Chapter Twenty-Four Felnir #2
“Three jewels,” Wohtin said. He stood in the centre of what had been the Silver Dove’s treasury.
Already depleted by the strains of war, Felnir had been compelled to empty it entirely in order to pay the rewards promised to his warriors.
In place of the sacks of coin and chests filled with sundry valuables, there was now a large cavernous vault.
The expansive floorspace enabled Wohtin to set out all the charts crafted by the Black Gull.
Arranged so that the various rivers, coasts and islands aligned with each other, it formed a vast map covering near all of Vorunvahl.
However, after expending so many hours upon this complex task, the old man appeared disinterested in his creation.
Several times upon visiting this room to demand progress, Felnir had found him staring not at the charts, but into the middle distance, muttering to himself in a strange tongue.
“Jewels?” Felnir asked, allowing a note of impatient threat to colour his tone.
“A tale once told to me by a Kearling elder. My wife’s grand-uncle, I believe. My understanding of the Kearling tongue was still poor then, and I thought his story merely an allegorical fable. Now, I recognise it as history, reflecting that set in stone.”
“The carvings in the Aryngyr,” Felnir said.
“Quite so. Its meaning becomes clearer to me with each passing day. Three jewels. They, I believe, are the key to successfully navigating the Swathe.”
“The Swathe,” Felnir repeated, directing his gaze to the northern cluster of splayed charts. “There is no sea route to be had, then?”
“If there is, it’s not among these charts. If you wish to journey to the northern lands, the Swathe is the only means of doing so.”
“With the aid of three jewels. Are they more gifts from the gods, perhaps? Do they lie in the bowels of the earth, only to be recovered after a troublesome and prolonged quest?”
Wohtin’s face crinkled in irritation. “It’s a metaphor.
An allusion to items of great beauty and value.
The Kearling tongue was often poetic in its indirectness.
” A fond smile curved his lips. “I recall it took me sometime to realise that when my wife spoke of having ripened under the sun’s touch she meant she was pregnant. ”
His smile fading under the weight of Felnir’s glower, Wohtin reached into his satchel to extract a sheaf of charcoal sketches. “Impressions of the carvings in the Aryngyr,” he said, holding them out to Felnir. Taking them, he saw only a mishmash of light and shade.
“If I’m not mistaken,” Wohtin continued, “these are the constellations we know as Torkyl’s Key, Denhild’s Cup and Karnic’s Spear.
Assuming the story the elder told me holds true, if we follow them, we find the jewels and earn safe passage across the Swathe, for these constellations are only seen in the north-western skies. ”
“And if you’re mistaken?”
Pursing his lips, the old man shrugged. “Then those who inherit your kingdom will no doubt name you Felnir the Short Reigned. Or perhaps Felnir of the Lonely Death, for I tell you plainly, there are few hearts, regardless of prior renown, who would follow you across the Swathe.”
“You have a name?”
The boy squinted at Felnir through the bars of his cell, eyes a-glimmer with the same pitch of hate he had displayed at the docks.
The Silver Dove’s dungeons were located in a stone building separate from her main hall.
Ringed by a low wall, it featured a small courtyard occupied by a solid frame of aged oak timber.
Despite the frame’s obvious antiquity, the noose that dangled from its beam was new.
By all accounts, the former ruler of this port had never been sparing in her administration of justice.
Upon first coming here, Felnir found the cells filled with condemned men and women described by Audheld the watch commander as, “Cowardly filth who refused to fight when called.” From her curled lip he had deduced she still hoped to see every one of these unfortunates dragged to the waiting gallows.
Instead, Felnir had freed them all, meaning this youthful miscreant was now the gaol’s sole occupant.
“Answer your king!” Beyorn snarled, slamming a fist to the bars when the boy continued to stare at Felnir in silence.
Felnir would not normally have brought his most maniacally devoted servant into proximity with a would-be assassin.
But Wohtin’s cautionary words regarding the Swathe had compelled Felnir to explore a possibility that required Beyorn’s presence.
“His name is Korstyn, my king,” Audheld said. “Son to Haldryk, Turmwald of the Marsh Keep.”
Turning to her, Felnir saw a tension in the Watch Commander’s jaw and a concerned flicker to her eye.
She was ever perturbed in his presence but this told of something deeper than resentment towards the murderer of her former Gyrwald.
“This boy is kin to you,” he realised. “Meaning you were also kin to Turmwald Haldryk.”
“He was my uncle, my king. When my parents were taken by a fever, he took me into his house and raised me.” She paused to emit an uncomfortable cough. “Korstyn is therefore more a brother than a cousin, and I… I beseech you for mercy.”
“Still your traitor’s tongue, woman!” Beyorn growled, his hand moving to his sword. “You beg for the life of one who would spill the Sea King’s blood? Are you mad?”
“Calm yourself, my friend,” Felnir said, keeping his voice mild as he stepped into Beyorn’s path.
“There is more at play here than the bonds of blood. You see, before he died, I made a promise to this boy’s father.
” He returned his scrutiny to Korstyn, curiosity now piercing the mask of his defiance.
“Yes, young man,” Felnir continued, “I it was who slew your father at the Marsh Keep, with this.”
The sword’s glowing blade shone bright in Korstyn’s eyes as Felnir drew it, all trace of the boy’s prior enmity slipping away as his expression transformed into one of abject wonder.
Another one easily claimed, Felnir concluded.
Those who seem to harbour the fiercest passions fall easily under its sway.
Glancing at Audheld, he saw only wariness and ill-concealed suspicion in the gaze she directed at the sword.
Like Vehldur and Tyrheld, it wove no cage about her heart.
She shared blood with Korstyn, but not weakness.
“But we exchanged words first,” Felnir said, turning to Korstyn.
“He bade me have a care for his family. I agreed, for he was a brave man who refused to abandon an oath made to an unworthy Gyrwald. A promise made on the battlefield is not one to break, especially for a king. Wouldn’t you say so, Beyorn?
Or would you see your king disgrace his word? ”
“Never, my king.” Stepping back, Beyorn lowered his head. “Forgive my outburst. I only wished…”
“There’s nothing to forgive,” Felnir assured him with a laugh before sheathing the sword. “Unlock this cell and take your cousin home, Watch Commander,” he told Audheld. “I’ve a sense he offers no more threat to his king.”
With the barred grate opened, Korstyn stumbled free with the same blankness on his face. He continued to stare dumbly at Felnir until his cousin pulled him away with a harsh, muttered rebuke. “Your mother is going to strip your hide, you stupid little sot.”
Felnir watched her hector him from the building before gesturing to Beyorn. “Walk with me, my friend. I would set you a task, if you are willing.”
“Of course, my king.” Beyorn fell in alongside as Felnir strode from the gaol. “Command me and I shall do all in my power…”
“I know.” Forcing a smile, Felnir came to a halt in the courtyard.
“I gave you charge of the Aryngyr, now behold my second gift to you.” He opened his hands, gesturing to the grim stone structure.
“Henceforth, this is no longer a storehouse for those awaiting the noose. Now it is the Warrior’s Hall, and you its Turmwald.
Here, Beyorn, will you perform your greatest service to me.
Here you will build me a menda capable of marching across the Swathe. ”