Chapter Twenty-Five Thera #2
Smiling, Lynnea smoothed her thumb over the back of Thera’s knuckles. Nor I. Though, I believe we also obtained an important crumb of intelligence regarding our enemy.
“And what is that? We know he’s aware of our coming. If anything, we gave away more than we learned.”
Not so. One thing the spymaster said lingers.
“Defeating you would have ended it.” At first I thought it mere spiteful frustration.
But now I realise there was a deep, agonising fear beneath those words.
The spymaster needed to defeat us to preserve himself, I’ve no doubt of that.
But the great abyss of doom I sensed within him speaks of something more.
He has lived far longer than most who walk this earth, but abides in terror of his end.
I doubt there’s a crime he wouldn’t stoop to if it allowed him to draw just one more breath.
“And what does all this tell you, Tielwald of mine?”
That the Nihlvarian invasion of this realm was not intended as a conquest, at least not in the spymaster’s mind. It’s possible his intent was to delay something worse.
“What could be worse than the destruction his servants have inflicted upon us?”
But they are not truly his servants. Yes, the Volkrath served the spymaster, but he, and the warriors sent across the ocean to plague us, serve the Vortigurn. It is his design we must fear. And, if I read the spymaster’s feelings right, attacking his realm directly may actually serve that design.
“What other choice do we have? Sit and wait for his next invasion? If the Vortigurn’s plan for us is so vile, then killing him removes the threat.
” She brought Lynnea’s hand to her lips, kissing it.
“I like that you think on many levels, as my great-grandfather does. But sometimes, rather than unravel a knot, it’s better to cut it. ”
Although spring had fully blossomed, the weather became increasingly foul with every westerly mile sailed.
By the time the northerly Outer Isles resolved into view through a grey pall of rain, the sea was choppy and the wind stiff with the promise of a storm.
By dint of skilful sailing, and a measure of luck, the Great Wolf and much of the fleet’s vanguard made it to Danith’s Bay on the shore of Ayl-Ah-Vahrim before the tempest blew in from the south.
In Thera’s absence, the fortified coastal settlement had grown considerably.
The walls were higher and more solid, while what had been a collection of makeshift buildings had expanded into a true township.
A shipyard with three separate slipways dominated the shore alongside several workshops.
The shingle beach where the Nihlvarians had once grounded their warships before constructing a stockade, was now partially covered by a wharf with several jetties protruding into the deeper waters of the bay.
On disembarking, Thera was greeted by Aldeyn, recently appointed Uhlwald of Danith’s Bay and nephew to Ossgrym Ironbones. “The muster is answered well, I see,” Thera commented, obliged to shout over the wind and rain as she gestured to the dozens of ships moored along the jetties.
“With still more to come, my queen,” Aldeyn assured her. “There would be twice this many if not for the storm. Come.” He beckoned to her, moving in a crouch as a gust of wind threatened to tip him into the water. “My uncle awaits you at the hall.”
She found the Veilwald of the Kast Geld at feast in the hall originally built in her honour as Queen of the Isles.
Since her instalment at Skar Magnol it now served as the Uhlwald’s Hall, except when his uncle was in residence.
The Ironbones sat at the head of the table flanked by his most trusted warriors.
Thera was pleased to see his usually grim demeanour replaced by a hearty good cheer, for his vengeful crusade against the Nihlvarians had made him habitually dour.
Watching him laugh and touch tankards with his bondsmen set Thera to wonder if his grief might finally have begun to abate, and therefore so too his antipathy towards his nephew.
Inevitably, the merriment dwindled at Thera’s appearance, regardless of her instruction to continue.
As one, the assembled warriors stood with heads lowered and voices still as she made her way to the head table.
“My queen,” Ossgrym said, shoving kinsmen aside to make a place for her.
“We weren’t sure when you would arrive, else a proper welcome would have been prepared… ”
“Fear not, Veilwald,” Thera assured him, shaking rainwater from her hair and sinking into the chair he provided.
“As long as there’s warmth, meat and drink to be had, I’ll consider your welcome more than adequate.
Sit!” she added, waving at the standing warriors.
“Eat. Drink. I’ll not have it said your queen sent you to war on an empty belly. ”
Their laughter was muted as they resumed their seats, a hum of conversation replacing the excited revelry of moments before.
Wolfing down a portion of roast boar, Thera found herself trying not to resent the many glances cast in her direction.
The poorly concealed awe on display put her in mind of those who grovelled before statues of the Altvar, and she was no goddess.
“My vanguard are with me,” she told Ossgrym, “but the storm will have scattered the fleet. I’ll need your ships to scout for them when it calms.”
“It shall be done, my queen. Though, those skilled in reading the weather tell me it may take days for this one to blow itself out.”
“Ulfmaer tests us, it seems.” Thera’s gaze slipped to Aldeyn, a depressed sigh coming to her lips when she saw him seated at a different table. “The Uhlwald I appointed to oversee this new port appears to have been incorrectly placed,” she observed to Ossgrym. “Should he not be at your side?”
The Veilwald’s face clouded. “He sits where he wishes, my queen.” Although he spoke in a low mutter, Thera could still hear the same grievance in his tone.
“Must this ground be trammelled again?” she asked, keeping her voice low out of deference to the Veilwald, though it was edged with weary annoyance. “Your nephew did his duty as ordained by the Tielwald. His service was vital to securing this geld, if not the realm entire.”
She watched Ossgrym tap a stubby finger to his tankard, heavy features guarded.
“Forgive me, my queen,” he said, “but you have no children. So you know not the pain of losing them. In those dark days when the Skyrnloch first assailed us in these isles and I thought grief alone might kill me, my nephew was a great comfort to me, a son in all but name. Then came the day I had to listen to him stutter out the confession of his duplicity. It was as if I had lost another child.” He hefted the tankard and took a long gulp before raising it to her.
“Be assured that I will never forsake my oath to you. I am your sworn bondsman and will do all you command of me. If you wish me to smile at him, I shall. If you wish me to kneel before him, I shall. If you wish me to speak a lie of forgiveness, I shall. But my heart cannot be commanded. It feels what it feels. Though, as one who has done you, I believe, good service, I would ask a boon: please never speak to me of this again.”
I am not a goddess, she thought again as the Veilwald drained mead from his tankard and raised it high, calling for more. I rule them, but I don’t own them. Slavery I leave to my enemy. “As you wish, Veilwald,” she said quietly.
Ossgrym’s prediction regarding the storm’s length proved optimistic, for it didn’t fully subside until two days after Thera’s arrival.
Gathering the scattered fleet entailed a delay of another week followed by several days of repairs and re-provisioning in Danith’s Bay.
Ulfmaer’s lack of generosity with the weather raised worries over the state of the Styrnspeld.
If storms battered the Inner Isles in spring, what fury might await them on that most fractious of seas?
Finally, with every vessel fully stocked, planking securely nailed and rope coiled, the Queen’s hahl-menda set sail from Ayl-Ah-Vahrim.
They tacked northward first before hooking around the island’s coast towards the west. By Lynnea’s count the fleet had swollen by another third thanks to the reinforcements from the Kast and Aiken Gelds, despite the loss of half-a-dozen ships to the storm.
Initially, Thera’s fears proved unfounded, as they sailed beneath barely clouded skies.
The seas, never fully calm in the northern isles, remained relatively sedate for much of the journey to Iselda’s Nail.
It was as the lonely rock appeared through the morning haze that Ulfmaer’s wrath returned.
A light covering of cloud swiftly transformed into a thick grey-black blanket assailing the long procession of ships with sheets of hard, driving rain.