the sorceress’s hand to something resembling a small boulder now, and with every inch that it progressed towards the sea line, it seemed to expand.
Once it began to hover over the Sea of Blades, there was no doubt in the king’s mind that this plume was growing. Before long, it had enveloped the whole sea and stolen the horizon from Nadreth’s own eyes. He turned to look at the men who gathered on the beach, and was met with a collected gathering of dumbfounded expressions as the waves disappeared in the fog.
‘My king,’ Nevea said. The king turned back to her. ‘Would you like to see what happens next?’ She beckoned the King forward with an outstretched hand.
As soon as he touched Nevea’s hand, Nadreth felt something. Power. She looked out at the thick wall of smoke and so did the king.
The barrier of smog was no longer in front of him, now he was inside it. He was weaving through the cloud at pace, headfirst like he had been shot from a giant longbow. The thickness of the fog meant he could barely see his hands in front of him. As he focused, though, he realised these weren’t his hands at all. Where his gauntlet-covered hand should have been was a monstrous fist, heavily scarred with chunks of bone missing from the walnut-sized knuckles. He glanced at the other one, only to find it was the same – a huge otherworldly hand. And, in this one, there was a rusty cleaver, its blade a horrible mix of silver, grey, brown, and red, but the edge of the weapon still looked sharp and sinister.
‘You will see my power through my eyes, my king. I want to show you what I can do in his name.’ It was Nevea’s voice inside his head. The control he had over the hideous hands had disappeared. Instead, he was viewing this creature’s flight through the cloud from behind its eyes. Occasionally, an animalistic grunt was heard above the howling sound of the winds as they flew through the air, just above the waves.
Nadreth noticed something ahead as his feral vessel coursed through the fog. It was the bow of a ship, which for a second, Nadreth was sure they would crash into, but then with an upwards swoop and a stomach-turning drop, the creature landed hard on the deck of the boat. The king, still seeing the scene from the point of view of the creature, felt like he was standing twice as tall as usual as the men on the boat scattered in confusion like a pack of panicked children. The others on the boat must only be hearing the spooked screams of their comrades, unable to see what was going on due to the thick covering of fog.
With a roar, the beast began swinging his great cleaver at the men on the ship. Moving through them as they were nothing, it slashed at one, leaving a horrid gash in his throat, almost decapitating him with a single glancing blow. At the same time, it struck another in the chest with a closed fist. The hawk emblazoned on his victim’s armour crumpled inwards, caving in his sternum.
With a suppleness that seemed to defy his brutal form, the beast moved along the ship, striking as he pleased. The fractured and slashed bodies of his enemies fell at his feet as he moved along the deck. Some of the Shingally sailors fired crossbows into the mist in desperation, still unable to see their target. All of their shots flew past the undeterred fiend.
The king watched on eagerly, unable to get enough of the brutality. He could feel himself willing the creature on, just like if he was watching a triumphant play in his court in Prath. But this was different, this was real. And this was power that was now at the disposal of his cause, destined to help him take the world in Loken’s name.
Before moving on to the next ship, the beast made sure to light a fire, taking flint from his pocket and sparking it with the rusty cleaver. Within seconds, the wrapped sail of the ship was engulfed, the flames slowly creeping on to other areas of the boat, leaving a trail of charred black across the deck in its wake.
He pressed on to the next ship and found his enemies already alert. Nadreth thought this was probably due to the screams and the orange glow coming from their sister vessel. The beast moved through them with ease yet again. The king’s bloodlust was still far from quenched. Another sail was set alight. Before jumping to the next boat, the creature stamped his foot down on the wounded body of one of his adversaries who was weakly attempting to pull himself away from the fire. With a horrible cracking sound, the king watched as the soldier’s head turned to mush under the brute’s heavy foot.
With a mighty roar, the beast jumped to the next ship. As he waded through the soldiers, punching and cleaving, the king watched on in delight. This creature was truly unstoppable. As if their minds were connected, both his and the creature’s eyes found their next target at the same time. His garment was different to the others. The crest emblazoned on the chest was much larger, and rather than a short sword, he carried a huge broadsword. He readied himself as the beast walked towards him with calculated steps and sporadic grunts. The man did not flinch, rather he kept his posture tight and his sword high.
The king felt his excitement bloom into something entirely different. He wanted to see if the creature would be challenged. Then he could understand the true limits of its power.
The Shingally soldier swung the sword with the might of ten men, aiming to strike the creature between the ear and shoulder. The length of the weapon allowed him to do so despite the soldier being significantly shorter than his opponent. As if it were nothing, the beast caught the blade in its hand. The sword sunk into its fleshy palm, cutting at least an inch deep, without bothering the beast in the slightest. Blood poured out as the creature’s fingers tightened around the blade, tight enough to wrench it from the hands of the soldier.
The sword must have weighed at least twenty pounds, but the beast hurled it into the sea as if it were a pebble. It was lost to the mist after a few feet and a distant splash was heard as the blade hit the water.
The soldier still didn’t back down. He drew a short blade from behind his back and leapt at the creature. Using the same hand that it had caught the broadsword with, the creature grabbed the leaping man by the face, his palm covering the soldier’s features like a mask of gore. A metallic thud rang out as the beast dropped the cleaver. He gripped the man’s lower half with his now-free hand. Stretching the man briefly, there was a pop as the soldier’s head parted from his body in a smattering of viscera.
Dropping the torso of the man to the deck of the ship, the creature looked into the still rolling eyes on the head of his victim. The king may as well have been jumping for joy. This was only the beginnings of the immeasurable power he was promised. He began to think of what this meant for when the prophecy was fulfilled once they reached Esselonia and Nevea touched the Stone of the Night. But that could wait. For right now, the King was finally seeing the yield of his influence with his own eyes. This was Cormag incarnate. This was the work of Loken’s own hand.
The beast hurled the head to its left. There was a dull boom from not too far away, followed by the screams of multiple men. The king, in all of his time watching through the beast’s eyes, had not been able to make out many of the words shouted by the soldiers succumbing to the monster’s savage power, and then one was coming through as clear as crystal.
He couldn’t see the other ships, but in the blood-curdled yell of such a word, he knew exactly what this show of strength had achieved. Without a single ship of their own sunk, without a single life lost, they had overcome the Shingally watch fleet on the Sea of Blades. He focused back on the perspective of the beast as it lit another piece of flint. This time, instead of using the sail to start the fire, the beast held it against the torso of his last rival until a flame flickered to life.
As quickly as he had been taken to the inside of the beast’s eyes, he was back behind his own. Overwhelmed, he fell to one knee while still clutching Nevea’s hand. He looked up at the beautiful young girl, whose eyes were bright with something he couldn’t quite decipher, and she smiled at him.
Men rushed to his side to help him, but he fanned them away as Nevea’s gaze turned to the Sea of Blades once more and the fog began to dissipate. Slowly at first, and then more rapidly, the King watched from the sands as it crept away from them, revealing more and more of the choppy waters.
The king’s eyes were drawn directly ahead. In the retreating fog, there was a distinctly orange glows that were becoming more prevalent by the second. Like a sunrise waking up the world, it finally revealed what he had seen to the rest of his men: three huge longboats all ablaze on the horizon.
A near deafening cheer came from behind the king as the men noticed. Even General Hassit was roaring with triumph. No other ships were visible as the fiery outlines of the three ships began to sink, swallowed by the Sea of Blades.
***
Danrin was covered in blood. Only seconds had passed since the severed head of Admiral Maitlund had landed at his feet, the eyes rolled back into the skull as if they were hiding from the horrors of the situation. Two glowing, flickering beacons stood out to his left, and one was coming from the very spot where The Prince’s Peace should have been, if his bearings were correct.
All around him, men hurried and hid, blades drawn as they scanned the fog for any sign of a threat. Some had come to investigate the source of the thud that had sounded when the admiral’s head landed on the deck; one younger soldier vomited when he saw the torn flesh.
Seconds turned to minutes as they waited for another sound or scream but all that was heard was the fan and crackle of a large fire taking hold. Danrin turned to see a third beacon now glowing in the mist and he had no other choice but to say a word he never expected to, not in his whole life. At first it was muttered, quiet and unsure, then it grew louder as he accepted that it was the right thing to do. Finally, he shouted it as if his life depended on it.
‘Retreat. All men to the oars!’ Danrin shouted. It felt like the words clawed their way out of his throat. ‘Make for the Shingal! Retreat.’
Then he saw it start to dissipate and fall away from them towards the shore of Port Saker like a great grey curtain slowly unveiling more and more of the jagged waves. Danrin felt tension drip away from his neck and upper back. He had not even noticed it building until it vanished, but the feeling of relief was fleeting at best. His eyes jumped from ship to ship, looking for the cause of the fires.
Something was wrong, but there was no sign of an enemy.
In his panicked search for their attackers, he hadn’t noticed just how badly the three ships in the blockade had been damaged – they were all ravaged by flames. They were all in the final part of their descent to the depths of the Sea of Blades. The parts still jutting from the water were wrapped with blazing fire. They looked like candles with an hour’s life left in them. They had minutes or even seconds before they were submerged completely.
He tried to shout again, but as he watched The Prince’s Peace, the pride of the fleet, sink into the Sea of Blades, the very waves where it was launched, he felt real fear for the first time in his life. ‘Retreat. Back to shore. Retreat,’ he said as he watched terrified men around him scurry to their stations.
Chapter 32
Night had fallen in Delfmarc, leaving the top tower throne room dark apart from the fire pits in each corner, which were now serving their true purpose. Ogulf rubbed his temples, trying to alleviate some of the tension that was building there. The large man who had rushed in was General Cedryk Mahran. He was the princess’s top military advisor who had also served her father and grandfather before her. And since he’d arrived in the room, he had been accusing Ogulf of theft – the theft of the great axe, Solsana.
Feda was atop her throne at the end of the room. In front of her stood Vellan, Ogulf, Melcun, General Cedryk, and one of the general’s guards.
Ogulf and Melcun were standing to the side of the room. It was as if they had been discarded as a fierce debate was raging in front of the throne. Feda rarely said a word other than trying to calm the participants. The melee was not what Ogulf expected at her court.
The general was brandishing Wildar’s axe in his huge hand, and while Ogulf was sure he didn’t mean it in a threatening manner, General Cedryk was waving the axe dangerously close to Vellan. He was questioning how it was possible that Ogulf and Melcun could be in possession of the weapon. Vellan confirmed they had it when he met them on the road and that he believed it was given to them by Wildar.
The bickering went on for a few moments more before the princess rose from her throne. She was much smaller than both men, but it was clear from her eyes she had had enough of the general’s squabbling. She interrupted the man with a firm shout, and as she moved from her throne with authority in her steps to stand between the men, both took a pace back and assumed the straightened posture of their military positions.
‘I will hear no more of this from either of you,’ she said not, looking them in the eye. ‘These men are not thieves, General Cedryk. And if you would remember your position long enough to listen to your princess, then I will explain why.’ She looked at the man and paused. Once she was satisfied he wouldn’t interrupt, Feda took the axe from the general. In her hands, it looked like a regular sized axe again.
‘You said you were given this by my uncle?’ she asked.
‘Wildar handed me it before he fell into the Banespit, yes,’ Ogulf said.
‘Has he always had this?’
‘As long as I’ve known him.’
‘And how long had that been?’ she asked, moving closer towards him.
‘Wildar came to Keltbran fifteen years ago. You don’t get axes like that where we come from, so it stood out. That axe was on his hip then, and it was there every day and night until he died.’
‘How did you come to meet Wildar?’
‘He came from Paleways. My father and Wildar organised trade routes between his town and mine. They became friends. He came to visit us for the hunting season one year and never left.’
‘Paleways,’ she said, turning to General Cedryk. ‘The islands off the coast of Broadheim?’
‘Yes, Your Grace.’ He responded without looking at her. ‘The islands your grandfather sent Wildar to when he was a boy.’ The general looked like he wanted to continue but stopped himself at the last second, though he clearly had more to say.
‘He actually did do it.’ Feda laughed lightly before taking the axe from Cedryk. ‘My father always said Wildar stole this. I always thought it was his way of pinning a crime on a sibling in a joking way, there was never any real conviction in his words. And then he would say how could a twelve-year-old boy steal one of the most protected weapons in all the realm? I didn’t know the man other than through letters, but by the gods, I wish I had been given the chance. General Cedryk, it looks like one of the greatest mysteries in the history of Esselonia has been solved.’
The princess turned to Ogulf again and walked towards him. She was looking at the blade. Gently, she ran her finger down the edge of it, creating a light scraping noise. She handed the weapon back to Ogulf.
‘Your Grace, I must protest,’ General Cedryk said. He broke from his stance and turned towards the princess. ‘He is not of our blood.’
The princess held a hand up to silence her advisor as she looked at Ogulf. ‘You’re holding a relic, a weapon gifted by the gods to help us in our struggles against those who seek to cause us harm. This axe is called Solsana – it means dawn in the words of our ancestors. They say the first mages of this island carved that axe from the first metals they found, and gilded it to perfection over years of craft and spellbinding. It is to be called upon only when it is absolutely necessary, when we come up against a fight with pure evil.’
Ogulf looked at the axe. Given its perfect edge, glasswork in the blade and ornate pommel he had thought it was Shingally. It didn’t look like anything more than a fancy blade, but he could find no reason to doubt what Feda was saying.
‘We have been searching for this weapon since before I was born and here you are bringing it to us from the colds of Broadheim. Do you believe in the will of the gods, Ogulf?’ Feda said with a smirk.
Ogulf was still staring at the axe. He didn’t want to answer the question. Everything that had happened over the last few days had made him know there was something or someone guiding him. He felt like he was at the mercy of something entirely unworldly. It was liberating and terrifying at the same time.
