Chapter Nineteen Felnir #2
Yet, the old pirate’s judgement proved mistaken.
Mounted once again on Bolt, who had been found unharmed in the aftermath of the battle at the Aryngyr, Felnir led his vanguard along the north-westerly road leading to Speldhelven.
Throughout the day their march was distinguished only by a lack of opposition.
The villages they passed through offered no resistance, their people either fled or gathered to watch the march of the Sea King’s host. He had issued stern instructions that no dwelling was to be damaged or person harmed unless they made efforts to impede the advance.
None did and the local leaders Felnir had brought before him all swore fealty to their new king without demur.
They did so, however, with a uniform absence of enthusiasm, each wearing the carefully blank expressions of those compelled to do what is needed rather than desired.
They also offered no intelligence regarding the Silver Dove’s forces or plans.
In camp that night, he ordered a double watch set and gave orders to be woken at the slightest sign of trouble.
Yet his sleep was uninterrupted, to his regret since the sword chose to torment him with the worst dream yet.
Through a chaos of ugly confusion he saw his brother in the midst of battle, slipping on a surface of white and red littered with corpses.
Felnir woke well before dawn, bathed in sweat despite the late winter chill, and immediately donned his armour and weapons.
“Rouse the camp!” he snapped at Tulvik. “And bring me Beyorn. I will lead his riders to Speldhelven myself. Follow with the full menda with all speed.”
“I must caution against this, my king,” Tulvik said. “The Black Gull’s warning…”
“A pox on that ancient villain’s warning!” Seeing Tulvik blanch, Felnir realised his voice was raised to an angry shout. “This is merely reconnaissance,” he added, calming his tone. “And closing on the city before they’re ready to meet us works to our advantage. March them hard, my friend.”
Tulvik nodded, though uncertainty still clouded his gaze. “I shall, my king.”
Beyorn, of course, was free of any doubts as he galloped at Felnir’s side, the four hundred riders who had survived the Aryngyr following behind.
He had been tempted to order Beyorn to remain at the great keep, which he now commanded in the king’s name, on the pretext of making repairs and ensuring the security of the supply route.
But, trying as the young warrior’s company could be, his unreasoning courage remained a useful asset.
Yet, when they crested a hill two miles east of Speldhelven, they saw dawn break over a city that showed no sign of preparing itself for imminent siege. Nor had their approach been troubled by either a patrol or the Silver Dove’s host. The Black Gull, it seemed, had erred in his judgement.
“I smell a trap, my king,” Beyorn said as Felnir trained a spyglass on the city gate, finding it opened. Tracking the glass across the walls, he found them bare of defenders.
“If so, it’s very well laid,” Felnir replied. He spent a moment longer scanning the port’s streets and harbour. Many ships were moored along the wharfs and jetties and there was no indication they were mustering to sally forth and confront the Black Gull’s ships.
“Follow close,” Felnir told Beyorn. Consigning the glass to Bolt’s saddlebag, he kicked his heels and sent the stallion galloping down the slope towards the city.
Upon nearing the gate, he slowed to a canter, expecting to hear the hiss of an arrow at any moment.
But the walls remained clear of archers and the entrance empty of obstructions.
Upon walking Bolt into the city he found the first enemy warriors he had encountered since the Aryngyr.
A score of them stood alongside the main thoroughfare leading to the heart of the port, heads bowed and weapons laid at their feet.
“Who leads here?” Felnir demanded, bringing Bolt to a halt.
A tall woman in leather armour stepped forward, raising her head to reveal features set in both shame and anger.
“I do…” She paused, throat working as she swallowed before speaking on with a quaver to her voice.
“My king. Audheld, Commander of the Speldhelven Watch. I am ordered to escort you to the Gyrwald’s Hall. ”
“A trick!” Beyorn snarled, sword hissing from its scabbard as he cast his wild gaze about the surrounding streets.
Some people had begun to emerge from nearby houses.
They moved with evident caution, but no sign of aggression.
“They attempt to gull you, my king. Speak you!” He levelled his blade at the tall woman. “Where is your menda?”
Audheld’s jaw clenched with the effort of biting back a retort, her reply emerging in a strained tone of forced patience. “What remained of the Gyrwald’s menda was, by her order, released from her service yesterday. Only I and the Watch remain.”
“You imagine yourself clever?” Beyorn scoffed, turning to Felnir. “A thousand archers could lie in wait atop those rooftops, my king…”
“They could,” Felnir cut in, his focus still on the Watch Commander. He had no reason to trust her word other than what he saw in her bearing, and found it more convincing than anything she might have said. Shame. So deep and bitter it can’t be faked.
The sound of drumming hooves drew his gaze back to the gate where he saw Wohtin reining in his pony. Felnir had noticed before how the old man had a tendency to absent himself in times of danger but ensure his presence at moments of historical significance.
“You may have need of my counsel, my king,” Wohtin said, wheezing with exertion. “I know the Silver Dove of old.”
Felnir replied with a terse nod then turned back to Audheld.
“Then lead me to your Gyrwald, Watch Commander. Beyorn, stay here and secure the gate. Send a rider to Tulvik instructing that he is to garrison the walls only and encamp the menda outside the city.” He raised a hand to stall the warrior’s instant protests, patting the hilt of the sword with the other.
“Remember the protection I enjoy. The Altvar will see no harm done to me.”
The Hall of the Silver Dove was impressive in its breadth if not its height.
Standing only marginally taller than the surrounding houses, it was formed of a wide sloping roof supported by thick oaken walls.
The darkness of those timbers, and the ancient wooden statues to the Altvar that ringed the hall, afforded it an imposing quality.
Felnir’s approach to the hall acquired a long trail of townsfolk, growing in number despite Audheld’s repeated shouted instructions to return to their homes.
Felnir afforded them only a cursory glance, finding the same mix of curiosity and resentment he had seen from the villagers on the road.
Yet, none raised either voice or arms against him.
Like the city gate, the doors to the Gyrwald’s hall stood open, Audheld standing to one side and gesturing for Felnir to enter.
He stepped into a cool, gloomy space, so rich in oakwood pillars it resembled an indoor forest. In its centre, fire burned in a pit of coals, casting grey smoke to an opening in the roof.
A slight figure stood there, silver haired and wearing a plain robe.
She exhibited no alarm as Felnir strode towards her, keeping her arms crossed and head angled in scrutiny of her victorious rival.
“You would be the Silver Dove,” Felnir said, coming to a halt.
“And you the Liar King,” she returned in a voice that lacked the slightest quaver of fear or concern.
Next to Wohtin, Felnir thought her the least decrepit of all the Ehilkun he had encountered in this land.
Her eyes shone bright in the glow of the fire and her face, though lined with age, retained an angular handsomeness.
“You will bandy insults with me?” he asked. “Even now?”
“A truth is only an insult to those who would deny it.” She raised an eyebrow. “For you are a liar, are you not?”
Felnir smiled. “I am many things. Most notably, in this instance, your king.”
The Silver Dove bared strangely white teeth in a short laugh.
“You’ll get no oath of fealty from me, Felnir Skyrnrak.
Yes, I know your name. I know you sailed here from the land I once called home.
I know you have a queen who exercises better judgement than her husband, and you owe your victories mostly to that cursed thing.
” She uncrossed her arms to point at the sword on his belt, and seemed about to say more when her eye alighted on Wohtin.
Letting out a sigh, the Silver Dove let her hands slip to her sides, shaking her head. “I had hoped it wasn’t true, Angmund. But there you stand at this upstart’s side. Another fool raised up by your endless intrigues. Have you come to gloat? Now all dignity has been stolen from me?”
“I feel no urge to gloat, Rygna,” Wohtin replied. “Once, surely. But not now.”
She pursed her lips in muted surprise. “The years have finally changed you then. I suppose I should have expected as much. For that is the way with our particular curse. We strive to hold on to who we were, but it’s impossible.
The endless stream of time will shape you like water shapes stone.
I stand here to atone for crimes committed centuries gone.
I remember them well enough. I recall the day I slaughtered the Black Gull’s family and earned his eternal spite.
But now I look upon it as the act of a cruel stranger, so changed am I.
We lived too long, did we not? That was our crime in the end.
Accepting a curse as if it were a blessing.
For age married to power will corrupt even the noblest soul all the way down to the bone.
And only after years of pondering will you recognise your own folly.
” Her gaze returned to Felnir. “Too late, it seems.”