A Day of Fallen Night (The Roots of Chaos)
A Day of Fallen Night: Part 3 – Chapter 52

Einlek Óthling sat on the skull of a whale, gaunt and pale enough to be part of it. A circlet rested above his brow, and he wore a pelt over chainmail, sword resting at his side. Though he shared the same thick hair as his uncle, it was short and brown, his prominent eyes the grey of steel.

He was fine of features, mild of voice – yet no one had dared cross him since he buckled on his iron arm, a replacement for the one he had personally severed, the night he and his younger uncle had been taken captive.

Einlek had been seven at the time. He had cut a hand off to escape a shackle, then run to safety, preventing Verthing Bloodblade from using him against Bardholt. Bloodblade had soon been defeated. If Bardholt had been the Hammer of the North, Einlek was the knife. That burnished limb was not the only reason people called him Ironside.

‘You are certain.’

Wulf leaned on a padded crutch in the firelight. Even though he was bundled in thick furs and stood as close to the hearth as he could bear, he could still feel the killing cold of the sea.

‘Certain,’ he rasped.

Einlek pinched the bridge of his nose, which tilted up a little at the tip. Like his mother, he had a broad white streak in his hair, licking down on to his brow. Wulf waited in silence.

They had taken him to a healer first. His soles had been frostbitten, hands bloated with blisters, skin peeling and saltworn. For a time, he had not been able to speak. His lips had bled. His throat had scorched.

The healer had worked hard to save his life. Shivering and sleepless in the night, he had listened to her whispering forbidden songs, asking the ice spirits to stop tormenting him. She had slowly warmed his hands until the blisters receded, leaving black scabs on the back of his fingers. She had wicked the wetness from his skin and treated the salt wounds.

She could not treat the scars the wyrm had gouged across his mind.

‘I didn’t believe it,’ Einlek said. ‘Even as the corpses came ashore, I refused to believe. I still feared as soon as my arse touched this throne, he’d walk in and throttle me for daring to take his place before my time.’ He blinked hard. ‘Tell me what happened out there. Was it the Ments?’

Wulf tried to swallow past the dusty coal that burned in his craw. He had drunk his weight in fresh water on the journey, but days of gulping brine had scoured him dry.

‘No,’ he said. ‘Something far older.’

‘The Dreadmount.’ Einlek placed his softer hand on the throne. ‘No. It’s not possible.’

‘It wasn’t the Nameless One. All stories say his hide was red. This one was black, but they must be kindred,’ Wulf said. His throat was in agony. ‘It came with . . . others. Offspring, thralls, Saint knows what. They razed the fleet with their breath. Every ship.’

‘Wyrms.’

‘Aye.’

Einlek tightened his grip. His gaze skitted about the hall, as if he counted unseen things.

‘How are we to fight such an enemy?’ he said. ‘How can we defend against it?’

‘There is nothing on earth or in Halgalant that could.’

‘How, by the Saint’s jaw, did you live?’ Einlek demanded. ‘I have swum in that sea, Wulf. I’m not too proud to admit that it beat the breath from me in midsummer. You were adrift in high winter, for days. A woman from the Fortitude was found on the wreckage, frozen to death. Yet here you stand.’

Flame on flesh, foul smoke and embers. The melted thing that had been Vell. Regny in his arms, on fire. He remembered all of this from the Conviction, branded deep into his mind.

By chance, he had been carrying a wineskin, fat with sweet water. It had kept him alive as the waves pushed him through the blackened fog, and underneath indifferent stars.

He had managed to drag himself on to a broken mast, and tie Regny to it. It had saved him from drowning or losing her – but how he had survived that cold, only the Saint could tell. There had been frost in his hair, barbing his eyelashes. After the first night of searing agony, he had lost all feeling in his skin, and slept without a hope of waking.

‘I chose the sea,’ he finally said. ‘Better ice than fire. Thought I’d just . . . slip away.’ Einlek nodded. ‘I don’t know why I’m still breathing. The Saint would not let me into Halgalant.’

Einlek regarded him, looking torn between pity and disquiet. Wulf tasted salt in the corner of his mouth.

The family had let him keep holding on to Regny. Only when they reached Eldyng had they prised her from his arms. She waited in the sanctuary for burial in Askrdal.

Wulf said, ‘Was I really the only one who lived?’

‘It appears so. The rest were burned, drowned or frozen. I sent divers and ships to look.’

He closed his eyes.

‘The Plague of Ófandauth is spreading,’ Einlek said. ‘The Nameless One brought a sickness from the Womb of Fire, a plague that beset the people of Yikala. It must have returned. Whatever attacked our king, we can be sure it serves our enemy. We will fight.’

‘Nothing could defeat it, sire. No blade could have pierced its hide.’

‘And no Hróthi dies a feather death,’ Einlek said firmly. ‘You were my uncle’s retainer. Now he is dead, you may leave with honour – or you can swear to me. A son of Hróth deserves a hall.’

Wulf clenched his jaw, his eyes aching.

‘If you accept, sail to Ascalun,’ Einlek said. ‘My cousin has relinquished her birthright to me, and for that, I owe her succour. You were on the Conviction. You can swear that Queen Sabran is dead, which will strengthen Glorian’s legitimacy. You can help her, Wulf.’

‘You want me to go back on the Ashen Sea.’

‘Yes.’

‘Sire, I don’t know if I can.’

‘Don’t let that fear take root, or you’ll never move again.’ Einlek leaned forward, his knuckles blanching on the throne. ‘Hear me. Glorian is only sixteen, and she is now the divine head of Virtudom. She must have iron in her bones, and I must make it clear to those who circle her that Hróth will defend its beloved princess. You and your lith can help me do that.’

Glorian could wield a sword. She was strong. But Wulf had seen her gentleness, her hunger for approval. The nobles would smell opportunity in a young queen, yet to find her voice.

‘You can go home, tell your family you’re alive. Lift their sorrow,’ Einlek said. ‘First, will you pledge to me, and to the Queen of Inys?’

Wulf took several moments to restrain a violent shudder – a shudder with deep, tangled roots, born of a feeling still unnamed. Keeping hold of the crutch, he bent to one knee.

‘My king,’ he whispered, ‘as the Saint is my witness, I will.’

****

The ship did not look seaworthy; nothing in the harbour did. Grey waves crashed against weak hulls, and sails threatened to catch afire. Wulf hirpled towards a birling, the Wave Steed. The tastes of salt and bile swashed in his mouth.

A Hróthi fighter could not fear the sea. Yet his palms sweated, and his stomach clenched.

‘Wulf?’

He looked up in a haze. Three people were waiting to board the Wave Steed, bundled in heavy furs. Karlsten, Thrit and Sauma – all that remained of his lith.

It was Thrit who had called out to him. When Sauma saw, she stared, her lips parting.

‘Wulf,’ she breathed.

Karlsten turned. His face ripened with anger, but Wulf was too weary to care. Before either of them could speak, Thrit stepped forward. His expression was guarded, and that hit Wulf like a thump to the chest. He could not bear Thrit, of all people, to fear him.

He stiffened when Thrit touched his cheek. Slowly, he looked into those warm, dark eyes.

‘I had to be sure.’ Thrit took his face between both hands. ‘You came back.’

Wulf nodded, shivering. ‘Vell and Regny,’ Sauma said. ‘Are they alive?’

‘I tried.’ Wulf spoke in a whisper. ‘I tried.’

‘Not enough.’ Karlsten spat on the boards, making Thrit flinch. ‘Bardholt, dead. Sabran, dead. Eydag and Vell and Regny, dead – and all they have in common is Wulfert fucking Glenn.’ His nostrils flared. ‘Our new king would have been wise to kill you. He’ll be next.’

‘One more word and it will be you, Karl, I swear it,’ Thrit bit out.

‘Are you head of the lith now?’ Karlsten sneered. ‘By whose command?’

‘Enough. Both of you, shut up,’ Sauma snapped. ‘We have all pledged to Einlek Óthling, and to Glorian. We are all that remains. We cannot break.’ She spoke between her teeth. ‘You swore to the House of Hraustr again, Karl. You missed your chance to walk away from Wulf.’

‘I swore before I knew.’ Karlsten glowered at them both. ‘Damn you. I’ll not be near a witch.’

He marched back up the boards, towards the city. ‘Karl,’ Sauma shouted after him. ‘Karlsten!’

‘Leave him,’ Wulf said. ‘There are worse things than a broken oath.’

Thrit turned back to him. ‘What happened?’ he asked. ‘Tell us, Wulf. What happened on the ship?’

Sauma was waiting, too. Wulf thought of telling them, but then the smell of melted fat and smoke greased his thrapple again. ‘I can’t. I will,’ he said, ‘but—’ His eyes were seeping. ‘I can’t.’

Thrit nodded. ‘Tell us whenever you’re ready,’ he said softly. ‘For now, we have a ship to take.’

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