by Steve Feasey
‘No, they just cut their hearts out and feed them to their ice-wolves.’ The man shook his head and went on. ‘There have been thefts of livestock of late. That alone gives us the right to take you captive. The queen will judge you fairly, I am sure.’ There was something about the way he lingered a little too long over these final words that struck Fleya as odd; as if there were much more he would have liked to say. Instead, he turned his back on them and mounted his own horse. ‘Now, perhaps you’d all do me the service of remaining quiet for a while. If you feel you cannot do so, I’m sure we can arrange to have you all gagged for the remainder of the journey.’ He raised an eyebrow at them and nudged his horse forward in the direction of Queen Favner’s court.
The settlement was small compared to Stromgard, but busy with people trading goods and services. Carts full of agricultural produce made their way up and down mud tracks with simple wooden buildings on either side. The great longhouse at the heart of the community was impressive, however, and it was to this place the captives were brought.
With their hands still bound, they were ushered towards the entrance. Against the brightness of the morning light, the interior appeared dark and foreboding.
As they entered the place Fleya cast a glance in her nephew’s direction. Lann hadn’t uttered a word since their rude awakening at the hands of their Vorneland captors.
The captain called them to a halt before a dais that was made out of a giant millstone.
The Vorneland throne was carved from one huge piece of wood, fashioned to depict heads of wheat and corn as well as vegetables and other plants and foodstuffs; the legs had been shaped to represent livestock of every kind.
A woman sat on the throne. Dressed in a long blue dress which perfectly matched the polished stones set into her crown, Queen Favner stared out through eyes the colour of storm clouds. Below the silver circlet on her head, long grey hair hung down almost to her hips. A great hound, its own coat shot with white and grey, slept at her feet. The only other people in the place were the queen’s personal guards, and a small retinue of courtiers who were arranged in the area immediately behind the throne.
‘Well, well, what have we here?’ asked the woman atop the throne in a voice that portrayed little emotion.
‘Your Grace,’ Fleya said, speaking for the others and giving the ruler a small bow. ‘We have no idea why we have been brought before you like this. We are merely travellers passing through Vorneland and have committed no crime.’
‘No crime? How would you know? Only a king, or indeed a queen, has the right to decide what constitutes a crime in their own kingdom.’ She gazed over their heads into the middle distance. ‘The right of travel in Vorneland is no longer free to all. Your very presence on its lands is, in itself, a crime.’
‘Since when?’ Astrid asked.
There was no answer. The queen, a blank look in her eyes, stared out at something unseen beyond the longhouse. When the silence continued, some of the courtiers began to shuffle their feet.
Eventually Favner gave a tiny shake of her head and fixed Astrid with a cold look. ‘Did you say something, child?’
‘I asked you when Vorneland had taken the decision to stop free travel rights.’
‘How pretty you are, child. And young. But youth can make one foolish.’ The smile she gave the younger woman was anything but friendly. ‘You would do well to hold your tongue in my presence, little one. That is, if you still wish to have one in your head. Or, indeed, a head at all.’
Fleya shot Astrid a look that told her to do as she was bid. ‘If I might address the queen?’ she asked, pleasantly. ‘May I ask why we have been brought here?’
‘Not so foolish, this one,’ the queen said absently. ‘I could list several reasons.’ She ticked them off on her fingers. ‘You were trespassing on lands that I rule. You came armed. You may be responsible for the recent disappearances of livestock. But really, you are here … because I will it.’ Her expression turned absent again and she subsided into silence.
‘Your Grace,’ Fleya said gently, her unease growing by the second. The queen half turned her head in the witch’s direction. ‘I should like to pay my respects to the prince. Your son. Where is he?’
‘Gone,’ Favner said dreamily.
‘Gone where?’
‘I sent him away. For his own safety. To a holy order of priests, so they might teach him the ways of his people. Away, away, away. Gone.’ She started to hum.
‘She’s lost her mind,’ Astrid said under her breath.
A man standing a short distance away from the queen gave a loud and deliberate cough that had the desired effect of bringing the monarch’s attention back into the room. When she looked up this time, Favner shot them a disconcertingly brilliant smile.
‘You have arrived in time for my wedding! I insist you join me in the celebrations.’ She looked at Astrid, her eyes narrowing at the girl. ‘I know you. Mirvar Rivengeld’s daughter. Did he send you?’
Astrid looked across at Fleya for help, but the witch was too busy studying the queen.
‘M-my father is dead,’ she said. ‘You … you sent a representative to attend the funeral, Queen Favner.’
‘Did I?’ she sighed and shook her head. ‘There have been too many funerals of late. My husband, the old king, is dead, you know.’ She paused. ‘Did I tell you I am to be married?’
Fleya had seen madness of this sort before: a sickness of the soul brought on after committing foul and dreadful acts. She had seen how the pursuit of power could destroy a person, leaving them mentally scarred. The healer in her wanted to help the deeply troubled individual sitting on the throne before her, but there was no majik she knew of that could save the soul of somebody who had committed the wicked deeds Favner had in order to gain her throne.
‘Exciting, isn’t it?’ the queen went on. ‘A wedding. Tomorrow morning.’ The queen pointed a ringed finger at Astrid, treating the girl to a conspiratorial wink. ‘And your father played no small part in the whole affair.’ She gave a little clap of her hands. The gesture was almost childlike.
‘My father?’
‘My husband-to-be was first sent to these lands by Mirvar Rivengeld many moons ago. Since then he has been back and forth, back and forth between our kingdoms. But now he has returned for good!’
‘May I ask his name?’ Fleya said, her voice laced with dread.
No sooner had the question left her lips than a man stepped forth from the deepest shadows at the rear of the great hall, making his way through the courtiers until he stood beside Vorneland’s ruler.
Mounting the dais to the wooden throne, the exiled jarl, Glaeverssun, took up Favner’s hand and planted a kiss on it before looking back to the trio.
‘Princess Astrid, my dear. Isn’t it wonderful news? And imagine my surprise when I heard the three of you were in these lands!’ His hideous smile broadened. ‘Your arrival here is like an early wedding present – isn’t that so, my dear?’ He nodded at the queen before returning his attention to his prisoners. ‘I myself have been crossing over the border to Vorneland for well over a year now. Your father had heard reports that Queen Favner might be experiencing some personal issues. He was concerned the rumours about her could spell trouble for the region, so he sent me here regularly to check things out. During my visits the queen and I became rather … fond of each other. So, when I was so rudely expelled from my own lands and kingdom –’ he shot the trio a less than friendly look – ‘I came here to ask for succour.’
‘And for the queen’s hand in marriage,’ Astrid said, unable to keep the sarcasm from her voice.
He gave a coy little smile. ‘In fact, Queen Favner did me the honour, and I accepted with all gratitude.’
Fleya let out a little hiss of disgust.
‘How did you know we were in Vorneland?’ she asked. She directed her question to the queen, but it was Glaeverssun who answered.
‘I still have friends in Stromgard. They told me of a covert mission –
two women and a boy leaving the palace on the king’s finest horses, and how the lad carried a black blade at his side …’
At the mention of the Dreadblade, Lann lifted his head and glared at the disgraced jarl through red-rimmed eyes.
Glaeverssun motioned to the guards hovering behind the trio. ‘Take our guests to their living quarters, please.’ He grinned at them. ‘You will not find them particularly appealing, I’m afraid. But they’re no worse than the ones I found myself in after I displeased you, Princess.’
‘I should have let my brother kill you!’ Astrid cried over her shoulder as the guards led them away.
The man pursed his lips at this, as if weighing her words. ‘Yes, Princess. I really do think you should have. Still, we all make mistakes, don’t we?’
‘Come to bed,’ Queen Favner said, patting the pillows beside her. She was sitting up, surrounded by countless cushions. Her hair hung down over the front of her shoulders and the white, high-necked gown she was wearing. She smiled and beckoned to him from across the room.
A shiver ran through Glaeverssun. The thought of marrying this woman repulsed him. The queen was deranged, he had no doubt about that. He’d watched her slow decline as her wits deserted her over the last year or so and she was getting worse.
He had managed to turn the situation to his advantage, of course. King Mirvar, uneasy at rumours coming out of this region, had sent him here as an emissary. He had no doubt that Favner had committed wicked and terrible deeds on her way to the throne, and these acts had corrupted her soul and left her grip on reality broken. Instead of reporting this to his king, however, he’d kept the information to himself and had used his visits to wheedle his way into her affections. She trusted him more than many of those in her own court.
When he had come to her following his exile from Stromgard, Queen Favner had listened to his story of betrayal and treachery, and quickly come to his defence. The marriage proposal had come from her – but the seed had been planted by him long ago.
‘Bed?’ she suggested again.
‘Not now.’ He turned his attention to the black blade. The sword sat on the table, still sheathed. He’d not plucked up the courage to pick it up yet, but he knew it was a weapon of great power. What had the boy called it? Dreadblade. It was a weapon that, wielded by someone like him, could make his dreams of controlling all six Volken kingdoms come true.
‘You haven’t looked at me since my men brought you that dreadful sword,’ Favner said. ‘I think –’ a small smile curved her lips – ‘yes, I think I will have it taken away and thrown into a lake somewhere.’
Her eyes widened when he spun round to face her, a furious expression on his face. ‘You will do no such thing!’ he said. ‘This weapon will be the start of Vorneland’s rise to power. It will bring my – our – enemies to their knees. It will elevate us to new heights, and—’
He stopped, staring at her as she began to laugh. ‘Look at you,’ she said. ‘You funny little man. Making a lot of fuss over a stupid sword. The secret to Vorneland’s continued power, my lord, relies on its queen and her long reign of unopposed strength. On her health. On her happiness.’ She narrowed her eyes at him. ‘And right now, I am not very happy.’
Glaeverssun recognised the danger. He knew exactly what this woman had done, the people she had made disappear. How she had plotted and schemed for years before her husband’s untimely death, and he knew that he would have to walk a delicate line to avoid the same fate.
For now, at least, he told himself again.
Forcing a smile on to his lips, he made his way over to the bed.
The three captives sat in cramped wooden cells with their hands and feet bound. There was no chance of them escaping their confines, and even if they could, the prison’s only entrance was guarded by a huge, heavily armed man.
Lann occupied the centre pen with Fleya on one side and Astrid on the other. He still had not uttered a word since their capture.
‘Lann? Are you all right?’ Fleya asked. She sighed. ‘I warned you. I told you the sword could betray you. And it has done so. Betrayed all of us and allowed us to be taken captive.’
‘It knew we would be captured,’ he said slowly. ‘It wanted this to happen.’
‘What?’ said Astrid. ‘Why on earth—’
‘It knew Glaeverssun was here. It also knows how much the man desires to own it and use it for evil. It knows what terrible crimes the queen has committed – she murdered her own son for the throne.’
‘You’re certain?’
Lann nodded. ‘Glaeverssun knows it too. The Dreadblade told me.’
‘Such terrible deeds come at a high cost,’ Fleya said in a small voice. ‘Her fixation on power, even if she had to pursue a path of death and destruction to achieve it, has brought madness on her. No person, not even a queen, can commit such vile acts and remain unchanged. And Glaeverssun is using her frailties to fulfil his own ambitions.’
‘If all that is true,’ Astrid said, ‘why would the black blade allow us to be captured like this? Why would it put us in the hands of these evil people?’
‘It must do what it was created for,’ Lann answered. ‘It cannot shy away from that.’
It was Fleya who finally seemed to realise what her nephew was trying to tell them. ‘The Dreadblade … It is compelled to eradicate evil.’
Lann nodded. ‘I am the wielder of the sword, and it is sworn to protect me. But it is also sworn to eliminate evil wherever it finds it. It knows I am not capable of carrying out what it judges necessary here, so it will do it without me.’
‘And what is it that will be done here, Lann?’
‘Dark deeds,’ he whispered.
It was hot under the furs. Waking with a dry mouth, Glaeverssun opened his eyes on the dimly lit room, momentarily confused as to where he was. However, it was not just thirst that had woken him. He could have sworn he’d heard somebody whispering.
He lay perfectly still, senses tuned in to his surroundings. He could call the guards – should call them – but he didn’t want to appear foolish to them. So he lay unmoving for a few moments more.
Nothing.
Eventually, convincing himself his nocturnal imaginings were a result of the wine and the goat’s cheese he’d eaten at dinner, he turned over and settled back down into his pillow again. It was as he closed his eyes that he heard the small, barely audible whisper again.
He turned to the queen, wondering if she had spoken in her sleep, but her face was calm and peaceful. How the woman slept so soundly he would never understand.
‘Who’s there?’ he called out in a hushed voice. Then, throwing back the furs, he climbed down from the bed, the cold of the floor sending an icy chill through him.
And just then, that whisper again. Glaeverssun stood rock-still, straining his ears to try and work out where the sound was coming from, because it seemed as if it were from everywhere at once. A whisper that was more in his head than—
Kurum-na murt.
Glaeverssun gave a little shout and spun around wildly. Childhood stories of phantoms and ghouls were reawakened in him as his highly charged imagination began to run away from him. His heart beat wildly in his chest as he hurried across the room towards a lighted candle on a small stand not far away. But as his hand reached towards it, the flame sputtered and died, as though extinguished by an invisible figure.
‘Wh-who’s there?’ Glaeverssun stammered, hating the scared sound of his voice. ‘You don’t frighten me, whoever you are.’
Another whisper, this time to his left.
He moved in the direction of the sound, and bumped into the table in the middle of the room. The sword. With shaking hands he grabbed its hilt and pulled the Dreadblade free. Despite his panic he was struck by how light the weapon felt in his hand. A shiver of excitement ran through him. He was invincible with this weapon. Invincible! Standing taller, he dared whatever malevolent being was here to show itself.
Karum-na murt.
; Behind him!
Glaeverssun spun about, thrusting forward. The black blade penetrated the chest of Queen Favner as if she were a thing of air and not one of flesh and bone. Her terrible scream filled the chamber, and despite the gloom, he could make out her face: the look of disbelief, eyes widening in horror as she stared first at the weapon she was impaled upon, and then at the ugly darkness that was quickly spreading outwards across her white cotton nightgown, like some night flower opening its inky petals.
‘Cold,’ was all she managed to say as she reached out for him, pulling him into a terrible embrace, as if she were set on stealing his warmth to make it her own.
It was this bloody scene that greeted the guards, alerted by the dreadful scream, when they burst in through the door of the royal chamber.
‘The queen!’ the first man roared, hurrying across to the pair and drawing his own sword. ‘He has murdered the queen!’
‘No! It was the sword. It made me think—’
Glaeverssun spun around, the bloodied weapon held out before him.
Faced with a blood-soaked murderer brandishing a blade, the captain reacted in the way any soldier would. Metal met metal, and the murderer’s explanation died on his lips as the captain buried his own weapon in his queen’s killer.
Glaeverssun sank to his knees. The guards paid him no attention now, intent as they were on saving their queen. He could hear their cries for help as if from a long distance away, his hearing deserting him. His vision too was fading. A dark fog moved in, slowly obscuring everything.
As his life ebbed away, he remembered where he’d heard those whispered words before. The Gudbrandr boy had spoken them in the square, moments before he had bested the mercenary.
Kurum-na murt.
That’s what the boy had told Oknhammer.
‘Death is coming.’
Astrid nudged Lann awake as a soldier came into the jail, heading for their cells.
The man looked weary, with dark shadows beneath his eyes, but it was the knife he drew from his belt as he approached them that held their full attention.
