Chapter One Guthnyr #2
“Make your toil your passion and it’s no longer toil,” Guthnyr said, a favoured saying of another blacksmith.
Hunfyrd had fashioned all the weapons carried by Guthnyr’s kin for three generations.
As a boy, he liked nothing more than sneaking away from his great-grandfather’s house to watch the master work his magic.
Sometimes, the grizzled old smith would allow Guthnyr to work the bellows or even sharpen a blade upon the whetstone.
It was from Hunfyrd that he learned the secrets of smelting steel from base iron, and would have learned more besides if Margnus Gruinskard hadn’t seen fit to forbid any further visits.
Your role is to wield weapons, boy, the old man growled. Not make them.
“We’ll need a bigger shed soon,” Aleida said, gesturing to the racks of weapons in the shadowy confines of the armoury.
Despite the gloom, each one contrived to catch a gleam, for these were blades like no other.
Once touched by her hand, they would neither dull nor break.
Kelvehr, Sygurn had named them: steel blessed by the gods.
Guthnyr had no inkling if Aleida’s power derived from the Altvar or arose from her Morvek blood.
Nevertheless, its effectiveness couldn’t be doubted, as he had demonstrated himself in the battle that shattered Deyna’s army and saw her in bondage.
The sword he carried, dubbed simply Kohrvayl – Vengeance – had done much bloody work that night.
Guthnyr knew with a certainty coloured by his un-sated hunger for retribution it would do a great deal more before his sojourn in these distant lands was done.
“And more hours in the mines,” Sygurn added. He set his hammer down upon the anvil and used tongs to lift the freshly shaped sword for inspection. “Since the extra hands the Morvek promised us have never turned up. Stocks of ore grow thin, my friend.”
The mines… Guthnyr suppressed a shudder but couldn’t keep the twitch from his face.
He had faced hired blades, slavers, inferno, and cold that could strip flesh from bones, but the prospect of spending any time in the mines filled him with the worst dread.
Ruhlin never shirked his shift, he reminded himself.
And he too feared the dark beneath the mountain.
“We’ll send word to Tirohk tomorrow,” he told them. “Once we’ve scouted the valleys.” He hesitated before speaking on, fearing Aleida’s reaction. “Iyaka says they should be home by now.”
“Iyaka’s right,” she said, and Guthnyr caught the faint note of reproach in her voice. If she had her way they would already have gone in search of Ruhlin.
“Could be any number of reasons,” he offered. “A storm or…” He trailed off when she met his eye with a glare.
“I’ll scout with you,” she said, tone softening as she placed a hand on Ryma’s head. “This one can play with her new friend when I’m gone.”
“You’re content with that?” Guthnyr asked in surprise. Until now, Aleida’s attitude to Deyna had been one of mostly silent but obvious detestation.
“She’s unworthy of trust, that’s true,” Aleida said. “But her liking for Ryma is real enough. Besides, if I couldn’t keep this brat away from a bear, what chance do I have with a Tuhlvyr?”
“As you wish.” Guthnyr forced a grin. “The Morvek brought in a boar. So we’ll greet the dawn with full bellies.”
Aleida arched an eyebrow. “No goats?”
The grin slipped from his lips as he made for the door. “There was a leopard. Find me in the mine if you need me.”
Toiling in the gloomy discomfort of the mine always put Guthnyr in a sour mood.
He tried to smother his sweaty trepidation with sheer effort, hewing away with one of the pickaxes left behind by the long vanished original occupants of Tahrim Kyrn.
His labours bore fruit, filling a dozen buckets with precious ore.
He stopped when Sulvryn, one of the freed Nihlvarian slaves, advised that Guthnyr was in danger of bringing the whole seam down upon their heads.
“Need to buttress this before we can dig deeper,” Sulvryn said, casting a critical eye over the arcing wall of rough stone.
He had been a miner in his youth before fondness for dice had swollen his debts to the point where all other options save slavery were denied him.
In Ascarlia, debt might see a man or woman reduced to the ignominy of indentured servitude as a mahkla, but they at least had the option of exile should the shame prove unbearable.
In Nihlvar, their king, this mysterious Vortigurn who aroused so much dread at the mere mention of his name, allowed no such choice.
And mahkla were never whipped by order of the Sister Queens, Guthnyr recalled.
The scars on his back, although healed, burned once again as memories of the ship intruded.
This is a cruel land with a cruel master. I shall delight in its fall.
“I’ll get the Morvek to hew some fresh timber,” Guthnyr said.
Stooping, he took hold of a bucket in each hand and started along the shaft.
Sulvryn might have mistaken his haste for yet another example of strength, but in truth, Guthnyr had reached his limit of toleration for this place.
Talk of collapsing shafts added to the tempo of his heart and another wash of sweat to his skin.
“Enough for today,” he grunted to the other miners, imbuing his voice with hearty good cheer. “Fresh meat awaits us. Time to eat!”
After the musty confines of the mine, the vastness of starlit sky and mountains kissed by moonlight were a welcome relief.
The firepit where the Morvek roasted the boar cast a tall flurry of embers while lacing the air with the sweet aroma of cooked meat.
Guthnyr would have liked a horn or two of ale to wash down his meal but had to content himself with a few cups of the wine he had purloined from the camp of Deyna’s defeated army.
It was rough stuff, harsh on the tongue with a tendency to burn its way down to the gut. Still, it was preferable to mere water.
The atmosphere was genial albeit with an undercurrent of tension.
Ruhlin’s continued absence was keenly felt, not least by Guthnyr who found leadership sat ill upon his shoulders.
His lips formed a rueful smile as he supped more wine, remembering those days aboard the Sea Hawk and the envy provoked by his brother’s effortless authority over every soul in his crew.
Felnir exuded a surety of purpose that ensured his word was never questioned, even when they sailed for the Fire Isles.
The notion inevitably took Guthnyr back to the Vaults of the Altvar, and memories that had him reaching again for the wineskin.
The sound of all that stone slamming down, smothering any cry Felnir or Sygna might have let out in their last moments.
They wouldn’t have screamed, Guthnyr told himself, grasping for some morsel of solace. Not even then…
He paused in the act of gulping wine as he became aware of the sudden silence around the firepit.
All eyes were turned to Deyna’s tall, slender figure as she proffered a bowl to the Morvek standing alongside the boar’s spitted carcass, knife in hand.
“May I have some meat, please?” the Tuhlvyr enquired.
The Morvek looked first at Iyaka, who shrugged, and then at Guthnyr, who responded with a nod.
The portion Deyna received was noticeably smaller than those that preceded it.
But, upon taking her bowl, she voiced no complaint and gave a nod of thanks before moving to take a seat alongside Guthnyr.
The quietude lingered as she ate, apparently indifferent to the hard glares of her companions.
“Jolnyr!” Guthnyr said when the absence of voices grew irksome. “Sing a song, for Ulthnir’s sake! Something cheery.”
Seated to his left, the lad hesitated before setting aside the ash staff he had been whittling and stood.
Jolnyr was still a mostly silent youth but at least hadn’t lost his love of song.
He chose “Fair Alundia”, an Albermaine-ish sea shanty.
The words were lost on most present but, as Guthnyr hoped, the jaunty tune and the purity of Jolnyr’s rendition served to capture their attention with ease.
“And I’ll take my leave
With the morning tide
And sail for fair Alundia
Where I’ll drink good wine
And seek my love
The jewel of fair Alundia…”
By the time the song ended, even the Morvek had begun to sing along and the audience were soon imploring Jolnyr for more.
“The boy sings well for one who says so little,” Deyna observed as Jolnyr began a rendition of “The Crimson Tides”, an old Ascarlian battle song.
It was phrased in ancient dialect but the Nihlvarians among them appeared to have little difficulty comprehending the lilting ode to some long-forgotten sea skirmish.
“He spoke well enough before feeling the lash of your slavers for weeks on end,” Guthnyr returned.
His tone was gruff but lacking any real animus.
The wine and strain of his toil in the mine made him too weary to engage in a game of taunts, not least because he knew her to be far better at it.
“Here,” he said, pouring wine into a cup and handing it to her.
“Tastes like piss, but it’s still liquor of a sort. ”
“I defer to your discernment as to the taste of piss,” she replied. Consequently, Guthnyr enjoyed the spasm of disgust that passed over her features upon taking her first sip.
“It’s what your warriors drank,” he pointed out. “If you’d provided them some decent ale instead, mayhap they’d have fought better.”
“I could have given every one of those worthless fools a sack of gold and they would still have disgraced themselves. Still, it’s a hard thing to stand against a beast of legend.
” She took another sip, wincing but swallowing, before letting out a wistful sigh.
“Ah, mighty Amundyr. What a sight he would have made in the Vortigurn’s wuhltra. ”