by Steve Feasey
Faced with the jarls, Glaeverssun at their head, the young queen was informed of their ruling and the sentence that had been passed on her brother.
‘You have no right to do this!’ Astrid shouted back at them.
‘On the contrary, my Queen,’ Jarl Glaeverssun answered, daring to smile back at her. ‘You gave me … us –’ he gestured at the other men present – ‘the right to decide on matters that were not a direct threat to Stromgard and her people. We took you at your word and set up a court to decide your brother’s fate. The people of Stromgard deserve justice, whether the miscreant is a prince or a beggar. You refused to administer that justice, so we did it for you. We put the evidence to the court and they decided your brother was guilty and should be put to death.’
‘I am the queen! I have the right to decide who lives and who dies. I issue those decrees, not you!’
‘That is normally the case, yes. But not when the throne is unable to make a dispassionate ruling. In those circumstances, the ruler can set up a council to do that for him or her. You created a privy council. You gave us those rights.’
Astrid stared back at him in disbelief. These men had gone behind her back and colluded to have her brother killed. She had been arrogant and believed herself invulnerable. She had been foolish to underestimate Glaeverssun – thought him little more than a money counter. But he’d proven himself much more than that. ‘I won’t let you do this,’ she said in a low voice.
‘You have no choice, my Queen. The sentence has been passed.’ He turned and addressed the room. ‘Leave us, please.’
Glaeverssun waited until the great hall was empty except for a handful of his personal men.
Then he approached the throne so he could speak to her without being heard. ‘Did you really think I would stand by and allow this kingdom to be run by a foolish girl like you? The people of Stromgard deserve a ruler that will continue the great work your father did.’
She choked back a bitter laugh. ‘And are you that great ruler?’
‘Perhaps. But I am not so foolish as to think that it would be an easy thing for me to take the throne without a revolt. King Mirvar was a great man, and the people would see a Rivengeld sat on that throne. That is why you will continue to occupy that space. You will issue the decrees agreed to by the council. You will sign the edicts we see fit and make the rulings we decide you will make.’
‘A puppet queen?’ Astrid spat the words. At the same time she slowly moved her hand towards the concealed knife she had strapped to the inside of her arm.
‘An unfortunate term. But … yes.’
‘Working for the very same people who conspired to have my brother killed?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you mad? Why would I agree to such a thing?’ She had her fingers on the hilt of the knife now. It was a well-balanced weapon and she knew it would fly straight and true when she threw it to kill the traitor Glaeverssun.
‘Because your brother is not the only thing you hold dear, is he?’ That smile again. ‘We have your shield sisters in chains now. The one we had to drag out? Maarika, isn’t it? I understand the two of you have been almost inseparable throughout your sixteen years in this world. It would be such a shame if anything happened to her.’ He paused, letting his words sink in. ‘Your brother has been judged and sentenced. You cannot save him. But as queen you hold the lives of Maarika and the other shield maidens in your hands.’ He allowed his eyes to drift from her face to the sleeve of her gown, under which lay the concealed knife. ‘The weight of power is burdensome, is it not?’
Astrid let go of the knife and balled her hands into fists, her fingers curled so tightly that her nails bit into the flesh of her palms. Fighting against the rage that threatened to overcome her, she did her utmost to keep from saying or doing anything that might further endanger her sisters. She would make this man pay for his treachery. She had no idea how, but she vowed to do so if it was the last thing she ever did.
Satisfied, Glaeverssun turned to the armed men nearest him. ‘Please be so kind as to escort our queen to her rooms. And do not let her out of your sight. She is not to leave this place. Is that understood? Try to get some rest, Queen Astrid. Your next official duty will be at the execution of your brother and I need you to be strong enough to face that unpleasant ordeal.’
17
Astrid sat looking at her reflection in the mirror. Red-rimmed eyes stared accusingly back at her. How could she have been so stupid, so naive? She had handed power to people whose only interest was themselves. They hadn’t served her father because they loved him; they had done so because they feared him. But they had no fear of her. Now her foolish naivety had condemned her brother to death.
She looked across at the man standing guard at her door and then back to the mirror. What she saw there almost made her cry out in surprise.
The face in the glass was no longer her own. Instead, a beautiful, older woman stared back at her. The face had a finger to its pursed lips, indicating the young queen should remain quiet.
My apologies for startling you, Queen Astrid, the woman said. Her mouth did not move, but Astrid could hear her voice inside her head.
She glanced towards the door again.
Do not worry about your sentinel. He is not privy to my words. They are for you alone. Unfortunately, I am too weak to communicate with you in this manner for long. You must trust me and listen.
Astrid studied that face for a moment, then gave a tiny nod.
My name is Fleya. I have travelled here to Stromgard from my home east of the Maiden’s Fingers with my nephew Lannigon Gudbrandr. We had hoped to speak with you and your brother, but it appears the gods have conspired against us. Know this, Astrid: your brother is not your father’s murderer. That deed was committed by someone known to you, someone who is in league with a powerful sorcerer who escaped death until he could find a new physical body to inhabit. A body like Kelewulf’s.
Astrid’s hand flew up to her mouth as she let out a strangled cry, the sound drawing the attention of the guard, who looked round at her suspiciously. Dropping her head into her hands, she pretended to weep until she was certain he’d turned away again.
That calm voice spoke again.
Your cousin has a dark heart, Astrid, and the lich has made it darker still. Together, they want to bring this world into chaos and will use anything and anyone to achieve that aim.
Do not speak, Fleya said as the girl made to do so. I need to find Kelewulf. With the aid of this lich, he has the power to bring about the end of this world and the freedom of the people in it. I think your brother knows where he can be found.
The woman paused, making sure she had the girl’s full attention.
Is Brant Skifrmunn still the greatest sword in Stromgard?
Astrid gave a tiny nod of her head.
And is Brant still in love with his childhood sweetheart, Princess Astrid?
The young queen’s brow furrowed as the witch quickly explained her desperate plan …
18
Astrid watched helplessly as Erik was brought out to jeers and insults from the crowd. In those first few seconds the sunlight blinded him. She watched as he strained to see the faces of those who had gathered to watch. There were few there to support him, and she wondered if Glaeverssun had had a role in choosing the audience for this terrible business.
‘King-killer!’ an old woman shouted, lurching at the prisoner and spitting at him. His guards pushed her away, but without much conviction.
Try as she might, Astrid couldn’t help but look at the apparatus that was to end her brother’s life. The gallows had been hastily erected. A rope hung from a cross-beam, the other end tied to the saddle of a horse. There would be no quick death, dropping from a height mercifully high enough to snap the neck. No, her brother was to be pulled up into the air and strangled, kicking and twitching like a puppet while the crowd jeered and hollered. She had seen men and women killed like this before, seen eyes bulge in faces turn
ing purple-black, tongues loll from mouths.
Astrid stood by Jarl Glaeverssun’s side, acutely aware of the armed man stationed behind her. Pale and stony faced, her stomach tied itself in knots as her heart pounded away inside her.
Erik looked terrible, his body emaciated and his face swollen with new cuts and bruises.
Nevertheless, he walked with his head held high, looking his accusers in the eye as he passed, as kingly as if he were leading the army of Stromgard out on a raid against an enemy. He was their father’s son in every way. Mounting the steps, he faltered for a moment, then turned and fixed the executioner with a stare as the man went to put the noose around his neck.
‘STOP!’ a voice called out, and such was the power of that voice that every head turned.
Into the mob strode a woman, her face covered by a hood.
‘Who dares interrupt the business of the kingdom?’ bellowed Jarl Glaeverssun, his face flushed.
‘Business of the kingdom?’ Fleya said, rounding on the man and walking towards him. ‘A king decides the business of the kingdom. You are no king.’
‘Who are you? Guards! Take this woman away. Perhaps some time in the stocks will teach her some manners.’
As the armed men moved towards her, Fleya pushed the hood back from her face. When she raised her arms, the cloak fell away and the crowd gasped. The witch was dressed in grey, the robe marked with ancient, powerful symbols that only those who had mastered the Art dared wear, and it was the sight of these majik runes that stopped the guards in their tracks. Out of the clear sky a dark cloud gathered, its colour perfectly matching Fleya’s outfit.
Slowly lifting her right hand, she pointed her forefinger at the jarl – who visibly flinched. The look she gave him would have withered most men, but he somehow managed to meet her stare.
‘You, Jarl Glaeverssun, presume to cast judgement on a king? I, Fleya Gudbrandr, sorceress of the Seal of Sigr, high priestess to monarchs of old, vassal to the gods, ask by what authority you dare do so.’ The jarl stuttered for a moment, but Fleya was in no mind to let the man speak. ‘This sentence is a travesty. This young man is no more guilty of killing King Mirvar than I am. I demand you free him immediately. My Queen! What do you have to say?’
Astrid stepped forward, her heart pounding. ‘I say—’
‘Enough!’ Glaeverssun yelled, having finally recovered a little. ‘This is a matter for the people of Stromgard. This is of no concern to you, witch! This man –’ he pointed to Erik – ‘has been found guilty in the eyes of the gods by the council of elders. You and your majik have no jurisdiction here.’
Fleya’s eyes fixed on the jarl’s, a hint of a smile briefly touching her lips.
‘Guilty in the eyes of the gods, eh?’
‘Yes!’
‘But his fate was decided by men. Men like you,’ she added with a sneer.
When she spoke again, it was to the crowd. ‘The Volken people used to have a means of deciding who was and who was not guilty in the eyes of the gods.’ The witch turned her eyes on the young queen now, giving her an almost indiscernible nod of the head.
Astrid spoke in a loud voice that sounded a lot braver than she really felt. ‘The witch is right. My brother demands the ancient rite of trial by combat, as is his noble birthright. If he is guilty of this terrible crime against our father, let the gods truly decide his fate!’
The crowd became an animated hubbub of noise.
‘There has been no such a trial in more than fifty years,’ Glaeverssun spluttered.
‘There has never been a public execution of a king accused of murdering his own father!’ Astrid countered, her voice strong now. ‘Extraordinary circumstances demand extraordinary responses, and the people of Stromgard deserve to know the truth!’
The crowd began to murmur their approval. Glaeverssun watched, his eyes darting. His guards were outnumbered by about four to one, and it was clear the situation could quickly get out of hand.
He turned to address Astrid, speaking to her in a hushed voice so only she could hear. ‘You think you are clever, don’t you? You think you and this witch have bested me? Well, let us see. You may yet regret this little stunt.’ He turned to the crowd, holding his hands up for quiet. ‘The queen speaks true. It is the right of Erik Rivengeld to demand this ordeal.’ He looked at the expectant faces turned in his direction. ‘Champions must be chosen to represent both sides.’ He glanced at the accused young man standing beneath the gallows, a sneer forming on his lips. ‘Unless the king intends to fight himself?’
‘My brother is clearly in no state to do so,’ declared Astrid. ‘But we will give those who found him guilty the first choice of champion.’
There was a pause, everyone in the crowd waiting for the jarl to name his participant. ‘The council chooses Frindr Oknhammer as its combatant!’
This announcement was met with a loud gasp. Glaeverssun turned his attention back to Fleya, and was clearly pleased to see she appeared to be as taken aback by this unexpected turn of events as everyone else.
Astrid swallowed. Oknhammer was a mercenary warrior, a savage man with the reputation of selling his sword to the highest bidder. It was rumoured he’d killed a hundred men, others said that the number was much greater even than that. But the man was not a Stromgardian, and his services had never been used by either her father or uncle.
Fleya met the jarl’s look. ‘Frindr Oknhammer is not here in Stromgard,’ she said. ‘What game is this?’
‘A deadly one,’ Glaeverssun answered, allowing himself to smile now that he had regained the upper hand. ‘Oknhammer arrived here this morning at my request. I had no idea we would have to call on his help so soon.’ He gave Astrid a sad look. ‘You ask for trial by combat? For your brother to be judged by the gods? So be it.’ Turning, he gestured for a nearby guard to fetch the mercenary.
The look that passed between Fleya and Astrid was a miserable one. They had expected Glaeverssun to pick Brant Skifrmunn, the finest sword in Stromgard and Astrid’s unrequited sweetheart. Fleya had already spoken with the warrior, and he had agreed to their scheme: he would wait to be summoned and then denounce the trial and declare his fealty to Erik. They were certain that nobody would step forward to challenge Skifrmunn, and Erik could be freed without the need for any bloodshed.
The mercenary had not been part of their plan.
There was a hush as Oknhammer entered the square, the crowd parting before him like a wave. The man was a giant, towering above everybody else around him by almost a foot. Although the weather was mild, he still wore a great bear fur around his shoulders. It was said he was only eleven years of age when he killed the beast. Armed only with a knife, the young Frindr had refused to run when the bear attacked him in the hills near his village. When he was discovered, pinioned beneath the creature, covered in blood, he was thought to be dead. But it was the bear’s blood that soaked the earth, and the unconscious young Frindr was merely trapped beneath the creature.
But you didn’t need to know the story of Frindr Oknhammer’s childhood to know what he was. One look at his cold, dead eyes was enough to tell you everything about him.
Astrid searched the crowd, seeking out Brant Skifrmunn. But when her eyes met his she saw only fear. Her admirer might be the best sword in Stromgard, but it was clear he had no wish to fight the giant.
‘Well?’ Glaeverssun said, one eyebrow raised first at the queen, then at the witch. ‘Who is to champion the king-killer?’
Astrid implored Brant with her eyes, but he responded by lowering his head in shame before turning away. Panic coursed through her – that and a dreadful realisation that she had condemned her brother to yet further agonies.
Lann observed the exchange between Astrid and Brant, and he’d watched the beautiful young queen’s heart break as Fleya’s plan unravelled before her eyes. It was a terrible thing to witness: the devastation of hope. He was aware Glaeverssun was talking, the man’s tone triumphant now as he addressed the crowd.
‘… Does this not tell you everything you need to know?’ the jarl shouted, pointing at Fleya. ‘The witch and the killer’s sister invoke the right to trial by combat, and have no champion to fight for them. They have proven the gods wi—’
‘I’ll fight for the true ruler of Stromgard!’ Lann shouted.
The jarl turned towards the speaker, his mouth opening in amazement when he saw who had voiced the words. ‘Is this a joke?’ he asked.
Fleya too had spun around at the sound. Her look, in contrast to Glaeverssun’s, was one of horror. ‘Lann!’ she hissed. ‘Don’t do this. You can’t!’
He stepped forward, ignoring her and directly addressing the jarl. Clasping his hands together in an attempt to stop them shaking, he did his best to do the same with his voice.
‘I would not joke over the life of my king. I will fight your mercenary.’ He glanced over at Oknhammer. ‘There could be no better way to prove to the people of this kingdom that Erik Rivengeld is innocent than for me, a mere boy, to defeat this mighty warrior. That could only be done if the gods will it.’
The jarl, stunned, was lost for words. Eventually he turned to Astrid. ‘Does Your Grace accept this … champion?’
‘Will nobody else step forward?’ Astrid looked around at the men in the crowd, all of whom found something of interest on the ground beneath their feet. Only the boy with the black scabbard hanging at his waist stood tall and stared back at her; and the witch, whose eyes begged Astrid not to utter her next words.
But she had no choice.
‘Then I accept him as my brother’s champion.’