Chapter Thirty-Four Felnir #3
Letting out a long, weary sigh, Wohtin blinked and slowly turned to Felnir.
The resentment towards the man he had helped make a king clearer than ever as he said, “I don’t know.
It could be that the process of entering that chamber weakened some already strained part of the rock.
Or, we were meant to be crushed there. I have no way of knowing. ”
“The statue. You said it was your wife. How can that possibly be true?”
“I wish I knew. I have no memory of our parting, but I recall words she spoke to me when I sensed her heart had turned from our union. She had a way of perceiving the course of events that rarely proved false. ‘All you have built has fallen,’ she said. ‘All your efforts to rebuild it will bring only sorrow.’ As for how her very image came to be in that chamber, I simply cannot say.”
“Assuming what you say is true and she could predict the future, she would’ve known you would find the jewel. If it was a trap then the next may be equally perilous.”
“It may. Or she may have left another sign for me.” Wohtin’s mood appeared to lighten as he looked to the horizon. “There is but one way to find out.” Kicking his heels, he sent his pony into a lively trot and was deaf to Felnir’s warnings about the treacherous ground.
“Get after him,” he called to Beyorn. “Make sure the old fool doesn’t find a bog to drown himself in.”
Fortunately, Wohtin’s foray didn’t last long, since his mount proved disinclined towards anything more strenuous than an occasional canter.
However, he remained at the head of the column, eyes keenly searching the increasingly hazy landscape for anything of interest. By evening, the air took on a growing chill and the haze had become a thick fog.
Felnir would have preferred to forge on for another few miles, but doing so in such conditions invited only disaster.
The regular evening meal was a brief affair, cut short when a stiffening wind banished the mist only for it to be replaced by a hard rain.
A miserable night beneath sodden canvas gave way to an equally rain-lashed morning.
Continuing the march was out of the question as it was impossible to see more than a few yards in any direction.
Distant thunder grew throughout the day until they found themselves assailed by a storm.
Lightning flashed across the land, spooking warriors and beasts.
The cattle were more easily panicked than the horses, some breaking free of their rope enclosure to pelt away into the gathering dark.
It was this night they suffered their first loss.
A man named Hulsyn, a veteran of the Craggens and the Aryngyr, attempted to arrest the charge of a galloping cow and suffering a horn through the chest as a reward.
Come the morn, the storm had settled into a persistent drizzle.
Unable to light a pyre for Hulsyn, Felnir ordered his body consigned to the earth before they recommenced the march.
A count of the cattle revealed only half the herd remained, although they were able to recover five of the beasts during the day.
Others they found sunken into bogs, their horns jutting from the stagnant water.
The loss was made more grievous by the fact that Felnir was forced to order the first cattle slaughtered a few days later.
Their supplies of preserves and dried beef were now exhausted, meaning every subsequent meal would be a mix of hard tack and meat.
For another ten days, they marched at Wohtin’s direction.
Felnir began to notice an increasing slump to his warriors’ posture.
He saw faces hollowed not by hunger but the weariness of their daily existence and an ever more potent detestation of their surroundings.
Felnir began to tour the camp at night, making sure to draw the sword so that it continued to entice those already captured by its glow.
Yet, even these enraptured souls were not immune to the depredations of this land.
The first true victim of the Swathe was a hearty fellow named Galvyr.
One of Beyorn’s riders, and fully immersed in the same brand of unswerving loyalty to the Sea King, he was often given to song at night.
His voice wasn’t particularly melodious but possessed enough strength and vitality to command the ear.
His booming recitations of old sea shanties and battle odes became something of a nightly ritual, until the night when Felnir no longer heard his voice.
A torchlit search discovered him face down in marshy ground, blood mixing with water from his opened throat and a knife in his hand.
The only clue to a change in mood had been the absence of song.
Once again, Felnir had him buried. When the menda resumed its march, he paused to regard the mound of dark, soggy earth.
The only marker was Galvyr’s sword, which would soon slump into the mud, never to be seen again.
Watching the dew bead the blade, Felnir suffered a harsh stab of certainty that this would not be the last grave he would leave upon the Swathe.