Chapter Forty-Nine Felnir #3
“My lord!” Falk said, voice loud with warning. The outlaw faced the eastern end of the thoroughfare, axe raised in readiness. Beyond him, Felnir saw a large contingent of warriors approaching in good order.
“Form ranks!” he called out, smiling at the instant response of his warriors.
They endure uncounted miles of curse born misery, he thought, survive the arcane mischief wrought by this woman, and yet move as if fresh to the field.
Whatever else chroniclers in times to come might consider the legacy of Felnir Skyrnrak, he would take some comfort from the certainty that he had created the finest menda ever to take the field.
Finding his shield a burden on an increasingly benumbed arm, he handed it to Tyrheld. “Hold this for me.”
“Of course, my king.” Felnir thought the catch in her voice and frightened cast to her gaze said much for her perception. Like him, she had seen enough wounds to form an inescapable conclusion. Clasping her shoulder in thanks, he hefted the Sword of the Altvar and turned to face the new threat.
The movements of the approaching force struck him as odd.
Instead of a battle formation, they hurried in small groups from one building to the next, many carrying casks.
Forcing the doors and windows open, they dumped the contents of the casks inside before moving on.
It was only when they noticed Felnir’s warriors drawn up in battle order that they began to form a line of their own.
By then, they were close enough for him to make out the blue ink marking their faces.
Lowering the sword, Felnir started forward, holding up a hand.
At first, these Ascarlians reacted with wary readiness, hunching behind their shields with weapons poised.
Then a tall, flaxen-haired man at the forefront of their line straightened in sudden, amazed recognition.
Felnir looked closely at the man’s scarred visage but couldn’t summon a name to match it.
“The queen!” the scarred warrior called out, casting his voice back across the ranks arrayed to his rear. “Summon the queen!”
Soon the warriors parted to make way for a tall figure bearing a double-bladed axe.
Felnir felt no surprise at all upon seeing her face in full, nor at the fact that these others called her a queen.
For her part, his sister’s face, though begrimed from battle, was lit with both astonishment and, as was more typical, consternation at her brother’s appearance.
“Of all the faces you hoped to see,” he told her, “I would guess mine was not counted among them.”
A faint but familiar smile of annoyance curved her lips.
“The old man thought you were most likely dead,” she said.
“I didn’t. I’m… pleased to be proven right.
” Her smile faded as her gaze shifted to the glowing blade in his hand.
“Elvine told me you found a sword in the Vaults of the Altvar. I assume that’s it. ”
“Elvine? She’s alive?”
“When last I saw her.”
Felnir felt a warm rush of joy at the news, but it was quickly swallowed by the creeping numbness. “And I find you a queen,” he said. “Sister Iron made way for you?”
A shadow passed over Thera’s face. “Sister Iron is dead. As is Sister Silver. Both slain by the treachery of Sister Lore. I came to this land with much to avenge.” She grimaced at Felnir’s pained bafflement.
“A great deal has happened in your absence, brother.” She looked beyond him at the ranks of his menda.
“It seems you found enough scoundrels to form another band.”
“They are my subjects,” he told her. “In whom I am well pleased.” The words were a simple statement of fact, uncoloured by the pride or triumph he always thought would characterise his next meeting with his sister.
All the enmity shared over so many years seemed a distant thing now, an indulgence of the children they no longer were.
“You are a queen, and I a king. Do you think the old man would finally be proud of us…?” His voice trailed off into a hiss as a deep, visceral pain lanced through his insides.
“Felnir…” Thera began, coming to his side.
“Took a bit of a knock, is all,” he told her, waving her back. “Have you seen Guthnyr?”
“Guthnyr? He’s here?”
“I hope so. Else this has been the most wasted of journeys.” He nodded to the casks carried by her warriors. “Intent on arson, I see.”
“This madness has to end,” she said. “These people are diseased. Their sickness must be burned out.”
“Then I hope you stay your torches until we find our brother, at least.”
“You’re sure he’s in this city?”
Felnir raised the sword. “Unless the gods have been lying to me.” Turning, he pointed to the thin tower rising above the rooftops. “There. That’s where we’ll find him.”
“The streets are choked with mad folk intent on slaughter. Fighting our way there will take a day, or longer.”
“Not with this.” Felnir hefted the Sword of the Altvar and started towards the tower. “They’ll make way for me. Follow close…” He faltered as agony stabbed his insides once again. Forcing a smile, he added, “Sister.”