Chapter Four Felnir #2
“A gift it is indeed,” Felnir said. Casting aside his shield, he grasped the sword’s handle in a double-fisted grip, holding it up before his face as he spoke on.
“For it graces me with the Altvar’s guidance.
In their name I offer you quarter, Haldryk Gruinkrayl.
For you and these warriors who have fought so well at your command.
The Silver Dove has abandoned you to die for no purpose, but I will offer one.
Join me and see this land unified. Join me and see an end to strife and feud.
An end to the rule of the Ehilkun, those cursed to live as undying tyrants.
Thus speak I, Felnir Skyrnrak, vanquisher of the Ahrkun Krayl and King of Vorunvahl by the blessing of the Altvar themselves. ”
His words were punctuated by a loud shout of acclaim from the troops arrayed behind him, all veterans of the struggle against the pestilent cult of the Raven Hearts.
Sword hilts hammered shields as they let out a chorus of praise for the Sea King.
“Since they chose to swear themselves to me, the warriors of my menda have known only victory,” Felnir went on when the clamour ended.
Lowering the sword, he extended a hand to Haldryk. “Do the same and you will know it too.”
Felnir knew these words to be wasted on the Turmwald, but not his warriors.
Their fascination with the sword had only increased during his speech and he could almost feel the enticement to renown and reward snaring their hearts.
It had been this way ever since he returned from the stone circle and his vision of Guthnyr’s plight.
When blood was in the offing the sword would glow, and many who would once have shunned the Sea King were now entranced by his voice.
Many, but not all. Some hearts were too strong for even the Altvar’s will.
“I swore an oath to serve the Silver Dove,” Haldryk stated, hefting his axe. “Here in the north, oaths are still cherished as others cherish jewels or silver. My word is not given up so easily. Nor is that of those who fight at my side.”
He raised his voice as he spoke, clearly expecting an affirming roar from his warriors. Instead, his defiance earned only silence and downcast faces. As Haldryk turned to regard them, they shuffled back, weapons and shields lowered.
“Cravens!” the Turmwald raged at them. “Oath-breaking filth, I call you!”
Felnir couldn’t fault his reasoning, nor his condemnation. But, with so much still to be done, even faithless cowards were welcome in the Sea King’s menda.
“Haldryk of the Stone Heart,” Felnir said, once again extending his hand. “This one last time, I offer quarter and a place at my side, where your courage will be valued and great renown your reward. Swear to me now and know my mercy!”
The Turmwald’s shoulders sagged as he faced Felnir, though resolve still shone in his un-cowed gaze.
Stepping closer, he spoke in a low, resigned tone.
These words were intended only for Felnir’s ears.
“My wife and daughters reside in the Silver Dove’s hall, hostages to my faithful service.
If you are truly merciful, I ask that you spare them. ”
“I do not make war on the defenceless,” Felnir told him. “And, in deference to your fortitude, your family will have my care and protection.”
“Well and good then.” Haldryk straightened, casting a disparaging glance at the grey clouds overhead. “Would that I’d died under a clear sky.”
“The Halls of Aevnir are open to all worthy souls,” Felnir assured him. “Regardless of weather.”
The Turmwald of the Marsh Keep nodded, then, without further preamble, gave a roar and raised his axe above his head. The Sword of the Altvar spitted him from chest to spine before he even began the downward swing.
“Not easy country to march across, my lord,” Falk said, squinting at the view of the narrow road tracing northward from the Marsh Keep.
For once, the sun had consented to banish much of the mist allowing for a clear view of the road and the country beyond.
Felnir stood atop the wooden palisade of the keep’s north-facing wall in company with Falk, Sygna and Beyorn.
Viewed from this height, Felnir had to admire the construction of the road.
An unerringly straight track through boggy ground, it was evidently the product of many years’ labour in unforgiving conditions.
However, once it cleared the marshes, it became a snaking line soon lost amid the hills and gullies that characterised the upper coast of Vorunvahl.
“Especially with the winter storms in full evidence,” the outlaw added.
“In fair climes or foul,” Felnir said, “we advance on the morrow. The Silver Dove will be sure to hear of this defeat. We can’t allow her the gift of time to prepare a response.” He looked at Beyorn. “I trust our new recruits have been fulsome in providing intelligence on our line of march.”
“They confirm the port of Taerahardt is undefended, my king,” the young warrior confirmed. “As we expected. We should reach it in three days with a following wind.”
“Good job too,” Sygna observed, huddling in her furs. “Since Tulvik’s supposed to meet us there in ten days.”
“Put the northerners at the head of the column,” Felnir told Beyorn. “If the townsfolk see their own warriors approaching, it’ll buy us time before they can organise a defence.”
Beyorn inclined his head with a grin. “My king is wise.”
No, Felnir corrected him silently. Your king is impatient. “Leave a cohort of the older veterans to garrison this keep,” he added. “I’ve noticed many have started to lag behind on the march.”
“They won’t take it well. So keen are they to follow the Sea King to glory.” Beyorn’s eyes slipped to the Sword of the Altvar at Felnir’s waist, something that had become a habit recently. “As are we all.”
Felnir wondered if he would find the blade aglow if he unsheathed the weapon.
He had yet to divine the spur to its arcane luminescence.
Sometimes it remained simply steel, albeit unblemished and ever keen.
It might choose to glow in the midst of battle, as it had the day before, or when it rested against his throne.
Despite its undoubted power to enrapt the souls of many, Felnir much preferred its mundane state.
When it glowed in the aftermath of combat, blood would slip from the steel like water from waxed canvas, yet he always had the sense that it was drinking the gore.
Not absorbing it, but drawing from it. The sensation was disturbing.
“Leave them a few extra casks of wine,” he told Beyorn. “And assure them they’ll get their share of any spoils when we storm the Silver Dove’s hall. That should mollify their grief.”
Sygna lingered when Falk and Beyorn took their leave.
As had become typical when they were alone together, his queen wore a troubled frown.
In truth, he hadn’t wanted her to join him on this campaign, suggesting that she remain in the south and exercise his rule over the lands already in their grasp.
It wasn’t just because, he was compelled to admit, she governed with more skill and diplomacy than he could ever manage.
It was the knowledge he had shared with her.
What had been an attempt to unburden himself increasingly felt like an ever weightier anchor.
Of course, she refused to be left behind but, for the first time in their shared career, she no longer took direct part in any fighting.
She claimed it was due to the demands of the growing band of orphaned children adopted into the Sea King’s household, but he knew that to be a lie.
Sygna was tired of war, however justified it might be.
“You dreamt again last night,” she said. “Didn’t you?”
“My apologies for waking you, my esteemed queen,” he replied in his coarse Ishtan, offering both a smile and a courteous bow. Sygna wasn’t to be deterred by such distractions.
“Was it the same?” she asked. “Guthnyr again?”
“I saw my brother,” he admitted. “But the vision was… changed. More vague, like seeing something through a mist. Even so, I could tell he had embarked upon some manner of journey, one of great danger.”
“At least you know he still lives.” Sygna glanced at the sword. Unlike Beyorn, her gaze displayed no reverence, only suppressed fear. “Unless that thing is lying to you.”
“Does the bow lie to you?”
“These days it only thrums when I practise, which I so rarely do.” She rested her back on the wall, directing her gaze at the courtyard below.
Felnir watched it track to the old man clad in a dun-coloured robe in need of washing.
As usual, Wohtin sat apart from the rest of the Sea King’s court.
His much-lined face was formed into the creased mask that indicated considerable depth of thought.
Lately, Felnir had begun to suspect Wohtin adopted the expression for the sake of appearances.
“Have you sought his counsel?” Sygna asked.
“I stopped asking him about the sword when it became clear he had no insight to offer,” Felnir replied. “I’ve come to the conclusion that age and wisdom are not inevitable companions. I’m not sure fabled Angmund has ever truly understood his own actions.”
“And yet you keep him by your side.”