Vintrig's Kingdom: Isu Magan, #1

By Freya Pickard

In a winter bound kingdom the only person holding back the darkness and chaos is a virgin princess.

 

"A magical tale of fantasy with edges." Amazon Customer

 

Isu Magan, heir to Vintrig's Throne has to remain a virgin to prevent chaos and eternal winter returning to the land.

 

But when the travelling musician, Sama Conn arrives at the castle, Isu's resolve to remain unwed, wavers.

 

Knowing she could lose the throne that is rightfully hers, as well as her life, Isu Magan finds herself falling in love.

 

Vintrig's Kingdom is a fantastical romantic tale set in the harsh mountains of the far north.

 

Warning: contains scenes of a sexual nature and some violence which some readers may find upsetting.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Freya Pickard
• Release date: Feb 18, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386596004

Freya Pickard

Pushcart Prize nominee, Freya Pickard, is the quirky, unusual author of The Kaerling series, an epic fantasy set in the strange and wonderful world of Nirunen. A cancer survivor, she writes mainly dark fantasy tales and creates expressive poetry in order to leach the darkness from her soul. Her aim in life is to enchant, entertain and engage with readers through her writing. She finds her inspiration in the ocean, the moors, beautifully written books and vinyl music (particularly heavy metal and rock). She enjoys Hatha Yoga, Bhangra and Yogalates and in her spare time creates water colours and pastel drawings of the worlds in her head.

Book preview

for my parents

PART ONE

VINTRIG’S CASTLE

Prologue

WE HAVE BEEN BROUGHT up on myths and legends. But, what is myth? What is legend? The wars and loves of the gods were fed to us with our mother’s milk. Everything around us could be explained by the acts of the gods and the whims of goddesses. But how do legends start? How does a myth begin?

Our traditional narratives tell how the world began, though we are but relative newcomers in this land. Our legends are remarkable and the feats in them impossible for the lesser men of our day. But now our myths have been explained away and our legends have lost their enchantment. The Counsellor has decreed that all stories are to be set aside and only remembered on our Feast Days as a special entertainment.

No more must we think of Sonen’s blessing, unless it be on Thaw Day. No more must we remember Deyja’s curse turning peaceful death into a dark nightmare. We must think of our old tales as imaginary; explaining natural and social phenomena. The Counsellor mocks our fictitious songs, calling them widely held but false notions.

Why do we hear no outcry? Because the gods have forsaken us. We cannot trust them any more, not after what they have done.

But secretly, I feel, some of us do still believe. Perhaps there will come a day, as the Minstrel said, when our greatest legend will spring to life. How will the Counsellor explain that? I wish I could see the legends proved and brought to life but I do not think I will live to see that marvellous day.

I hardly feel like composing poetry or songs. After the deaths here recently, I have lost my inspiration. But last night, as sleep hovered in the chill shadows, these lines came to me.

In Earlier Days

When men were wise

Our forebears came from the south,

Seeking the cold lands

Where star-tears lurked

In caverns deep as night.

Vintrig was mightiest,

Black-haired warrior

Possessing both strength and wisdom.

His people were brave,

Fought the iron-clawed bears,

Carving a home

Out of Hvitr’s stern breast.

They raised

Vintrig a Castle

Hewing rock with hammer and iron.

Thus established he reigned longest

Left his line

The strongest race.

Fields had we in valleys deep

To herd our sheep and kine.

We grew our corn

Nurtured fruit trees,

Wealthy was our kingdom.

Our land lay at the end

Of winding trade routes.

Eastern tribes and Southern men

Rejoiced to deal with us.

Not only star-tears

In the depths we found,

But river-dew and dragon’s eye.

Wood was scarce and

Black dragon’s eye

Became our winter fuel.

In a fateful year

The Blizzard blew

And destroyed the Northern Kingdoms.

But out of the wind from the North

Came the Counsellor.

From whence he came we knew not,

Save that his history lay bounded

By tears and snowfall.

Embracing the wind he called on his powers

And banished the Blizzard

From our land.

Now we are desolate

Surviving the Winter

That lies eternal within our borders.

White on white, snow on snow

Grey mountains, blackest night.

Chants are the only songs raised

To the gods we must have angered

Empty chants on a cruel east wind

Bringing snow and only more snow.

Stripped of our wealth we focus inwards

Centring on darkness –

The grey robed Counsellor.

But I turn my face to the West

And wait for Daylight to come.

Scriber, Deyjarin 2nd 675

Chapter One

Night Watch, 16th Midyar, Vintrig’s Castle

silent star shines in

blue-black sky, cloud creeps slowly,

extinguishing light

SHE STEPPED OUT INTO the freezing air, hearing snow crunch beneath her booted feet. A snowshoe hare fur muffler hid her face. Pacing slowly across the wide bridge, she was confident none would see her at this hour. The soldiers on watch turned their gaze inwards, not outwards at night. Stars blazed above her; familiar constellations shone down as the gibbous moon sailed above the mountain peaks. A thin layer of cloud crept from the north, smothering the stars. Breathing in the frigid air, she waited for her thoughts to clear. Memories pounded in her head, memories associated with her infrequent, secret night-time walks.

She shook her head, brushing the memories aside, and stepped off the snow-covered bridge onto the icy walkway around Throne Peak. Her ounce-skin boots crunched in the freshly fallen snow as her heavy woollen skirts swished to and fro. Thin clouds covered the moon and for a moment, she saw many-hued lights sparkling and shining in a circle about it. Then the moon broke free and the lights vanished. Thinking she had imagined them, she continued her walk. The Sickle swung nose-tip to Throne Peak above her and the steps gleamed in their icy covering. Only those descended from Vintrig’s line and those they invited had the right to ascend those steps. But for thirty years no one had ascended to the Throne. Her thoughts wandered again.

Pausing at the bridge that led to the neighbouring mountain, she gazed with dismay at the twisted masonry. The earth tremor two days before had dislodged the weak stones of the bridge and now there was no way across. Sighing, she carried on, passing between the shadowed bulks of Throne Peak and Judgement. Memories beat at her head, pounding on her skull. She held them back, not wanting to re-tread such old slippery remembrances.

The Castle came into view and she stopped, feeling lethargic and heavy. What was the point, she wondered, of a few hours at night away from everyone? Even if she had a willing accomplice, they couldn’t escape easily, not now the bridge between Throne Peak and Mount Grar had been destroyed. It would be risky trying to escape across the western bridge; too many eyes to see her leave. Self-pity slid into her thoughts and she automatically repeated the verse that had been composed by Chanter on the day of her birth.

"Isu Magan

The immortal Princess

Bound to no fate

Save that which I make.

Mortal life

Holds no horrors for me

Death I fear not

From Death I am free."

SHE SMILED WRYLY AT the last line. She didn’t fear Death; but it kept happening to those around her.

Something pale moved on the snow-encrusted ground before the bridge leading to the Castle. She remained motionless. Her lip curled as the gaunt, white hound stared around with its weak, pink eyes and then put its muzzle to the snow. It cast around for several minutes and then trotted slowly along the path at the base of Throne Peak. She waited a while and then walked swiftly to the bridge.

Glancing over her shoulder, she held her hood away from her face. There was no sign of the hound and she pulled the snow-fox cloak closer to her. She checked the dead holly tree, black in the moonlight, and found no sign that the hound had been near it. The gates to the right of the holly tree stood still and closed; they had not been opened. Moonlight caught the sharp-edged patterns carved into the gates; it was said that Vintrig himself carved the patterns. In all the old stone work of the Castle there were straight-lined patterns with sharp edges and right angles.

Turning, she looked back at the hound’s tracks. She shivered. Feeling for the hollow in the stone above the holly tree, she pushed hard. The secret door swung open and pulling her fur cloak tightly against her body, she stepped past the brittle leaves. Once inside, she leant against the door and it slid shut with the faintest thud.

The atmosphere was dry and dusty and her heart pounded. Luminous fungi illuminated the curvaceous twining pattern that ran head high on both walls. She breathed deeply, unclenching her fists, concentrating on the patterns. These designs were unlike Vintrig’s carvings. These lines ran sinuously along the walls of the passage, entwining with each other, making convoluted patterns and complicated knots.

She rubbed her fur gloves together absently and a wave of nausea swept over her as she remembered what had driven her here tonight.

Your eagerness to read the histories of your Kingdom is good. The Counsellor had told her impassively. But such is the age of the historical tomes that they have become quite unreadable. Instead, I have started to copy out what can be read and have made my own books. This is a gift for you, the first volume of the histories, recounting Vintrig’s journey here and how he carved his Castle from the mountain.

He placed a pale covered book into her hands and moved away as one of his servants entered the Library.  The cover felt unnaturally smooth and a sensation of disgust invaded her body. Swallowing the rising nausea, she hastily pushed the book onto the nearest shelf. Starting to retch and holding onto the wooden book stand she became aware of a conversation going on.

Through the dizziness descending upon her, she heard the name Sprakleas mentioned. It was such a strange name, she thought at the time, more like a curse. Shivering now, instead of retching, she pushed the pale volume to the back of the shelf, re-arranging the other books to hide it. Picking up another volume of a similar size to the repulsive thing, but with a normal brown leather covering, she turned towards the door and heard her Counsellor say, Tell him to report to me immediately... Stopping abruptly, he glared at her and she told him she was leaving.

As she walked back through the dusty tunnel, she pondered on this. What had her Counsellor got to hide from her? Why had the pale book he had given her, affected her so badly? Was he using sorcery on her? That thought frightened her and she made an effort to breathe slowly again. Her breathing was back to normal by the time the tunnel turned sharply left and followed the line of the inner wall.

Now is the time for concentrating on the present. She whispered to herself. Whatever has happened in the past has happened and nothing can change that. But it will affect the present and the future.

Ideas rushed into her head so quickly she stopped and held onto the dusty wall of the tunnel for support.

Bring back Summer! Overthrow the Counsellor! Be a real woman! Fall in love! Be powerful! Truly have no fear of Death!

Yes! She cried silently, but immediately these untamed, terrible thoughts were chased out by reason.

Summer does not exist in this land. The Counsellor is our Saviour. Without him we would be dead. I am a real woman; I am more than real because I will live forever. I cannot fall in love because I cannot marry; I would have to give up my immortality for love. I will be powerful in a few weeks when I am crowned Queen in my own right. I do not fear Death... She swallowed nervously. I just fear what it can do to those around me.

Still the dry air held a promise of something, though forbidden, yet greater than what she was experiencing now. Shaking her head, she carried on. She entered the Royal Tower through the disused guardroom that masked the entrance to the tunnel and walked wearily up the stone steps. A solitary candle burned low on the table in the day room of her suite and she saw that her coronation dress was taking shape. A heap of white, shimmery material lay spread out over several chairs near the table. As she walked across the floor, her foot hit something solid that slid away from her. Bending down she felt a small rectangular object beneath her fingers. Picking it up, she surmised it was a book; an ordinary one. It was small, unlike the tomes in the Library. Intrigued, she carried it into her bedroom.

The moon was shining through a gap in the curtains veiling the western window. In less than an hour it would disappear behind the Impassable Mountains. She stood gazing out over the snow covered scene, hating the coldness and darkness, wanting something else, but unable to determine what that something else was.

Chapter Two

Dawn Watch Rising, 16th Midyar, Main Courtyard

diamonds glint in snow

sparkle in sunlight, danger

lurking in beauty

MINAH STRUGGLED INTO her grey woollen dress, scraped back her hair in a simple braid and stumbled through to the day room. Last night’s attempts at Isu’s coronation dress were strewn across the chairs. She noticed the book was missing and smiled with satisfaction. Drawing the grey velvet curtains back, she was pleased to see the sun shining, gilding the tops of the parapets, although the wind gusted, swirling loose snow around. There had been too much cloud this Thaw. After tidying up, Minah peeped inside Isu’s bedroom. White fur robes and white woollen dress had been flung over a clothes press. Ounce-skin boots stood in a damp puddle by the door. The Princess was sleeping deeply so Minah retreated without waking her.

She busied herself preparing breakfast in the little kitchen off the day room, igniting the fire laid the night before and pouring milk into the porridge pot. The fire smoked a good deal, she noticed as she scraped the water-soaked oats into warming milk. She must ask Helmgar to look at the chimney. Leaving the porridge to start cooking, she set out the silverware on a tray and discovered there was no honey. She sighed; that would mean a walk in the cold before breakfast. Moving the porridge pot to one side of the fire so it wouldn’t boil over, Minah returned to her room and put on her leather boots and woollen cloak.

The stairwell always smelled damp and the bolts on the main door were awkward and noisy. Cold air hit her face.  Never had she known such a cold Thaw in all her twenty years. She walked through the covered way, feeling her feet go numb as she strode across the rock floor. The stone walls were covered in ice and swirling patterns that remained unfrozen; another reminder that Thaw had not really asserted itself this year. Sometimes, the patterns melted, very slightly.

Reaching the end of the passage, she found the door to the Great Hall slightly ajar. Closing the heavy door with its square pattern of lines behind her, Minah looked around. She hoped Jya hadn’t noticed, otherwise there would be more lectures on how to conserve heat - as if she didn’t know! Soldiers still lingered at the long tables, finishing their breakfasts and talking. The Barrack Row North contingent had just finished night duty, Minah noted as she hurried through the Hall, taking in their bleary eyes and yawns. She felt a wave of hatred roll through her. Their brownish-grey goat-skin caps were tossed on the floors and table tops as Captain Osthond of East Row spoke with Captain Grimhaf and Sergeant Aurik of Barrack Row North, perhaps exchanging reports and weather conditions. The rowdier soldiers from Barrack Row South would not be on duty until this afternoon.

In the doorway of the corridor that led to the kitchens sat Helmgar’s old hunting hound, Snaw. Minah gave the rough head a stroke and slipped past him. The kitchen hands were busy washing up and the air was thick with the smell of burnt grease and boiling water. She caught the attention of Greda, the kitchen matriarch.

Where’s Helmgar?

Got called out, love. Greda smiled at Minah. Think he went to the courtyard. You had some food yet?

Minah shook her head.

Here yer are then. Greda took a handful of bread rolls from a warm tray, kicking a thin black cat away from the table.

Minah grinned her thanks and crammed one in her mouth. The smell made her stomach contract with hunger and she chewed it quickly. She wandered out into the Main Hall again and crossed the rush-strewn floor to the main doors. These were coated in dull metal and the right-angled knot-work that patterned them was fading. As she pushed the doors firmly, they yielded to her touch and she stepped out into the sun-bright air. Starting on her second roll, Minah looked around, narrowing her eyes against the sun’s glare. It felt warmer out in the fresh air than it did in the Royal Tower, even though the snow lay thickly on the ground, and the wind blew erratically. The air was cleaner too. She heard voices and turned towards them.

Helmgar stood in the middle of the Main Yard, surrounded by a handful of soldiers and four outlandish travellers. Minah crossed the open ground before the archway leading into the Main Yard, identifying soldiers from Barrack Row East. The strangers’ garb was a mixture of fur and woven material that was tugged by the sporadic wind. Their faces were dark and they wore gold jewellery.

...our main party, it will before, no... The stranger speaking as Minah joined the group laughed. I have not practised the northern speak for so long! He thought again as his companions muttered incomprehensibly. Our main party it will be here before the sun is at noon.

You and your party are welcome here. The Princess’ Counsellor informed me you would arrive today. Helmgar told him, his wolf-skin cloak flapping in a sudden gust. I am the Princess’ Steward and on her Counsellor’s behalf I give you permission to set up your stalls in our market square, providing you bring us the best of your wares to barter for our stones.

The stranger smiled, bowed and translated Helmgar’s speech to his companions. Boots crunched in the snow behind Minah.

We will do much trade today, said a voice at her shoulder.

Minah glanced round to find Velgath the Smith standing beside her. Dressed only in leather trousers, boots and a sleeveless leather top, the Smith appeared impervious to the cold wind.

Who are they? She wanted to know. I’ve not seen many traders like that.

Velgath chuckled as Helmgar and the strangers discussed arrangements for that evening. They come from the Far East, from the vast deserts where the sun shines all year round.

How lovely. Minah sighed, starting on her third roll.

No. Velgath contradicted her, drawing himself up tall and sticking his silver beard into the air. Nothing grows there.

Minah giggled. She liked Velgath. He was one of the last of her father’s friends. How do they live then?

Velgath shrugged. How do we survive up here where the sun hardly ever shines?

Minah shrugged in reply. What are you waiting for?

I need some hide. I’ve made a hunting knife with a sharp blade that I think these traders will like. I intend to make a profit. But to make it complete, I need a sheath.

I just need some honey, Minah said.

The soldiers escorted the strangers away and Helmgar turned to Minah and Velgath.

Minah! What are you doing here?

Trying to find some honey for the Princess, she smiled, as he ruffled her hair. She felt her last roll slip from her fingers, the wind blew it away from her and then left it in the snow.

Honey? Helmgar frowned, stroking his thick, black beard.