Chapter Four Felnir
CHAPTER FOUR
Felnir
The gate parted at the tenth impact of the battering ram, aged iron brackets and crossbeam finally giving way to the mighty oak trunk on its many wheeled carriage.
“Forward!” Felnir cried to the warriors heaving at the carriage, a hard rain of arrows thudding into the shield canopy above.
“Push through!” Their efforts were soon rewarded when the ram shouldered aside the remnants of the gate and the cart’s huge wheels trundled over courtyard cobbles.
“To arms!” Felnir shouted, abandoning the pole he had been shoving at for several frantic minutes. Unslinging his shield from his back, he stepped clear of the canopy with the circle of hardwood raised above his head. “Form up!”
The shower of iron-tipped shafts continued unabated as his warriors rushed to establish the formation he had drilled into them over the course of several days.
It was of three ranks, each of ten warriors.
Those in the central row alongside Felnir kept the shields raised overhead, while the files to front and rear formed walls against the inevitable counter charge from the defenders of this coastal stronghold.
It wasn’t long in coming. Through a gap between the shield wall Felnir saw a dozen or more figures approaching at the run.
Such a small number were easily fended off or cut down, but more followed swiftly.
Streaming from the inner keep, they hurled themselves at the thirty warriors standing in the sundered gateway.
“HOLD!” Felnir called out amid the clatter of colliding wood and metal.
A hard scrape warned him in time to dodge a spear forced through a gap in the rearward shields.
Before the weapon could be drawn back, Felnir grabbed the haft below the steel head, held it in place while the warrior next to him shifted his shield enough to allow for a quick sword thrust. A short scream, quickly smothered by the uproar of furious voices and ongoing clamour of battle, and the spear sagged in Felnir’s grasp.
He let it fall and peered through the wall at the open gateway and the narrow causeway beyond.
The hour was early and the morning mist still thick, meaning he saw no sign of Beyorn and the two hundred warriors he held ready to exploit this success.
The causeway was the product of several weeks perilous labour on the part of the Sea King’s menda.
Upon arriving at this stronghold, he had been disappointed to find there was no prospect of its swift capture.
It rose from the only sizeable portion of firm ground in a patchwork of marshes near the north-western coast of Vorunvahl.
Trustworthy guides had advised that, in order to march his forces along the swiftest route to the heart of the Silver Dove’s domain, Felnir had no option but to take this place.
The fortress’s mostly wooden construction raised the possibility of reducing it by fire, but the perpetual drizzle, and intermittent snow flurries, made that impossible.
Access to the south-facing gate was normally provided by a stone road spanning a deep stretch of bog water, but the vassal with charge of the stronghold had proven to be no fool.
Before the Sea King’s arrival, the defenders must have worked tirelessly to dig away such an extensive section of the road.
Filling in the gap with all the stone that could be dug from the marsh or scavenged from nearby settlements had been an onerous task, worsened by the attentions of the stronghold’s archers.
Felnir had ordered barriers erected to ward off the arrows while his warriors worked.
But these coastal bowmen were both skilled and patient.
Whenever a member of the work party showed even a wayward limb, a shaft was sure to find it.
Soon, Felnir had been forced to order the work be carried out only at night, but the nearer they got to the walls, the less protection darkness offered.
In all, by Sygna’s calculations, crafting a new causeway had cost Felnir twenty-three warriors killed and the same number wounded.
The prospect of losing more, with this campaign only in its infancy, put him in a dire, and deadly, mood.
An upsurge of shouts heralded another attack from the inner keep, this time led by a hulking warrior bearing a long-hafted hammer.
Helm-less with a thick black beard, the hammer-wielder hurled himself at the centre of Felnir’s formation.
The first blow of his weapon succeeded in sending two shield bearers to their knees.
The second created a four-foot gap in the wall that the giant’s comrades were quick to exploit.
The prospect of impending defeat was enough to shift Felnir’s mood into a full battle rage.
A conquest he expected to require mere weeks had already taken more than a month, and all the while his brother faced myriad unknown dangers in a faraway land.
“For Guthnyr,” Felnir grunted, lowering his shield and drawing the Sword of the Altvar from its scabbard.
Capturing the hammer-wielder’s notice with a yell, Felnir leaped the bodies of the fallen and slammed the boss of his shield into the giant’s face.
A blow that would have felled many a foe barely stunned him, his riposte a swift overhead swing of his hammer.
Felnir twisted aside as the weapon descended, the iron block of its head scraping over his angled shield.
He whirled, lashing out with the Sword of the Altvar.
The blade took on a now familiar shimmer as it met the flesh of the hammer-wielder’s right arm, shining brighter still amid the explosion of blood that followed.
The hulking warrior made a curious sound as his forearm detached from his body, more a baffled grunt than a scream.
The hammer thudded to the ground, the hand still clutching it, while its owner staggered back, wide eyes regarding the jetting stump.
Felnir killed him with a thrust to the heart, the blazing yard of steel penetrating leather armour with ease.
Drawing it clear, Felnir drew his shield close and rested the sword atop its rim, awaiting the next attack. None came.
The stronghold’s defenders had ceased fighting to retreat several paces.
Felnir saw wonder on many faces, fear on others, and mystification on most. However, they were unified in the fascination they afforded him and the glowing sword he bore.
“It’s true, then,” he heard one murmur. “He holds the gods’ favour,” said another.
The chorus of awed muttering continued, the words “Sea King” and “Sword of the Altvar” most prominent as it rose in volume.
It ended when the tramp of many boots and a series of shouted orders announced the arrival of Beyorn’s reinforcements.
They split into two wings once through the gate, fanning out to either side of Felnir’s command to form flanking formations.
The intent had been to envelop those defenders assaulting the central group of attackers before investing the inner keep when the slaughter was done.
Seeing confusion and doubt on the faces before him, Felnir’s keen sense for opportunity rose to the fore.
“Hold in place!” he told his rapidly assembling warriors.
Turning back to the fidgeting, disordered ranks before him, he lowered his shield and advanced several paces.
“Who has charge of this keep?” he demanded, opting for a tone of strident authority.
His recent experience of kingship had convinced him that the power of a crown lay principally in appearing to be the one most fit to wear it.
After some more murmuring and shuffling, the defenders’ line parted to allow the passage of a stocky, balding man.
He was beardless, a more common trait in Vorunvahl than Ascarlia, and his weathered, creased features were those of a veteran.
He bore an axe but no shield, one of his hands slicked in blood leaking from a cut in his arm.
“Haldryk Gruinkrayl,” he said, regarding Felnir with grim resentment at odds with the wonderment of those that flanked him. “Turmwald of the Marsh Keep and honoured servant to the Silver Dove.”
“If she honours you, she should’ve provided more warriors to defend this place,” Felnir replied.
The Turmwald’s nostrils flared in a faint snort before he nodded at the slain hammer-wielder lying at Felnir’s back.
“She sent us her best,” he said. “If you’re interested, his name was Toryn Speldskaen, the Black Hammer.
Slayer of a hundred men and first among the Silver Dove’s menda.
Cut down in seconds by that vile thing you carry. ”
To his dismay, Felnir decided he liked this Haldryk Gruinkrayl, for the name Stone Heart suited him well.
The man’s defiance and apparent immunity to the fascinating allure of the sword were admirable, even refreshing after so many days of unquestioning reverence.
But courage was not what the Sea King required of an enemy at this juncture.
“You speak ill of the sword summoned from the Altvar’s realm by Velgard himself?” Felnir growled. “Is this land bereft of honour for the gods?”
“We honour them well enough,” Haldryk replied. “But not those that misuse their gifts, if gifts they be.”
Insight as well as courage, Felnir concluded with an inward sigh of regret. He could have used a man such as this, but now this encounter could end but one way. Nevertheless, circumstances demanded at least a show of mercy. The Sea King needed to be fierce, but never cruel.