Chapter Thirteen Ruhlin
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Ruhlin
Ruhlin woke to an insistent tugging on his foot, blinking gritty eyes at Ohtera standing at the end of his bed. “Come on,” she said, squeezing his big toe for emphasis. “The first batch has arrived.”
“Batch…?” he asked but she had already disappeared through the door.
“Get dressed and hurry up,” she called.
As he swung his legs clear of the bed, the gleam of the silver knot caught his eye.
Three weeks after his meeting with the creature that called itself Moyirn he still hadn’t complied with his instructions.
Each night Ruhlin contemplated the trinket sitting on the small table alongside his bed, but didn’t touch it.
Since learning the Vortigurn’s identity, Ruhlin had searched his memory for every tale he could recall regarding the Exiled King.
They were rich in names, friends and foemen to the most celebrated king of the Ascarls, but Moyirn was not among them.
So, unwilling to trust so foul a being, he continued to resist the temptation of the knot.
He donned his clothes and shoes, emerging from his cell to find Ohtera standing in the entrance to the garden, one hand clasped with Fernhyld’s as she beckoned with the other.
He followed her into the expanse of grass and flower beds, finding the tables empty.
Ohtera led him to the far wall and through another archway.
Through it lay a bridge spanning a familiar gap and beyond, the tall curving wall of the Vortigurn’s wuhltra.
The bridge differed from the one that had led him into Moyirn’s company.
The span was wider and the tunnel it led to resembling more a great, echoing cavern.
He could see a portion of the arena where a large number of people were being arrayed into ranks by a contingent of whip-men.
“This way,” Ohtera said, making for a nearby stairwell.
He followed her up several flights and out onto a curving row of marble seating where their fellow Kelven were already assembled, their attention fixed on the arena below.
The rows above were lined with Ventra and the usual contingent of archers.
As they made their way to a vacant spot, Ruhlin was surprised to receive an affable nod from Tremyn.
Unlike his brother, whose habitual scowl was now joined by a sneer, the elder sibling appeared not to harbour any ill will at his injury.
“How many?” Fernhyld asked when they came to a stop, her nose wrinkling. “Smells like a lot.”
The aroma rising from the arena was indeed pungent, even at such a remove. It was a heady mix of sweat, piss and dried shit. Surveying the chained folk below, Ruhlin recognised them as covered in the signature grime and effluent resulting from days or weeks confined to a ship’s hold.
“About two hundred in all,” he told Fernhyld, eyes finding the scars, old and new, on many a back. “All slaves.”
“Most are villains,” Ohtera said. “Outlaws and Travka scoured from the darkest corners of the realm. But see.” She pointed to the collection of captives occupying the most distant ranks. “There are those who stand taller.”
A group of perhaps thirty stood beneath an ornate viewing platform, all more straight-backed than their fellow unfortunates.
Ruhlin made out the honed muscles of those both well fed and regularly exercised.
Also, the pattern of their scars was different.
All had been whipped on the back, but many a limb also featured the longer, narrower marks of a blade.
“They are our true foes,” Ohtera went on.
“The victors of the Meidvang, brought here to face the Kelven on the Vortigurn’s promise of freedom and high reward.
But only if they defeat us, which they won’t, the poor, dumb swine.
” Her voice betrayed a curious mix of sympathy and anticipation.
Ruhlin wondered if the predator that lived within her relished the coming contest, while her human self did not.
“And the others?” he asked.
“Fodder for the early contests. This is just the first delivery. By the time the Meidvang proper starts, there’ll be over a thousand of them crammed into the cells beneath this wuhltra.
The Vortigurn expects much of his Kelven, a lack of mercy most of all.
” Seeing Ruhlin’s darkened expression, she forced a smile.
“It’s hard at first. Easier as it goes on.
” She delivered a soft punch to his shoulder.
“Best accommodate yourself to necessities, my friend.”
A hush settled over the arena as Silvahk appeared on the viewing platform.
He greeted the slaves with a comradely smile, raising his hands in welcome.
“On behalf of the Vortigurn,” he said, voice carrying well in the great kehlgruin bowl, “I thank you for your lives. For that is the truth of your situation. Most, probably all of you will perish here in the Kelvengyr. But know that you do so in service to the greatest cause. The Altvar will surely witness your passing and throw wide the doors to the Halls of Aevnir, so blessed will they be by such brave souls. But know also that death is not certain here. On solemn promise of your great and eternal king, those who triumph will be set free and receive gold enough for all your days.”
Ruhlin saw some of the trained fighters stir in response to these words, but there was no cheering or murmured excitement. Most of this assembly were already defeated; victims of the whip.
“Oh, they’ll fight,” Ohtera said, noting the doubtful cast of Ruhlin’s face. “Have no fear of that. A week or so of good food, and no small measure of wine, and this lot will display all the savagery the Vortigurn desires.”
Silvahk wasn’t long in confirming her words, promising baths, clothes and a feast to the newcomers, which aroused far more interest than his assurance of their likely and imminent deaths.
“But know this,” the Ventra concluded in a tone of grim sincerity, “think not of escape, for it is impossible here. Think not of discord among yourselves, for the punishment, I assure you, will be far worse than anything you have experienced before. Think only of the glory to come when you fight under the gaze of the Vortigurn himself.”
With his welcome delivered, Silvahk had the slaves trooped off in dozen-strong groups towards the tunnels lining the wuhltra’s walls.
Watching the lines of shackled figures shuffling into the dark, Ruhlin couldn’t stop himself picturing these wretched unfortunates lying bloody and broken in the aftermath of the monster’s rampage.
“When does it start?” he asked Ohtera.
“Not for a while yet. It’s always been a spring event. There’ll be some minor contests before, though. Those among the Kelven who haven’t killed before will need to be blooded. The Vortigurn doesn’t like to see us baulk when the Meidvang starts in earnest.”
Fernhyld let out a sob then, soft and quickly contained when she put her hands over her mouth. “It’ll be all right,” Ohtera said, drawing Fernhyld into an embrace.
“I can’t,” Fernhyld wept into Ohtera’s shoulder. “You know I can’t…”
Ohtera quickly ushered her away while Ruhlin watched the whip-men harangue the last besmirched, shackled figure into the bowels of the wuhltra. The Vortigurn wishes me to become a mass murderer, he decided. I think not.
That night he wore the silver knot for the first time.
He had lain awake for hours, unable to shake the sight of the slaves, or the sound of Fernhyld’s distress.
As the hours wore on he heard her through the wall, intermittent bouts of sobbing calmed by Ohtera’s soothing words. “I can’t. I just can’t!”
Finally, Ruhlin turned over and reached for the trinket.
The silver threads felt cool to the touch, giving no indication of its purpose as he slipped the cord over his head.
Lying with it resting on his chest, he found sleep continued to elude him until, when Fernhyld’s tears had at last fallen silent, he succumbed to the creeping grasp of slumber.
The dream that greeted him was jarring in its immediacy, Ruhlin reeling amid a blast of heat.
Despite the surrounding smoke and roar of flames, he recognised it instantly.
He was back in the Vikra-sah, stumbling through the aftermath of its destruction.
The hollow burned around him, ancient roots rendered into shrivelled black stumps, exposing corrupted earth untouched by sunlight for countless years.
Yet, as Ruhlin strove to escape the inferno, he found himself trapped.
The way back to the gathering of Morvek elders was blocked by a wall of flaming vegetation.
In his monstrous state he could have simply forced his way through it, but his mostly naked form retained its merely human dimensions.
It was as he retreated from the fiery barrier that he saw the tall man in a dark robe standing nearby, indifferent to the enclosing blaze.
Squinting through a blizzard of embers, Ruhlin made out a beardless, handsome face.
When their gazes met, all other motion stopped.
Motes of fire froze before Ruhlin’s eyes as the smoke halted its swirl.
The pale man raised his brows as he surveyed the unmoving scene, Ruhlin gaining the impression of a reluctantly impressed soul.
“So,” the pale man said, “this was the Vikra-sah.” Although his voice was strong, Ruhlin detected a faint echo of a familiar, grating rasp in its cadence.
“Moyirn,” he said.
The pale man didn’t answer, instead turning towards the flame-shrouded heart of the hollow and raising his hands.
“I feel it,” he murmured. “Even here, consigned to a dream, it lingers. Wounded. Diminished.” His lips curved a little in marginal amusement.
“Vengeful, but still alive, in its own fashion.” Dropping his arms, he turned back to Ruhlin.
“You should have a care, boy. Its kind have a wealth of memory and a paucity of forgiveness.”
“Its kind?”