Chapter Six Guthnyr #3
“And those words? What did they mean?”
“That a captain of a ship can never truly be of the crew. You have to give them space to complain from time to time.” Satisfied with the state of his fire, he fed it a small log and sat back on his haunches. “What do you want?”
Deyna hefted a sack to extract a round glass bottle. “It appears I finally found a decent vintage. Care to join me?”
Without waiting for an answer, she moved around the fire and sat upon the furs he had set out on the dusty floor.
“Nihlvar is a land where the grape does not grow easily,” she said.
“Only near the mouth of the Deep Fjord on the otherwise barren southern bank is there a patch of soil conducive to growing something worthy of a Tuhlvyr’s tongue.
” Pulling the cork from the bottle she took an appreciative sniff of the contents before extending it to Guthnyr.
He had to admit, the aroma was highly appealing.
“Have you been hiding that all this time?” he asked.
“Even I am not so resourceful. One of the Morvek from the pass had it. Most probably a result of pilfering my personal stores.” Putting the bottle to her nose again, she smiled, nostrils flaring and eyes closed in blissful appreciation. “Now it has been returned to its rightful owner.”
“Are all Tuhlvyr so skilled in thieving?”
“No, only me.” Taking a short sip from the bottle, she groaned, giving a faint shake of the head before handing it to him.
His first taste was everything the aroma promised and more, the liquid slipping over his tongue with a lightness and depth of flavour that matched anything in Felnir’s jealously guarded wine collection.
“Your brother must be an interesting man,” Deyna said. “To have travelled so far.”
“He was.”
“Ah.” She plucked the bottle from his grasp and drank again, gulping rather than sipping now. “He fell in glorious battle, I assume.”
“No. Nor can I lay his death at the Vortigurn’s door, for the ship that had been his was mine when your slavers found us.” Guthnyr’s voice dwindled and he shifted his gaze to the fire, beset by memories of the Sea Hawk’s demise. They had fought so hard, but it hadn’t been enough.
“If not battle then what?” Deyna prompted.
When Guthnyr didn’t respond, she nudged an elbow to his ribs and pressed the bottle into his hand.
“Was it simple age and infirmity? I wonder. No, your brother would not be so old. A treacherous knife in the back, perhaps? Some trusted crew mate who wanted a bigger share of the loot? Or a jealous lover—”
“Simple folly,” Guthnyr cut in. “His own and others, including me. But he commanded the ship. So, though I wish it were otherwise, the worst folly was his, driven by his only true flaw: the need for greatness. A need that saw us sail across the wild Styrnspeld Sea and into the Fire Islands where we found the very Vaults of the Altvar.” Seeing the deep scepticism on her face, he put the bottle to his lips and did some gulping of his own.
“Take my word for it, or don’t as it pleases you, but they’re real.
Or, they were. Deep in the bowels of the earth below the southern arm of the Fire Islands lies a city guarding the entrance to the Vaults.
The gods dwelt there in the form of great, hulking statues the like of which I doubt can be seen anywhere else upon this earth.
” He took another drink, swallowing hard because the wine suddenly tasted bitter.
“All now rendered into dust and rubble, beneath which lies the body of Felnir Skyrnrak.”
Her doubt lingered as he returned the bottle. “I suspect that behind this sad tale lies a longer and very intriguing story, if you would care to share it.”
“We’ve not nearly enough wine for that.”
Deyna’s frown shifted into a smile and she reached into her sack once again. “These Morvek really should guard their possessions with greater care,” she said brandishing a bottle larger than the first. “It’s a good deal rougher on the tongue, but I think it’ll serve to loosen yours.”
So, after finishing the good wine and starting on the bad, he told her all of it.
From the night he, Felnir, and Sygna had snatched an Albermaine-ish spy from the shore of the Liar Sea to the destruction of the Vaults of the Altvar.
Guthnyr surprised himself with the depth of his own memory, recalling details he hadn’t dwelled on at the time which he now realised were of considerable import.
Elvine Jurest and her remarkable scholarly insights.
The curious familiarity between her and that young convict they freed from Castle Granoire, and the cryptic gibberish spouted by the mad old man who had been his cellmate.
“He wasn’t truly mad,” Deyna mused. “Was he?”
“Part of his mind was lost, that much I’m sure of. But I think a good portion of the rest remained. The more I ponder it, the more sure I am he knew enough to warn us to stay clear of the Vaults, but said nothing. He wanted us to go there for whatever insane reason.”
“And the spear?” Deyna asked, leaning closer, gaze lit by keen interest. Mention of a divine artefact retrieved from the Vaults of the Altvar was bound to arouse her curiosity.
Considering the diminished distance between them, he was starting to suspect he had also aroused something else. “What became of it?”
“I know not.” Guthnyr raised the larger bottle to his lips.
She hadn’t been wrong about its coarseness compared to the first, but its potency couldn’t be denied.
“Lost to the depths of the Styrnspeld in the midst of battle. Or languishing among the wreck of a slave ship at the bottom of Speltsaer harbour. I’ll consider myself a happy man if I never set eyes on it again. Some things are best left to the gods.”
“But the sword and the bow are still there?”
“I assume so. But you’ll have to dig your way through a mountain’s worth of stone to get them.” He raised the bottle in a salute. “And good luck to you if you’re ever minded to try it.”
She shrugged. “Perhaps one day. Once the Vortigurn is safely dead and my wealth restored.”
“You sound fairly certain of both outcomes.”
“Doubt is the province of the failure and the weakling. I am neither.”
Guthnyr placed the bottle back in her hand, keen to shake some more knowledge from her already loosened tongue.
“Why do you hate your own king, so?” he asked.
“I have ample reason, but do you? I know he punished you, made you lead that mad excursion to the Sahlrak, and will most likely take your head should you fall into his hands. But it strikes me all that would provoke more fear than hatred, and it’s hatred I see in your eyes and hear in your voice whenever you talk of him. ”
Deyna swirled the contents of the bottle for a time, features unreadable now.
“This place had a name once,” she said, glancing at the darkness beyond Guthnyr’s makeshift wall.
“Travkagyr: the holdfast of the dispossessed. A century ago the Vortigurn slowly but surely began increasing his taxes. It is plain now that he was filling his war chest for the invasion of your realm, not that anyone knew this at the time. As is the way of such things, the burden of paying the levies fell on those least able to do so. Many were enslaved and others fled their farms to live as Travka in the wild places. In time, a few made their way here where, to their great joy, they discovered a rich seam of gold in the heart of this mountain. Word spread and soon Travka from all over the north were flocking here, keen to dig their share of the treasure so that they may buy back lost lands or enslaved kin. For years their settlement flourished as the shafts they sank into the mountain yielded ever more gold. In time, those who had accrued sufficient wealth sought to settle their debts and recover their property, which inevitably brought Travkagyr’s existence to the Vortigurn’s notice.
“You might expect the tale ends with theft. The Vortigurn’s greed compelling him to seize the mine and all the gold for himself.
But he did not. Instead he sent a dozen of his most trusted Ventra at the head of an army.
They slaughtered every man, woman and child they found here.
The bodies they threw into the shafts, along with all the gold they had dug from the earth. Whereupon they were sealed.
“You see, in Nihlvar, all gold belongs to the Vortigurn. His subjects are permitted to trade with it but they do not own it, and the king’s mines have strict limits on how much they can dig.
By digging into this mountain, the inhabitants of this settlement had committed theft, and thereby condemned themselves.
Once the killing was done and every shaft sealed, the Ventra pronounced the place cursed by the Vortigurn’s will.
Should even the smallest morsel of gold be taken from this mountain then his vengeance would be swift and terrible.
To the best of my knowledge, not even the most beggared and desperate Travka have ventured within miles of this place since. ”
“You hate the Vortigurn for a massacre he committed long before you were born.” Guthnyr shook his head. “I doubt your heart is so easily melted, Tuhlvyr.”
A faint smile ghosted across her face and she leaned closer still, so much so that their lips almost touched. “What do you know of my heart, Tielvik?” she enquired in a soft murmur, breath caressing his skin. “You filthy, ignorant savage…”
“You think if I fuck you, I’ll be in your thrall,” Guthnyr said, making her pause and draw back a little.
“No,” she said. “I think if I fuck you I might actually find it interesting. Also, I’d prefer if you didn’t ask any more stupid questions.”
Taking hold of his jerkin, she pulled him close and pressed her mouth to his. Later, Guthnyr would try to convince himself that he attempted to resist, and know himself a liar.