by Steve Feasey
19
‘What madness possessed you to offer yourself up to fight that monster?’
They were sitting in a room off the great hall waiting for the queen. Fleya was more furious than Lann had ever seen before. He stared stubbornly back at her.
‘Nobody else would.’
‘What kind of answer is that?’
‘We came here to Stromgard to speak with Erik. We can’t do that if he’s dead.’
‘And if you’re dead too? How does that help!?’
‘I don’t intend to die.’
‘You are not a fighter, Lann. That creature Oknhammer is a ruthless killer, a man who has lived his entire life with a sword in his hand.’
‘I have a sword too.’
‘But you have had no training. No combat experience. He will cut you down like a dog.’
‘The black blade won’t allow that to happen.’
Lann watched Fleya throw her hands up in despair at his response. He wondered if her anger and fear were a result of her not seeing this outcome to her plan, the Art, for once, letting her down in her moment of need. His own emotions were harder for him to identify. Gone was the dread he’d felt when he had first offered to take part in the trial. In its place was a modicum of … calm? Not confidence – he was in no way confident at having to face Frindr Oknhammer, but he was no longer terrified. He leaned forward to speak.
‘I never told you what happened on board the Ra’magulsha. You were gone, seeking out that thing from the depths. An arrow was fired at me by a pirate archer. It was a true shot. A deadly shot. But the arrow was not allowed to hurt me. I …’ He paused, and placed his hand on the dark scabbard at his side ‘The Dreadblade deflected it from its path. The blade is sworn to protect me, just as I am sworn to protect it.’
Fleya sat back, small lines creasing her forehead as she took this in.
‘Does it talk to you now? The blade?’
‘Yes.’
‘And what does it say?’
‘I don’t understand all the words. Not yet. But … it’s looking forward to the battle. Oknhammer has done terrible things. Horrific things. The Dreadblade was forged to defeat monsters.’
‘Frindr Oknhammer is a man,’ Fleya pointed out.
‘Not all monsters are from the Void, Aunt. Some are men with souls so black that even Lorgukk would not be able to tell them apart from his own minions.’
They turned at the sound of the door opening, standing together as Queen Astrid entered the room. And as her eyes met Lann’s, he had no difficulty reading her thoughts.
‘Great,’ Lann mumbled under his breath. ‘Somebody else who thinks I’m mincemeat.’
20
In keeping with tradition, the accused’s champion was first to arrive. A cart had been sent to collect Lann from the rooms he’d stayed in overnight, and he was grateful; his legs were shaking so hard he could barely stand. The ride was slow, the driver plodding the old horse up the dirt streets so that everyone could get a look at the ‘champion’. Lann, his heart heavy with dread, knew it was his funeral procession.
The blade had abandoned him.
He had woken up this morning to silence – the sword deathly quiet for the first time since he had accepted it from Rakur. The whispers in that ancient tongue, so familiar to him now, were gone, and with them any remote chance he might have had of surviving today.
He’d spent most of the morning pondering this. How could he have been so wrong about the blade? He and the thing were not ‘one’ as he had thought. No, the Dreadblade wanted nothing to do with this trial, and it would allow him to perish. In doing so, perhaps it might find a new owner, one who understood the true nature of the pact between the blade and its wielder. Perhaps it had decided it would be better served by a man like Frindr Oknhammer. Had he condemned his aunt to the same fate as Erik? And Astrid? These thoughts, and a million others, piled in on top of one another, a relentless torrent of doubt and fear so great he was no longer able to even think straight.
When the cart finally came to a halt, Lann somehow managed to get his treacherous legs to work as he climbed down into a sea of waiting faces, all wearing one expression: disbelief.
Someone shouted a command, and the crowd in front of him gave way, pulling back on either side so he might walk through. There were murmurs, but no words. No encouragement was offered him. The people of Stromgard knew they were here to see this young man die.
Twenty strides by twenty strides was the size of the square, each corner marked with a spear, buried point up in the ground. A rope had been strung up between the spears to define the space, and as he approached this, it was lifted by one of the guards to allow him inside.
To one side of the square was a priest in a long, hooded robe the deep red colour of blood. The garb marked the man as a minister of the new religion, a belief that worshipped not many, but one single god called Geshtrik. Without lifting his head to reveal his face, the priest raised an arm and pointed to the left side of the square, signalling that this was where the boy should stand.
The noise from the crowd swelled now as Lann’s opponent arrived. A new wave of dread flooded him and he fought the need to be sick.
Frindr Oknhammer smiled as he walked through the throng, closely followed by Jarl Glaeverssun and other members of the council. Lann was faced by a wall of scowling people at the mercenary’s back. Searching for just one friendly face, he glanced behind him to see his aunt, accompanied by Astrid and Erik Rivengeld. Fleya did her best to smile encouragingly at him.
Oknhammer looked across at Lann as if the boy were something nasty he’d found on the bottom of his shoe. He wore studded leather armour behind a huge shield with a black bear’s head painted on the front. If anything, he looked even larger close up than he had the previous day.
The giant frowned across at his opponent. ‘Where’s your armour?’ he growled at Lann. ‘And your shield?’
Lann had refused both when they were offered to him, reasoning that speed and flexibility would be his only assets against this opponent. In truth, he knew that neither of these qualities, nor any other, would make any difference to the result of this fight. As his aunt had suggested, Oknhammer would simply cut him down like a dog.
‘I require neither,’ Lann said, his voice sounding smaller and higher pitched than he would have wanted.
‘You want to fight in the old style?’ Oknhammer nodded his approval. ‘I like that. It’ll be quicker.’ He threw off his shield and unbuckled the leather armour covering his torso, forearms and lower legs, revealing a host of ugly scars on his flesh. The sight of so many battle wounds made Lann wonder how the man was still alive. The warrior, seeing the boy’s expression, smiled; a cruel smile that never quite reached his eyes. ‘You think you can add to them, boy? Maybe.’ He tapped the sword at his side. ‘Maybe when you’re skewered on Widowmaker here, your eyes bulging like a frog as your lifeblood pours out, you might take some small solace in the fact that you marked me.’ He looked Lann up and down, and then spat on the ground in a gesture of utter contempt. ‘But we both know that will not happen, don’t we? No, you will die quickly, pissing in your pants like the frightened little boy you are.’
Lann swallowed. He knew that Oknhammer’s words were meant to sting and dispirit, that warriors used tactics like this to scare and distract their opponent. But the mercenary needn’t have bothered. Because Lann couldn’t be any more afraid if he tried. There was no warrior’s bravado to dent, no gallantry to undermine. There would be no songs sung of this day; of when the boy took on the mercenary and showed the people of Stromgard what it truly meant to be brave. He was just a frightened little boy, a terrified idiot who’d made a dreadful mistake and put himself in this position – one for which he would pay the ultimate price.
Shhhhk! He looked up sharply at the noise of the blade called Widowmaker being drawn from its sheath. It was a huge sword, and would have taken a normal man two hands to wield, but Oknhammer brandished it as easily as if
it were the wooden toy Lann had played with as a lad on the farm, pretending to be a Volken warrior. Lann’s hand shook as he reached over and placed it on the hilt of his own blade.
And, just like that, the Dreadblade awoke. The noise that filled Lann’s head was a harsh, piercing cry; a war cry that demanded he draw the weapon free of its own confines. He willingly did so. The black sword was like a living thing in his hand, filling him with a new emotion, something he thought had deserted him forever. Hope.
He held the blade out before him, the doubts and fears he’d felt only moments before now disappearing. And in his head, he could hear the sword’s voice as it repeated a phrase over and over: Kurum-na murt. Kurum-na murt. Kurum-na murt …
Something must have changed inside Frindr Oknhammer in that moment too, because his sneering arrogance momentarily faltered, as if he, too, could hear the cry of the black blade and knew what it wanted.
‘That is a strange sword,’ he whispered.
When Lann spoke, he was hardly aware of the words that tumbled from his lips. They were not entirely his own. They were his and the blade’s both, united in the face of an enemy that would do them harm.
‘It is as old as the world itself. It has tasted the blood of countless battles, and has been wielded against mighty enemies. The gods themselves fear it and named it Dreadblade. Today it will be the end of your reign of terror. For you have committed crimes of blood that have gone unpunished, Frindr Oknhammer. You have killed the innocent and the weak. You have turned your weapon on those you served, those who trusted you. You have used it on women and children. And you have done so without remorse.’ He raised his voice. ‘You claim to be a warrior, but you are a murderer without remorse. And today, you will be made to pay for your wrongdoings.’ As Lann uttered these last words, a galvanising force, like a lightning bolt, shot through him. He felt the hairs on his neck stand on end. He had never felt stronger.
‘Who told you these things?’ Frindr bellowed, looking around him as if he might find the answer in the crowd. ‘Who? I shall kill that man when I have done with you, boy!’
‘No man.’
‘A woman then. The witch!’
‘No woman.’
‘WHO?’ Oknhammer roared.
‘The sword you hold in your hand told me. The blade you call Widowmaker. It knows all your darkest secrets. You have ill-used that weapon, killer.’
The mercenary looked from the blade in his hand to the black one in his opponent’s. Deep frown lines beetled his brow.
‘I will cut out your tongue with this “ill-used” sword, boy.’
‘We’ll see.’ Lann stared back at the man. ‘Kurum-na murt,’ he said. The words escaped his lips unbidden, the Dreadblade and its wielder speaking in one unified voice.
‘What was that you said?’
‘Kurum-na murt.’
‘And what does that mean, boy?’
Lann looked at the giant from beneath his eyebrows, a small smile playing at the edge of his mouth. ‘Death is coming,’ he replied.
Oknhammer, quivering with rage and roaring with fury, took off across the square, his weapon raised over his head to smite the boy with one fell blow. Lann was vaguely aware of Fleya crying out a warning from behind him, but he paid it no mind.
The giant moved quickly for a man of his size, but Lann stepped to one side, the Dreadblade coming up to meet the huge broadsword as it crashed down. The clash of metal sang to the gasp of the crowd. The Dreadblade was already sliding across the sharpened edge of Widowmaker, silver steel screeching in protest.
Lann and the black sword were one. Blade moved arm, and arm moved blade, neither controlling the other. The reverse-sweep cut through Oknhammer’s left calf.
The mercenary’s roar was filled with both anger and pain. He swung his great sword again, the blade horizontal, at a height designed to take Lann’s head from his shoulders. But this blow too was deflected by the black metal of Widowmaker’s nemesis. Thrown off balance, and unable to twist round in time because of that first wound, the giant gasped as the boy whipped the sword round to cut a blow in his hip, the blade sinking deep and bringing a hiss of anguish to the man’s lips.
Oknhammer knew that the greatest warriors were able to accept the pain of a terrible blow, yet counterattack as if it had not occurred. A sword-strike into bone, like the one just inflicted upon him, would almost certainly result in the opponent’s blade becoming lodged. So with no room to make a cutting attack, he quickly pointed his sword to the skies, pulled his elbows in, and struck down with the heavy pommel at the base of Widowmaker’s grip, aiming to turn his enemy’s head to pulp.
But the boy wasn’t there. Oknhammer gasped, reeling round to see his foe take a step backwards, sword moving snake-like in the air, his lips moving silently as he repeated those strange words over and over again. The mercenary took a moment to glance down at his wounds and the bloody rivers that accompanied them.
Anger was an emotion that had always sustained Oknhammer – that and its brother, hate. He knew that others believed anger was the enemy in a battle, but he’d found it fuelled him. Giving in to his rage, drinking it in, he rushed forward again. Using a technique that had never before failed him, he feinted low, as if to strike at the boy’s leading leg and so draw a defensive parry, but then whipped his hand round and up, extending the broadsword fully to skewer his opponent.
The black metal blade in his opponent’s hand moved too quickly, however. It was like a shadow that easily countered his attack, deflecting the strike down and to the side, and causing Oknhammer to overbalance. He righted himself, and lunged.
He didn’t feel the blade enter, but he heard the crowd’s cries of amazement, as if from far away. The lad was so close to Oknhammer now that the giant could simply reach out and crush him – wrap his big arms about the miserable wretch, and squeeze the life from his puny bones. He would enjoy hearing the sound of cracking ribs accompanied by the boy’s screams. But Frindr’s arms would not move. His hands and legs and head refused to obey, and the blackness that had started at the edge of his vision swiftly swam in to blot out the world forever.
The giant figure of Oknhammer fell backwards, and then he lay, unmoving, on the blood-stained dirt.
Lann looked down at the body of the man he had killed.
The sword repeated its warning one last time before falling mute again. The crowd, too, was hushed now. The only sound to break the stunned silence was the sobbing tears of the victor before his knees gave out and he crumpled to the ground.
Fleya was the first to reach him. Drawing her nephew into her arms, she managed to get him back to his feet, shaking her head at the others who tried to come to his aid. She could feel his pain, feel the waves of sadness and despair leaching out of him, so that his hurt became her own. Supporting the full weight of him, she looked at the black blade at their feet, and knew there was no way she could bring herself to touch the thing. In the end, it was the red-robed priest who retrieved the weapon, carefully wiping it on the hem of his costume before replacing it in the scabbard at the boy’s side.
Fleya straightened up to her full height and called for silence.
‘This,’ she said, nodding down at the dead figure of Oknhammer, ‘is your proof of Erik Rivengeld’s innocence.’ Turning her head, she eyed all those present. ‘Does anybody here doubt that? Does anybody here wish to speak out in defiance of the gods and what they have shown you here today?’ She waited, and although she’d addressed the crowd, her eyes were now firmly fixed on Glaeverssun, as if daring him to be the one to speak. ‘No? Then I suggest you arrange for King Erik and the princess to be escorted back to the great hall so he might get on with the business of ruling Stromgard and his people.’
Vissergott
21
Kelewulf stared out of the window of the tower at the waves crashing into the shoreline far below. The storm was waning now, but the sea still battered the land, throwing great white plumes into the air as it did so. He marvelle
d at the relentless power of the ocean.
He’d come to this place after leaving Stromgard, drawn here by its solitude and inaccessibility. It held many memories from his childhood; not all of them good.
Vissergott had been his mother’s sanctuary, a headland she visited whenever she needed to escape the pressures that a queen to someone like his father felt. She had brought Kelewulf here on a number of occasions, letting him explore the shoreline down below while she watched him from this window …
* * *
It was the same window he’d watched his mother throw herself from.
The memory of that day was burned indelibly into Kelewulf’s mind.
His mother had brought him here following a terrible row she’d had with his father. Before that day, Horst Rivengeld had always let the two of them go off. But this time he followed them from Stromgard. In a fit of rage, he’d confronted his wife.
‘You will return to the palace with me,’ he had bellowed.
‘I will not,’ Kelewulf’s mother had replied, her voice calm in the face of her husband’s wrath. ‘And you cannot make me, husband.’
‘I am your king! You will return and you will bring the boy. His place is in Stromgard. Where, by the gods both old and new, he will learn the Volken ways. Not here, where you fill his mind with useless books and talk of majik!’
On and on he’d raved while his wife stood, calmly staring back at him, a serene ocean before his raging storm, until he’d told her she could go to hell.
She’d smiled back at him then. ‘Perhaps, my lord, I shall do just that.’
Kelewulf had watched her as she turned to the window. He’d screamed out for her to stop, but to no avail. He would have followed her out of this opening and into the night, had his father not grabbed him and wrestled him to the ground …
He shivered, now. What must it have felt like, launching herself from this height and plummeting down into those unforgiving rocks below? Had she thought of him, or had escape been the only thing inside her head that day?