by Steve Feasey
It had been strange for Lann to see the house for the first time when they’d both come inside. He’d learned to navigate his way about the place in complete darkness, and in his mind he’d painted a picture of how it might look. In many ways his mental image was fairly close, but there were still things, like how colourfully Fleya had painted the walls and the furniture, that surprised him.
His aunt did not want the weapon in the same room as her, and at her insistence Lann had taken the sword to his bedroom. Despite it only being a short distance away, he could sense the weapon’s desire to be reunited, and he did his best to shut out his own disquiet over the separation.
Eventually his aunt put down her cup and sighed. ‘This is my fault. There are charms and wards built into the very stones of this house to keep out all manner of creatures that might try to enter it. But even my considerable powers are of nothing compared to that of an Ancient One. Tell me, what form did Rakur take when he came to you?’
‘A man. A man with golden hair and eyes.’
Fleya snorted. ‘A rat would have been more appropriate! Or a dog. A lying, treacherous dog.’
‘I hoped you might be happier for me, Aunt. I have been living in the darkness all this time, and now I am in the light again.’
She looked thoughtfully at him, considering her words before going on. ‘I am sorry, Lann. Of course I am happy that you have had your vision returned. But I fear the price you may have to pay for your sight will prove to be a high one. Your golden-haired god knew this, and yet he still gave that … thing to you.’
‘Rakur didn’t lie or try to trick me, Fleya. He told me that accepting the blade would come at personal cost. How it would demand to be put to use against the creatures it was forged to eliminate.’ He paused as something occurred to him. ‘If anything, he seemed almost reluctant to offer the thing to me.’
‘Such a weapon coming back into this world will not go unnoticed. Why do you think I came hurrying back from the village? The universe let out a warning cry, a cry that was heard by all creatures of majik. Many will seek out, not only the blade, but its bearer. They will long to steal it or destroy it, and they will not care it is only a young Volken boy who wields it. Did your reluctant deity tell you that?’
‘No.’
‘No. Of course he did not. That is his way – to play with the lives of people as if we were amusing playthings for him.’ She pushed the cup away from her with her fingers. ‘What else did he say to you?’
Lann looked levelly at his aunt, remembering the first words the god had said to him. ‘He told me I should ask you what my real name is. With everything else that happened, I’d almost forgotten that.’
‘Your name is Fetlanger,’ Fleya said. There was a challenging tone to her voice.
Lann shook his head. ‘No. That is the name of the people who raised me. As much as I loved Lae for the devotion she showed me through the years, she is not my blood. And Gord was nothing like a father to me. His name is not my name.’ He paused, and continued in a softer tone. ‘As you claim not to know who my father is, maybe I should take my mother’s name, as the northern tribes of the Ice People sometimes do.’ He saw a hint of a smile play on the edge of her lips; she had taught him that from one of her books. ‘What is your family name, Fleya?’
The witch paused for a moment before replying quietly. ‘Gudbrandr.’
Gudbrandr. God sword.
The pair sat across from each other, neither wishing to be the first to break the silence, but inside Lann felt a strong galvanising current flowing through every inch of his body as he took in what his aunt had said. It was as if another piece of the puzzle that was his life had dropped into place.
‘God Sword?’ Lann said, giving a snort and a shake of his head. ‘You, of all people, with your visions and portents, must see this is no mere coincidence.’ He frowned, his words stirring something in his memory. ‘Fleya … Before Rakur came to me last night, I had a dream.’
Her eyes met his. ‘What kind of dream?’
‘In it, I inhabited the body of a young man – a boy, really. He was a person of majik, but … not like you.’ He paused, gathering his thoughts. ‘The Art for him was fairly new, and he intended to use it for evil. I could sense that. On the back of one hand was a tattoo – a five-sided star with an eye at the centre of it.’ He stopped again, allowing more of the dream to come to him. ‘In the other was … something burning.’ He shook his head as the memory escaped him. ‘There was a wall of blackness before me, and at its heart was a terrifying force. Something terrible and ancient.’
He looked up to see the colour had drained from Fleya’s face for the second time that morning.
‘The tattoo. A pentagonal star with an eye at the centre? You’re sure?’
He nodded. ‘You know who he is, don’t you?’
‘No. But I know what he is. Or at least what he is becoming. A necromancer. That tattoo is worn by all practitioners of that form of dark majik.’
‘They raise the dead?’
‘Or the spirits of the dead.’
‘I think I have been given the sword to find him and stop him. Rakur spoke of the god Lorgukk, and how his armies are stirring in the Void. How our defences are weak, because we no longer cherish our gods. I think this boy is trying to bring the god Lorgukk back to this realm.’
Fleya stood up quickly, walking to the window. Her back to the boy, she stood looking down at her shaking hands for what felt like an age until she finally seemed to come to a decision.
‘My sister once told me that we must all be free to choose the path our lives will take, even if those choices appear foolish to those around us. I argued with her at the time, and I said things to her that I have regretted ever since. But she was right. Her decision resulted in you, and, even if she paid the ultimate price for it, I now know her choice was the right one.’ She turned to face him. ‘Your decision to ally yourself to that blade spells danger for you … for us both. But the deed is done and there is no going back now. You have made your choice and I will do everything in my power to protect and help you, nephew.’ When she offered him a smile the mood in the cabin seemed to change. ‘Lannigon Gudbrandr. It has a certain ring to it, doesn’t it?’
Lann smiled back at her. He was about to reply when something at the edge of his vision caught his eye and caused him to turn. There, in the dark corner of the kitchen, shadows were coalescing, forming into a human shape. The thing was looking back in his direction, and when it started to move towards him, Lann shoved himself back in his chair, almost falling backwards as a result. Alarmed, he turned to Fleya and saw she looked, not frightened, but amused.
The shade drifted towards them and stopped beside the table.
‘That’s Halbe,’ his aunt said, nodding in the thing’s direction. ‘It’s not her real name. I’m not sure house wights have names as such, but that’s what I call her. She doesn’t speak.’
‘A house wight?’ Lann stared at the thing. It seemed to have more substance to it now, and even though he could still see the details of the room through it, so too could he make out features on the ghostly face. She looked young, perhaps the same age as him. The wight stared back at him blankly. Suddenly he was sure it was the same creature he’d seen in the window earlier.
‘A spirit that’s attached to a building. She’s always been here. Og knows, I’ve been here long enough, but I’m guessing she chose to inhabit the place when it was first built.’
‘She’s a ghost?’
Fleya paused. ‘Yes and no. She’s not a shade in the traditional sense – more a spirit that has chosen to set up residence in a particular place. She and the cabin are one and the same thing. She is the reason why this house is a calm and happy one, I think.’
Lann thought about the times he’d been in the house on his own, and how relaxed and peaceful he had always felt. He wasn’t sure he’d have felt the same had he known the wight had been a constant presence.
‘She doesn’t l
ike arguments or disputes,’ his aunt continued, ‘so she hid from view earlier on. That you can see her at all is because of the majik you’ve inherited from the blade.’
As though stirring at the mention, a voice from the blade began to call Lann. Sensing the boy’s unease, his aunt nodded her head in the direction of his room. ‘Go. I know it calls to you.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘You and the sword are bound together by fate, Lannigon. I have to learn to accept that, even if I do not like it.’ She gave a little sigh. ‘I am tired from my time healing in the village and I would like to sleep now. Later I will use my majik and see what I can find out about the young necromancer you encountered in your dream.’
‘The ritual I witnessed him performing … I do not think the dream was showing me the here and now. It didn’t … feel like that.’
‘Your vision was of a possible future, a view of things that will come to be unless we can stop it.’ She paused, her head at an angle as she studied him. ‘You have much of your mother’s Art in you. Go now, strap your sword to your side again and build a fire while I rest.’
Lann watched her walk across the room in the direction of her bedroom. ‘Thank you, Fleya,’ he said.
She paused and looked at him with affection in her cool gaze. ‘For what?’
‘For rescuing me. For keeping me going. For teaching me about this world and the world of the gods. For your love and your understanding during our time together. For … for understanding that this is something that I have to do, even if I myself don’t know why.’
Fleya nodded back at him. ‘And thank you, Lann. For reminding me what courage and love can create in this world. I fear we will face many dark times in the coming weeks and months, but we will do so together. You, me … and the Dreadblade.’
Stromgard
7
Kelewulf stared out of the window of his living quarters. Below him, in a large sand-filled square, a dozen or so people were engaged in combat training. The sound of their weapons making contact against each other, mixed with their grunts and shouts, hardly registered with him and he paid the combatants the same attention he would a colony of insects. If he was honest, they meant about as much to him.
No, he had other, more pressing matters on his mind.
In the room behind him, on a small table, was the book he’d sought for so long. And yet, now that it was finally in his possession, he felt afraid. He’d spent the morning trying to summon the courage to unlock the brass clasp that held it shut, but he had not been able to.
Kelewulf walked over to the grimoire, staring down at it for what must have been the hundredth time that day. It was thought to be the only one in existence, and it was much smaller than he’d imagined. Surely something containing such ancient knowledge and power should look more impressive? He shivered. He had shed blood to lay his hands upon this book, and now he was too frightened to open the thing and look inside. Why?
Because there’s no going back. Once chosen, the path you’ll follow leads one way, with no return.
He shook his head angrily. The price would be high, yes; but it would be worth it to show this barbaric world he inhabited what it meant to be truly powerful. Real power wasn’t shown by wielding a length of sharpened metal or by beating your wife and child while sycophants stood by and did nothing, but through creating fear in the hearts and minds of people.
And I could wield that power. But first I must open the damned book!
He turned away from the window, closing the shutters to block out the light. The door to his room was already barred but he couldn’t help but check it again. And, finally, Kelewulf stood over the Book of Roth’gurd. Taking a deep breath, he reached out and twisted the latch of the brass clasp.
The blunted axe crashed into Astrid’s shield and she swivelled on her left foot, twisting around to give herself a view of her opponent’s exposed flank. Thrusting forward in a short but firm motion, she allowed herself a small smile at the loud exclamation Matulda made as the rounded tip of the wooden training sword smacked painfully into her ribs.
‘You’re dead,’ Astrid said. ‘Four or five inches of cold Volken steel have just slid between your ribs and punctured your right lung.’
‘You don’t have to sound so happy about it,’ Matulda replied, rubbing her side.
‘You went too hard in that last attack and lost your form. You must strike a balance between aggression and patience.’
‘I saw an opening.’
‘An opening I wanted you to see. Your opponent will often offer up what appears to be a perfect attacking opportunity, when all they are really doing is baiting you.’
The younger girl nodded. ‘Thank you for the lesson, Sister Astrid,’ she said, using the term all shield maidens addressed each other with. The stoical response was typical Volken, and was one that Astrid knew all too well from her own early training days. It made her like the younger girl all the more.
‘You are getting better each time we fight, Sister Matulda. It won’t be long before you’re beating me and leaving me with bruised ribs.’
The two embraced for a moment, and as they separated Astrid heard someone call her name out. Turning towards the source of the noise, she groaned. Brant Skifrmunn stood waving at her. He was a tall, well-built young man. A great warrior from an established family, her father had almost promised him her hand in marriage. Astrid, however, had other ideas. Even if she had it in mind to wed, which she most certainly did not, Brant was the dullest man she’d ever met. His entire conversational skills involved talk of fighting and swordsmanship. Knowing he would not leave unless she at least spoke to him, she walked over.
‘Brant.’ She nodded.
‘I was watching you teach that youngster. Very fine sword-work.’
‘Coming from the finest sword in these lands, that is high praise.’
Brant beamed back at her, the colour rising in his cheeks. He took a deep breath, gathering himself. ‘I wondered if I could take you for a walk by the shore this evening?’ He paused, then added, ‘It will be a full moon.’
‘I’m afraid I’m washing my hair.’
He looked at her short locks and frowned. ‘All evening?’
‘It’s very dirty.’ She watched the frown lines deepen as he tried to take this in. ‘Another night? The next full moon, perhaps?’
‘Yes. Right.’ He nodded his head, as if trying to commit this to memory. ‘Next full moon.’
She watched him walk off. As she herself turned to go, she glanced up to see her cousin Kelewulf standing at the window of the building he occupied, looking down on them all. How apt, she thought. Nearly two years had passed since Kelewulf’s father had been killed and her own had taken the throne. The kingdom was flourishing; Mirvar was much loved by his people, including, it would seem, his young nephew, who made a point of always appearing deferential and cheerful in his uncle’s presence. Astrid, however, could not bring herself to trust her cousin. She had seen how the smile dropped from his face whenever he thought nobody was watching, the look replaced with one of disdain. One evening last summer she’d been out by the stables when she heard someone talking in a low voice. Intrigued, she’d crept closer to one of the stalls. Kelewulf was there grooming his horse, brushing the creature’s flanks and muttering to himself. She couldn’t catch most of what he was saying, but she distinctly heard the words ‘Volken savages’, ‘brutes’ and ‘worthless thugs’. She’d moved away as silently as she could. Disturbed by what had happened, she’d gone to speak to her father. But Mirvar had waved away her concerns, telling her she must have misheard her cousin and how she should not eavesdrop on people.
He’s a snake with two heads, she told herself. One head that he shows to my father, brother and the other people of Stromgard, and another that he keeps hidden. And that other side is the true Kelewulf Rivengeld. He’s … dangerous.
Her brother Erik was too good, too innocent to see it. He still thought of Kelewulf as the innocent boy he
’d grown up with.
‘Why does he go on those long journeys alone,’ she would ask him, ‘without a guard or anyone to accompany him? What is he hiding? Where does he go?’
‘He’s still grieving,’ Erik would say. ‘It’s his way of dealing with his loss.’
Loss! She remembered the day of Horst’s funeral, when the former king’s body had been sent out to sea in his longship, surrounded by his riches. As the burning arrows were fired out into the wooden boat, Kel had turned his head away and raised a hand to hide his face, the movement causing Astrid to look in his direction. She doubted anyone else had seen it, but in the instant before her cousin’s hand obscured his features, she could swear he’d been smiling. She’d resolved to keep a vigilant eye on her dark-haired cousin ever since.
As she watched him now, he turned away from the window. Not for the first time, she wondered what her cousin was up to.
* * *
Kelewulf obeyed the instructions carefully, knowing even the slightest error would prove fatal to him. A large circle of salt was laid out on the floor. At its centre was a golden cup containing the dark blood of a hen. Alongside this was the thigh bone of a dog and an earthenware bowl containing uncooked pig flesh, the smell of which was making his stomach lurch each time he caught a whiff of it. The final item was the most important of them all. Like the grimoire, it had taken Kelewulf an awfully long time to find. The phylactery was a small, ornate wooden box that did little to suggest the power of the thing it contained.
The grimoire itself, the Book of Roth’gurd, lay open on the small table at his side.
Satisfied everything was in place, he stared down at the elaborately scripted page. Eight words in an ancient tongue. Words which, once uttered, would change his life forever …
What are you waiting for? Are you scared? It was his father’s voice he imagined in this moment, and the harsh, mocking tone – a tone he’d heard all too often during his life – stirred Kelewulf in a way nothing else could.
