Chapter Fifty-Two Felnir
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
Felnir
“FELNIR!”
The voice seemed to echo from a great distance at first, barely piercing the fugue of pain that had become Felnir’s lot during the advance from the shore.
But, dim as the hailing cry was, instant recognition served to banish his chilled fatigue.
“Guthnyr,” he said, raising a hand to halt the Sea King’s menda as they turned their shields to confront the tall, onrushing figure.
In the few seconds before he found himself enfolded in a crushing embrace, Felnir took heart from his brother’s unwounded, if heavily besmirched state.
The visions, for all their frustrating vagueness, hadn’t lied.
The principal object of this mission had been fulfilled.
Yet, as Guthnyr released him and drew back, a near manic relief and pleasure showing on his face, Felnir’s gaze shifted to the furious battle raging below the walls of the Vortigurn’s hall. His task this day was far from done.
“You got old,” he told Guthnyr, turning to peer at a face that had indeed acquired new lines, and new strength, since their parting.
“Not so much as you. Look like you’re ready to drop.” Guthnyr laughed, then sobered as his gaze tracked over his brother’s haggard visage and bloodstained armour. “Fel…”
“Don’t fret.” Felnir grasped Guthnyr’s neck and drew him close until their foreheads touched. “We’ve still much to do. And I brought some help.”
Guthnyr straightened in renewed amazement as Thera came running to their side. She allowed only a brief clinch with her youngest brother, touching a hand to his face before turning to regard the slaughter unfolding before them. “This must be stopped,” she said.
“They’re your army, are they not, brother?” Felnir said, fighting down a fresh wave of pain that threatened to tip him from his feet. “Will they not heed the word of their leader?”
Guthnyr gave a helpless shake of his head, features bunching as he surveyed the intensifying carnage. “This is centuries’ worth of hatred unleashed,” he said. “Morvek and Travka with an endless litany of grievances to settle. My word alone won’t stop it.”
“You have to!” Thera insisted. Raising her axe, she pointed the double blades at the ill-favoured spiral of cloud above the tower.
Its centre was as black as pitch now and Felnir could hear a sound echoing from it depths.
It wasn’t thunder, more like a collective screech issued by many hungry throats.
“That,” Thera said, “will be our end if you don’t. This I have seen.”
“Even if I could pull my own lot back, the people of this city have been driven mad,” Guthnyr replied. “They won’t stop.”
Felnir’s gaze dropped to the glowing blade of the Sword of the Altvar, recalling the group of townsfolk from the fish market.
One instant they had been little more than ravening beasts, the next grief-stricken souls with no memory of the havoc they had caused.
Transformed by its light, Felnir thought.
As if sensing his intention, the blade’s glow intensified, the power contained within this arcane implement sending a jolt through his arm.
Felnir staggered again, the numbness spreading from his still bleeding wound so that he could barely feel the wind on his skin, nor the black rain falling from the impossible storm.
This sword was placed in your hand for a reason.
Words spoken by an ancient soul trapped in stone, now revealed as inescapable truth.
“Felnir!”
Blinking, Felnir realised he had fallen to his knees.
Guthnyr crouched at his side, eyes wide with concern and disbelief.
He always thought I was invincible. The thought brought a smile to Felnir’s lips as he once again put a hand to his brother’s neck.
“There is a kingdom to the south…” he said, words coming in a laboured groan now.
“Its name is Vorunvahl. Falk will guide you… Sygna rules there… Speak well to her of me. And tell her…” He stiffened, feeling something give inside him.
Gritting his teeth against the pain, he spoke on, “Tell her of my sorrow… that I couldn’t keep my promise. ”
Guthnyr began to speak, but Felnir used the last reserves of his strength to push him away.
Surging to his feet, he raised the Sword of the Altvar and charged into the fray.
As the frenzied combat enveloped him, the sword cast out a blinding luminescence.
Those who turned to strike at him staggered clear of his path, weapons tumbling from their grasp or clawed, gore-covered hands falling limp at their sides.
As he pushed deeper into the battling throng, the sword’s light expanded, pulsing to cast its glow across every soul in sight.
All around him, fighting ebbed then ceased.
The spreading calm seemed to strengthen the sword, the blade shining so bright that it was as if a star had fallen upon the Citadel.
Now almost fully claimed by the numbness overtaking his body, Felnir stumbled to his knees.
Still, he held the sword aloft as, for one moment of incandescence, it cast out the last pulse of its light, sending it coursing through every street, alley and square.
When it faded, the clang of the blade meeting stone as it slipped from Felnir’s grasp was the only sound.
It echoed high, reaching the black centre of the storm where it was answered by a vast, enraged howl.
The clouds roiled with fresh energy, the dark core throbbing as if trying to maintain its shape, but failing.
The last sensation Felnir experienced came from the final drops of black rain dappling his face as he lay, looking up at the contracting storm through eyes that dimmed, fluttered, and finally closed forever.
He could hear his brother and sister calling his name, but could form no answer.
As he felt his heart slow in his chest, he strove to bring Sygna’s face to mind.
And, having done so, Felnir Skyrnrak departed the world as content as he could ever have hoped to be.