Chapter Nineteen Felnir #3
“As one who has lived so long in this land,” he said, “you must recall the Kearling. The Black Gull’s kin were not your first slaughter.”
“No.” The admission was softly spoken, a distant cast creeping into her eyes.
“No they were not. What power I wielded here was born of blood, I’ll not deny it.
But the Kearling would have killed us all in time, I’m sure of it.
Once they understood the threat we represented, they would have wiped us from this realm and been wise to do so.
It could never be home to both our peoples.
Not that Angmund didn’t try, I’ll give him that.
Whatever became of that Kearling wife of yours, Angmund? I never found out.”
Looking to Wohtin, Felnir found the old man’s features riven with confusion. His eyes darted about as if searching for something, his hands coming together in a trembling clasp. “I…” he breathed. “My wife died in the under city…”
“Yes,” the Silver Dove said, “but you found another here. Surely you haven’t forgotten her? Nor the children she bore you.”
Letting out a pained gasp, Wohtin stumbled, Felnir catching him before he fell.
“Their language,” he murmured. “That’s how I know their language…
” He shuddered, closing his eyes tight. “I remember now. I remember… my son, my daughter. They fled. When the killing began…” He opened his eyes, staring at Felnir.
“They fled across the Swathe.” He shuddered again, all strength seeming to seep from him.
Felnir let the old man slip to the floor where he huddled and wept.
“Poor Angmund,” the Silver Dove said, her voice mixing pity with a caustic tone Felnir found he disliked a great deal.
“Always striving for redemption he can never find. But, as with him, so with me, eh, Liar King?” Her bearing was stern now, fists clenched and back rigid.
Her face betrayed not a glimmer of fear as Felnir stepped closer.
“I assume the Black Gull extracted a promise as to my demise,” she said. “Something suitably gruesome?”
“For him to decide when he gets here,” Felnir said.
“Ah. I suppose I shall just have to enjoy the displeasure of your company a while longer.”
“Do you not wish to plead for the good treatment of your people? Watch Commander Audheld over there seems a dutiful and courageous servant, yet you seek no assurances as to her treatment.”
“Duty is required of Audheld, since she is my granddaughter, several generations removed of course. I ordered her to offer no resistance to your advance for the simple reason that it would be a pointless waste of her life. That is how I showed her my regard, for blood and loyalty are intrinsic. Something you’ll discover as the decades become centuries. ”
Felnir frowned. “What?”
The Silver Dove squinted at him in surprise then laughed.
“You don’t know. How wonderfully absurd.
” Spreading her arms wide, she raised her voice.
“Look upon me, Liar King, and know your future. That blade you bear carries more than just the promise of victory. How many years has it already given you, do you think? How many more before you realise your mistake and cast it away? One day you too will look upon your victorious foe and wonder how a mere child could presume to defeat you. One day you too will see all your many descendants as lesser reflections of your own glory. For how could they not be? They are not blessed by the gods as you are…”
Her voice dwindled to silence as Felnir drew the sword.
The blade was bright and he sensed a hunger to it, as if relishing the meal to come.
He wanted to doubt this woman’s words, but felt a terrible certainty she spoke no lie.
He had been a fool to think bearing a weapon touched by the hands of the gods themselves would exact no price. And what of Sygna? She carried one too.
The Silver Dove began to speak again but her words became a wet cough when he thrust the sword through her chest, the glowing blade parting flesh and bone as if it were water.
“Consider it a gift,” Felnir told her. He watched her face spasm, thick, dark blood bubbling from her mouth, before jerking the blade clear of her body. “For have I not lifted your curse?”
He refused to make the journey to the Black Gull’s hulking warship, instead sending word that the Gyrwald was to present himself at the Speldhelven docks.
It transpired that the ancient pirate’s disdain for dry land arose not from a lifelong mariner’s prejudice but from the fact that he could barely walk more than a few steps unaided.
The Gyrwald therefore had to be ported from ship to boat, and thence to shore in a chair carried by a dozen warriors.
Felnir awaited him alone at the end of a long jetty.
It was a pleasant morning, the sun banishing the dull grey skies of recent days to cast hazy beams across the masts of the Black Gull’s fleet crowding the estuary.
The Gyrwald’s guards were led by the stocky woman who had greeted Felnir when he climbed aboard the great warship. Stepping onto the jetty as her comrades manoeuvred their burden from the boat, she squinted at the absence of Felnir’s own retinue.
“You the only one left then?” she asked, half mocking and half suspicious.
Ignoring the taunt, Felnir said, “What is your name?”
Her squint turned into a scowl. “I am Ahlfyrn, captain of the Turmvek. And you don’t scare me, whatever titles you give yourself or ancient sword you carry. The folk of the Mahra Isles cower before no one. I’d caution you to remember that.”
Felnir inclined his head with a faint smile. “I shall. And I thank you for your honesty.”
“Where is she then?” the Black Gull demanded in a throaty wheeze, his good eye shining brighter than ever in the morning light.
He grunted in annoyance as his retinue set his chair down on the boards, bony hands pulling a seal fur blanket more tightly about his shoulders.
“The Silver Dove,” he went on. “I want to speak with her before I decide on her fate. Can’t choose between keelhauling or chaining her to a rock and slitting her belly for the gulls to feast on. ”
“The Silver Dove lies dead in her hall,” Felnir told him.
The ancient’s spotted, wrinkled face became still, pale skin reddening as anger overtook him. “By her own hand, I hope?” he grated.
“No. By mine. I killed her because she said something that angered me. I’ve discovered that your kind arouse my ire quite easily.
I wonder if it might be due to the terrible waste of what you were given.
Blessed with so many years and yet you spent it mired in greed and conflict.
I find your very existence… offensive.” The sword blazed as he drew it, blinding both the Gyrwald and his guards.
The blade parted the old man’s head from his shoulders with an effortless swipe.
It bounced on the edge of the jetty before sinking into the sea with a faint splash.
The Black Gull’s guards reacted swiftly, two of them charging instantly at Felnir, arms raised to ward off the sword’s glow. They followed their Gyrwald into the water in short order, blades shattered and chests slashed open.
“Hold!” Ahlfyrn cried, placing herself between Felnir and her remaining warriors. Blinking in the glow, she stared at Felnir in both recrimination and awed despair. She was, however, wise enough not to say anything.
The sword dimmed as Felnir lowered it, grunting in satisfaction. “Was he kin to you?” he asked Ahlfyrn, nodding to the headless corpse in the chair.
“The Gyrwald had no kin,” she replied. “The Silver Dove killed them all ages gone.”
“Then rejoice, Ahlfyrn, captain of the Turmvek, for I now name you Gyrwald of the Mahra Isles.” Sheathing the sword, Felnir extended a hand to her. “Kneel and swear fealty to me.”
He would have allowed her to stand, but felt a small mote of annoyance at her prior defiance. Once she had sunk to her knees and said the words, albeit with a faltering tongue, he told her to rise.
“Your first commission from your king,” he said, “is to set my fleet to sail to every port and village on the coast of Vorunvahl and proclaim that this land now has but one ruler: Felnir Skyrnrak, the Sea King, who will suffer the age of the Ehilkun no longer. But before you go, bring me every chart this old bastard ever scribbled down. They are mine now.”