Chapter Three Ruhlin
CHAPTER THREE
Ruhlin
“You do know this name, do you not?”
The question echoed in the gloomy hall as Ruhlin continued to stare at the face of the man before him.
His silence seemed to arouse both amusement and consternation in the Vortigurn, for he voiced a short laugh.
“Or,” he went on, pursing his lips, “has my former name truly been forgotten among the Ascarls? The Volkrath indicated otherwise. Perhaps I should punish them for their deceit.”
“I have heard that name,” Ruhlin said, finding he couldn’t look away from the Vortigurn’s visage. So unmarked by age. So hale. “It’s the name of a legend. King Velgard died lifetimes ago.”
“Lifetimes,” the Vortigurn repeated, brows raised in consideration. “A clumsy method of measuring time, my young friend. For instance, yours can be measured in scant years, but mine in centuries.”
Is he just a madman, after all? Ruhlin wondered.
A tyrant who has founded a kingdom on a stolen legend.
But the Vortigurn’s casual surety gave him pause.
Also, there was this vast hall to consider, with all its discordant architecture.
A structure that could only result from countless years of labour.
The Unfinished Hall, Silvahk had named it.
Because it’s still being built after Ulthnir knows how many centuries.
In the space of mere months Ruhlin had seen wonders and terrors beyond all explanation.
Was finding himself in the presence of an undying and ancient king so difficult to accept?
“The story-spinners name Velgard as the Exiled King,” Ruhlin said. “So guilt-ridden was he that he sailed for the Fire Islands, there to perish in just punishment for his crime: the treacherous murder of his own brother.”
A calculated barb, intended to reveal truth through anger. But it was not the Vortigurn who bridled, but his servant. Seeing Silvahk’s ominous glower, Ruhlin felt the signature numbness forming around the stagna embedded in his flesh. Soon it would blossom into the chilly agony he knew so well.
“No,” the king murmured, waving a hand at Silvahk.
The numbness receded as the Vortigurn took a step closer to Ruhlin.
“Always the way with these fire-bloods. Muzzled they may be, but never tamed. I’ve yet to encounter one that didn’t seek to test me, though this one is clever with his taunts.
” His austere, almost handsome face took on a distant cast. “Once I knew a boy just as clever, though he, like so much else, is lost to me now.” His voice was little more than a whisper, eyes lost in whatever memory Ruhlin had summoned.
But it was but a brief interlude before the Vortigurn’s gaze resumed its keen scrutiny.
“As for my brother,” he said. “Yes, I killed him, and hated myself for it. Yet, here at this remove, I have come to understand it as a necessary act, one of countless others forced upon me.” He rested a hand on Ruhlin’s shoulder, his lips forming a tight, regretful smile.
“As you will, I hope, come to understand, my dear clever boy.”
The Vortigurn’s smile evaporated as he stepped back, addressing Silvahk in clipped tones. “Take him to the Kelvengyr. No special favour is to be shown. He takes his turn like all the others.”
“As you order, Vortigurn,” Silvahk said, but his king was already walking away, his tall form quickly swallowed by the shadows. After a moment, there came the sound of a door opening and closing.
“No reward, I notice,” Ruhlin said. “For bringing him his prize.” It was another calculated barb, this one successfully arousing the ire of its target.
Ruhlin gasped as the stagna pulsed a bolt of icy pain through his chest. Still, he felt it was worth it.
A salient lesson of captivity was the need to test his chains before they could be broken.
“Count yourself among the most blessed of the Altvar he didn’t kill you where you stand,” Silvahk grunted.
“I already do,” Ruhlin said. “They called me Amundyr, haven’t you heard?”
He perceived a desire to inflict more pain in the snarl that rose and fell from Silvahk’s lips, but the Ventra restrained himself. Not so easy to test, Ruhlin surmised with a pang of disappointment. Too smart to risk breaking his king’s new toy.
“This way,” Silvahk said, jerking his head over his shoulder. “Move ahead of me.”
Ruhlin tried to memorise their subsequent route through the Unfinished Hall, but it quickly proved a fruitless task.
He repeatedly found himself walking through shadows so long and deep there was nothing to fix in his memory.
Also, the many doors Silvahk pushed him through, and courtyards they crossed, bespoke a maze of aggravating complexity.
After a while, he perceived a gradual downward trend to their journey.
They navigated an increasing number of short descending stairwells before, at last, exiting a door into open air.
The inner precincts of the Unfinished Hall were chilly, but the night air had a fiercer grip.
With no additional covering to the plain woollen smock and trews he had been given, Ruhlin shivered as Silvahk hectored him along a pathway describing a switchback course down a grassed slope.
Despite the gloom, Ruhlin soon perceived a large structure looming above.
The torches that lined its curved walls revealed it to be of kehlgruin construction.
Its circular form reminded him of the wuhltra he had seen in the north, but this was considerably larger and more ornate.
Marble statues stared out from alcoves, Ruhlin recognising several gods among those positioned in the upper reaches of the walls.
Those in the lower tiers were presumably mere mortals, luminaries of Nihlvarian history, perhaps.
“Welcome to the Kelvengyr,” Silvahk said as the path led them to a tall iron gate. “Where you will count yourself among the Vortigurn’s treasures.”
“Treasures?” Ruhlin asked, the Ventra responding with a soft chuckle.
“You’ll see.”
The guards that opened the gate were of uniformly large build.
All un-helmed, they wore leather armour with whips hanging from their belts alongside swords and clubs.
Whip-men, Ruhlin surmised with doleful recognition.
More links in a chain that was proving ever harder to break.
Patience, he told himself, eyes darting about as he entered the tunnel beyond the gate.
There’s always a flaw. A crack to be widened.
“You’re wasting your time,” Silvahk stated.
His expression told of a man who had often witnessed the desperate, hopeful scrutiny of those brought to this place.
“There is no way out except by the Vortigurn’s word, and he gives it only to the most deserving.
” The Ventra’s tone made it plain what he thought of Ruhlin’s chances in this regard.
A hundred steps or more brought them to a steep stairwell describing a winding course into the bowels of the Kelvengyr. Reflecting on the name Silvahk had given this place, Ruhlin detected a potentially significant meaning: The Holdfast of the Blessed. Where the Vortigurn keeps his treasures.
Eventually, they came to the terminus of the stairwell, Ruhlin emerging into a large circular space.
Like the Kelvengyr’s exterior, it was fashioned entirely from kehlgruin, but lacked any decoration.
It resembled a smaller version of a wuhltra’s central arena.
A sand-covered circle in the centre was surrounded by ascending tiers, but in place of seating there were cells.
Each one lacked a door, or bars, meaning the occupants were not routinely confined.
Any solace Ruhlin might have taken from this was negated by the sight of guards on the uppermost tier.
Ruhlin counted thirty in all, most armed with bows, but not all.
These were less armoured than their comrades, but even from this remove he could perceive the keen gleam in their eyes.
“Ventra,” Silvahk said. “Each one capable of commanding a stagna, like me. The cells aren’t barred because we don’t need them.
Feel free to keep plotting, though, if it pleases you.
Come.” He gestured to the right. “Yours is over here. I thought I’d spare you the climb to the upper levels. Wasn’t that kind of me?”
As they proceeded along the dimly lit walkway, Ruhlin peered into the passing cells.
Most were empty, but he caught the glimmer of returned interest from a few, and the slumped forms of those abed in others.
Noticing Silvahk slow his stride, Ruhlin saw a small lithe figure creep from one of the cells.
It wore loose-fitting garb, revealing the form beneath as female as she hopped up onto the kehlgruin barrier separating the cells from the sand-covered arena.
Silvahk’s features showed a reluctant smile as they drew nearer, and he greeted the figure in a chiding, if indulgent tone.
“You should be resting, Ohtera.”
Ruhlin could make out her face now, broad cheekbones, small nose and a pair of bright green eyes.
Her hair was cropped short and her neck seemed longer than natural.
Her clothing consisted of a sleeveless vest and knee-length trews of black silk, exposing pale limbs lean with honed muscle.
As she angled her head to study him, Ruhlin made out the shiny half-circle of a stagna encircling her collarbone.
“Caught a new scent,” she told Silvahk, her voice coloured by an unmistakable purr. “Can’t blame me for being curious.” She lowered herself, extending her head further, green eyes seeming to sparkle in the torchlight. “And what do they call you?” she asked Ruhlin.
“They call him Amundyr,” Silvahk said before Ruhlin could answer. “The supposed figure of legend who did so much slaughter in the north.”