I.

ALLDORIN watched the pale yellow sun crest over the Black Mountains to the west. Grey clouds choked out a blue morning sky. A snow drenched forest climbed half way up the mountains and stopped not a mile from where he stood. This preternatural winter should have ended five months ago. Yet snow lingered like an unwelcome guest at Heartfell Callow’s Eve. The layers of ice upon the roads grew fat, while the people grew thin. Even the horses seemed slight. Rations tasted a luxury.

Valenhein’s blood. Would this cursed winter never end?

He laughed at his own misery and took another pull of whiskey.

Over a hundred leagues in four days, or, no, was it less? He could not remember. Was it the lack of sleep, or the drink? He had pushed himself too hard. Less than an hour of sleep each night was hardly enough. Yes, it was the lack of sleep. At this rate by the time he reached the port city to provide aid, he and his men would be as good as dead. Merely bodies for the enemy to hack away.

There was an enemy. There had to be. Why else had he no word from Enllaidin?

To his right the Eastern Sea billowed and foamed. He was still a mile away from the rocky shore. Beyond, the Fjiörk Straight was still frozen over. From here they had nearly sixteen miles until they reached the city. Oadras send that they made it in time.

“You push them too hard, Father,” Felladine said, stepping up beside him. The wind tossed her fiery red curls. She was the image of his beloved Rashanell, just as beautiful, just as lovely. Fate’s ill humor gave her her mother’s face. Her dark scowl rivaled evening’s shadow—a thing she had learned in childhood.

“I push them because I must,” he answered.

“Nearly two hundred miles in four days? This is madness.”

“Pah.”

“You sent Enllaidin north to Nyrhindkof because you trusted he could handle whatever army had taken it. Do you doubt your son now?”

The girl needed no whisky to loosen her tongue.

“It has been too long. He should have returned a week ago.”

Galldorin pulled another drink of whiskey. It had been months since he felt the drink’s heat sting his throat.

“Too long,” he heard himself muttering.

“And a scout could not bring you the information you desired? You needed to bring five thousand men north in this unusual winter?” The wind seemed to howl in response. Felladine pulled her wolf fur coat tighter around her. Her steel greave clanked as they brushed against her breastplate. Small flurries landed like crystal ornaments in her hair. Her eyes were emerald stones.

“Do not question me, girl. Blood you are, but here I am your king,” fire flashed in his eyes for a moment.

“I know why you ride, Father. But I do not believe you do.”

He took a long drink of whiskey. The half empty bottle sloshed as he dropped his arm lazily to his side.

“Be silent,” he growled. The girl did not know. She could not know! For a moment his daughter’s face was Rashanell. Her eyes blue and her hair raven like the dark of night. The memories broke through the haze. The guilt squeezed his heart threatening to crush his soul. His lip quivered, and tears filled his eyes like autumn rain to sun-cracked river bed.

“Rashanell, if—if only I could go back.”

His wife’s face faded. Felladine’s green eyes stared back at him carrying sorrow like a soldier carried a sword. He looked back to the west at the rising sun pulling his eyes away from her. Lips met whiskey again like old friends and new lovers. The flurries grew heavier. 

When would this Valenhein forsaken winter end? 

He gestured his daughter back toward camp. “Rouse the men, Captain. We ride before we lose the sun behind the clouds.”

Snow was not the enemy, but by the force of his curses his officers might have thought it so. White vapor plumed from the snout of his black battle born stallion. How fitting that Kalkorash the patron demigod of death also rode a black stallion. He chuckled to himself and raised his nearly empty bottle to the sky, and then to his lips. 

 

II.

E CAPPED the low rise, and the hilltop city of Nyrhindkof came into view. White smoke rose from the south end of the ruined port while black smoke and flame rose in columns from the north and the east. Felladine and the scout rode hard away from the city against the wind toward him. Her face was carved stone. She was the same girl she had always been. Even as a child the girl did not smile. The priest called it the curse of the Aneled—the palace sorceress called it a wisdom.

Feathers of white drifted up from the mouths of Felladine and the gaunt scout that rode beside her. He could not recall the man’s name, but he recognized his sunken eyes and the scar connecting mouth to ear. They pulled reins on their mounts bringing them to a stop. 

“Tell me you have some good news,” Galldorin said.

“The city is empty, My King. The scout saw it, and I have confirmed it,” Felladine said.

“Thank you, Captain.” Galldorin looked at the rail of a man. The poor fool’s winter layers were sparse yet they threatened to swallow him. 

“What did you see, scout?”

“Dead. All of them, sir.” The man shivered. His eyes were wild with fear.

“An army,” Galldorin said. It was not a question.

The scout shook his head.

“Raiding party?” Galldorin asked.

“No sir,”

“Plague?”

The scout shook his head, offering the same reply. 

“What then?” His grip tightened around the bottle’s neck. 

“Holes.”

The scout quivered as he brought a shaky hand to his chest pointing at his heart. Galldorin’s stomach sank. He had heard of this forty-seven years ago, the day his grandfather died. His mouth turned to ash and he poured the last bit of spirits down his throat for good measure.

“Holes in the chest?” Galldorin asked the scout.

“Yes,” the man breathed.

Valenhein’s blood.

“No heart—just a hole straight through?”

“Yes!” The scout’s eye grew feverish. “‘Tis Kalkorash. Like the old stories. A creature of shadow he was. So dark he steals light from the sun and consumes the souls of the living.”

The scout’s eyes were hollow staring through him, beyond him. A chill rode up his spine. 

“Captain.”

“Your Majesty,” Felladine said.

“See that this scout receives a warm meal. I want our men broken into four battalions. One to enter the city from the south with me. One you will lead and enter from the north. Dirkhadt will enter from the west with the last battalion. If an army does hide within those walls we will drive them toward the eastern end, into the sea. Save the final battalion in reserves should our fortunes fair ill.”

“Yes sir,” Felladine said. She brushed her unruly red curls out of her face, took the scout’s horse’s reins and led him away. The thin man was in such a daze he took no notice.

Galldorin set his blue blood shot eyes back on the city. He pushed a weathered hand across his grey beard. The whiskey and mucus above his lip congealed into a single mess. 

“Enllaidin. Hold on,” he whispered. His son was alive. He had to be. He had to be! He had promised his wife. What was her name? 

Valenhein’s blood! Condemnation to all the demigods! What was her name! Rash—Reesh—Rashanell. Kalkorash curse him for forgetting. The absence of sleep was affecting his mind.

He grabbed another bottle at his saddle, ripped the cork out with his teeth, and spat it into the snow. He took a long drink, and his hands relaxed, tremors fading. After that day he had promised his wife that no harm would ever come to the children, that he would keep them safe—protect them. And he would keep that promise. He must. Enllaidin had to be alive. Alive and safe. 

Once his eldest was found he would get himself some sleep. The gods knew he needed it. 

He lowered the bottle and stared at the city.

After several minutes Felladine approached on her horse. “The men are getting into position. They will soon be ready,” she said, pulling her mare up beside him. He nodded, eyes unwavering. He took another drink.

“I will find him, Rashanell. I will find him, I swear it,” he whispered to himself.

“Let it go, Father,” Felladine said. He met her eyes. The girl’s freckles were perfect. For a moment she was a child in his mind again.

“What?”

“Mother.”

“You were too young. You could not possibly remember—.”

“I am an Aneled, Father. Blessing or curse I am of the old magic—I remember everything. You and mother were arguing that morning. You hit her and flipped over a table.”

“Stop.”

“I remember her lying there unconscious—the fire from the candles catching on the wool rug. I cut my hand on the shattered glass and used my blood to make time stand still for as long as I could. But when I found you I could not wake you from your drunken sleep.”

“That’s enough!”

A cold silence drifted between them. Felladine’s low voice felt like salve on a wound. “Release your self-loathing.”

“I cannot.” His eyes burned from the wind, and he squeezed them tight. He wiped small tears with a creased hand as they trickled out.

“What would mother say?”

“Quiet.”

“She would want you to—.”

“I said enough!”. He swung his left arm wildly and struck her face. She looked back at him. Blood oozed from a split lip, and her pale cheek quickly turned red.

Valenhein’s blood. Who was he? Curse the girl’s magic.

He met his daughter's eyes for a moment and looked back at the city. Shame overwhelmed him.

“Kalkorash feeds off hatred. Forgive yourself, Father. Release your self loathing.”

He squeezed his eyes shut and turned his head. Tears trickled down his cheeks. A hard lump formed in his throat. He felt as though he could nearly touch that forgiveness for a blessed moment, until he looked back at his daughter and saw the bruise forming on her face.

He did not deserve forgiveness. Only death.

“We leave at once. Tell the men.”

He kicked the sides of his stallion and started off down the hill. Forgiveness? He shook his head at the thought.

Only misery and death. And he knew it all too well.

 

III.

ASSIVE snow-drenched towers hemmed the southern gate of the city. A heavy wall of grey carved stone, too high to climb but low enough for a young boy to cast a stone over, surrounded the city. The parapet was empty save for an inquisitive raven that cawed and stared with eyes of judgement—or was it hunger?

There was no sign of an army nor siege weapons.

He took another drink of whiskey and spat.

Indeed, beyond the gate, signs of fire and burnt stone could be seen, but the wooden city gate itself was still intact. He could not find even a bludgeon or scratch on the surface.

Odd, to be sure.

If the town had faced an attack, then the assailant was likely an ally, someone known, who could enter without hindrance. His hand moved to his sword. He looked at Captain Hedley and nodded. The barrel chested man’s size looked unusual atop his horse.

The captain called his men forward and motioned for the king to enter after ten soldiers moved forward.

He rode through the narrow streets behind two lines of spearmen. Wooden doors creaked in the breeze as soldiers investigated empty stone buildings and shops as they passed. Always, the report was the same. Empty.

As though something had stolen the inhabitants while they moved about their daily activities.

As they drew closer to the center of town, he noticed the colorful streamers and ribbon marking the celebrations of Thrishold Nune. Fruit platters, biscuits, and winter flowers with shill stones still sat out on offerings tables where children had stolen nibbles. If preparations had just begun, then three days had passed since. Where were the people?

“Your Majesty,” Captain Hedley’s voice pulled him away. “You need to see this.”

The king followed the captain into the center of town and stopped. His breath caught in his chest. Corpses laid scattered across the town square like wild flowers in a field at harvest.

Galldorin dismounted from his horse and Captain Hedley pounded his sword against his shield three times. Twenty men formed a square perimeter around the king moving in step with him without breaking formation. King Galldorin pressed the bottle to his lips again as he moved through the field of bodies. The cold had preserved them, keeping them from stinking.

At the far end of the town square Felladine entered on foot with a guard at her sides, not breaking stride at the sight of death. She moved with her blade in hand like a wolf baring fangs—her fiery hair pulled back in a green and amber ribbon just as Rashanell used to wear her raven locks.

Felladine hunted searching until she stopped, sheathed her sword, and collapsed to her knees. Galldorin hurried over to her and stopped just behind her.

“Captain Felladine?” he asked. She looked up at him, tears in her eyes. In her hands, the pale frozen face of Enllaidin stared into the grey sky.

“No,” his voice was but a whisper.

The king staggered back, dropping his bottle.

“No!”

This— this could not be his son. No, Enllaidin was alive! He was sure, he—he had promised! This—this must be an imposture! Surely this was not his son!

“Enllaidin!” He whipped his head around searching, calling—each scream more desperate than the last. Suddenly, sweet words touch his ears.

“Here I am, Father.”

Galldorin turned. Enllaidin stood a dozen paces away, just as fair, as healthy as he ever had been. No, he looked better, younger, stronger. His plated armor shone in the bright snow, and the dark wolf skin pelt around his shoulders made his fair skin and hair far more rich with life.

“Ellaidin!” He staggered forward, his feet struggling to find purchase in the snow. Tears welled in his eyes. He reached out with a shaky hand.

“I waited, Father, for so long. I knew you would come.” His son reached out beckoning.

“Father stop,” Felladine said. Her voice was ice. She drew her sword. The steel sang as she pulled it from the sheath.

“Felladine, what—!”

“That is not Enllaidin,” his daughter said. She moved with poise like a viper preparing to strike. Her boots crunched in the snow.

“What do you mean not Enllaidin. Look at him.”

“Your son is there,” Felladine said, pointing at the corpse behind her, not taking her eyes off the living Enllaidin.

“No, no my son is not dead. My son, my—he cannot be dead,” Galldorin looked back to the living Enllaidin.

“I am right here, Father. Look at me, touch me. See that I yet live.”

The living Enllaidin stepped forward offering his hands, wearing a smile that did not touch his eyes.

“Please Father. Do not forsake me.”

The young man’s blonde hair twitched in the gentle wind.

“Forsake you? Oh my son, I could not. I should never have sent you here alone,” Galldorin said starting forward.

“Then you should embrace me as a son. Come into agreement with me.”

Tears trickled down Galldorin’s cheeks as he stepped forward nearing Felladine. A boot appeared right in front of him and slammed into his chest knocking the wind from his lungs. His feet flew out from under him, and his body slammed against the ground. He laid on the flat of his back looking into the grey sky. The world spun, and he leaned over and retched.

He caught sight of Felladine racing toward the living Enllaidin like a raging wolf screaming. In an instant Enllaidin’s form swelled into thick black smoke, no—a living shadow. It stretched and smashed into her body, sending her flying backward. She hit the snow sliding ten paces before falling limp.

Soldiers on both sides rushed the blackness, firing arrows and unleashing spears. Yet the creature that had been Ellaidin undulated, coalescing into a massive hulking figure. The shadow beast, that squirming darkness, whirled, smashing its slinking limbs into a group of soldiers, ripping holes through their chests. White mist drifted up from their dying bodies, and the creature consumed them. The emptiness flashed from soldier to soldier in violent rhythm smashing, consuming, discarding—each time becoming more tangible.

Galldorin pulled his eyes away from the massacre searching. Felladine’s body laid on its side slumped in the snow. Galldorin found his feet and staggered over to her, collapsing to his knees beside her. He reached out with a shaking hand and rolled her onto her back.

“Father,” her voice was weak.

“Felladine. What have I done.” His voice shook.

“There is not much time,” she said. Galldorin shook his head.

“Don’t…” Galldorin whispered cupping his daughter’s cheek in his rough hands.

“Kalkorash, must be stopped. You—you—,” Felladine coughed and convulsed, spurting blood from her pale lips.

“No.”

“Kalkorash feeds on the hatred of kings. Forgive yourself, Father. Let go of your self loathing and forgive.”

“I deserve only death. I cannot.”

 

IV.

MASSIVE figure twice the height of a horse marched toward him. Kalkorash, the demigod of death, met his eyes and smiled.Darkness smashed into his chest. His breastplate crunched, and he flew through the air spinning. His body slammed against a stone wall—his vision swayed. Galldorin pushed himself to his hands and knees and retched. He slunk back against the rock—his body felt as though it had been crushed by a mountain. Not a single man stood in the square.

“Galldorin,” the demigod's voice was gravel. He was no longer shadow and smoke, but whole like a man in black kingly robes. “I am finally in a state where my body is stable enough to give a proper greeting. You may bow,” he said, stalking forward, spear in his hand like a small scepter.

Galldorin stood defying the command. Kalkorash towered over him.

“I said, BOW!” He swung, striking the king with the back of his hand. Galldorin fell to the snow.

“Good. You may rise.” He felt a hand lift him off the ground. “It seems you are having trouble standing. I will help you.”

Kalkorash pressed the king’s body against the wall. The spear in the demigod’s hand turned to shadowy darkness as it plunged into his left shoulder. Galldorin screamed and sagged, but the spear kept him pinned upright.

“Hmm, so this is what I felt,” Kalkorash whispered to himself.

“I would nearly thank you, Galldorin. I spent a thousand years locked in battle with my pathetic brother Valenhein. After I slew him, I was released from my imprisonment in the Dark Veil into the mortal world. I must say you humans are truly a blight upon the land. My father Oadras, would agree I think. He likely regrets having created you.”

The king gripped the spear and pulled himself up allowing him to draw breath.

“What do you want?”

“So hasty you mortals are. My ultimate desires are my own, but for now, your hatred will suffice. Look around you, all this death at your hands,” Kalkorash hovered a hand over the black spear and it rippled with darkness.

Memories, shameful and terrible, flashed through the king’s mind.

“So this is what I have felt, what drew me to you.”

“Get out of my head!” Galldorin growled.

“I wandered this Oadras-forsaken land for twelve years, a wraith searching for a soul powerful enough to make me strong drifting until I smelled you. Providence, it seems, led me here. Now, I understand. If I want more hatred from you, I’ll have to mine it,” the demigod said, releasing the spear. He stalked over to Felladine, picked up a sword, and touched the tip to the girl’s thigh.

“What kind of father assaults his own family? You are a monster. He plunged the blade into Felladine’s thigh. The girl screamed in agony.

“Please!” Hot tears rolled down his cheeks.

“You brought your daughter here out of your own fear. She bears this pain because of you!” Kalkorash said.

Galldorin knew it. Valenhein’s blood. He knew it.

His hatred for himself grew as he watched his daughter suffer. The demigod swelled in size. It twisted the weapon in her leg and Felladine screamed again. The monster pulled it out and plunged it in again and again twisting the blade as he dug it into her flesh. Kalkorash swelled with every stab of the sword.

His daughter’s screams turned blood curling. Galldorin gripped the spear's shaft with his right hand and grit his teeth. He pulled trying to loose it from his flesh until his shoulder burned, yet the haft held him fastened to the stone wall at his back.

“Remember, little king. Remember the screams of your wife as she burned alive. You were there, too full of whiskey to stand. Remember her corpse, burnt and black and ash. It was your fist that left her unconscious—your table that you overturned in rage.”

 He touched his brow. The wretched memories poured into his mind like bitter wine.

“Ah, there it is. Watch now, see where your choices have led you.” Galldorin looked up. The demigod held up the sword and plunged it into Felladine’s abdomen.

He watched his daughter spasm. Kalkorash walked toward him slowly and removed the spear from his shoulder in a sweeping motion.

“Go, little king. See what you have wrought. Witness your daughter's death and know it was your foolishness that killed her.”

Galldorin raced to his daughter, stumbling over frozen bodies. He collapsed to his knees. Snowflakes froze in place and the wind stopped. Galldorin looked around and saw that even the demigod did not move.

The girl had frozen time.

“Felladine,” he said, holding her face in his hands.

“Father,” she croaked.

“I am sorry, girl.”

She shook her head. “I chose this—.”

“No. I…I am to blame,” he said.

“Fool. When will you learn, my actions are my own.” She gasped from breath. “Forgive yourself, father.”

He shook his head.

“For Enllaidin, for me. For Mother.”

His tears fell from his eyes onto her bloodied lips.

“I do not deserve it.” Only death.

She reached up and touched his cheek. He held her hand there with his own.

“It’s not about deserving it, Father. It’s about love and forgiveness. After all you have done, I have not withheld these from you. What makes you so special that you cannot give yourself the same? Are you so much greater than me?”

He shook his head squeezing his eyes shut. That he was not. Tears trickled into his beard.

“Then do it. This is what mother would want,” she said.

Her hand at his cheek went limp, and her empty eyes stared at him. Snow fell again and the wind brushed his cheeks.

“You bring death to everyone you love, little king. But at least her death served a purpose,” the demigod said.

Galldorin stood and turned to face his enemy.

For Rashanell.

He closed his eyes and saw himself standing before him and whispered, “You do not deserve it, but I forgive you.”

Nothing happened, and so he spoke the words again and again. Then something within him broke, and he wept. He repeated it and released the years of loathing. He wept like a man on the verge of madness. A calm washed over him—a feeling he had rarely known. The torrent in his soul had finally settled, and he opened his eyes.

Kalkorash shrieked, piercing the air with an overwhelming sound. The hulking mass stalked toward him sucking light into him. The demigod’s steps slowed. Unseen wind, violent and terrible, pulled him backward. Kalkorash struggled to stand. The creature contorted bending backward collapsing in on itself. A wave of darkness exploded from its center and rushed past Galldorin whipping at his hair and cape like wind before disintegrating into the air.

Galldorin looked down at his daughter, and for the first time in years he felt peace.

“It is finished. Thank you, Felladine.”