Chapter Nine Felnir #2
“To the gate!” Felnir cried out, pointing the glowing blade at the sundered portal.
Turning, he pelted up the track, Falk following close behind with his axe in hand.
They reached the portal without hearing the hiss of an arrow.
Rushing through the opening, Felnir found the fight in the courtyard over.
Bodies lay thick, some still twitching in the rain which ran red about his boots.
The ferocity of the struggle was plain in the way many of the dead were entwined, death claiming them even as they clawed at one another.
“Where is Beyorn?” he demanded of a warrior standing close by, eyes showing the glazed distance of one experiencing unexpected survival. Her features were so slackened by shock Felnir only recognised her when Falk spoke her name.
“Tyrheld,” he said, moving to jostle her arm. “What happened here? Where’s Beyorn?”
Blinking again, she shook her head as if trying to shake loose recently witnessed horrors. “He was like something… not human,” she said in a croak. “The way he fought…”
Felnir had thought this maiden aged and hardened far beyond her years. Witnessing her brother’s death by torture in the Riverlands, and all the subsequent bloody encounters with deranged cultists, had forged her into an often humourless, at times vicious warrior. Now she seemed a girl again.
“That…” She pointed to a stepped track to Felnir’s rear. “That way, my king. He said…” Tyrheld’s features bunched against a sob, unleashed when Falk drew her into an embrace. “He said he wanted the Turmwald’s head as a gift for the king.”
“Get her out of here,” Felnir told Falk before turning and running for the track. The leading cohorts of his menda had reached the gate now. Some spread out to quell any last resistance while most kept charging in the wake of their king and his blazing sword.
Ascending to the upper walls of the Aryngyr, Felnir was struck by the emptiness of the battlements.
Here and there he caught fleeting glimpses of shadowy figures slipping into alcoves and doorways, no doubt hoping to escape the bloody havoc to come.
But they were few in number. It appeared the garrison of this keep was far smaller than he suspected and their leader had concentrated all his strength upon the lowest tier.
“Should have offered quarter again,” Felnir grunted as he continued to climb.
“Waved this thing about, won their hearts. It might’ve worked. ”
The storm roared yet louder as he came to the summit of the Aryngyr.
The fortress formed a crown of sorts upon the misshapen head of the rock where a squat tower rose.
Howling wind and freezing rain pummelled him as he made for the tower’s door, stopping short at the sight of a blood-drenched figure emerging from within.
“For you, my king,” Beyorn said. The pelting deluge cleaned away the gore that covered his face, but couldn’t erase his expression.
Beholding Felnir with wide, unblinking eyes, he knelt, raising up his gory tribute.
Felnir judged that the Turmwald of the Aryngyr must have put up a decent fight, given the red scars marring his slack, white features.
Hearing a laugh, Felnir’s gaze snapped back to Beyorn. The sound that came from his throat was the hearty joy of a brave young man celebrating a just triumph. But, as another flash of lightning revealed his features in full, Felnir knew he was looking upon the face of a madman.
“May I touch it, my king?” Beyorn asked. Lowering the severed head to place it at Felnir’s feet, he raised his hand to reach for the glowing blade of the sword. “Just once…”
As Felnir drew the weapon clear of the madman’s grasp, he was possessed by an ugly but compelling urge to thrust it into Beyorn’s chest. The notion of leaving him alive at that juncture seemed dangerously unwise.
“The keep is secure, my king.”
Turning, Felnir beheld Vehldur. The former wheelwright from the Riverlands stood close by with a dozen warriors at his back, breath steaming in the rain-lashed chill.
His blunt features were set in a frown of bemused disgust as he looked upon Beyorn’s kneeling form, sparing only a fearful glance at the sword.
Another one immune to its spell, Felnir decided with a pulse of gratitude.
Souls such as this were becoming increasingly rare in his menda.
Realising he had half-raised the sword for a killing blow, Felnir lowered it. “Make safe all walls and gates,” he commanded. “Any gold or silver found here is to be shared out equally. Quarter will be shown to any foemen who give up their arms and swear fealty to me.”
Vehldur nodded. “It will be done…” He trailed off into a squint as a bright sheet of lightning flickered over the sea.
“My king,” he said, moving to the battlement’s edge, arm raised to the horizon.
Moving to his side, Felnir quickly found the source of his interest. The ships rounded the northern headland at full sail, heaving high and low as they battled the heavy seas.
Felnir counted twenty, with more still coming into view.
Even without the ability to make out the sigil on their sail, their heading made their allegiance, and their intent, plain.
The Silver Dove had risked her fleet in this storm to seal the Sea King in the trap she had so carefully baited.
Sliding the sword into its scabbard, Felnir let out a laugh as its glow diminished.
Did he detect a sullenness through the handle now?
A bitter recognition at its own folly in approving this scheme?
Beneath his mirth, he wondered if this thing were truly a blessed artefact of the gods or merely a gaudy prop in some mummer’s farce.
“Gather every arrow, spear, and loose rock that can be found in this keep,” he told Vehldur. “And shore up the lower gate. It seems we are besieged.”