Chapter Thirty-One Guthnyr
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Guthnyr
The outlaw tried to speak as the noose jerked taut about his neck, tongue wriggling like a bloated worm, eyes bulging and legs kicking.
Guthnyr considered hanging a far worse punishment than beheading, and would have preferred employing the latter method here.
But Deyna insisted that, having unearthed the spy in their midst, his death must be both ugly and public.
The traitor’s features were undistinguished, even in death.
Once he had gasped his last, and Sygurn cut the body down, Guthnyr looked upon flaccid features that would have drawn scant notice in any crowd.
Finding him had not been easy, requiring much subtle investigation on Deyna’s part.
Far better attuned to the ways of the Travka than he, she had spent three weeks parsing the web of gossip that traced through the various factions of their army.
Finally, she alighted on one small nugget: Oryn, a man only recently accepted into a Travka band who listened much but said little.
He had also been vague about his past, beyond allusions to petty smuggling earning the ill-favour of an Aerling in some southern port.
His conspicuous absence during the battle at the river provided additional grounds for suspicion.
Although cowardice didn’t make him a spy, Oryn’s habit of disappearing into the woods, where he had been witnessed scribbling something on parchment, caused Deyna to order him seized and his belongings searched.
The discovery of several messages written in the same cypher as those found in Tuhlvyr Telmyrk’s chambers put the issue beyond doubt.
Oryn himself made no pretence of protesting his innocence.
In between bouts of fear-born vomiting, he gabbled out a detailed confession.
Confirming his recruitment from a gaol cell by the Kurgynrahk, he related an unlikely tale of how the spymaster maintained contact via shared dreams. As proof, he proffered a small silver trinket in the shape of a knot, claiming this enabled the Kurgynrahk to access his slumbering mind.
Guthnyr thought the story absurd but Deyna’s grim, thoughtful visage made it plain she gave it credence.
“Moyirn’s ways have always been mysterious,” she said during a pause in the questioning. “As is his ability to acquire knowledge he shouldn’t possess. Long have I pondered how it was done. Now I have an answer.”
They had tied Oryn to a chair in one of many cells to be found in the bowels of the Tuhlvyr’s Hall.
Guthnyr expected to find him bloody from beating, but couldn’t see a bruise on his unremarkable face.
“Unless this wretch is lying,” Guthnyr pointed out.
“Rarely have I seen a captive more willing to spill his secrets.”
“He’s too scared to lie. Nor does he entertain any doubts as to his fate. As reward for his honesty, all he asks for is a quick death.”
“Seems fair.”
“Not to me. And the Travka will be expecting a show. Among the clans, betraying your allegiance is akin to murdering a child.”
“Then why is he still willing to talk?”
Deyna squinted at Guthnyr in a manner that spoke of continued surprise at his guilelessness. “Because I lied, of course.”
Upon being led into the Sehlumvek market square to behold the waiting crowd and the gallows, Oryn had wept and soiled himself.
But, curiously, he failed to voice any protestation or condemnation of Deyna’s deceit.
The onlooking Travka were predictably vocal in the abuse they hurled at the spy, assailing him with both curses and detritus even after he had stopped kicking.
“It won’t be long before Moyirn realises he’s lost his eye in the north,” Deyna mused once the crowd had dispersed and Oryn’s corpse tossed onto the pyre.
She held up the spy’s silver knot, turning it back and forth in the light.
“It would be useful to know how this thing works. Perhaps I should do some dreaming of my own.”
“Better to throw the cursed thing away,” Guthnyr said. “By the sound of things, the Kurgynrahk seems more creature than man. I don’t think you want him in your head.”
“A fair point.” Deyna dropped the trinket into the purse on her belt. “Though it would benefit us greatly if I could but glimpse his mind. He’ll know we’ve taken this city. The question arises as to what he, and more importantly, the Vortigurn will do about it.”
“They have but two choices. Come and take it back or wait for us to move south. I will not allow them the leisure to prepare either an attack or a defence. We march as soon as we’re able.”
“The further south we go, the greater the danger. Those who fled this place will have spread word of the Tielvik’s menda far and wide. Fear and panic will surely aid us, but could also spur fierce resistance. And we can’t expect all cities between here and the Citadel to be so poorly prepared.”
“They have many slaves within their walls, do they not? Now the fire of rebellion has been lit, it’s sure to spread.”
It was sometimes difficult to read Deyna’s expression, the former Tuhlvyr being so skilled in concealing her thoughts. But intimate proximity had afforded Guthnyr an insight denied others. So, when he saw her lower her head while tightening her lips, he knew she was stilling her tongue.
“Is there another threat to the south?” he pressed. “Something, for reasons best known to yourself, you choose to keep back?”
“No. Just a conclusion based on logic.” Deyna let out a sigh and turned to face him.
“News of a slave rebellion will have spread, that is certain. What is also certain is the reaction of every Aerling and Tuhlvyr who hears it. The last such revolt began in a place called the Red Sands, a mining settlement on the eastern coast. As with us, the slaves rose up and allied themselves with some local outlaw bands. They began a march for the nearest port but word of their uprising flew ahead of them. By the time they reached it, they found it empty of free folk but full of slaves. Slave corpses that is. It was the same story everywhere they marched until, eventually, the Vortigurn’s pet general met them in battle. None were spared.”
“Which means more slaves will die for every day we tarry here. You must have known this.”
“There was nothing to be done. No army could march fast enough to stop it.” Her tone was sharp, eyes glinting with an anger he found surprising. Normally, accusations of moral failure bounced off her like peas off armour. Guthnyr couldn’t tell if it arose from guilt or the discovery of her deceit.
“We march on the morrow,” Guthnyr stated. “To the closest city.”
“We’re still gathering supplies. And most of the new recruits can barely stand in line…”
“We march on the morrow.” The harshness of his tone was enough to bring her to silence. “I will expect you to provide a destination,” he went on, turning away. “And tonight, I would prefer to sleep alone.”
Dernvek was more a town than a city, being considerably smaller than Sehlumvek but with higher walls that could have enabled a prolonged defence.
Yet the gates stood open and not a single horn or voice was raised in alarm as Guthnyr led his mounted vanguard forward.
Drawing nearer, he saw that the walls featured a singular form of decoration.
The stench of decomposition told the tale even before the dangling corpses became clear.
They hung every few yards along the entirety of the wall, staining the stones and the air.
Guthnyr forced himself to count them all, refusing to deny himself the sight of hanged children or pregnant women, for not a single slave in Dernvek had been spared.
“One thousand, one hundred and eighty-two,” he murmured to himself when the task was done. “One thousand, one hundred and eighty-two.”
Inside, they found empty houses stripped of both provisions and valuables.
Guthnyr let the Travka have the run of the place anyway, and made no effort to fight the fires that soon began to shroud the town in smoke.
He did, however, order the bodies taken down and laid within the walls for the flames to see them on their way to the Altvar’s embrace.
“It will be the same all along the road south,” Deyna said. “But we can expect barred gates and defended walls once we reach the Vortigurn’s heartland.”
Guthnyr had gathered the captains of this curious menda for a conference.
They camped for the night atop a low hill a mile south of Dernvek, still casting flame into the dimming sky.
As was now customary, the Morvek ranged the approaches but Tirohk’s scouts reported only the tracks of those fleeing the city and no sign of an approaching army.
“Asking this lot to scale the walls of one city would be unwise,” Sygurn said, casting a caustic eye across the untidy rows of tents and shelters raised by the Tielvik’s horde. “Getting them to do it over and over again all the way to the capital would be fecking impossible.”
“Then we don’t,” Guthnyr replied. “We avoid the cities completely, give battle only where we’re met in open field. I hear time and again of the paucity of the Vortigurn’s forces. With luck, our march may be uncontested.”
“Trusting to luck is bad practice in war,” Deyna said.
“As I would know better than most. Besides, although the Vortigurn has sent many warriors across the sea, he is sure to have retained a strong force in the Citadel. Cruel, and perhaps mad though he is, none could ever call him foolish. We must be cautious now. With no hope of recruiting more slaves, one misstep and this rebellion ends in bloody ruin.”
“You speak of caution while Ruhlin suffers in the Vortigurn’s clutches,” Aleida said, fixing Deyna with a harsh glower, one she quickly turned on Guthnyr. “We began this for a reason. Do you intend to forsake your brother now?”
“I forsake no one,” he growled. “Not Ruhlin, and not these people who have pledged themselves to me on the promise of sound leadership.”