Author's note.
Just quickly, I should notify you of some name changes. As I discovered, in the process of conlanging for the Seraphim, trying to slam Welsh and Old Norse together doesn't quite work. This has led to reassessment and some name changes. Now, their tongue is more of a mishmash of Old English and Old Norse, which are a bit more compatible with each other.
Mornadh is now Thrymwald
Lugath is now Hreki
Nioldh is now Aerid
Throredh is now Grisca
Dhaclaidh is now Ierfr
Riclaidh is now Orcynn
Ardh the Great is now Herewald the Great
These changes have already been applied to Chapter 9: Black Throne, which I recommend you reread to acclimatise to the new names and meet Hoilst and Hasa, Thrymwald's loyal hounds.
"These wall carvings are utterly incredible. The detail on the individual warrior, right down to short or long hair, is exquisite. Only a master at their craft could have done this, and whoever they were clearly thought war was the highest calling of men." Personal notes of Dr Otto Reichart, chief archaeologist at the Sognefjord dig.
XVIII
The two warriors circled slowly. Their weapons clashed intermittently as they tested each other, waiting for that crucial misstep. Outside the King's Hall, such an error would be a death sentence.
For now, it's just pride at stake. And that's more than enough for us.
Varlgan Hereson's red eyes, set in a regal face crowned by an uncontrollable mop of battleship grey hair, flickered up from the parchment he feigned interest in. The axe head fell with precision he so desperately wanted. Whips of energy burned bright with malice as they tried to latch onto the great two-handed weapon. War was art to the Inheritors, and his older brothers were masters.
The arena had been prepared as best it could. Long wooden tables and their benches were scraped aside to make room for the two warriors. Sigern and Grisca Hereson had a cramped but adequate sparring arena, yet a hall remained a hall. A great orange fire crackled peacefully in defiant contrast to the swish and clang of combat. Flickering flames lit up walls lined with shields and furs, and a roof held up by dark dragon headed wooden beams.
Sigern, younger of the two sparring brothers yet Varlgan's elder by many moons, spun to bring his axe into Grisca's, side. Grisca flecked his whips around the handle and grinned.
Varlgan's gaze fell back to his parchment, having seen enough. He knew what would happen next.
Grisca will get cocky and Sigern will break his jaw for it. I might know what's going to happen at the end, but at least the Song of Lafby reads nicely.
Lafby, a name infamous among all his kind. There Thrymwald had slaughtered his treacherous brothers and won all Norven. A fascinating and bloody tale, it still could not satiate the itch he felt in his soul and bubbling blood.
Reading about battles doesn't make you a great warrior. Not being allowed to fight altogether even less so.
His trainers made their excuses. They'd let him swing and fail to counter properly or exploit a misstep because he "was too fast." Varlgan considered himself a good swordsman, but even his royal pride didn't deceive him.
Waldin's one eye, what fool do they take me for? They're just too scared shitless of what father would do to them if they hurt me.
He growled under his breath.
A few cuts and bruises hurt no one. Only the weak fear pain.
Varlgan massaged his eyelids. Despite the hall's roaring fire, it lacked any natural light.
There's no sun in Hrofhem. Thrymwald's youngest grimaced. Unlike the rest of his people, he'd no memory of that great gem carried across the heavens by loyal Hoilst, brother of the moon wolf Hasa.
Waldin's prized hounds, twin fathers of all wolves. What I wouldn't give to sit beneath their passage.
There was a grunt, followed by the sound of something wet spattering on the stone floor. Varlgan looked up to see Grisca stumble back. Royal blue blood streamed from his lips, and droplets of it had caught in his short grey hair.
Got carried away with trying to take his weapon, didn't you brother?
Grisca had underestimated his foe. Anywhere else, underestimating Sigern, first in line to their father's throne, was a death sentence.
The foremost of Thrymwald's sons savagely kicked Grisca in the chest, knocking him on his back. He cracked his head against the stone floor as his whips clattered out of his hands.
Sigern rested his prized weapon's pole on the ground and sighed, the blood of his brother staining his tunic. "Grisca, how many times? The sharp end isn't the only part of a weapon."
Grisca spat more blue as he forced himself to his feet, rubbing the back of his head. "You're stronger than me, Sigern. That's all. Were you not…" He smiled. "I'd hurt you. If you weren't blood, I'd skin you alive."
"Good thing I'm blood then." Sigern raised a wry eyebrow.
Grisca wiped his mouth with his sleeve, then looked over his shoulder and glowered at Varlgan. "Are you learning anything, whelp?"
"Hm?" Varlgan feigned ignorance.
"Varlgan, we aren't stupid. We know you're watching." Grisca scowled.
"When you should be off hunting with Cynerid." Sigern chuckled.
Varlgan pouted. "It's boring. Besides, I don't see how chasing down phantom animals in fake woodland makes me a great warrior."
"You have instructors-"
"Who teach me nothing!" Varlgan snapped then bit his tongue. It wouldn't do to shout at his brothers.
"You are young, little brother." A soft voice brushed against his ears, jolting electricity through him. "Swinging a sword does not come naturally to you, so they start with the basics."
Grisca sniggered and Sigern started in surprise as Cynerid Aldrdottir emerged from the shadows. Sky blue hair cascaded over her shoulders. Her silent footfalls were those of an experienced predator, her hawklike features and sharp eyes boring into them each in turn.
"Hello, Cynerid." Sigern smoothed away his surprise. "How long have you been there?"
"Long enough." She stopped at Varlgan's side, and half smiled at Grisca. "You're getting sloppy, Grisca. You hurt them after you cripple them, and not before. Perhaps we should spar at some point, so I can knock that lesson into your head."
"It would be wrong of me to beat my little sister." Grisca shot back with a grin, absent of his usual hostility with even a dash of playfulness.
Cynerid laughed for a moment, but it faded into a frown. "Don't be cocky, Grisca. Kill this Eva, kill it quickly, then come home. Losing Ierfr was bad enough."
"They will compose sagas of his killer's screams." Grisca shrugged. "I've never known defeat, Cynerid. I don't intend to start."
Neither did Ierfr. A lasting sadness pulled at Varlgan's heart. Feast in Valhalla, brother.
"Hm." Cynerid turned her disapproving gaze from Grisca to Varlgan. "You were meant to meet me in the woods half an hour ago. Up. Now."
"I'm not Earith. You can't order me around." Varlgan grumbled.
"I don't need to order my daughter around because she learns. Besides, this is your father's command." Cynerid folded her arms. Grisca shook his head at Varlgan whilst Sigern shot a warning look.
"Hmph, father…" Varlgan grumbled. "Good to know he's interested in me being anything but a Norven Prince."
"There's a lot more to being royalty than just cutting down the man in front of you."
"I am Erafir. If I can't swing a sword properly, what good am I?"
"Perhaps if you paid a little more attention to your instructors…"
"But they're useless!" Varlgan shouted. "They're terrified of me because father's decided I'm to be wrapped in wool for the rest of my life!"
Silence hung over the hall. None of his older siblings made any attempt to correct him.
They all know it's true.
"Do you actually think you're anywhere near ready?" Cynerid said.
"Yes!"
She smirked.
"Looks like you need to learn quickly then. Brother, I believe a demonstration is in order." She nodded at Sigern.
In the blink of an eye, Varlgan found himself hauled off his seat by the scruff of his neck and deposited in front of the first in line to the throne. Fear and elation crossed his mind in equal measure.
I can prove myself! I can show them all I'm not weak!
Varlgan's yet unnamed sword rasped out of its scabbard as Sigern hefted his axe. The teenager planned it all out in his head, what way the blow would fall, how he'd deflect and jab. He wouldn't fool around like Grisca.
Sigern raised his axe high and plunged it down. Varlgan immediately swung upwards to counter it.
That's it, I'll deflect this and- The moment the axe head clattered off his sword, Sigern brought his pommel up to strike Varlgan in the jaw. Royal blue blood filled his mouth.
"Too slow." The first in line to the throne muttered.
Varlgan stumbled back. The pommel of the axe then struck him in the forehead and he went down. There was a swish through the air, and Sigern's axe hovered directly above his brow.
"Much too slow." Sigern shook his head.
It…it can't be. I can't have been that…
Cynerid shook her head. "Well that settles it. You aren't ready. If an old feint is too much for you, then uncle is right to be worried."
Varlgan sat up, breathing slowly. Frustration and fury pumped through his veins in equal measure.
"Again." He growled.
"No." Cynerid said firmly, her tone honed by parenthood. "Up."
He steadily obeyed, rising to his feet with drooped head and balling fist.
I'm a disgrace to my line.
"Let me try again. I never get to spar." He pleaded.
"Because you have a lot to learn, Varlgan. Instinct is the sharpest weapon of a warrior, and you have none." Cynerid's expression was unmoving.
"How can I learn, if father won't let me learn?"
"Uncle…just wants to keep you safe until you're ready. You are his youngest."
"He went on his first raid at my age!"
"That was a different time."
"No, it's more than that! Every time he looks at me, he doesn't see me. He sees mother. I'm a living reminder of her death…" His shoulders sagged. "…and I'm the useless bundle that caused it."
Sigern and Grisca flinched. Not a moment later a sharp blow struck Varlgan in the back of his head. Cynerid glowered down at him, half enraged, half horrified.
"Don't be so stupid." The eldest and most beautiful of Aerid's daughters snapped. "By the Gods, Varlgan, how was mother's death your making? Man and his thunder staffs killed her, not you."
"If I hadn't been there-"
"You. Were. A. Baby." Cynerid caught herself. "We've dallied long enough. Come." Her strong hand took hold of his shoulder and guided him out of the hall. Sympathy filled the eyes of his brothers as he went.
A little part of us all died that day on the ice. I wish it had been me and not you.
Cynerid guided him from the floor, her grip both crushing and gentle. Courtiers and guards bowed or dropped to one knee as they wound their way the corridors. His sister would nod, but Varlgan remained within himself.
I am a disgrace to my line. He let the words no one had ever spoken to him repeat over and over again. Aldr the Great must look n me with disgust. Weak in will and incompetent in arms. Mother, why did you have to sacrifice yourself for me?
As the heavy wooden doors were pulled open by swaddled in black huskarls, Varlgan's disappointment and despair spilled over. "I'll never be a worthy. I'll never be a warrior."
Cynerid paused mid step. "You will, in time."
"When?" Varlgan smiled sadly. "Even if we take the world back, father will give me some keep far out of the way. I'll just read my scrolls and think about things until Waldin decides it's my time. Hardly a worthy life."
Not one worthy of my mother's sacrifice.
"Mother died so you could live, as you wish. She wouldn't have been thinking about anything else but you." Cynerid squeezed his shoulder. "We live a long time, little brother. You will have your chance for honour."
Varlgan sighed, tears welling up in his eyes. "…mother died and I lived. It all happened the wrong way round."
The two stood in silence for a while, ignoring a few looks of confusion from the huskarls.
"What was she like? Mother, I mean?" Varlgan whispered.
He'd asked the question many times, and always got the same answer. Cynerid was no different. She fell silent, a bottomless sadness crossing her hawkish features before she smoothed it away.
There was no answer his brothers or sisters could give without it breaking them, and Varlgan didn't think less of them for it.
"You are half right about being a warrior." Cynerid changed the topic and guided him out onto the stony streets of the surrounding settlement.
Varlgan's head lifted a little at that.
"At this rate you'll scarcely know how to defend yourself properly. Your father doesn't want you in harm's way, but he might not get an option. One day you will have to fight, and clearly your instructors aren't up to it. Your little match with Sigern proved that…" She frowned, deep in thought.
"You'll…you'll teach me?"
"I can teach you to be a hunter." Cynerid said. "And that's warrior enough."
Authors note 2: Electric boogaloo
You might have guessed but just for clarification, Varlgan = this universe's version of Kaworu. Cynerid is Ramiel, Grisca is Shamshel and Sigern is Zeruel. I find it fitting that this universe's version of the big Z wields a Dane Axe.
