Chapter Nine Felnir
CHAPTER NINE
Felnir
The turncoat warriors native to this land called the holdfast the Aryngyr, the Eagle’s Keep.
It rose from the upper slopes and summit of a great rock dominating the mouth of the Kahl Ledda, the river forming an irksomely wide barrier to the heartland of the Silver Dove’s domain.
With high walls and towers providing clear views for many miles around, Felnir couldn’t recall setting eyes upon a more formidable stronghold.
“It’s never been taken, my king,” Beyorn told him. “Except by base trickery some two centuries ago. The Turmwald who has command of it is supposedly famed for his loyalty to the Silver Dove—”
“I know,” Felnir cut in with a growl, his gaze still roving the flanks of the great rock.
They had reined their mounts to a halt atop the headland forming the southern shoulder of the estuary.
The view it afforded of the Aryngyr was sobering in its clarity.
With such sheer approaches, even the flimsiest fortifications would suffice to hold off his entire menda.
He had hoped to avoid this route. After seizing Taerahardt, he sent Tulvik to the Black Gull’s island domain bearing an invitation to treat with the Sea King.
Sygna had counselled waiting for a response, but fresh dreams of Guthnyr, still vague but also worrying, spurred Felnir to action.
Leaving Sygna to govern his newly acquired lands, he took the bulk of his forces and struck inland, making for a bridge that spanned the Kahl Ledda some sixty miles south.
Yet, despite a punishing forced march, he had arrived to find the long timber span burned down to the waterline.
Dispatching scouts downriver, he soon received word that every crossing within reasonable marching distance had suffered the same fate.
Word of his victories had evidently reached the Silver Dove even faster than he suspected, and she had not been idle.
His only viable line of advance now lay in the shadow of the Aryngyr.
He had pondered returning to Taerahardt and cramming his warriors onto every available ship.
He could sail them past the towering holdfast and disembark further along the coast. However, the real threat from the Aryngyr lay not in its command of the river mouth, but in the threat it posed to his line of supply.
Landing an army in the heart of hostile lands in the midst of winter went against all logic of war.
His enemy had plentiful ships of her own and, even should he manage to land unscathed, supply would still be a vital issue as the sea route to Taerahardt would surely now be closed.
“The causeway lies open at both morning and evening tides, my king,” Beyorn ventured, having summoned courage enough to speak again. “I suggest an attack on horseback. We have nigh a thousand riders in this menda now. They could cover the distance in mere moments.”
“Leaving a steep climb up a narrow track to the first wall,” Felnir replied. “Under the gaze of their archers for every step.”
“This late in the year, the evening tide occurs half in darkness. Riders can’t carry ladders, but they can carry ropes and grapples. If we charge without torches and move swiftly up that track, I believe it can be done…”
Hearing Beyorn fall silent, Felnir turned to find his eyes gleaming with twin pinpoints of blue light.
Once again, the warrior’s gaze was fixed upon the sword at Felnir’s belt.
Looking down, he saw the blade glowing, its luminescence so bright it escaped the edges of his scabbard.
Half drawing it, he blinked against the glow, finding it fiercer than he had seen before.
Also, as he grasped the handle he felt an unmistakable sense of approval.
“It seems the Altvar like your plan,” he said, sliding the blade home. Looking up, the naked adoration he saw on Beyorn’s face stirred a perverse anger. This fool would slit his own throat if I commanded it. A bitter, unworthy thought for a king, but his anger refused to dim.
“Lead this charge for me, Beyorn,” Felnir said, extending his hand. “Win me this keep and your name hereafter will be Beyorn Arynkrayl, the Eagle Heart. The Aryngyr will be your seat for all your days and all the days of your heirs.”
“I shall, my king.” The promise came from Beyorn’s lips in an awed gasp, clasping Felnir’s hand with a trembling grip. “And with all my heart, I thank you for the honour.”
Twilight saw a fading sun concealed by ugly grey clouds that soon cast sheets of rain across the bared causeway.
Out to sea, lightning flickered over heaving waves while distant thunder rumbled a dire promise of worse to come.
Falk was loud in arguing the attack be delayed to await better weather, but Beyorn was not to be dissuaded.
“They will never expect an attack in this, my king,” he said, heedless of the rivulets coursing down his face as the rain spattered his helm.
“Such a chance may not come again.” As he spoke, his gaze slipped continually from Felnir to the sword, its glow still bright.
Won’t be content until he gets himself killed in my name, will you?
Felnir asked it silently. His anger had faded since approving Beyorn’s mad scheme, yet he couldn’t countenance another day passing in idleness.
“My lord…” Falk began, but Felnir waved him to silence.
“Ride, my friend,” he said, resting a hand on Beyorn’s shoulder. “And know the Altvar will speed your charge.”
The gathering storm loomed closer as Beyorn trotted his horse to the head of the assembled riders.
A gathering of scouts and the more wealthy warriors who had pledged their swords to the Sea King, they represented the entire cavalry arm of his menda.
Although, ascribing such a title to them felt like an insult to the expertly drilled and commanded mounted soldiers he had served alongside in the Saluhtan’s army.
Felnir hadn’t, of course, shared his estimation of his riders’ abilities.
Tonight they were the Sea King’s chosen elite, ready to strike like a lightning bolt across this rain lashed causeway.
“For the Altvar!” Beyorn called out, drawing his sword and raising it high. “For the king!”
His words were partially drowned by the rain and approaching thunder, but a flicker of lightning rendered his display into a striking spectacle.
The assembled riders roared back their approval whereupon Beyorn turned his horse about and spurred to a gallop.
A thousand mounted warriors at the charge was always an impressive sight, yet as they streamed towards the titanic shadow of the Aryngyr, they appeared pitifully small in number.
Pushing his doubts aside, Felnir surveyed the tightly ordered ranks of the five thousand warriors arrayed to his rear.
Many ladders rose above the multitude, swaying as those who held them fidgeted in the thickening rain.
Unlike his cavalry, Felnir would gladly have matched this lot against the best of the Saluhtan’s infantry.
They were veterans all, hardened by battle with the Ahrkun Krayl and unquestioningly loyal to their king.
“Stand ready!” Felnir barked. The absence of torches prevented him seeing the full host girding themselves in response.
Turning back to the causeway, he waited until Beyorn’s charge had covered half the distance to the Aryngyr then drew the Sword of the Altvar.
The blade flared like a beacon as he held it aloft, casting its glow across his menda.
He saw many eager faces, all gazing at the sword, content, even impatient to follow the Sea King into any danger.
He gave no further orders, simply kicking his heels to command Bolt to a steady walk.
From behind came the tramp of many boots upon wet ground.
He kept them at the same pace until the great rock loomed above and he could hear the tumult of combat.
Torches flickered to life along the lower tiers of the Aryngyr’s defences as its garrison roused itself to meet the unexpected threat.
Spurring Bolt to a canter, Felnir began to outdistance his army, save for Falk, riding alongside atop his swift mare.
In response, the dense column of warriors began to run, unwilling to allow their king to attack alone.
Felnir covered the remaining distance at a steady gallop, reining Bolt to a halt amid a milling herd of riderless horses.
Tracking his gaze up the steep track leading to the gate, he saw combat raging.
Though the state of the battle was confused by wavering torchlight and recurrent lightning, Felnir saw that Beyorn’s warriors had managed to gain the battlement in three places.
He had expected to lead a charge over a procession of arrow-feathered corpses, the Sea King transforming a tragic defeat into glorious victory.
Yet, it appeared Beyorn had far exceeded his promises.
Fighting still raged atop the wall, body after body tumbling from the grappling ropes, but Felnir had seen enough strongholds under attack to know when one was about to fall.
“Falk!” Felnir called, dismounting as the outlaw drew in his mare.
“Take the lead ladder parties twenty yards left of the gate…” Further orders were interrupted by the sound of cracking timber.
Returning his gaze to the battle raging above, Felnir saw the gate swinging open, lightning illuminating the dozens of warriors fighting on the other side.
“Forget that,” he told Falk, stepping away to raise the sword, waving it from side to side.
Startled by the display, the milling horses immediately scattered, Bolt among them, leaving the way clear for the onrushing menda.