Chapter Thirty-Nine Felnir #3
Antak had stopped at the edge of a deep, broad canyon winding its way north without apparent ending.
Even amid the rocky wastes of the eastern deserts, Felnir had never seen a landscape of such majestic proportions.
The canyon’s walls stood a thousand feet high at least, its floor several miles wide in places.
Tracing through it all was the blue ribbon of a river which accounted for the lush greenery that covered its banks.
The first birds Felnir had seen since treading foot upon the Swathe flocked and swooped among tall trees and the air was a pleasant floral-tinged contrast to the dusty dryness of the scrubland to their rear.
“The third jewel,” Wohtin said, sinking to his knees and regarding the sight with unabashed wonder.
Felnir assumed Antak would continue to ignore the old man but this time he consented to reply. “Yes. And know well,” he went on, turning a hard glare on Felnir, “you will not be permitted to tarnish it in any way.”
“We seek only succour,” Felnir said. “If you can provide it, you will be rewarded…”
He trailed off when Antak began to laugh, a sound as rich in contempt as it was humour. “Your swift departure will be all the reward we require,” he said before pointing his staff at a descending set of carved steps nearby. “The path is treacherous and the drop sheer. If you fall, you die.”
This was quickly proven to be no exaggeration.
The steps had been scraped from red sandstone and were deeply worn with a tendency to crumble underfoot.
Felnir considered it something of a miracle only one of his menda fell during the journey to the canyon floor.
A devotee of the sword who had endured Beyorn’s tests in Speldhelven, he had spent the previous few days lost to the fugue that indicated onset of Swathe fever.
Consequently, his ability to navigate such a precarious descent proved negligible and he toppled over the edge halfway down.
It said much for the state of his mind that he didn’t scream as he fell.
Felnir spent much of the difficult journey ensuring Tyrheld kept her footing.
He dared not risk loosening her bonds, for the fever’s signature stare lingered on her hollowed features.
However, as they neared the final few steps, he saw her blink more often, shaking her head as if waking from a dream.
Once embraced by shade of the lush forest, they followed Antak along the bank of a fast-flowing river to a point where it branched into a narrower canyon.
The water was calmer here, Felnir seeing a dozen or so boats bobbing on the current.
They were narrow craft, each bearing two or three occupants engaged in casting nets into the river.
Upon spying Antak, they left off their fishing to stare at the procession of besmirched outsiders slouching in his wake.
Some called out to Antak but he merely waved his staff in response and gave no answer.
Deeper into the canyon, the babble of excited voices dragged Felnir’s gaze to the tall cliffs where he saw many people returning his stare.
They emerged from cave-like shelters in the canyon walls.
Above their heads a web of ropes spanned the gap to the opposite wall where more people gathered on tiered galleries to regard what must surely be a novel event.
Their garb was much the same as Antak’s, leather cloaks and pale wool presumably spun from the fleeces of the many long-haired goats penned on the lower levels of this strange settlement.
Antak called a halt when they came to a crescent-shaped beach.
Many boats rested upon the sand where folk looked up from the business of mending nets or patching leather hulls.
Waiting nearby was a woman of much the same age as Antak, though considerably less tall with a far more welcoming visage.
Upon seeing Wohtin she rushed towards him, face lit by a warm smile.
Taking the old man’s hands, she pressed her lips to them before speaking in a language Felnir had never heard before: “Elipha.” From the way she clutched his hands, and the obvious similarity in feature between her and Antak, Felnir could easily divine the meaning of her greeting: Father.
“Kurin,” Wohtin said, his voice a croak and tears brimming in his eyes. Casting a desperate gaze over the settlement, he went on, “Your mother…?”
Kurin’s smile dimmed and she shook her head before replying in Ascarlian that sounded better practised than her brother’s: “It has been many ages of sun and moon since she left us, Father. But know that she never doubted you would come. She had foreseen it. Though—” her smile disappeared completely as she shifted her focus to Felnir and his menda “—she always said you would come alone save the sword bearer.”
As her gaze tracked over the parade of starved humanity, Felnir saw something else that set her apart from her brother: compassion.
“Tell your people to rest here,” she told Felnir.
“Shelter will be provided, and food.” When Felnir continued to survey the settlement, his hand still resting on the sword, she added, “Nothing threatens you here, sword bearer. Our people do not know war. That is the province of your kind.”
Once Felnir had organised his exhausted followers into some semblance of an encampment, Kurin proved true to her word.
People descended the many stairs and ropes to bring them baskets laden with fish and fruits.
As they moved among the newcomers, Felnir noted the similarity in feature of these people, marking the same angle of cheek and jaw.
But he saw no men with beards save Antak.
“My king?”
Turning at the sound of the softly spoken question, he found Tyrheld regarding him with a weak, embarrassed smile. “Would you consent to loosen these bonds?” she asked, shrugging her shoulders. “So that I might eat.”
“Of course.” As he undid the rope that bound her, he saw no vestige of the fever in her expression.
Casting his gaze around the faces of his once proud menda, he sought out those he had marked as impending victims of the suicidal malaise.
In each case the fever had vanished, replaced with ravening hunger and often tearful gratitude for their benefactors.
“Do you feel… better now?” he ventured, looking again at Tyrheld as she bit into an apple.