Tales of the Vangen: The Dead King of Danic (Book 3)

Chapter 33: Say My Name

Fenris had a real name once, but he had it locked away in a tiny box a long time ago, along with the rest of his bad memories. It was possible back then. One of mother's Wyrd witches used to do it for him whenever he had a bad dream. She used to sit at his bedside and tell him stories, carving runes into a chalk disk with her pinky nail.

"I had the same dream again," Fenris told the old crone. "About my father dying. What if it's an omen? What if it comes true this time?"

"Dreams make for terrible omens at best," she'd say, no matter how much he tried convincing her otherwise. "One more scratch and we'll never have to worry about this omen again."

She'd say the same thing each time, and each time Fenris wouldn't believe her, right until the silver was plucked from his ear and locked away in a small, cedar chest. Then he'd grow sleepy, eyelids fluttering to stay open as the box was placed on the mantle, cold runes glowing over the polished wood.

The old crone would lean down then, eyes like amber in the half light.

"Stay with me boy!" A voice boomed in his ear. "Keep your eyes open!"

Fenris gasped. He was in his father's armory now. No longer a boy, a young man, with a broad chest and strong arms. He held a training sword in one hand, solid wooden shield in the other.

"Eyes up, lad," his sword instructor commanded. The man was tall and lean as a spear, his scarred face perfectly shaped to match. He was a Jarlman from the far north. His father had paid a hefty sum for his services, and had proven his weight in silver as a teacher.

"Don't look at my feet! Look at my hands!"

The wooden sword flicked out, catching Fenris hard across the ribs. He wheezed, pain lancing up his side despite the many layers of padding in his jacket.

"A shield is useless if you don't use it! So use it for Aurora's sake!"

"It's too damn heavy!" Fenris snarled back. "I can't swing properly with it strapped to my arm all the time!"

The sword instructor paused, lowering his weapon. "You have a point. You've done nothing but swing at me two handed for hours now. We might as well strap a stone to your arm with how much you're using it. Take the damn thing off and toss it aside."

Fenris did so, gripping the handle of his sword in both hands. "That's better," he said, lip curling back with satisfaction. "That actually feels right for once."

"I see," His instructor said, narrowing his eyes. "Neither bear nor boar, as I trained your father. You fight like a wolf, lad."

"Is that what you call it?" Fenris tested his footwork, sinking on his back heel. It felt good. It felt right.

"It will serve." The instructor mimicked the same style. "Eyes open now. I will show you what it means to fight like a wolf."

The sun was just beginning to set when the instructor let Fenris go. By then his hands were a gnarled mass of bumps and bruises. He'd been disarmed at least a half a dozen times, each one more painful than the last. In the past the man would bait him out, testing his footwork and parrying half hearted blows. This time it was as if the old man had flown into a rage, charging at him again and again without pause, forcing him on his toes at all times.

Like a true predator.

The sky had been a different color back then, but Fenris couldn't remember the name for it anymore. He'd locked away those memories too. All he could recall was that the clouds were a milky shade of white, like froth in an angry stream.

"Where is my father," Fenris demanded. "Why isn't he back yet?"

"Your father is still out on the King's business, I'm afraid." The instructor told him.