A Lord of the North

King Robin saw his young son knocked out of the saddle by a man, on foot, without helm or armour, swinging a broken lance.

The boy sat up and shook his head as if dazed.

Are you hurt? Called King Robin.

Only his pride, said the wizard, Aldhyrwoode, beside him.

Robin was accustomed to the wizard silently appearing with no warning, and wasn't startled, but he did wish his old friend would clear his throat...

Or something.

Anything.

Your pardon, Sire. Said Aldhyrwoode. The men of Greyshale have arrived.

Who are you, little man, challenged Bjern Bearskinner, to want to poke me with your needle?

My father's son, Rhowyn. Prince of Rhealmyrr. And if you had a neck, my needle would strike your ugly melon head clean off!

The berserker laughed long and loudly. A prince, is it? I eat them for breakfast! Come then, Prince Rhowyn! But mind you don't bend your puny needle... Others will need it to sew you back together!

Men of the castle guard elbowed and slapped one the other on the back where they watched from the walls and towers. While in the courtyard below, Robin ran at the mighty warrior, his sword raised over his head in a double-handed grip.

Bjern Bearskinner stood fully seven feet. As broad across the shoulders as he was tall. He had battering rams for arms, and fists like hammers. He had a neck, of that Rhowyn was certain, somewhere under the thick grizzled beard that flowed into the weave of coarse russet hair covering the giant's body.

Still some distance from the man mountain, Rhowyn threw his dull edged practice blade away and leaped into the air. The Bearskinner caught him easily, his massive arms almost crushing the breath from the boy's body, and swung him around like nothing more than a child's straw dolly. Roaring with laughter.

Uncle Bjern! Uncle Harald!

Setting Rhowyn back on his feet, Bjern Bearskinner kissed the boy's dark curls and then roughed them vigorously. King Robin and Bjern clasped forearms in fond greeting. And Harald Hard-arse curtsied, grinning like a loon.

Harald Hard-arse had lost all but three of his teeth, his right eye, most of his right ear, and three fingers off his left hand. Some called him Lucky Harald. Or Half Harald, because his mind was only half there, they said, but Harald only played the fool. The true fool was any man who doubted Harald's wits. Or his skill with a sword, axe, or spear.

Aldhyrwoode and the helmless man stood several paces away, looking on and smiling. The man's dark skin and short cropped black hair glistened with sweat. He wore a sleeveless tunic of crimson dyed wool, embroidered with a black crown of thorns, and cinched at the waist with a knotted black cord.

Winking at the blood red knight with his one good eye, Harald said, We kicked your father's arse.

The Marshall of Navarre raised a sceptical eyebrow. Really? That's not what I heard.

Bjern Bearskinner guffawed.

King Robin hid the flicker of a smile.

Don Alejandro stepped closer to Rhowyn. He draped both arms over the young prince's shoulders, his hands clasped in front of the boy's chest.

Such an open display of affection wasn't rare. But Alejandro's love for Rhowyn had never stopped him from being a hard taskmaster. Hence the undignified exit of the young prince from his saddle, to rattle his teeth and bruise his posterior when he'd landed on the hard baked clay of the training arena.

Rhowyn lifted Alejandro's scarred knuckles to his lips and kissed them.

Oaks from acorns grow, said the Bearskinner to Rhowyn. Harald tells me tomorrow is your name day.

Rhowyn nodded. My years will number two and ten, my lord.

Old enough to marry! I have four daughters. I'll even let you choose.

Girls? Asked Rhowyn.

Aye, said Harald, and each one the spitting image of her father.

Not all girls have beards, Aldhyrwoode teased Rhowyn.

Certe, agreed King Robin. And even fewer have magic carpets.

Aldhyrwoode the wizard and Don Alejandro were waiting in the Great Hall.

With them stood the captain of the castle guard, and an archer dressed all in green, leaning on his longbow. Don Sebastian was also present.

The Bearskinner saw the duke and glowered. What's that old scorpion doing here?

This concerns him and his as much as it does all of us, said King Robin.

He looked at the hooded archer and nodded.

The archer straightened and cleared his throat. He approached the table where Aldhyrwoode had unrolled a map of the known world. A world that, if the archer was right, was in dire peril.

The others gathered around to see where the archer was pointing.

Here are the mountains that mark the northern border of the kingdom, he said. Beyond them are the wastelands. Nothing and no one lives there... Or so we believed.

We were wrong, said the wizard.

What, exactly, are we talking about? Asked Don Sebastian.

Spiders. Said Aldhyrwoode.

Hard-arse harrumphed. Are we maids to piss our pants at a few creepy crawlies?

These were the size of mammoths, said the archer. And they had riders.

Others were with them, on foot. An army of others.

How many others?

Tens of thousands.

Ten or ten thousand, said Hard-arse. All men bleed the same.

The archer looked at King Robin.

These were not men, said the king. Or, at least... Not as we know them.

What followed the captain of the castle guard through the door of an adjoining antechamber into the Great Hall had to stoop so as not to hit its head on the stone lintel. Taller than the Bearskinner, it was slender and long limbed, with an elongated skull. The distorted features of eyes, nose, and mouth were recognizable as such. But that was where any resemblance to men ended.

The eyes were narrow shards of polished obsidian, seemingly without iris or pupil, and heavily lidded under a high brow. The nose was flat and shapeless with slits for nostrils. The wide mouth had no discernible lips. Holes in either side of the head served as ears. And the head, face, and neck were covered in irregular, iridescent-green scales. There were five finger-like appendages on each hand, and five toes on each foot, but instead of nails there were curved, wickedly sharp, black claws. Close-fitting armour plate of carved greenstone over some kind of leather that might have been rhinoceros hide protected the body from sternum to knee. But what fascinated the assembled lords more than anything was the sinuous, tapering tale that scraped on the flagstone floor.

My old mother whelped seven bastard sons to seven different fathers, said Hard-arse, but none of them were... What are you?

I am Skraaal.

The Skraaal are an ancient race, said the wizard, Aldhyrwoode. They were old when men were still swinging through the trees and scratching their hairy ars -

This is Saaal Soool, said the archer. Soool is his name. And Saaal is his title. We would say 'Prince'.

What else is he? Asked Don Sebastian. A prisoner? A hostage? A spy?

Our guest, said King Robin. Though one with limited freedom.

And this army you speak of?

Hasn't reached the mountain passes, said the archer. Yet.

But they will, said Alejandro. It is only a matter of when. Not if.

The duke shrugged. So, stop them there. They cannot come through in any number large enough to breach the defences. These passes are fortified, yes? Walls? Towers? Gates?

We... The king paused. We didn't think it was necessary.

They are watched, said Aldhyrwoode, nodding toward the archer in green.

Oh? I suppose that's all right, then! Said Don Sebastian sarcastically.

The archer hooked a thumb at the Skraaal. No one gets through.

Saaal Soool tapped the table with a claw. There is one, he rasped, with more freedom than I.

His words were followed by a soft THUMP from under the table. Which was followed by a muffled OW! And the captain of the castle guard dragged Prince Rhowyn out of hiding by the ankles.

Don't tell me, smirked Harald, you were tumbling a pretty maid. One from the kitchens, maybe. But then you put her down and couldn't remember where. So you were under there looking for her. Am I right?

Everyone laughed. Even Saaal Soool. Everyone but the sour faced duke, Don Sebastian.

Rhowyn was allowed to stay to serve his mother, Queen Saavi, who had joined them. The queen was behemothly pregnant with a baby brother or sister for Rhowyn. He brought her a chair and helped her to sit. He poured her a cup of iced water, and chose the plumpest, sweetest fig for her from a platter piled high with a selection of fruits from the castle's own orchards

There were more platters lining a sideboard. One had thin slices of toasted bread, brushed with olive oil and rubbed with garlic, arranged around a leg of beef, marinated in red wine and mustard before being roasted on a spit, and served with a rich gravy flavoured with juniper berries. On another were quail stuffed with rice and dates, honeyed pheasant, quarters of apricot glazed duck, and fried chicken the cook had first battered and then coated in cornmeal, cracked red pepper, lemon zest, and powdered chilli. A third platter held cream cakes and sweet pastries, nuts, dried fruit, and honeycomb.

There were jugs of iced water. Others of wine. And a small oaken cask of barley beer. Which the Bearskinner and Harald bade Rhowyn leave at their end of the table.

Aldhyrwoode asked Rhowyn to do the same with the platter of cream cakes and pastries.

When presented with the roast meats, Saaal Soool politely declined.

The Skraaal do not eat of the flesh, he said, but might he trouble the young Saaal for a norange? Slicing it neatly into segments with a claw, he ate them without removing the pith and bitter peel.

Rhowyn returned to stand beside his mother's chair.

Don Alejandro found another for his father, the duke. Don Sebastian didn't refuse, but grumbled at his son to, Stop fussing.

Old age had silvered the duke's hair and beard, and the cold made his bones ache. His teeth had been replaced with dentures of walrus ivory. He needed a polished glass to read. He complained about the weather constantly. The iced water was too cold. The wine too sour. The meat too tough to chew. And he griped and scowled at anything anyone had to say. But when Rhowyn knelt to rub his aching feet for him, the old duke softened enough to stroke the boy's hair with an arthritic hand.

How is your training at arms? He asked Rhowyn. Do you joust?

Yes, your Grace.

I remember your father could couch a lance better than anyone. Even mine own son.

To Alejandro the duke said, Did you tell him about that? Somebody threw a cabbage at you. You refused to yield. Robin broke your nose.

Rhowyn looked at the Marshall of Navarre. Now the Queen's Guard. Really? He laughed. A cabbage?

Remember your duties, his father the king, told him, somewhat sternly.

Aye, said Harald Hard-arse. Bring us yon bit o' cow. But leave the crusts.

Above them, in the rafters of the Great Hall, Ovidieu the raven preened his sable feathers. Keeping a cautious eye out for Shadow, the wizard's black cat and familiar.

Beyond the sun baked salt plains men called the wastelands, Saaal Soool told them, were steep sided canyons created by rivers, fast and shallow in places, slow and deep in others. The rivers watered fruit trees, and fields of corn and squash. The Skraaal made their homes in caves and deep crevices they shared with their spiders. A Skraaal's wealth was measured by how many spiders he had, and how large they were.

The Skraaal do not give birth to live young, he said, but lay clusters of eggs which hatch by themselves when they are ready. The hatchlings are cared for by a collective of older females called the Skruuuliim.

What do the spiders eat? Asked Aldhyrwoode.

Their young, answered Saaal Soool. A female can lay hundreds of eggs in a spawning. We separate the biggest and the best of the spawnlings, and feed those we do not wish to keep to the adults.

Sounds idyllic, said Don Sebastian. So, why leave this paradise of yours?

The rivers, said Saaal Soool. They are rising. More and more with each season. Soon they will flood our fields, and the trees will die. Ours is not an army of invasion, marching to conquer your lands, but refugees. A people in exodus. We ask only for safe passage.

A swarm of locusts, said the duke. And how do you expect to feed yourselves? Our farmers will not give up their harvests and let their children starve to feed your hordes.

His Grace does not speak for me and mine, said King Robin pointedly.

More fool you, then! Spat the duke.

Father!

What? Don't 'father' me, boy. The Navarre do not bend the knee!

More fool you, then. Said Bjern Bearskinner.

There was nothing weak or infirm in how quickly Don Sebastian stood up and drew his sword.

His Pompousness might find it easier, snarled the raider Harald Hard-arse, if he stood on a ladder.

Two such insolent saplings are as easily felled as one, said the duke.

Enough! Said Alejandro, taking his father firmly by the elbow. Put your sword away.

Your Grace, said Rhowyn, reaching for the duke's other hand and holding it in his own. Please?

Anger flared in Don Sebastian's eyes and, for a moment Rhowyn believed the old man might wrench his hand free and slap him.

King Robin hadn't moved. He stood at the table. Stone faced. Implacable. And stared the duke down.

Let us withdraw, said Aldhyrwoode, to consider. We will meet again on the morrow.