Chapter Nineteen Felnir
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Felnir
According to Tulvik, Uhlkar Speldkaera, known as the Black Gull, hadn’t set foot on dry land for the better part of a century.
So when Felnir met him, it was after graciously consenting to board his massive warship.
Beyorn had objected to Tulvik’s diplomacy, avowing that it was beneath the Sea King’s dignity to accommodate the wishes of a mere pirate.
“I think I can indulge an old man’s whims,” Felnir told him. “Especially one who just snatched our arses from the fire.”
Surviving the mad charge into the mass of enemies thronging the Aryngyr’s gate had only deepened Beyorn’s ardent loyalty.
His tongue was ever more incautious and his temper shorter.
Consequently, Felnir opted to leave Beyorn out of his retinue, instead sending him to scout the coastal roads leading into the heartland of the Silver Dove’s domain.
Felnir had never seen a ship to compare in size to the Black Gull’s vessel, even in the southern seas where great merchantmen plied the trade routes from one wealthy port to another.
She was named the Turmvek in honour of the god of the lower hall with dominion over blades and those that wield them.
Her hull rose like a cliff above the deck of the warship that had carried Felnir from the Aryngyr’s wharf.
To board her, he was obliged to scale a rope net to the topmost deck where he was greeted by a stern-faced woman of weathered features.
The handles of several knives jutted from her hardy leather garb and a hatchet dangled from her belt.
The surrounding crew were all similarly attired and armed.
Also, it appeared, disinclined to form any semblance of ranks in order to meet the man who claimed to be their king.
Still, the nod the woman afforded Felnir was respectful enough, if hardly gracious. She spent some time surveying his retinue, consisting only of Wohtin, Falk, and Tulvik. Her interest lingered most on the old man, narrowing in appraisal as she grunted out a question: “You’re truly Angmund?”
Wohtin inclined his head. “I once bore that name, yes.”
“Thought you’d be taller.” She turned, gesturing for them to follow as she strode towards a hatch. “Come on then. He’s waiting.”
Felnir and the others followed her down a ladder to the lower deck, then another, before coming to a halt in a gloomy space lit by a small cluster of dim lanterns hanging from the rafters in its centre.
The meagre light glittered on shiny metal piled between the ribs of the great ship.
Several lifetimes’ worth of pirate loot, Felnir surmised as the woman led them closer to the light.
The lanterns were ringed by barrels, each one opened and filled with scrolls.
Within the circle a thin, pale-skinned figure in a loose woollen garb sat hunched over a desk.
Sparse white hair covered a liver-spotted scalp, one skeletal hand grasping a quill, its tip describing a surprisingly steady line of ink across a sheet of vellum.
The ancient man kept one eye hovering bare inches above the sheet as he drew, not raising his head when the woman stepped between two barrels and said, “The Sea King, Gyrwald Uhlkar.”
The quill stalled its course, though the Black Gull still didn’t look up. Felnir heard him sniff the air before he spoke, the words emerging in a croak that still retained an authoritative edge: “Angmund. I’d know that stink anywhere.”
“I’m surprised you can smell it above your own,” Wohtin replied.
A clacking sound came from the Gyrwald as he finally raised his head, Felnir recognising it as a laugh from the amused twist to the old man’s dry lips. He regarded Wohtin in silence before laughing again. “It’s good to see you, old friend. How long has it been?”
“In all honesty, I don’t know.” Wohtin spread his hands, his own smile warm. “It’s good to see you too, Uhlkar. Still indulging in foreign nonsense, I see.”
“A habit I picked up after dropping your carcass off in the southern seas.” Uhlkar groaned, setting aside his quill and using the hand to push his bent form into an upright position.
With the old man’s features revealed in full, Felnir saw that the eye he held so close to the vellum was clear and the other milky white.
“Maps are like a drug for me,” he went on, gesturing to the enclosing circle of barrels.
“Once tasted, I could never give them up. This is only a small part of my life’s work.
One of the few blessings I found in this land was a wealth of coastline, ocean, and island to chart.
Centuries on, and I’m still far from done. ”
“Do they extend to the Fire Islands?” Felnir asked. “And the realm beyond? In which case they will be of great value to me.”
The clear eye swung towards Felnir, squinting in a way that made him suspect it had difficulty perceiving anything beyond the reach of the Gyrwald’s arm.
“This, then, would be the Sea King,” he said.
He flapped his hand, beckoning. “Come closer. I would have a proper look at the man who has claimed all of Vorunvahl in the space of a few months.”
The eye brightened as Felnir approached, curiously youthful in its interrogation of his person.
After examining Felnir’s features it moved on to the sword at his belt.
“So there it is,” Uhlkar murmured. “Always had a sense I might still be drawing breath when it turned up again. Though I expected Velgard himself to be wielding it. Don’t suppose you’ve seen him on your travels, young man? ”
“I have not, Gyrwald,” Felnir said.
Uhlkar gave a disappointed moan and flicked his aged hand at the map on the desk.
“Since you’re so interested, take a look.
It shows the upper reaches of the Vorunvahl coast, where it meets the eastern extremity of the Fire Islands.
It’s not quite complete, but there’s enough there to make it plain there’s no way through.
Not unless you’re intent on a fiery end, Sea King. ”
Felnir had some familiarity with charts from his days in the southern seas, but retained a certain Ascarlian prejudice against their use.
Yet, if it offered a chance of reaching Guthnyr, he wouldn’t hesitate to use it.
This one, even he could tell, bore out the Black Gull’s pronouncement.
It depicted a dense maze of islands forming narrow, impassible channels that he knew led only to the flaming, smoke-shrouded heart of the Fire Isles.
“I am intent on finding a safe and navigable route to the lands north of this realm,” Felnir said, turning back to the Gyrwald. “If it can’t be found on this chart, I assume you have others.”
The ancient shifted in his seat, wincing at the effort.
“I find it curious that you should feel compelled to fight a war to achieve this end. I had thought you intent on conquest merely for its own sake, or some mad scheme of Angmund’s.
He was always coming up with them in the old days.
As the most celebrated seafarer in Velgard’s court, I found myself roped into his designs time and again.
Still, I bear no grudge over it. I saw much of this world during our travels together and discovered one strange truth: wherever you might sail, whatever strange lands, languages, and customs you encounter, people remain, in essence, much the same.
The weak suffer want and cruelty at the hands of the strong, and there is no man more cruel than a victorious conqueror. ”
“I found this land riven with strife and beset by murderous fanatics,” Felnir returned. “Now it stands at the cusp of peace and unity. A worthy cause you chose to join, Gyrwald.”
“I did, but my purpose in doing so was not as noble. Revenge, Sea King. That is what I seek. The Silver Dove owes me pain, and I’ll extract it from her in full measure.
When it’s done, I expect I’ll finally allow myself to die and all I have will be yours.
Mayhap among all these—” he waved at the charts sitting in barrels “—is the answer you seek, but I doubt it. What will you do if you can’t find it? ”
“Find another way,” Felnir stated. “Because, also having sailed far in this world, the strange truth I found was that there is always another way.”
He extended his hand, meeting the Black Gull’s good eye with stern resolve. “Do you, Uhlkar Speldkaera, Gyrwald of the Mahra Isles, swear fealty to me in the name of Ulthnir the Wordsmith and all his kin?”
The Gyrwald’s good eye peered at Felnir’s proffered hand, but he made no effort to grasp it. “I ask only one thing,” he said. “The Silver Dove. Her life will be mine to end in any manner I see fit.”
“Granted,” Felnir said. “With thanks for your excellent service.”
Uhlkar Speldkaera grunted again and raised his bony hand.
His grip had all the strength of a sickly child, but his eye was bright and steady.
“I so swear fealty to the Sea King in the sight of the Altvar, for all my days.” Releasing Felnir’s hand, he sank back into his chair with a heavy sigh. “Those few I have left.”
At the Black Gull’s urging, the bulk of Felnir’s menda was carried by ship to a broad beach with gentle tides some sixty miles along the northern coast from the Aryngyr.
The landing point offered a march of only two days to Speldhelven, the Silver Dove’s capital.
As Felnir advanced on land, the Black Gull would sail his fleet into the broad estuary where the port lay and blockade it against escape or reinforcement.
“Don’t expect her to sit and wait for you,” the ancient pirate advised the morning Felnir departed his hulking warship.
“Not her way at all. She’ll come at you on the road with all the swords she can scrape together.
She won’t lead them personally, of course.
Risking her own life was never her way either. ”