Chapter Forty-Nine Felnir
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Felnir
The sun had burned away the mist by the time the Sea King’s menda began its crossing of the Deep Fjord.
Felnir had commandeered the fishing boats from the village, although not before handing over a copious amount of silver to their wary and confused owners.
The riches did serve to loosen tongues, however, and Felnir was able to set out with clear instructions regarding the route to the Citadel where their king, this Vortigurn, made his capital.
“Head east and keep to the middle of the fjord,” the aged net-mender advised.
“The currents around the edges can be treacherous if you don’t know ’em.
Set out now and you’ll find the Citadel off your port side an hour past midday.
” He paused to cast a doubtful squint at the overcast sky.
“Reckon you’ll have a damp time of it before long.
Best have some buckets handy for bailing. ”
Not all Felnir’s warriors could fit in the fishing boats so he ordered ropes slung between them and the smaller craft, the net-mender having advised that no amount of rowing would prevent the current carrying them off.
Once the makeshift fleet had been pushed into the water with all hands aboard, the experienced sailors among them raised sails and tacked east. Contrary to the old villager’s prediction, there was no rain for the duration of the journey, though the sky retained the disturbed ugliness of an impending storm.
It was when the city came into view that Felnir felt a sudden animated thrum from the sword.
They had rounded a shallow bend to find the Citadel waiting a mile or so ahead.
From this distance it appeared as a sprawl of irregular greyness contained within a wall looping around from the shoreline.
The gathering storm was especially noticeable in the sky above the port, the surrounding clouds seeming to gravitate towards it like eddies in a whirlpool.
When the sword began to thrum, Felnir put a hand to the hilt.
It felt like touching the outer skin of a beehive and the message it communicated was the clearest yet.
Felnir blinked, letting out an involuntary shout as an image of his brother flared in his mind: Guthnyr swinging frantically with a sword, surrounded by enemies.
The buildings in the background made it clear this took place somewhere in the depths of this city.
Looming above, was a tall, thin tower reaching up to the centre of the cloud vortex at the heart of the storm.
“My lord?” Falk asked, reaching out to steady Felnir as he staggered, the vision disappearing as quickly as it had arrived.
“Unship all oars!” Felnir called out, casting his voice to the other boats. “Row hard!”
Drawing near to the Citadel, Felnir saw a great many ships crowding the docks of this port.
A vast tumult rose from the city and he caught glimpses of intense skirmishes raging in alleys and streets.
They had arrived in the midst of a battle.
Unwilling to lead his menda into the jumbled mess of ships cramming the dockside, he ordered their flotilla to make for a series of jetties protruding from a district where the close-packed houses continued all the way to the shore.
He leaped clear of the fishing boat the moment its hull thumped the jetty, pausing to allow the others to follow suit.
Once the platform was filled with warriors, Felnir pointed to the tower rising above the rooftops ahead.
“There lies our goal,” he told them. “I know not who fights here, nor do I care. I came for my brother and will slay any who raise a hand to him or to us. You followed me across the Swathe, now I promise glory for any who follow me this day!”
He didn’t wait for the answering clamour of eager voices, but was gratified to hear it as he started along the jetty.
The rest of his menda streamed along the piers to either side, shields readied and blades bared.
Having endured so much, it seemed they were enlivened by the prospect of battle.
No more slogging through marsh or scrub.
No more paddling the endless river. They were warriors all, and here at last was war.
Entering the dense maze of streets, Felnir found no one waiting to oppose them.
The din of combat echoed but in these constricted alleyways it was hard to tell where it raged.
A few hundred paces from the jetties they emerged into a place marked by the smell as a fish market, though it more resembled a butcher’s yard.
Bodies lay sprawled amid destroyed stalls and carts, their blood mingling on the cobbles with spilled fish.
Pausing to inspect the dead, Felnir saw a youth no more than fifteen summers old impaled upon the sword of the man beneath.
The boy was holding a flensing knife which he had driven into the warrior’s throat.
He was considerably older and, unlike the youth who had joined him in death, girded for war with leather armour and a helm that had clearly seen prior service.
Both his garb and the blue tattoos inked into his face were instantly familiar.
“This man’s Ascarlian,” he told Falk, pointing to the markings on the warrior’s temples. “This pattern is only used in the Aiken Geld.”
“But this is not Ascarlia, my lord.” A measure of his previous, habitual confusion showed on Falk’s brow as he surveyed the surrounding shambles. “Is it?”
“No,” Felnir assured him. “We remain far from home…”
He trailed off at the sound of raised voices.
It quickly grew in volume, echoing from the surrounding alleys in a discordant cacophony, lacking all meaning save an animalistic hunger.
“Shield wall!” Felnir barked to his companions an instant before the mob erupted from the side streets.
He saw that, like many of the bodies littering this market, these were not warriors.
Their age ranged from child to crone, their garb tattered and torn.
Many bore bleeding wounds and most carried no weapon.
Yet they all shared a manic desire to attack these interlopers into their city.
“Steady!” he called out, locking the rim of his own shield to Falk’s on his right and Tyrheld’s on his left. Unsheathing the Sword of the Altvar, he made ready to thrust over the barrier at the first to throw their weight against it. No attack came. Also, the hungry scream had faded to silence.
Risking a glance above the shield wall, he found the mob had come to a halt.
Every eye was turned on Felnir, or rather, the glowing sword in his hand.
They gazed at it in slack-mouthed fascination, arms lowered to their sides.
A few more came yammering from a nearby alley but stumbled to a halt the moment the blade’s luminescence played upon their faces.
Soon there were several dozen ragged, bloodied townsfolk standing before the shield wall.
Felnir began to suspect the sword had rendered them insensible, but then he saw an awareness creep over them, eyes lighting with comprehension and horror.
“What…?” a woman in a torn shift gasped, hands covering her mouth as she took in the horror of her surroundings. “What has been done here?”
To her right came a clatter of metal on stone as a beefy man in leather apron dropped the gore-encrusted cleaver he had been carrying. Staring in wide-eyed shock at the bodies all around, he began to weep. Soon the entire group were convulsed in collective repulsion and disbelief.
“You!” the woman in the shift hissed, levelling a finger at Felnir. “You did this!”
“We did nothing…” Felnir began, stepping clear of the shield wall.
This act, and the continuing glow of the sword, immediately set most of the townsfolk to flight.
Yelling in fear and calling out warnings of murderous invaders, they fled into the maze of alleys.
The sole exception was the man in the leather apron.
Sinking to his knees, he lowered his face to his hands and wept.
“My lord,” Falk said, Felnir turning to find the outlaw pointing to a narrow street. Echoing through it was the telltale clamour of combat, and Felnir was sure he recognised Beyorn’s strident tones among the babble.
“Keep in close order,” Felnir instructed before starting down the alley.
It soon opened out into a long, broad thoroughfare stretching away towards the city’s western wall.
He assumed it must be the main route from the city gate, a suspicion confirmed by the many carts lying abandoned or overturned along its length.
The goods they carried were spilt and scattered among the many bodies lying upon the paved roadway.
Some townsfolk lay there, but most were a mix of warriors, some with red tattoos on their faces, others blue.
A good many had been pierced with arrows, and others bore the hack marks of edged weapons.
However, there were some with the crushed skulls or misaligned limbs that typically resulted from falling from a great height.
The din of battle came from Felnir’s left where he saw many of his own warriors streaming from the alleys of the fish market district.
They were swiftly embroiled in a fierce skirmish with a contingent of red-faced opponents.
As he formed his company into a column and charged towards the scene, Felnir thought it strange that the enemy should be so few in number yet had still not been overwhelmed.
An explanation came when he saw them all step back and drop to one knee.
An instant later, a dozen of Felnir’s warriors were blasted into the air as if struck by an invisible fist. They tumbled away to impact surrounding walls and rooftops, leaving their comrades stunned and incapable of defending themselves against what came next.