Chapter Eighteen Ruhlin
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Ruhlin
The sound began during the morning meal.
At first it was a faint murmur Ruhlin mistook for distant thunder.
But, as he watched the unease spread across the faces of the others seated in the garden, he recognised it as a concordance of many voices.
He heard great excitement in the sound, shot through with an ominous undertone of wary anticipation.
A very large crowd was gathering at the Vortigurn’s wuhltra.
“It’s too soon,” Fernhyld said, clutching Ohtera’s hand. “It’s not spring yet. It’s too soon.”
“I said there would be contests before the formal start of the Meidvang,” Ohtera said.
Putting an arm around Fernhyld’s shoulders, she drew her into an embrace.
The anguish on Fernhyld’s face made it plain she found scant comfort in the gesture.
“We might be spared,” Ohtera told her, though the gaze she turned on Ruhlin was rich in doubt.
As the voices grew louder, one of the Kelven at a neighbouring table, face white with fear, convulsed and vomited.
Ruhlin knew his name as Delryk, a newly arrived youth who did badly in practice.
Besides their own trio, he was the most shunned of the Kelven, largely through his own choice for he responded to all attempts at conversation with a tense, sullen shake of his head.
Ruhlin only knew his name because Silvahk sometimes used it when he activated the lad’s stagna for a poor showing in the sand circle.
The tense mutter of speculation rising from the tables faded at the sight of Silvahk striding towards them across the lawn.
“Rejoice proud Kelven of the Vortigurn,” he told them brightly.
“For today your king has chosen a small number of you to display your talents to his subjects. When I speak your name, come forward. Tremyn. Hulyk.” The two brothers duly rose from their seats and went to stand at Silvahk’s rear.
The younger sibling seemed at pains to appear unconcerned by the prospect of imminent combat and possible death, while his brother saw no reason to keep the resentment from his face.
“Delryk,” Silvahk said. The youth, however, remained seated, refusing to even look at the Ventra until his body shuddered with the telltale effects of his stagna. Features riven by both pain and anger, Delryk rose and walked stiffly to take his place alongside the brothers.
When Silvahk spoke the next name, Ruhlin caught the reluctant tension the Ventra failed to keep from his voice. “Ohtera.”
Pressing a kiss to Fernhyld’s forehead, Ohtera gently tugged her hand free of her lover’s grasp and went to join the group of unfortunates. Ruhlin saw Silvahk’s gaze linger briefly on Fernhyld, now sobbing in both dread and sorrow. However, the name he spoke was not hers. “Amundyr.”
Ruhlin considered following Delryk’s example, but decided there was no point. The effects of the stagna were often draining and he suspected he would need his energy for what he was about to face. Rising, he paused to lean close to Fernhyld, whispering, “I’ll protect her. I promise.”
“That is all,” Silvahk informed the others as Ruhlin lined up at Ohtera’s side.
“The rest of you have kindly been granted permission to watch today’s events.
Give thanks to the Vortigurn for his generosity.
” His gaze shifted back to the sobbing, blindfolded woman sitting alone at the table. “Fernhyld, you are excused.”
The bowels of the Vortigurn’s wuhltra differed from those Ruhlin had experienced in the north.
This subterranean space was formed of an interlinked series of vaults.
In place of tunnels, Silvahk led them along broad avenues between thick pillars of shaped granite supporting high, arched ceilings.
Some parts were sectioned off with walls of kehlgruin.
Others featured cages housing both beasts and people.
Ruhlin saw silver-pelted cats and wolves, most snarling in hunger or cowering, staining the air with fear-born piss.
The people stared through iron bars at the passing Kelven with bright, desperate eyes.
Despite the pervading gloom, Ruhlin saw enough to mark them as neither slaves nor survivors of the Meidvang.
Scars were plentiful but mostly confined to faces, and some were the puckered, mottled flesh of injury born of flame rather than blade.
“Stop gawking, you craven wretches!” a whip-man snarled, rattling the bars of a cage with the handle of his weapon.
“In here,” Silvahk said, gesturing to an opened door a dozen paces beyond the cages.
Inside, they found a large, ornately furnished chamber featuring cushioned couches and tables laden with food and drink.
“The Vortigurn ordains that his most cherished children enjoy all comforts as they wait,” Silvahk said, hauling the door closed behind them.
From outside came the rattle of locks and chains being secured.
The Ventra proceeded to a second door positioned opposite the first, thumping his fist to the heavy timbers until it was opened from the other side.
“Feel free to partake,” the Ventra said, pausing in the doorway to gesture at the plentiful fare.
“Though I would advise moderation when it comes to the wine, at least until you return from the wuhltra. Assuming you do return, of course.”
He lingered an instant longer to direct a curiously knowing grin in Ohtera’s direction, as if they shared an unspoken joke. If so, she failed to exhibit any amusement, merely staring back in sullen defiance until, face now stripped of humour, he departed, slamming the door behind him.
“Leave it,” Tremyn told Hulyk when his brother went to unstopper one of the wine bottles. “You heard what he said.”
“And yet, brother,” Hulyk replied, pouring a generous measure of scarlet liquid into a goblet, “I find I couldn’t spare a single fuck for what he said.
” Raising his goblet to the rest of them, he added, “I’d drink in your honour, but can’t stand the sight of any of you. So, I’ll drink in mine instead.”
He drained about half the vessel’s contents before his brother swatted it from his hand.
“I will not die today because you got drunk!” Tremyn snarled, clamping one hand to Hulyk’s face and the other to his neck.
The youngster gripped his brother’s wrists, revealing teeth in a snarl of his own as the air around them began to shimmer with heat.
“Oh yes, please kill each other,” Ohtera said, sinking onto a couch and resting her hands behind her head. “Something I’ve wanted to see for years now.”
The two of them maintained the same clinch for another few heartbeats before breaking apart. Tremyn stalked to the far end of the chamber while Hulyk reached for more wine. He was swiftly joined by Delryk who demonstrated an intention to imbibe liquor as quickly as possible.
“You’re wasting your time,” Ohtera told them. “Fear is the greatest anti-dote to drunkenness. Though too much wine will dull your actions when you get out there.”
Hulyk paused in the act of raising his goblet to his lips, cursed and threw it at the wall. Delryk, by contrast, quickly polished off a full bottle and reached for another.
From above came the familiar tumult of many voices raised in a cheer, though muted by layers of stone and kehlgruin.
Going to the door through which Silvahk had made his exit, Ruhlin found a small slat that had no catch on this side.
However, after some probing, he managed to force it open a quarter inch.
The revealed view was unimpressive, a dimly lit ascending stairwell leading to another door.
Squinting, he made out the sight of Silvahk standing alongside a hefty guard in leather armour.
“Opens out onto the arena,” Ohtera explained, coming to Ruhlin’s side.
She cocked her head towards the ceiling as another great cheer sounded, lasting longer than the others.
“Strange,” she mused. “To hear so many voices baying for blood. Usually, it’s just the Vortigurn and that ancient lickspittle of his, and sometimes a few Tuhlvyr granted the honour of watching the slaughter. ”
“How many Meidvang for you?” Ruhlin asked her.
“This will be my fifth,” she said. “Though, before I only had to fight once during each Meidvang. This time, I’ve a sense it’ll be different.”
The crowd’s roar abruptly stilled then, diminishing to an unbroken hush.
“He’s here,” Ohtera said. Her voice was flat but Ruhlin noted how the hairs at the nape of her neck had begun to bristle. “It won’t be long now.”
Through the slat Ruhlin heard a lone voice, raised to a declamatory pitch but still too faint to discern the words.
Still, he was able to recognise the Vortigurn’s measured tones.
While Ruhlin couldn’t understand whatever speech the King of Nihlvar was making to his assembled subjects, Ohtera could.
“‘My beloved of Nihlvar’,” she related in a soft murmur, the others coming closer to hear.
“‘My heart sings to stand before you after so many years. You, who I cherish. You, who I have succoured and protected since the age before this mighty wuhltra was raised. You, who bear the blood of your beloved forebears, shall this day drink the first measure of my grace, as ordained by the Altvar themselves.’” Ohtera paused in irritation at the sound of Delryk throwing up again.
Pressing her ear closer to the slat, she spoke on, “‘Today marks the commemoration of our final victory over the savage Morvek. A day of joyous triumph, but also a day of many brave souls gathered unto the Altvar’s care. To honour such a day requires blood, the blood of both beast and man!’”