Venna was beside herself with anguish, while Erik was just stunned. He could only stare at his brother helplessly. His mind could not process what had just happened. Two of the men helped Venna lift Orn and move him into the covered area toward the bow of the ship. His convulsions had seemed to have ceased, however, he remained unconscious.
The crew tasked with charting their course was perplexed. As they were still moving, they could tell that they still had the wind. Having seen the sun low over the western horizon, and that it was setting over the port side of the ship, the crew could determine they were on a northerly heading, and it was some time in the afternoon, but nothing beyond that. The crew were looking around, relieved that they had a sense of their direction, but no closer to knowing where they had ended up.
The man on the bows cry into the eerie silence shocked everyone into alertness. “LAND HO!”
The tiller man replied, “WHERE AWAY?”
“AHEAD OFF THE LARBOARD BOW!”
Erik finally recovered somewhat and moved to the left of the ship, where he saw sailors pointing. Sure enough, he could see a smudge on the horizon.
He could hear the jarl and the navigator in a frantic discussion, trying to plot exactly where they were. They couldn’t decide whether to risk moving closer to shore to identify what coast they could see. It was eventually decided they would risk it.
Even though Nevan ships could not hope to catch a Halder vessel under normal circumstances, if they lost the wind, with the reduction in oars deployed, they may get caught if the coast they could see was the Nevan Empire.
As they crept towards the coast, they spotted sails in the distance. A sense of concern settled over the crew. As they drew closer to the smudge on the horizon, it began sharpening into focus. They could see that it was the coast of a heavily forested region of land, and the ships’ sails they had discerned were two coloured in a vertically striped pattern. Someone cried out, “I think they’re ours! Praise the Gods, I think they’re ours!”
Some of the sailors whooped with delight, while some looked around, bewildered as their minds tried to ponder wherein they were. Others merely dropped to their knees, faces lifted to the sky in prayer to the Gods.
After a short time, they sailed alongside the nearest vessel, and one of Jarl Sigtrin’s ship crew called out, “Ahoy! What coast is that over there?”
The reply from the other vessel was “You’re around fifty miles nor-east of Tverdalsoy!”
“Many thanks!”
The ship’s crew couldn’t believe what they were hearing. Almost a week’s journey in less than a day! This revelation had them mystified. However, meaningful glances were being directed towards where Orn lay recovering. They all saw that he had controlled the wind and the sea. They had heard of men with these kinds of power, but this was their first time witnessing it, and from one so young. Hushed conversations among the crew were being held.
“That boy is God touched.”
“That’s for sure! Never thought I would ever see anything like that.”
“Aye. He is definitely a child of the Gods.”
Venna, kneeling by Orn’s side, was fighting back her tears, as she held a damp cloth in her left hand, dabbing Orn’s face while her other held his. “My silly, silly boy! What have you done? What have you done?” she sobbed quietly in a pleading voice as tears streamed down her cheeks. She placed the cloth on his forehead and brought his hand to her lips. Swatting away tears with her free hand as she sniffled, struggling to keep herself together.
Jarl Sigtrin entered and knelt next to Venna. When he cast a glance toward her, a wave of discomfort came over him. He wanted to console her, but he was at a loss for what he could say or do. He looked at Orn as he placed a gentle, tentative hand on her shoulder, speaking in a hushed tone. “How is the lad? Do we know what ails him, Lady Venna?”
Venna turned to Sigtrin, considering how she would explain to him, when Orn groaned and his eyes opened slightly. He squinted and asked in a soft, croaky voice, “Mumma… where am I?”
Venna breathed a sigh of relief and said to him, “Don’t worry about that now. You rest all right? Rest now.” She gently touched his cheek and held onto his hand as he slipped back into unconsciousness. However, as his breathing was deep and steady, and his tremors had ceased, Venna herself almost collapsed with exhaustion.
She regained some composure and turned to face the jarl. And told him, “It’s been a stressful time, and the toll it has taken has finally caught up with him.” She felt terrible being dishonest with him, but she was still hoping to conceal Orn’s ability, while knowing deep down it was futile. Concealing his secret had become almost second nature.
The Jarl took on a gentle expression as he said, “Lady Venna, please. I saw.”
Venna’s eyes teared up as she looked helplessly at him. “I’m sorry. I have been trying to hide it for so long. What do I do? They will take him from me. When they learn of him, I will lose him.”
“That isn’t necessarily true. You can always ensure that you stay with him. You are the shield maiden, Lady Venna. They will listen to you, I’m certain.”
Her voice went small as a small glimmer of hope lighted her eyes. “Do you think so?”
“You are famous. There are songs and poems about you.” The jarl said as he smiled reassuringly. “It means you have skill enough for people to want to learn from you. Besides, when does it ever hurt to ask?”
Venna reached up and clasped the jarl’s hand, as her eyes expressed to him the gratitude that her lips could not. She was trying to hold herself together. She was worried that if she spoke another word, she would break down again.
Jarl Sigtrin smiled briefly in acknowledgement, stood and said, “Please, lie down and rest. I will check on him from time to time. We will be in Fludavera in the morning.” And then exited the cabin.
Venna carefully lay down next to Orn, and as her exhaustion took over, she drifted to sleep. They slept through the night, and in the morning they arrived at the docks of the city of Fludavera, the Grand Duchy of Holvela’s capital.
Once they made the ship secure, Jarl Sigtrin leapt across onto the pier. He moved over to the harbour-master, who was directing dock workers and merchant crews to move around crates and barrels as he made notes on a piece of slate with some chalk.
He interrupted him by saying, “I am Jarl Sigtrin of Bosberg. I need to get a message to the palace that Sofjorland has been attacked.”
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The auburn-haired harbour-master was a rotund man in his early fifties, with jowls and a double chin. His close-cropped hair and neatly trimmed beard, which seemed to almost reach his eyes, gave him the appearance of an upright walking bulldog. He flashed the man interrupting him a look of annoyance, but then as he registered what he was just told, the colour drained from his face and he began waving his arms about. “STO-OP! STOP WORKING!”
He said to Jarl Sigtrin, “I’ll fetch you a horse. Better the palace guards hear it from you yourself, my lord.” He then turned and took in a deep breath. “FINN! HERE! NOW!”
A wiry-looking young man of around twenty dashed over from among the dock workers and answered, “Yes, Haldred?”
“Fetch his lordship here a fast horse immediately.”
“Yup, right away… Ah…which one, Haldred?”
“Any one! Hurry, man!”
“Right, sorry. Right away…”
“Today, Finn.” The harbour-master looked at the young man in exasperation as he just stood there.
Then Finn jolted a little and said, “Oh, right. Let me just…” and he dashed off to the stables.
“Apologies, my lord,” Haldred said, with a pained expression on his face. He then said, “Young folk,” and shrugged slightly.
The jarl responded with a nod and a sympathetic smile, as he patted the man’s shoulder, and said, “Good man, good man.”
Haldred shouted to his workers to continue taking inventory of the cargo pile. After a couple of minutes, the young man returned with a large chestnut roan. A fine, sturdy example of Halder equine.
He handed the reins to Jarl Sigtrin and said, “His name’s Bullhead, my lord. On account of he runs with his head down like a charging bull.”
Jarl Sigtrin’s face took on a quizzical expression, and said back to the young man, “Hm… right. Er, thank you… for that?”
He accepted the reins from him and passed him a silver coin. Once he mounted, he tapped his heels into the flanks of the muscular horse, “Yah, yah!” as he galloped out of the docks area and off to the ducal palace.
Around two hours later, Jarl Sigtrin returned, leading a procession of armed and armoured huscarls on horseback, formed up to the front and rear of a royal carriage and an open-air steel cage wagon.
The jarl dismounted and led the horse back over to the harbour master, thanked him and passed him a couple of silver coins.
Venna and Erik had disembarked from the ship. Venna looked every inch the warrior in her red tunic, black lamellar armour vest, and tight, dark brown trouse. She had her round wooden shield strapped to her back and her sword belted to her waist.
Erik had dressed similarly to Orn, as the jarl had provided him with a change of clothes as well. They were wearing dark blue tunics with grey trousers belted at the waist with a leather strap and a thick metal buckle.
Orn had his arm over Erik’s shoulder, as he was still weak from his episode the previous day.
Two of Sigtrin’s men held the bald Nevan secure between them. Both men were wrinkling their noses, wearing an expression of distaste. The man had soiled himself, having spent the entire journey strapped to the mast, with no opportunity to go relieve himself.
The four of them, Sigtrin, Venna, Erik, and Orn, boarded the royal carriage while two rear ducal huscarls dismounted, took custody of the prisoner, and loaded him into the cage. Then the procession left the dock. The sounds of many shod horse’s hooves striking cobbled streets resounded from the buildings of various vendors and taverns on the road to the palace.
Traditionally in towns and cities, the local ruling noble’s residence would be near the centre. Holvelans had built their ducal on the waterfront about three miles east of the dock, with the ducal quarters and many of the guestroom windows facing a magnificent view south over the sea.
In a compound surrounded by shear, twenty-foot high walls, the palace made for a defenceable structure from attacks by land or sea. The wall and the main buildings’ durability came from the large bluestone bricks utilised in their construction. Built flush along the back wall of the palace, there were two towers, one at each end of the back wall that melded into the cliff at the water’s edge. Topping these towers were a pair of giant ballistas. Doors that lead directly into the palace could access the tops of these towers.
The wall between the towers lowered down to ten feet with stairs, enabling archers to line the battlements in the event of a seaward attack on the building.
The procession passed under the portcullis, and into a large compound that included a broad stone path of about two hundred feet long, leading up to and surrounding a large circular garden.
Lining the path on either side were pine trees set around twelve feet back from the edges, ending approximately twenty feet before the splitting to encircle well manicured garden. On the opposite side, the path rounded by the stone steps of the palace itself. The path branched off from the circle in both directions, disappearing around the sides of the building.
The procession followed around to the right of the circle, to pull up with the carriage door facing the palace doors, which stood open.
A pair of tall, muscular warriors stood on each side of the outward opening doors of the entrance. Each wore pristine steel chain mail, and polished rounded helmets, with protruding eye guards that surrounded and offered protection to the eyes and nose.
Attached to the helmets were chain mail aventails and masks that afforded protection to the soldiers’ lower face and neck and obscured the men’s identities.
Over the armour was a surcoat in the King of Utstadland’s colours, dark purple with a gold motif of the king’s crown at the centre. They were each armed with a large single-bladed two-hand axe.
A palace servant came to the door of the carriage and opened it, at which point Sigtrin and the Avdlaks alighted. Venna retrieved her shield and reattached her sword to her belt as Erik helped his brother down.
The chamberlain of the grand duke came out to meet them. He was a tall, thin, fussy man with a neat, trimmed greying blonde beard and curled mustachios.
He wore a floppy, green velvet cap with a large feather, and a black robe with silver thread trimming around the sleeve cuffs. He regarded the arrivals with undisguised disdain.
His expression displayed a momentary tinge of fear, as his eyes met the icy stare of the warrior woman next to the very junior noble. He had received explicit instructions to bring them to the chamber where the rulers of the Halder nation were holding their meeting. It was not in his nature to take kindly disruptions to him carrying out his duty.
Although in reality, as much as the purpose was to discuss affairs of state, it was also a drinking session and family reunion, as the rulers of the four Halder nations were all related.
He recomposed himself and said to the huscarls, “Take the prisoner to the cells of the guardhouse. His grace will call for him to be brought before him, should he so decide. The rest of you, follow me, please.”
And with that, he turned and went back inside, without waiting to see if they were following. Sigtrin and the Avdlak family made to follow him, but as Venna approached the entryway, it was as though two soldier statues came to life.
With a frightening quickness, Venna found her path barred by the heads of the soldiers’ axes. The soldier to her left stated firmly, “No one under arms may go before the king.”
Venna smiled at the soldier and said, “You’re welcome to take mine from me if you think you can.” She unstrapped her shield and adopted a fighter’s stance.
The chamberlain turned around and asked impatiently, “What is the holdup? Let them pass.”
The soldier repeated, “No one under arms may go before the king.”
Venna sighed, then said in a loud, clear voice, “I am shield maiden Venna Avdlak, wife of Vylder Avdlak. Once Venna Uldensdotter! I will surrender my sword to no man! Stand in my way, you will fall, and lay behind me!” And like lightning, she had drawn her sword and started rhythmically pounding her shield with it. Her eyes were afire, and an evil toothy grin split her face.
The two imposing warriors, although with their faces hidden, displayed their sudden doubts by shooting glances at each other, as they nervously shuffled their feet and tightened their grips on their axes. The name Venna Avdlak was not unknown to them.
A slow clap-clap-clap-clap broke the standoff, and a breathy, deep chuckle as King Ulden Argenson of Utstadland, overlord of all Haldermen, emerged from within the palace.
He did not dress in a kingly fashion. He wore a plain-looking purple tunic with black hose and boots. His dark grey hair framed a face from which a pale blue right eye seemed to pierce to the heart of all things. His left eyelid closed over an empty socket, which had a thick, vertical scar through it, running from mid-forehead to the bottom of his jaw.
A single silver, flat-faced ring that had the crown of Utstadland, his royal seal carved on it, adorned the middle finger of his left hand. His other fingers were bare.
As he walked outside, he negligently brushed aside the axes barring the way and approached Venna, who had now lowered her arms and bowed her head.
Tears began forming in her eyes, and with a voice that started breaking, she said, “Father…they took him from me.” To the shock of all, the king embraced her tightly, and pressed his lips against her head as she sobbed into his shoulder.