《Hoarfrost Heroes [Epic Fantasy]》 Prologue Prologue Lucidity comes less and less often. My mind is not what it was. But I remember clearly that Sam has abandoned us, thrown us out onto the open streets from the safety of a tavern that I gave him, against his own sworn oath. I do not truly blame him, for I know that this is the work of the whore Mardis. I know it is the plight of a man desperate to steady his marriage, but this is not a thing that can be saved. I warned him the day that I first saw her that there was no love in her eyes. An accidental child was no reason to rush into wedlock. And now he has forced away his oldest friend to share his bed with a viper that drips poison in his ear. Brolli has taken us in. Brolli has taken us in. Brolli has taken us in. Why did I right that three times? Write. My mind is not what it was. I must try to remember what is important. I have been cast aside from a man who swore an oath to protect me and my son, but my old friend Brolli has taken us in. I have been given my own room. It is cold. Hjorvarth is here with me, working for Brolli. That worries me. I know what kind of man Brolli has become, the work that he deals in, but for now he only has my son sweeping floors and helping that jovial cook. Cook. Why does that word strike such a fear in me? Why am I asking answers of parchment? I must try to remember. In case I forget it all. In case Hjorvarth needs to read this. Brolli has taken us in. I have a room, with my things in it. It is cold, but it is full of my things. I have had to hide them, because Brolli is in a foul mood and he is selling most his things. Gone is the fine furniture. Gone is the fine bedding. Gone are the fine The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation. My mind is not what it was, but I have hidden my things. My wardrobe is not empty. Say the name three times and all appears. What name? I must try to remember. I have remembered the name. I thought it was Sibbe, but it was another woman¡¯s. Which one? I watch my son become more and more like Brolli. To write the words and mean them with hate makes me sick of myself. Brolli is my greatest friend, he would not betray me. Yet I see in him a hunger for a son, and I remember a feeling. Did he love Sibbe? Or is that part of my mad imaginings? They look at me with crows eyes waiting to peck at my corpse. Snap. Snap. Snap. I won¡¯t die for them, not yet. Sometimes I wake from a dream to find a big red-haired man forcing a spoon towards my face. He has Hjorvarth¡¯s eyes. I don¡¯t understand what he wants, but I am hungry, and My mind is not what it was, but I have hidden things. I must try to remember. Sibbe, if you are reading this, please send for help. Isn¡¯t Sibbe dead? She is. Hello? Hello. Is this a talking parchment? I suppose it must be. Miraculous. Try not to forget. I¡¯ll do my best. 1. A Bear and his Cubs
Part One - Summer''s End
1. A Bear and his Cubs ¡°I have lost a morbid bet. On a blurry night of too much wine and ale, Brolli wished to wager on whether Grettir might soon jump into Horvorr¡¯s Great Lake and drown amid the spirited water. To my surprise, he wagered that the newly widowed warrior would live a long life. This he reasoned because good things never happened to Brolli the Black. Many winters have passed since. And though I still plainly see the grief behind those wild eyes, Grettir appears almost happier than me. Once the One Swing, feared by all goblins, he is now Grettir the Maid. Cleaning up after Gudmund, and taking care of his children instead. When I reminded Brolli of the wager, and paid him the coin, he was terribly displeased. ¡°¡®Uncle Grettir,¡¯¡± alive and well,¡± he said as if it were a grim mockery. While Brolli, their uncle by blood, remains barred from his brother¡¯s hall. Unable to see his nephews at all.¡± Horvorr¡¯s Guard had camped only a mile from the stone city of Timilir. They had set their tents and fires in the shadows of Southwestern Tymir¡¯s eastern mountains. Fully ready to leave, the grizzled fighters stood restless¡ªmuttering under their breaths and rubbing their wrapped hands together for heat¡ªwhile they waited for those arguing in the largest tent, which unlike the rest had been woven of a rich and colorful wool. Within, a rustic fire crackled amid sparse furnishings. Sybille, a red-haired young woman, sat cross-legged on layered furs, sharing her gaze between the flames and her brothers who were both older, and who both argued and paced amid the smoky surroundings. Sybille studied her brothers, her blue eyes watered by the flames, and thought that they were perhaps much the same. Both with the same green eyes. Both clad in fine shirts and leggings. Both shared their father¡¯s auburn hair and stubborn temperament. She then looked as if in entreaty to the large, one-armed man who sat at a small lacquered table opposite Sybille. Grettir''s thoughtful scowl barely registered those in his charge though. He simply stared off at the tent flap, which flapped in the breeze. ¡°We speak in circles,¡± Geirmund declared, his proud features betraying only a hint of impatience. ¡°If Sybille wants Engli to go with her, then that is her choice.¡± Agnar¡¯s answering smile was wolfish. ¡°And if someone is making the wrong choice, then I¡¯ll choose to counsel them against it.¡± ¡°In what way is it the wrong choice?¡± Geirmund asked. Agnar haplessly shrugged. ¡°Well...?¡± Geirmund pressed. ¡°Don¡¯t get me wrong," the younger brother said, "Engli¡¯s a nice enough lad, and I¡¯ve nothing against him. But I¡¯m not best pleased with some of the things I¡¯ve heard about Jarl Thrand¡¯s son.¡± ¡°What have you heard about Thorfinn?¡± Geirmund asked. Agnar smirked. ¡°Things that make me think he¡¯s a bit of a cunt, and no great lover of women.¡± He raised his brows. ¡°I don¡¯t want our dear sister in his company at all. But,¡± he added, ¡°she has to go, doesn¡¯t she? So at the least, I want a man that is going to put the little prick in his place if he acts the bastard.¡± Sybille frowned up at him from the layered furs. ¡°Could you at least pretend that I¡¯m here?¡± Agnar looked back with a dubious grin. ¡°I mentioned you.¡± ¡°A mention," Sybille said. ¡°How very good of you, brother. Though perhaps you should stop wasting everyone¡¯s time and simply tell us what you¡¯ve heard.¡± ¡°I¡¯m afraid you¡¯re far too young to hear that, Syb''." ¡°To clarify then,¡± Geirmund put in, ¡°these are stories you¡¯ve been told by whores.¡± Agnar¡¯s smile faltered. ¡°Women.¡± ¡°That you¡¯ve paid for sex?¡± ¡°Women.¡± Agnar scratched at his hooked nose. ¡°That I¡¯ve had sex with.¡± He glanced up at the colourful wool of the tent. ¡°It might be that I gifted them with coin afterwards¡ªas a sign of affection¡ªbut that doesn¡¯t make them whores now, does it?¡± ¡°It does,¡± Geirmund replied. ¡°That¡¯s exactly what makes a woman a whore.¡± ¡°Wouldn¡¯t that make me a whore?¡± Sybille then asked, idly sweeping dust from her fur cloak. ¡°Given that our father is set on marrying me off for trade deals and an alliance. Given that he¡¯s marrying me off for coin?¡± Geirmund met his sister¡¯s gaze for only a moment before looking askance. ¡°Well, brother?¡± Agnar asked. ¡°Go on and tell our dear sister that she¡¯s a whore¡ªby your standards, not mine.¡± He smiled. ¡°I don¡¯t think you¡¯re a whore, Syb''. And if it were up to me, we wouldn¡¯t even marry you to the bastard to begin with. We¡¯d just go in there, punch him in the mouth until his teeth fall out, and then run out of the city before Jarl Thrand has a chance to arrest us.¡± Grettir sighed, loudly enough that all the siblings turned. He scratched at his bear-brown beard, which covered scarred cheeks and encroached moss-green eyes. ¡°Could you all stop treating this like a joke?¡± he asked in his harsh voice. ¡°As I see it, uncle,¡± Agnar said. ¡°I¡¯m the only one who¡¯s taking this seriously.¡± Grettir met his words with a doubtful look. ¡°Is that right?¡± Agnar offered a solemn nod. ¡°So you wish to go to Timilir as guests of Jarl Thrand, beat his son bloody, and then flee the city?¡± Grettir questioned. "No mention of how we''d escape the city guards, or how that would ruin the marriage pact your father worked so hard to arrange?" "Hm," Agnar said. ¡°I could perhaps take matters more seriously.¡± Grettir¡¯s hirsute face grew hard. ¡°Thorfinn is to be your brother by law. And you have not met since you were both boys. So I find it more than a little disappointing that you would go into this holding a grudge based off of gossip spoken by¡ª¡± ¡°It is not gods-damned gossip!¡± Agnar snarled, his dark eyes dancing with anger. ¡°What about that do you two judging fucks not understand?¡± Grettir scowl deepened. He exhaled through stained teeth. ¡°Get out.¡± Agnar dipped his head in apology, abandoning his anger, and turned to leave. ¡°Not you,¡± Grettir growled, causing the younger brother to grimace. ¡°Geirmund, Sybille. Go outside while I speak with Agnar.¡± ¡°Uncle,¡± Geirmund said as an entreaty. ¡°I¡¯m sure he meant no disrespect.¡± Grettir turned his scowl on the older brother. ¡°Do you?¡± Geirmund relucantly shook his head, and rose from his chair. He helped his sister from the furs. ¡°That was foolish,¡± Sybille whispered when she passed Agnar. The younger brother stood in silence as his siblings departed. ¡°So you¡¯re happy to raise your voice and swear, Agnar?¡± Grettir asked, pushing up from his chair. ¡°But now you won¡¯t even look me in the eye.¡± The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation. Agnar apologetically smiled, turning to face the bulky one-armed warrior. ¡°I let my temper get away from me. And I have embarrassed myself and insulted you.¡± ¡°Insulted?¡± Grettir shrugged in an uneven fashion. ¡°You were a little rude, but mainly I wanted Sybille out of our hearing.¡± ¡°Oh.¡± Agnar readily nodded. ¡°I thought that might be the case,¡± he lied. Grettir''s brows furrowed. ¡°What is it you have against Thorfinn?¡± ¡°It was just a bad joke, Grettir," Agnar assured. ¡°I was trying to ease Sybille¡¯s nerves.¡± Grettir met the words with bared teeth. ¡°Care to answer again with the truth?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t lie, uncle,¡± Agnar answered. ¡°Not without good reason, at least. If it was any business of yours, then surely you¡¯d already know.¡± ¡°Is that so?¡± Grettir studied him for a long while. ¡°Then tell Geirmund he¡¯s to handle matters without you. Because you¡¯ve decided to keep my company here instead.¡± Agnar scoffed. ¡°Is that how it is?¡± He started to pace, then stopped. ¡°Fine. That¡¯s fine by me.¡± He strode towards the tent flap. ¡°I¡¯ll just travel on my own tonight.¡± ¡°You¡¯ll need the help of all Eleven Elders to make that trek with broken legs.¡± Agnar turned, placidly smirking. ¡°I just hope you can find a man to lend you a hand when it comes to holding me down.¡± ¡°And aren¡¯t you a brave man, Agnar?¡± Grettir mocked. ¡°I can only hope my courage grows so that I too might be able to make fun of cripples.¡± ¡°Do forgive me, uncle," Agnar answered. "I can see you¡¯re standing on much higher ground. While I won¡¯t be able to stand at all when you break my legs. All because I didn¡¯t answer a question to your satisfaction.¡± ¡°Is that what¡ª¡± ¡°I would expect this from Gudmund,¡± Agnar snapped now he strode forwards. ¡°But you¡¯re the one who is supposed to trust us. And I might need a lot of things, Grettir. But the one thing I don¡¯t need in this life is another overbearing bastard telling me what to do. Gudmund does a bad enough job of that on his own.¡± Grettir¡¯s hairy visage turned grim. Agnar stepped quickly back, but not quite quickly enough. *** Outside of the tent, Geirmund heard the sound of a clap followed by a muffled thud. ¡°Did you hear that?¡± he asked of Sybille, who stood fiddling with her fur sleeve. She cast a glance over the hairy, weatherbeaten gathering of fur-clad fighters that comprised Horvorr¡¯s Guard. Most had axes, provided by the town, and they each carried large painted shields. ¡°All I hear is the wind, the oxen, and the angry muttering of men.¡± ¡°Looking for a new guard?¡± Geirmund joked. ¡°No.¡± Sybille glanced sidelong at her statuesque brother. ¡°Engli is my guard.¡± She studied the readied column of hardy men, laden wagons, and shaggy oxen. ¡°I don¡¯t know any of those men. They all look the same.¡± ¡°So you¡¯ve chosen your guard by merit of odd appearance?¡± Geirmund reasoned. ¡°If you¡¯re taking that tack then why don¡¯t you have me ask Hjorvarth? He¡¯s as big as Engli is small.¡± Sybille gave her brother an odd look. ¡°Is that a joke?¡± ¡°Engli is small,¡± Geirmund assured. ¡°Smaller than any man with us.¡± ¡°Hjorvarth can¡¯t come with us,¡± Sybille stated as if it were a matter of fact. ¡°There¡¯s little harm in asking.¡± ¡°The harm comes if he says yes,¡± Sybille said. ¡°He is the son of Isleif the Disgraced. And the foster son of Brolli the Black. Both those men are reviled in Timilir. And I¡¯m almost certain that Hjorvarth has a poor reputation by merit of his own actions.¡± Geirmund shrugged. ¡°I spoke with him on the road. He seemed a good man.¡± ¡°Well I¡¯ve never spoken with him,¡± Sybille said. ¡°But clearly you know little or nothing about the stone city if you want to take him to Thrand¡¯s Estate.¡± ¡°Yet you¡¯re ever well informed,¡± Geirmund said, ¡°having last visited four winters ago.¡± ¡°Hjorvarth lives in Horvorr,¡± Sybille reminded as if to a child. ¡°His father does. Brolli does. Every man, woman and child in our town knows the three of them.¡± She then frowned. ¡°I think you¡¯re confusing a fleeting impression with a man that¡¯s actually well known and well loathed for many good reasons.¡± Geirmund¡¯s smile was wry. ¡°And none of that makes Engli any more useful in a fight.¡± ¡°Yet you must be to make such keen judgements. So I¡¯m surely in safe hands.¡± "Hm." Geirmund at his sister. "We do need this to go well, Sybille. Our family cannot afford anymore enemies." "I''m not the one causing problems, brother. Father demands that I marry a stranger, and I will. Meanwhile Agnar sleeps with whoever he likes, and you got to choose your own bride. Have you ever considered that the reason so much rests on my marriage, is because you two have been free to live however you please?" Sybille asked in a voice both kind and vicious. "Yet now I ask for one thing. To be accompanied by a man that I do know, and do trust. But you are both bickering like old maids. Do I not have enough to worry about?" Geirmund''s proud features scrunched in anger, and he opened his mouth to speak, but then he simply sighed. "Of course, Sybille. Forgive me for my..." "You are forgiven," Sybille answered to end her brother''s struggle for the right word. "But please remember that this it not about you--or Agnar. I know you take the matter very seriously, of course. You want to prove that our father has at least one son who can be relied upon. Yet the direction of my entire life is soon to be decided. It is not as if any other Jarls wish to marry their sons to the daughter of Chief Gudmund. My bride price is as bleak as our region. So it is not we--but I--who needs this to go well, brother." *** Inside the tent, a humbled Agnar sat at the lacquered table, opposite Grettir. The young man slouched in his chair, studying a golden ring as he turned it over in his hand. The metal glimmered with firelight. It had been plainly wrought, unlike the golden chain it hung from, which had been worked with serpentine clasps that bore likeness to the The World Worm, Ouro. The insatiable beast who had tried to eat all of the worlds and all of the gods. ¡°A fine ring,¡± Grettir said, ¡°but I¡¯ve still no clue as to your issue with Thorfinn.¡± ¡°This is the clue, uncle.¡± Agnar let the pendant drop to his chest. He tugged off a leather glove. An identical ring glinted on his finger. ¡°Here¡¯s another.¡± Grettir scratched at his hairy face. ¡°For marriage?¡± Agnar slowly shook his head. ¡°Just a token to signify my love of a woman. This one should be on her finger. But I found it in the alley outside of her ransacked room.¡± He curled his bruised lip. ¡°She had a son, Grettir. A boy¡ªa gods damned child, and I¡¯ve seen no sign of him. When I asked about, I got no answers at all. Not even the squeak of rats.¡± The one-armed warrior hunched forward. ¡°Then why am I only hearing of this now?¡± ¡°Because you can¡¯t step foot in Timilir?¡± Agnar asked without patience. ¡°Geirmund might have been sympathetic, but he would only tell me to move on. And I didn¡¯t tell Gudmund, because he wouldn¡¯t care at all.¡± He shrugged. ¡°That leaves Sybille. And the murder of a woman and her child isn¡¯t really a thing she should have to worry about.¡± Grettir grunted in assent. ¡°You had the right of it,¡± he admitted. ¡°But what¡¯s this got to with the son of Jarl Thrand?¡± ¡°I did tell someone,¡± Agnar answered, ¡°as it happens. I went to the only person I knew that had real influence in Timilir.¡± Grettir made no effort to mask his distaste. ¡°Brolli.¡± ¡°He is my father¡¯s brother,¡± Agnar answered, spreading his hands on the table. ¡°And he told me more than the rats. That Thorfinn¡¯s son is a deviant. He likes to hurt women. Brolli¡¯s men had seen Thorfinn go round to Runa¡¯s home at late hours during the season past. They¡¯d even ran foul of Jarl Thrand¡¯s own guards on the night she was taken.¡± ¡°And did Brolli tell you that he hates Jarl Thrand?¡± Grettir asked. ¡°That he would like nothing more than to see you murder his son. To see the brother he loathes in a blood feud with the man that outlawed him?¡± ¡°He did," Agnar readily answered. "In almost the same words.¡± ¡°Clever of him,¡± Grettir muttered. ¡°But Brolli is not a man that you can trust. Family means less than nothing to him.¡± ¡°I didn¡¯t say I trusted him.¡± Agnar¡¯s gaze turned solemn. ¡°If I did then Thorfinn would already be trapped in the Lady¡¯s Shadow,¡± he assured. ¡°I would have rode both of Horvorr¡¯s horses to death just to reach him sooner. I would have greeted that bastard by clapping him on the shoulder with an axe.¡± Grettir¡¯s unkempt brows furrowed. ¡°If not his life, what do you want?¡± ¡°I just want to know the truth, uncle,¡± Agnar calmly answered. ¡°I want to meet the man. To know him better. I won¡¯t cause him any harm. Not unless he lead me to believe that he might be a danger to Sybille. If he did, I would have to reconsider my original plan.¡± "Think on what happens to your sister," Grettir replied without warmth. "Or your brother. Or the Guard, if you harm the son of the most powerful Jarl in Tymir. You swing your axe and we all pay the cost in blood. Or else Thrand stops all trade then the whole region withers and dies." Agnar considered the words. His uncle was not wrong. There would be a terrible price to pay if a Jarl''s son was murdered. Timilir was the only safe route into Southwestern Tymir to reach Horvorr. Gudmund had always despised Thrand, but even he wasn''t reckless enough to make an enemy of the stone city. "I can''t let you go," Grettir decided. "Not unless you mean to swear to me, by Broknar and Brikorhaan both, that you won''t harm a hair on Thorfinn''s head." "I swear it," Agnar solemnly answered, struggling to meet Grettir''s eyes because he wasn''t yet sure if he was telling a lie or a truth. "By Broknar and Brikorhaan both." 2. Friends 2. Friends ¡°I¡¯ve always had great luck in making friends. Yet never any success in holding onto them. Only Brolli seems to favor me after all these seasons, and I often fear our friendship reflects little more than a well latched leech. Everywhere I go, my reputation precedes me. I am greeted with smiles and fanfare. And yet I always leave in clouds of distrust and hostility. Despite casting for stories and scouring all histories available to me, I have heard of no other man who has been exiled from Vendrick, Timilir and the Low Lands without committing a single murder. Perhaps this fact requires some self reflection. Or, more likely, it is simply horrid luck. If this carries on I¡¯ll have to join Gudmund of Weskin¡¯s ill-fated conquest in Southwestern Tymir. Or, more preferably, perhaps I should wander off into the western bog lands or frozen north. Better that than to end my days being shared like a slaughtered pig between a ravenous goblin horde.¡± Horvorr¡¯s Guard neared the monolithic walls of Timilir not long after noon. They had only suffered the loss of one oxen and one wagon, which left a shaggy animal to roam on its own. Hjorvarth, almost of a size with the beast, walked with it beside him, having volunteered to hold a lead rope as they climbed the final approach. The mountainous path lay behind the trudging caravan of Horvorr¡¯s Guard, snaking amid stones, scree and boulders until it reached the snow plains of Southwestern Tymir. Smoke drifted up from the remnant camp that sheltered those of Horvorr¡¯s Guard who couldn¡¯t, or didn¡¯t want, to visit Timilir. Ahead of the caravan, rose a wall of dull grey stone that seemed to eclipse the heavens and leave all those that approached in the shadows of insignificance. The great gates lay unadorned, and closed. The battlements extended beyond the wall, so high up that any guards stood waiting could not be seen. Hjorvarth left the shaggy ox with Horvorr¡¯s Guard as they brought the caravan to a grinding, shouting, clopping stop. He made his way up a steep stone rise beside the road, which tapered off into a narrow peak that almost touched the battlements. Agnar frowned, watching as the huge man leapt onto the wall. ¡°Did you see that?¡± Geirmund glanced at his brother, paying more mind to the disgruntlement spreading through the caravan. ¡°It¡¯s not a long jump.¡± ¡°I¡¯ve a mind to follow him.¡± Agnar turned away from the gate. Stone rises enclosed the road on both sides. The path behind them was an array of rough faces, shaggy oxen, and loaded wagons. The beasts looked no happier than the men. ¡°I bet those poor bastards at the back are having fun trying to keep the oxen still and stop the carts rolling back,¡± Agnar mentioned. Geirmund offered a shallow nod. ¡°They¡¯ll let us in soon enough.¡± ¡°Soon?¡± Agnar asked. ¡°They haven¡¯t even called down to us.¡± He craned his neck to see the gleaming rim of a large cauldron. ¡°Maybe they¡¯re all dead. Maybe all the other Jarls got tired of trade tithes and decided it would be cheaper if they conquered Timilir.¡± Geirmund stared. ¡°Did Jarl Thrand piss in your porridge?¡± ¡°What?¡± Agnar rubbed at his bruised cheek. ¡°Not that I know of, brother. Though maybe that¡¯s to blame for the bad taste in my mouth.¡± Geirmund¡¯s proud face hardened. ¡°I begin to notice every second word out of your mouth has some mention of him, or at the very least of Timilir.¡± ¡°I¡¯m just making conversation,¡± Agnar insisted. ¡°Should I not speak of Timilir or Jarl Thrand? When the whole purpose of this trip is to travel here to see him.¡± ¡°Remind me. Why did Grettir hit you?¡± Agnar smirked, his lip split and swollen. ¡°I¡¯ve already told you that he didn¡¯t.¡± ¡°Ah, yes,¡± said Geirmund doubtfully. ¡°You tripped and landed on his knee.¡± Agnar shrugged. ¡°Goes to show folk tell it true when they call me a slippery fuck.¡± Sybille tutted as she walked up beside them. ¡°You curse too much,¡± she said. ¡°You do know there¡¯s more to being a good man than talking crass, don¡¯t you, brother?¡± Agnar stepped back as if struck. ¡°Truly?¡± he asked. ¡°I had no clue, Syb¡¯, no clue at all. But, if you¡¯ve the generosity of spirit to unburden my ignorance, and so that I have an example¡­ is Geirmund a good man?¡± Sybille studied her statuesque brother. ¡°I think he is. Yes.¡± ¡°That helps, then.¡± Agnar nodded, making a great effort to straighten. ¡°So I should stand like this.¡± He turned to scrutinize a distant boulder. ¡°I should look off at everything and anything as if an unfathomable mystery well worth considering.¡± Geirmund met the sentiment with a thin smile. ¡°It would be an improvement if you considered anything at all.¡± Agnar¡¯s roguish face turned solemn. ¡°Should I speak like this?¡± he asked in a low, slow tone. ¡°So that folk know I¡¯m voicing words of great importance.¡± ¡°You could.¡± Sybille pursed her lips. ¡°Or you could simply stop acting like an ass.¡± Geirmund¡¯s smile broadened. ¡°A little harsh, Sybille.¡± ¡°I will stop.¡± Agnar turned back to the grey gate. ¡°But only if the gods give me a sign that I should change my ways. If this gate opens before one of our men come up here to complain about the wait, then I will do my best to be a good man for very nearly a third of each and every day.¡± Geirmund and Sybille followed their brother¡¯s gaze to the towering gate that had been wrought with a round shield crossed by two axes: one for mining and one for war. ¡°Well,¡± Agnar said, ¡°I really thought that would--" A monstrous thunk shook the air. Hinges cried out and stone shuddered. Mechanisms and weights started into motion, then great chains sounded out in a rhythmic clangor. The gate groaned inward, shaking the ground of the mountainous path. Shaggy oxen cried out in slight distress, loosing their bowels and urinating, while a dozen men of Horvorr¡¯s Guard stumbled in place. Hazy light lanced through the opening crack, blinding Agnar while his brother and sister walked forward before the gate lay fully open. ¡°Agnar!¡± Agnar turned, frowning down at a short blond man. ¡°Hm?¡± Engli warily smiled. ¡°The gate opened!¡± ¡°Oh.¡± Agnar smiled back as he nodded. ¡°Thanks so much for pointing that out,¡± he replied, sure enough that he wasn¡¯t heard. ¡°You helpful little bastard!¡± ¡°What?¡± Engli mouthed. ¡°I said, thanks,¡± Agnar answered, as the gate stopped with a reverberative clunk, "for nothing!¡± Engli frowned as the irritated shout played back from the mountains amongst booming stone and hissing dust. ¡°What¡¯s for nothing?¡± ¡°A drink. I meant that I¡¯d buy you a drink¡­ for nothing.¡± ¡°Oh,¡± Engli said with hopeful confusion. ¡°After we¡¯ve been to Jarl Thrand¡¯s Estate?¡± ¡°Exactly that, Engli.¡± Agnar clapped him on the shoulder. ¡°First we better take young Sybille to her betrothed.¡± They both turned towards the gate, where a few grey guards ambled around a small paved square. Five streets separated three main buildings from each other and the monolithic walls of the stony city. Agnar had frequented the tavern of white stone ahead. He had bought clothes, for women he knew, in the wooden building that towered to the right. He had never visited the stone storefront opposite that, because it had been built beside a noisy forge. An intermittent din of metal rang out into the square, above the huff of bellows and the hiss of water. He turned to the distinct tinkle of a bell. Hjorvarth emerged from the doors of Matilda¡¯s Finery, having to duck and turn to better fit through the frame. Agnar strode forward to meet the huge man. ¡°Hjorvarth!¡± Hjorvarth paid no mind as he strode past a grey fountain. He wore his hair tied back in a tail, clasped by three bronze bands, which swayed across his large painted shield. ¡°Hjorvarth!¡± Agnar called once more, quickening his stride. ¡°Hjorvarth,¡± Engli echoed, now the three men converged ahead of the white tavern. Hjorvarth turned, his pale eyes regarding both men without inclination. He had combed his thick red beard and appeared imposing despite the wear to his well-worn jacket of leather and fur. ¡°I thought you might have wanted another man with the same name,¡± he explained without inflection. ¡°No harm,¡± Agnar assured. ¡°I have a question for you, is all.¡± He waited for the huge man to prompt him further, before deciding to continue. ¡°Myself, and Engli, are on our way to Jarl Thrand¡¯s Estate. I wondered if you wanted to accompany us.¡± Hjorvarth nodded, his pale eyes stirring in thought. ¡°To what end?¡± Engli straightened. ¡°Agnar and his brother have a troublesome relationship with Jarl Thrand and his family.¡± He smiled when the huge man stared down at him. ¡°I think he¡¯s worried that I might not be of much use if it came to a fight.¡± ¡°A little of that,¡± Agnar admitted, ¡°but I¡¯ve actually been thinking of traveling¡ªto make a name for myself¡ªand for that I would need good men.¡± Hjorvarth raked at his beard. ¡°You have my thanks for the offer, but I must refuse.¡± He dipped his head, and turned to leave. ¡°To be clear,¡± Agnar said, following, ¡°you understand that I would pay you for your company?¡± He winced at his own phrasing, but kept step while they strode out of the square and onto a paved street flanked on both sides by sturdy stone homes. This narrative has been purloined without the author''s approval. Report any appearances on Amazon. ¡°Really?¡± Hjorvarth frowned, not bothering to stop. ¡°Even so, I have things that I must attend to. If you wish, I can find you after that.¡± ¡°Good enough.¡± Agnar slowed to a stop. ¡°I¡¯ll be at the Toothless Grin later tonight.¡± ¡°Should I know where that is?¡± ¡°It¡¯s a whorehouse in the southern rise.¡± Hjorvarth shrugged, and departed. ¡°I¡¯ll find it if I¡¯m still able to walk.¡± ¡°Right.¡± Agnar frowned at Engli. ¡°The man must be a drunk.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t think he meant like that.¡± ¡°Women?¡± ¡°I thought it was more if someone hadn¡¯t broken his legs.¡± Agnar laughed. ¡°What¡¯s funny about that?¡± ¡°It¡¯s because Grettir¡ª¡± Agnar shrugged. ¡°Never mind.¡± He turned back, and crossed into the square with the grey well, heading towards the white tavern. Engli paused, watching the rest of Horvorr¡¯s Guard bringing wagons through the stone city''s great gates. ¡°Shouldn¡¯t we be helping with the wagons, or catching up with Geirmund and Sybille?¡± Agnar had almost reached the tavern, but slowed to a stop. ¡°True enough.¡± A shrivelled man, wearing fine dark clothes, stepped out from the shadowed doorway. He paused at the top of the steps, casting a withering glance to the fur-clad fighters handling the carts. ¡°Horvorrians.¡± ¡°What was that, you old prick?¡± Agnar asked. The old man¡¯s smile didn¡¯t reach his eyes. ¡°I was merely lamenting the advent of you and your company,¡± he coldly explained. ¡°Agnar, is it? Gudmund¡¯s uglier son. Prone to tall talk and small action.¡± Agnar raised his brows. ¡°Man with a walking stick should better measure his words¡­ won¡¯t be too easy for you to run if you overstep. Or maybe you¡¯ll do just that and fall flat on your face. That could hurt you, old man, I¡¯m sure of that.¡± The black-clad man lifted his dark cane, golden head worked in a serpentine fashion. ¡°I do wish you would call me by title, Agnar.¡± ¡°Title?¡± ¡°Jarl of Timilir,¡± Engli whispered. ¡°There we are,¡± Jarl Thrand rasped when Agnar¡¯s smile slipped. ¡°It seems the gods robbed your friend of his height, but left him with some wisdom. I¡¯ll forgive your insults, Agnar. No need to worry. I was a young man once, hard as that might to believe.¡± ¡°I am humbled by that, then," Agnar agreeably answered. "Though I¡¯m surprised you decided to wait for us on your own. I expected a welcome.¡± ¡°I am here to drink, and to eat," Jarl Thrand dismissed. "I come here every morning. It¡¯s a ritual of mine. All part of a trick I like to play on myself. If you wanted a welcome then your father should have bothered to attend instead of sulking in Horvorr.¡± Agnar managed a slight smile even as the rest of his face darkened. ¡°What trick is that?¡± Engli asked. Jarl Thrand¡¯s aged face twisted in disgust. ¡°You really shouldn¡¯t interject when your betters are speaking.¡± ¡°My mistake,¡± Agnar said. ¡°About you waiting, I mean. Would you like us to accompany you to your estate? Or shall we meet you there?¡± ¡°I have no fondness for either option.¡± Jarl Thrand descended the tavern steps with aid of his cane. ¡°I will be leaving on my own, and I will be sorely disappointed if your friend is at my home when I return to it.¡± ¡°Safe travel, then,¡± Agnar said. ¡°As to Engli, my father always tells me that life offers a man little more than disappointment.¡± Jarl Thrand turned from them, clack of a cane marking his departure. ¡°Disappointment,¡± he murmured, glancing back at the tavern as a tall man in full armour strode out to follow the Jarl of Timilir. The guard regarded both men as he passed, his expression hidden behind polished metal. ¡°It¡¯s a mystery to me,¡± Agnar muttered. ¡°What is?¡± Agnar turned to the flustered blond man. ¡°Why my father would ever want the friendship of man like that.¡± He raised a hand to halt a reply. ¡°Not a question that needs answering, Engli. I understand the practicalities of it.¡± He sighed. ¡°Let¡¯s see if we can¡¯t catch up with my most noble brother and my dearest sister.¡± ¡°I¡¯m not sure that I should go.¡± ¡°I¡¯ve no mind to force you.¡± Agnar ambled away, towards the street between the tavern and the tailor. ¡°So long as you¡¯ll be able to live with yourself.¡± Engli hurried to catch up. ¡°What do you mean?¡± ¡°Thrand is a snake. You can see that by his cane.¡± Agnar turned, brows furrowed in contemplation. ¡°I wouldn¡¯t want you to blame yourself, that¡¯s all. Should this whole betrothal be an elaborate betrayal.¡± ¡°If you believed that you wouldn¡¯t risk the visit.¡± ¡°No?¡± Agnar humbly upturned his palms. ¡°So long as you¡¯re sure.¡± *** Geirmund and Sybille had passed through paved streets, between stone homes banded by metal that gleamed with the noon sun. They reached an open plaza, pausing to survey a crowd of rowdy, plump folk that were dressed in thick cotton clothes of all colours. Wooden stalls were arrayed under the shadows of storefronts, warehouses and workshops. They were tended to by merchants of all appearances, who sold wares from all across the disparate regions of Tymir. The gathered folk created a fearsome din and drone with their combined shouts and conversations. Geirmund stood watching, letting the noise wash over him, hearing the thud of a butcher cutting through meat, the muted slap as fish were sifted into a basket. He met eyes with a tethered goat and was sure that he saw desperation. Geirmund tore his gaze away, recognising a familiar sight through the sea of people. A man tall enough to be seen over most men, his red hair tied back into a tail, his pale eyes wild. Geirmund glimpsed gleaming metal as gaps formed and closed in the jostling crowd. He worried that the huge man was surrounded by thugs with knifes. ¡°Geirmund?¡± Sybille asked over the noise. ¡°Are you well?¡± ¡°Hold up!¡± Geirmund turned to see his roguish brother approaching at a run. Engli struggled to keep step, short and smiling. ¡°Leaving without us?¡± Agnar asked. Geirmund looked back to where he had before, but could no longer see Hjorvarth. He stepped forwards, searching the shifting faces of the crowd and the unchanging walls of tall structures that enclosed the plaza. ¡°Geirmund,¡± Sybille and Agnar pressed as one. ¡°Gudmund told us to buy no gift,¡± Agnar reminded alone. Geirmund stared at the colourful people of the stone city, some of them bellowing and screaming, all of them striving to reach a destination that seemed ever at odds with that of another. Their chorus underscored by vegetables rumbling into sacks, by the grating slice of a cloth seller¡¯s measuring blade. ¡°Brother?¡± Agnar asked, his tone worried. ¡°It¡¯s nothing.¡± Gudmund turned, forcing a smile. ¡°I thought I saw a man being robbed.¡± ¡°Hardly a surprise.¡± Agnar shrugged, and turned to his sister. Sybille smiled as she spoke quietly to Engli. Agnar found himself unnerved by the warmth in his sister¡¯s eyes. ¡°Are we going?¡± Sybille noticed his scrutiny. She started off down the paved road. ¡°Come on, Engli.¡± ¡°Are you coming, Geirmund?¡± Agnar asked, while the young man and woman crossed onto a shaded street. Geirmund nodded and the brothers followed after their sister. ¡°I met Jarl Thrand on the way in.¡± Geirmund glanced at his brother. ¡°Did you?¡± ¡°He didn¡¯t say much. Not much at all. Beyond a firm, unspoken declaration that he was a bastard beyond measure.¡± ¡°I see,¡± Geirmund sighed. ¡°Do remember that we¡¯re here to make friends.¡± ¡°I remember. No need to worry on that. We¡¯ll soon have another man to call a brother as well, and won¡¯t that be fun?¡± Geirmund nodded. ¡°Though I wouldn¡¯t call him that. I don¡¯t think he¡¯ll want to be reminded of his ties with the likes of you.¡± ¡°A miscreant?¡± Agnar asked, answered by a shake of the head. ¡°A braggart? A cheat at bone rolling? A man that¡¯s quick to anger and quicker to laugh? A good brother? A bad brother? A frequenter of whorehouses and a man of little worth?¡± Geirmund smiled. ¡°In my eyes, you are none and all of those things. Though I would take issue with your estimation of worth.¡± ¡°Too high?¡± Agnar reasoned. ¡°Too low, brother.¡± Geirmund¡¯s smile faded to leave his face cold and regal. ¡°Far too low.¡± Agnar laughed a quiet laugh and the brothers walked on in silence. The older brother did not notice the younger brother¡¯s pensive regard as they traveled. Nor the fleeting mix of grief, love and regret that flashed through Agnar¡¯s misty eyes when he sighed. ¡°Something the matter, brother?¡± Sybille asked from beside them. ¡°¡®Course not, Syb¡¯,¡±Agnar tried to assure, despite the slight quaver to his lie. ¡°I¡¯m just feeling sentimental. We¡¯re off to meet your husband, after all.¡± Sybille fixed him with a quizzical stare, so intent upon reading his face that she didn¡¯t notice her brother¡¯s fingers dancing above his sword¡¯s pommel. ¡°Lucky me.¡± *** "Here I thought Thrand wasn''t giving us a welcome," Agnar remarked. He and Geirmund reached the top of the stone slope that led up to the vast marble estate of Jarl Thrand. Up ahead, over a score guards stood waiting with spears drawn. The armoured man who was following Thrand earlier stood ahead of the group. "Sons of Geirmund," he greeted without warmth, his aged voice warped by the confines of his helm. "Jarl Thrand welcomes you to his home. And offers to take your weapons into safe keeping." Agnar was about to argue, but Geirmund spoke first. "Jarl Thrand want us to surrender our swords?" he asked as if doubtful. "Or is this a request of yours, Atsurr?" Atsurr made a disagreeable murmur. "I am the Captain of Timilir''s Guard. Whether the request is mine, or Jarl Thrand''s, it should be honoured." "You are armed and armored with a dozen men. You cannot fear the three of us. The request is ridiculous... and cowardly." The score guards bristled at that, taking tighter grips on their spears, and Agnar found himself smiling. He had not expected his brother to be so bold. Outnumbered as they were, they''d end their days skewered like an archery bale. But Agnar had never had a real fight alongside his brother. He''d always hoped for a day when the pair would fight back to back against terrible odds. "Fine," said Atsurr. "Then you are no longer welcome." "Understood," said Geirmund. "Bring word from Jarl Thrand or one of his sons, and we will depart as soon as we are able." "That will not be neccessary." "It will be, Atsurr," Geirmund assured in a hard, almost cruel voice, that Agnar had never heard before. "For your sake much more than mine. You seem to be riled, or afeared... through no fault of my own. And I would not have you risk overstepping and losing your position to someone younger and wiser. Both of which are feats easily achieved." The guard captain placed one gauntleted hand on his sword. "How dare--" "I hate to be rude," cut in Sybille, her voice clarion and kind, "but if the only thing stopping us from being welcomed into the estate is a lack of a weapon, then I must be free to enter. Engli," she said to the blond fighter beside her, "hand over your sword, would you...?" "Sybille." Geirmund stepped forth, but Agnar lay one firmly hand on his shoulder. "It has been a long trip, brother," Sybille said, striding forth towards the guards who swiftly lowered their weapons and stepped aside to let her through. "I''m ready to meet my husband." Engli hesitated, looking between Sybille and her brothers, and eventually hurried after her, handing over his sword hilt first. Atsurr stared at Geirmund for a long moment, then fell in beside Sybille along with a pair of other guards. "Do not let them pass through the gates," he ordered to those staying behind. Agnar regarded his brother, whose cheeks had flushed with the slightest colour while sweat beaded on his brow. He seemed to be working through all the choices available to them in his head. The younger brother did his own quick thinking, considered finding the nearest tavern, and then marched forwards instead. 3. Hopeful 3. Hopeful ¡°Hilda is dead. I saw her just the other day by Horvorr¡¯s Great Lake, hands resting on pregnant belly, her smile slight and resolute while she watched over her young sons. She glanced at me, and looked swiftly away as if I were an ill fated apparition. Part of me wanted to speak to her, but Hjorvarth was beside me. Then when the boy ran off to play with Anna¡¯s son, I felt the moment had passed. She appeared serene. Hopeful. It would seem that the last time truly was the last time. It is a strange thing to feel such a great weight of grief and be unable to voice it. In happier news, Gudmund now has a daughter. Though the Chief of Horvorr has yet to meet her. His hall is barred, and Grettir is fearful enough for his bleak temperament that he has asked Brolli for help. I always told myself he never loved her. She told me that as well. Yet when I saw him the night last, he was a gaunt and haunted man. It surprised me. Despite all that he has lost, and the atrocities we suffered¡ªand inflicted¡ªthroughout the war, he had always appeared proud and resolute. Not as if he had been born into the role of a Jarl¡¯s son, but as if he had been painstakingly cast to play one on the stage. Now he was more akin to a draugr. I cannot see any way to bring him back to life.¡± Sybille sat, her legs crossed under her white dress, while the marble seat beneath her caused her to ache. She wasn¡¯t quite sure how to present herself, and as the wait had stretched, she¡¯d shifted her posture and position to try and appear reposed but not cold, welcoming but not desperate, confident yet humble. Then she simply sighed, leaning back on the uncomfortable chair, and wondered what was taking so long for Thorfinn, son of Thrand, to meet her. The vast room of marble around her stretched so wide and long that it should have been used as a feasting hall. And the great space made her every fidgeting movement seem all the more louder. Every now and then she would hear Engli from the hallway outside clearing his throat, or adjusting his shield. She¡¯d asked him to wait with her, but he¡¯d rightly said that, that her future husband might not look kindly on that, and that he should wait outside instead. Which was sage advice. Though Sybille did wonder how happy he was about the purpose of this trip. He had promised to marry her when they were younger, after all. Though that was so long ago perhaps he¡¯d forgotten. Now he was her only friend. The women of Horvorr were few and far between and her father had never much liked letting her leave their family¡¯s hall, even though Horvorr, encircled by a huge log wall, was as safe as could be. Despite that, Sybille had never felt alone when she was younger. It was only as her brothers got older that she felt forgotten. Geirmund had grown quiet and thoughtful, while Agnar was rarely around. Grettir still stopped in on her, but as she¡¯d grown into a woman, he seemed less and less sure of how to speak with her. He must have seen that she was feeling isolated though, because he¡¯d suggested that she get her own guard. Then Engli, who had been her friend as a child, became her guardian as well. Strangely, her brothers had started to visit her more often after that. Not best pleased that their sister had picked a handsome young man to watch over her. No doubt they hoped she¡¯d have picked someone with a grey beard and failing eyes and ears. Sybille did wonder, sometimes, when Engli would look at her in the way that he looked at her--with his eyes so bright and appreciative as if she were truly wondrous--how things might have been had she not needed to marry a powerful man for her family¡¯s sake. But then he¡¯d spoken no bad words of Thorfinn, or of her being married at all, and had only encouraged her, telling her not to worry and to hope for the best. Though he looked at her differently now. And his kind smile seemed more strained than before, as if some sadness were trying to pull down at the corner of his lips. Still, Sybille had outgrown Horvorr. Or Horvorr had outgrown her. She didn¡¯t want to spend the rest of her days in a cold and lonely place. Though a city of stone didn¡¯t seem that much better. Here, at least, she would be able to make a family of her own. Sons who could battle and bicker and cause a ruckus like her young brothers had. A daughter as well, perhaps, who she would love unceasingly, and dote on often, so she would never have to feel that awful feeling of being unloved. A teardrop struck the marble between Sybille¡¯s feet. The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement. She blinked, and rubbed her at eyes. ¡°Stupid,¡± she whispered to herself, glad that no one was here to see her crying like a child. Her father had always hated when his children were sentimental. Perhaps that was why Geirmund had begun to impersonate a living statue. Only Agnar, brash and rebellious, pretended not to care what Gudmund thought. They all loved Grettir. Doling out more warmth than their father ever had with his one arm. Though he was sad too. Sybille had never noticed that when she was younger. But she now recognised in his wild eyes the same disquiet and sorrow that had been growing in her. Footsteps, swift and deliberate, sounded out in the distance. Sybille cleared her throat, straightened in her seat, and adjusted her dress. One stray lock of red hair covering her eye, she gently brushed it aside. A sharp voice spoke in the hallway beyond, presumably to Engli, but he did not answer. And the hissed words were too swift for Sybille to hear, but they were clearly unkind. The steps then continued, echoing loudly in the vast marble hall, as a tall and lean man, dressed in dark leggings and a silk shirt of red and gold, crossed into the room. He paid Sybille a cursory glance, heading straight to the room¡¯s center, and then stood staring off at the masterfully wrought fireplace of brass amid the far marble wall. ¡°Come here,¡± he instructed in a brittle voice as if he had been the one waiting. Sybille pushed her annoyance aside, and forced her lips into a gentle smile. ¡°My lord, Thorfinn. It is a pleasure to meet you. My name¡ª¡± ¡°Yes, yes,¡± he cut in, turning his head slightly to regard her. He had a strong jaw and chiseled cheeks despite his narrow face. His hair was a lovely golden shade of blond, and his eyes were bright and blue. He might have even been handsome were it now for the scowl fixed across his features. ¡°I know your name, Sybille. I know you must be used to simple minded fools, but I am not as slow minded as the men on your guard.¡± ¡°Forgive me. I had only¡ª¡± ¡°Forgiveness is earned, dear. I¡ª¡± ¡°Do not interrupt me,¡± Sybille demanded, her voice coming out far more fiercely than she¡¯d hoped. ¡°It is very rude,¡± she finished in a slightly more diplomatic tone. Thorfinn¡¯s scowl deepened, and his eyes glimmered in a way that almost made her fearful. Then he sharply exhaled, as if amused or impressed, and smirked. ¡°True.¡± Silence reigned for a long moment. Sybille swallowed, unsure of what to say, or even of what to feel. She didn¡¯t want to ruin things so readily, but she wasn¡¯t going to spend her life being talked down to either. ¡°You are pretty,¡± Thorfinn then said. ¡°For a Horvorrian, I mean. I half thought you might shuffle in as some sort of beastly wretch. I jest,¡± he added when Sybille glared. ¡°You were very pretty when you were younger as well. And it seems the winters have not robbed you of your allure. Though my own sister¡¯s beauty remains unmatched it seems.¡± ¡°Thank you,¡± Sybille eventually said, unsure if he were complimenting her and quite confused as to why she should be compared to the man¡¯s own blood. ¡°You are a very handsome man. I do not remember much from when I last visited. I was quite young.¡± Thorfinn raised his blond brows. ¡°Yes¡­ your father keeps you under lock and key.¡± ¡°He is very¡­ protective of me,¡± Sybille agreed. ¡°Your guard is also very handsome. Though not very bright. He¡¯s scratched our walls with the boss of his shield. To think, since the founding of Tymir, they remained unscathed and invaluable, and all it took was one wayward fool too lazy to stand without leaning,¡± he mused with a disappointed smile. ¡°Oh. I am sorry, my lord. I am sure he did not mean any harm.¡± ¡°No matter,¡± Thorfinn dismissed. ¡°He will be replaced soon enough.¡± Sybille frowned. ¡°What do you mean?¡± ¡°Surely you hadn¡¯t expected him to stay on? I will hand pick his replacement, of course,¡± he added brightly. ¡°I would not want you to come to any needless harm.¡± ¡°That is very kind. But I would feel much better being guarded by a man I know.¡± Thorfinn shrugged. ¡°You will have chance to know your new guard as well.¡± ¡°I¡ª¡± ¡°Sybille. This is already decided. Perhaps your efforts at fighting for a man¡¯s companionship should be better directed towards me? Unless you would sooner marry the handsome fool out there?¡± Thorfinn¡¯s features twisted. ¡°Is that why you¡¯re so attached, Sybille? Has he won your loyalty with his grubby cock?¡± Sybille blinked. She opened her mouth to speak, but found no words. Her cheeks turned red and her dress began to feel hot and stifling. ¡°Not denying it, then. I am afraid, even pretty as you are, I cannot bring myself to marry you if you have already debased yourself by being some commoner¡¯s whore.¡± ¡°I¡­ I have not. I am not¡ª¡± Sybille clenched her teeth, trying to bite down on her anger. ¡°I am virgin. But you cannot speak to me like this. You will show me respect.¡± ¡°Respect? For what? For whom? Your father is a joke, Sybille. Your brothers are a joke. One a carousing whore and the other so desperate to embody a Jarl but set to inherit the mock title of Chief. Chief Geirmund. Like he was leading a feral goblin clan. No, no,¡± he added. ¡°You are you the one who will show me respect. It is a punishment of my father that I am even forced to entertain marrying you. And even if you are now inclined to hurry back home with your tail between your legs, do not forget that I can stop all grain trade to your miserable region. And do not ever delude yourself into thinking that anyone of importance has any fear or respect for your father. He has no power. My father offered him stewardship of Horvorr as a cruel joke. The only reason marrying you serves any purpose at all is to fend off claims from men who have actual power.¡± Sybille sighed, feeling cold and miserable, as all the heat fled from her cheeks. ¡°Do not be sorrowed, Sybille. If you do as you are told then¡ª¡± Sybille¡¯s small pale fist struck him square in the nose. She punched him again as he staggered, in the neck and in the brow, until he overcame his shock. Then he answered in kind with a vicious backhand blow that robbed her of her senses and sent her reeling. Room spinning, footfalls thundering close, she glimpsed Engli¡¯s familiar face. Though the vengeful wrath twisting his features was something she had never witnessed before. 4. Widowed 4. Widowed ¡°Given the lengths Grettir went to, to get me out here, I was quite surprised to find that Gudmund of Weskin did not welcome me to Southwestern Tymir with open arms. Every man in the camp was glad to see me, and I even made effort to raise their broken spirits with tales and songs. Though I say Southwestern Tymir as if their men have not been pushed back within clear sight of Timilir¡¯s walls. If I didn¡¯t know any better the goblin leader, Gahr¡¯rul as they call him, has decided to purposely hold back from further attacks. For what reason I cannot venture. I thought I might soon learn more, or be able to negotiate with one of the Great Chiefs owing to my reputation from the Midderlands Wars, but I have been sent out on an errand instead. I have been tasked to ride to the Eastland Plains and find Gudmund¡¯s carousing brother. What an utter waste of my talents and time. By the time I find this Brolli the Black, Gudmund and the rest of his displaced warriors will likely already be dead. ¡®Meat for the feasting,¡¯ as say the goblins.¡± Hjorvarth let out a slow sigh, his sleeve sticky with blood. He had stood still for too long. He had stood watching for too long. No doubt if the woman inside of the stone home had noticed him she now feared for her life, or had already fled. Even so, Hjorvarth was reasonably certain that this was the right place. He glanced along the paved roads at either side of him, somewhat surprised that this part of the stone city was so quiet. He strode forwards, noticing that the metal banding had been ripped from the roofs and the windows, which was often the way of folk who found themselves in dire need of coin. Hjorvarth knew the metal was rarely reworked, so the place would remain, unadorned and dull, as if it stood as a lesser place for a lesser folk. He suffered guilt with the thought, and slowed to a stop at the squat stone door. ¡°What do you want?¡± a wary voice asked from above. Hjorvarth raised his gaze, startled by the pretty visage that looked down at him. He was unsure why, but he had expected the woman to be ugly. ¡°I am looking for the wife of a man named Geirr.¡± ¡°For what reason?¡± ¡°I bring coin to cover the debt of his death.¡± The woman¡¯s face hardened. ¡°Did you murder him?¡± ¡°No.¡± Hjorvarth shook his head. ¡°But I know the man that did, and I would pay the debt on his behalf.¡± He upturned his palms. ¡°It is simply a thing that is owed. I would have paid it sooner but I thought it was better given in full.¡± She scowled. ¡°I know who sent you, and I do not want your coin.¡± ¡°I came at no man¡¯s beck or call. As to whether you want it, that is not the question I asked. Are you the wife of a man named Geirr? Who worked and died in service of the city guard of Timilir?¡± ¡°Yes. And I will¡ª¡± ¡°Waste no effort repeating yourself.¡± Hjorvarth tossed a leather sack at the door, which struck with a metal jingle. ¡°The coin is yours. And you have my sympathies for your loss, as well. I will go now so that you can take it, or leave it, without scrutiny. I wish you only the best luck for the rest of your days.¡± ¡°What?¡± the woman snapped. ¡°Where are you going?¡± Hjorvarth frowned. ¡°To a whorehouse. The Toothless Grin, I think. That is if I do not get murdered. I had some men try to stab me on the way in, but they lacked enthusiasm. I believe they claimed to be members of the Crooked Teeth¡­ so perhaps they work for a whorehouse as well. In any case, I am going.¡± ¡°You said you know who killed my husband?¡± ¡°I did say that.¡± ¡°Who?¡± she asked, her voice desperate. ¡°How? Did he truly die trying to smuggle weapons into the city?¡± Hjorvarth frowned. ¡°Who spoke those words?¡± ¡°The city. Had he died in service of Timilir, they would have compensated me for his death.¡± ¡°With respect,¡± Hjorvarth said, ¡°I would need to come inside if you want me to answer your questions.¡± The woman narrowed her eyes. ¡°Why?¡± ¡°There are people listening from open windows. My voice carries, and my words relate to unlawful acts.¡± ¡°Oh¡­ and you¡¯re not going to try anything?¡± ¡°I would try to offer an explanation.¡± Hjorvarth paused, then furrowed his brows. ¡°I realise now that you likely think I¡¯m at risk of committing rape or some greater violence. I know not what to say to that. Though I swear to Brikorhaan and Broknar both that I will cause you no harm.¡± The young woman watched him for a while, nodded, then turned from the window. *** Hjorvarth perched on a chair far too small for him, his shoulders aching with the awkward posture. He felt confined by the closeness of the stone walls and roof. He had let the young woman, Frida, bandage his arm despite assurances that he would heal without issue. He now sat and watched in an uncomfortable silence as she fed a swaddled baby by the breast. ¡°Does the sight bother you?¡± she asked, shifting in her seat. ¡°I can go in the other room. Or you could avert your eyes.¡± Hjorvarth raised his gaze to her own. ¡°I was watching the child.¡± Frida smiled. ¡°Of course.¡± ¡°I did not know you had one.¡± ¡°A daughter.¡± ¡°A daughter.¡± Hjorvarth nodded. ¡°Perhaps that bothers me.¡± ¡°Because your friend robbed her of her father?¡± ¡°I would guess so. My own father is¡­¡± ¡°In Muradoon¡¯s keeping?¡± ¡°In my own, and I am helped by a man named Sam. Isleif is not often himself.¡± ¡°Oh.¡± Frida smiled in sympathy. ¡°Would you tell me of my husband¡¯s death?¡± ¡°Do you know of Brolli the Black?¡± Frida shifted her babe, and tugged up her dress. ¡°Yes.¡± ¡°He has charge of a criminal group in Timilir known as the Black Hands. I have worked for Brolli for most of my life, and for the Black Hands for my adult years.¡± Frida¡¯s eyes widened. ¡°You are his foster son.¡± Her gaze lapsed to resignation as she reached for the knife at her belt. ¡°Are you here to kill me, then? That is the way he does things, isn¡¯t it? Murders family and friends to leave an impression that lasts.¡± Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit. ¡°In the recent seasons,¡± Hjorvarth continued as if she had never spoke, ¡°I was tasked, among other things, with leading the protection of wagons loaded with weapons of the old war. By law, they are property of Timilir, and should be handed over when found. But a wagon with unlawful goods can be attacked as any other¡­ so I was tasked with defending it from any monsters or men that meant to rob us.¡± ¡°My husband did not try to rob you.¡± ¡°He did not,¡± Hjorvarth agreed. ¡°In truth, we should have never met him. There is a hidden gate near the northwestern corner of the city walls, which was used to carry goods from one wagon to another inside of Timilir. The man there, that should have been there, was nowhere to be found. I can only guess that Geirr had been sent there in his place.¡± He sighed. ¡°We brought coin to pay for passage, but your husband refused us. He demanded that we surrender our weapons, and submit to the law of Timilir.¡± Frida¡¯s pretty face had lost all warmth. The swaddled babe wriggled in her arms. ¡°There a was a man with me. A young man, Ivar, brought only to talk. I ordered the fighting men to turn the wagon around. On the chance that I would not be able to convince your husband to see the risk that he now faced.¡± Hjorvarth¡¯s stare was weighed by disillusion. ¡°Ivar stabbed your husband in the neck when he turned to call for help. I have no clue what drove him to it, or that he intended to act, because it was a dark night and snow clouded the sky. I suppose it is of little consequence. Your husband is dead, and I cannot change that. I brought the coin because I doubted anyone else would.¡± ¡°Did your friend ask you to bring it?¡± Frida asked, her voice trembling. ¡°Did he lack the courage to come himself?¡± ¡°He has no knowledge of me being here. Nor does Brolli. And I would ask that you speak no word of my visit to anyone you meet.¡± Frida stared down at her babe¡¯s rounded face. ¡°Would they kill me? Us?¡± ¡°I more meant that I owe Brolli a debt of coin. And he wouldn¡¯t be best pleased to hear of this. I would say you are at no more risk from them as you are from anyone else.¡± Hjorvarth shrugged. ¡°Still, it might be wise to move to a place other than here.¡± ¡°With you?¡± Frida asked. ¡°No,¡± Hjorvarth answered, then paused to consider. ¡°No. I had meant your family or friends in other regions. Make no mistake, I am not here with hopes of buying a widow.¡± He shook his head at her sudden embarrassment. ¡°I say that not to offend you. I simply mean that I would not have you living your life with the misguided thought that you are indebted to me. The coin is yours. It was owed. This is no more and no less than that.¡± ¡°I counted the coin.¡± Frida regarded the leather sack on the table. ¡°Four times more than is needed. Four times more than is owed. That is more. It¡¯s four times more. If you¡¯ve come to settle a debt, if you¡¯ve debts of your own, then take back three fourths.¡± ¡°It was ever my belief that the measured worth of a man¡¯s life is too low. Four times is generous, but it is not that uncommon.¡± ¡°It is too much.¡± Hjorvarth raked at his thick beard. ¡°I would have paid more could I afford it.¡± Frida narrowed her eyes. ¡°You did not even know my husband. You say you did not kill him. Pay your own debts first and then you can settle whatever it is you think you owe me.¡± ¡°It took me long enough to find you the first time. I doubt I¡¯ll have much luck on a second attempt.¡± Hjorvarth shrugged, rising from his seat. ¡°As I said, there are folk trying to kill me. For all I know I will not live out the week.¡± ¡°And is your life better guarded when you fail to pay your debts to murderers?¡± ¡°You said yourself that Brolli is my foster father. As to the debt, I will be paid on return to Horvorr. That will give me the coin I need to cover what¡¯s owed.¡± Hjorvarth stared with sympathy. ¡°You have my thanks for letting me in and hearing my words.¡± Frida watched him from her seat. ¡°Do you believe that you have righted the wrong of your friend?¡± ¡°I have only managed to spare myself the constant fear that a woman was left behind to sell herself or starve because of my failings. Your husband is dead, and that is a wrong that I can never right.¡± ¡°Does the blame not lie with the man that stabbed him in the neck?¡± Frida asked. ¡°Or is that you in truth?¡± ¡°Ivar acted in his nature. I should have expected that, and I should have stopped it." ¡°And will this Ivar kill men again?¡± Hjorvarth met her keen gaze. ¡°In honest truth, I do not know, and that is a question that oft troubles me. Should he murder again, I would put an end to him¡­ for his own sake. I knew him when we were boys, and I will not let him grow to be a monster.¡± ¡°Are not most the men in Brolli¡¯s company murderers¡­? Aren¡¯t you?¡± ¡°I have never killed a man, and I have no great urging to change that fact. There are bad men and good men in the Black Hands as there are in any place. That and besides, I no longer work for Brolli, so that should spare me of their influence.¡± Frida sighed, watching her murmuring child. ¡°It would seem that my husband¡¯s life has ended while yours begins anew.¡± ¡°Your words could not be closer to the truth. Yet that is a thought that both saddens and gladdens me.¡± Hjorvarth straightened, and turned towards the narrow doorway. ¡°Best luck to you and your child, Frida.¡± ¡°I have no friends or family.¡± Hjorvarth paused but didn¡¯t turn, leaving him with a view of a narrow hallway and a stone staircase. ¡°I have one of each. If you can think of no other way, then take passage to Horvorr and I will arrange for accommodation. But you should know that it is cold and inhospitable place. And there is no guarantee that I won¡¯t die working for Horvorr¡¯s Guard.¡± ¡°The place well suits you, then.¡± ¡°Better than this city, at the least. The coin should last you for a full winter. I would recommend keeping a blade within reach in case any man tries to rob, rape or murder you. If I can, I will come to visit you next season¡­ if only to see that you are no longer here.¡± Hjorvarth turned, and dipped his head. ¡°Joyto¡¯s Luck, Frida. May the Midwife watch over you and your babe.¡± *** Hjorvarth squeezed through the main doorway, and pulled it to a close behind him. A black-clad woman stood waiting at the crossroads ahead, alone save for the stone homes standing at either side of her. Hjorvarth frowned, then turned the other way. ¡°Hjorvarth.¡± The woman gave chase, her steps close to soundless. ¡°I didn¡¯t expect to find you here.¡± ¡°Ruby.¡± ¡°Greeting or accusation?¡± she said, striding alongside him. ¡°I had hoped tone alone would suggest that I have no great urging to talk or look at you.¡± ¡°Times change quickly, then.¡± Hjorvarth paused amid another crossroads, searching the surroundings of rowed stone structures that ended in a horizon of the monolithic walls and jutting mountains that shadowed the stone city. ¡°You¡¯ve made me take a wrong turn.¡± ¡°As easy as that?¡± Ruby asked. ¡°Which way is Sifa¡¯s tavern?¡± Ruby¡¯s dark eyes narrowed. ¡°You¡¯re back to working for Brolli already?¡± ¡°No. I¡¯m looking for a whorehouse that should be near there.¡± ¡°Why¡­?¡± ¡°I do not know.¡± Hjorvarth took a step forward, looming over the lithe woman. ¡°Why are you here?¡± Ruby smiled. ¡°I¡¯ve come on behalf of my father. He extends his sympathies towards your falling out with Brolli the Black, and would once more like to invite you into the company of the Gem Cutters.¡± Hjorvarth stared at her without enthusiasm. ¡°I¡¯ll take that as a no, then,¡± Ruby said, noticing the slash through his fur sleeve. ¡°You¡¯ve been knife fighting?¡± ¡°Crooked Teeth.¡± Ruby frowned in disgust. ¡°You work for the Crooked Teeth?¡± ¡°They attacked me with knifes in the market. I¡¯d heard no word of them until today.¡± ¡°Oh,¡± Ruby murmured. ¡°You¡¯re lucky, then. They¡¯ve been picking people off the streets and leaving behind bags of teeth.¡± ¡°Truly?¡± Hjorvarth asked. ¡°Had I known I would have given chase.¡± He shrugged. ¡°Which way is Sifa¡¯s tavern?¡± ¡°If you¡¯re not working for the Black Hands or the Crooked Teeth who are you working for?¡± ¡°Horvorr¡¯s Guard.¡± Ruby laughed. ¡°So you¡¯ve gone from working for Brolli to working for his brother. That¡¯s not much of a change.¡± ¡°It seems a deal easier than going to storefronts and asking folk to pay coin they don¡¯t owe and can¡¯t afford. Chief Gudmund offers good wages for honest work, and I¡¯m more than happy with that. Now I¡¯ve answered your questions¡­ which way is Sifa¡¯s tavern?¡± Ruby met the words with a curious smile. ¡°You were going the right way¡­ but you should probably head towards Jarl Thrand¡¯s Estate. I heard word that Gudmund¡¯s sons have already offended Thorfinn and now there¡¯s going to be a duel to answer the insult.¡± ¡°That is an odd lie,¡± Hjorvarth muttered. ¡°And if it isn¡¯t then the duel would be long over.¡± ¡°Perhaps¡­ but Thorfinn is well known as a man with thin arms and a big head. He¡¯s had the word spread that he¡¯ll soon be duelling, and he means to open the gates so that he can have those of import witness his great triumph.¡± ¡°He will lose,¡± Hjorvarth said. ¡°There is no way at all that he will best Geirmund, or Agnar, in a duel.¡± ¡°Then I would say it¡¯s lucky for Thorfinn that he¡¯s fighting a man named Engli instead.¡± Ruby¡¯s eyes narrowed as if she noticed his momentary distress. ¡°I take it you know the man?¡± ¡°I do.¡± Hjorvarth nodded. ¡°Which way is Jarl Thrand¡¯s Estate?¡± 5. Watched by Gods 5. Watched by Gods ¡°¡®The gods are always watching.¡¯¡± That is what folk say. Though they seem to say it as if the Eleven Elders are fair minded uncles or kind hearted aunts. As if we should welcome the fact. The scrunity. The eyes upon us. Twenty two, unless you decide not to count Muradoon¡¯s Dead Eye. That¡¯s a lot of watchers. A lot of gazes to please. A lot of minds to satisfy. And I may have played at the biggest stages, enthralled the greatest crowds, but still these Elders seem a hard audience to please. Never satisfied. Always making matters worse. And this latest chapter is one of the worst of all. How many corpses have we piled up on both sides? And for what? For Gudmund to lay claim to a barren wasteland. And now Sibbe is feeling unwell again. Every Priest and Godi offering vastly different explanations and vastly different remedies, though of course they¡¯re all similarly expensive. But, of course, there is no price to pay at all if you listen to them. It¡¯s merely a donation. The entirely optional payment that is beyond your control. Because ¡®the gods are always watching,¡¯ of course. Far be it from me to expect any favors from all those Elders I¡¯ve extolled in so many songs and legends. I never even wanted to be famous. Certainly not to be a warrior. And yet somehow my legend keeps growing as my sword grows ever blunter. From hack, hack, hacking through goblin necks like some deranged woodsman in an unending forest. Blood covered, gut strewn, scream plagued forest. The black ichor washing over my cracked hands so often that I begin to confuse the stains for rotting veins after scouring them for the hundredth time. But that doesn¡¯t stop me from telling my own son that the ¡®Gods are always watching¡¯ does it? I can only fervently hope that they favor Hjorvarth much more than me.¡± Geirmund sighed through weaved fingers. ¡°Well this turned to shit quickly.¡± Agnar¡¯s smile broadened, eyes teary as he couldn¡¯t help but laugh. ¡°I¡¯ve a grand plan. No need to worry, brother.¡± The two dark-clad men stood with their backs to a squat stone storehouse. A richly-dressed crowd milled ahead of them, treading dirt onto the expansive paved plateau that housed Jarl Thrand¡¯s Estate. A row of structures squatted behind them and a stable stretched opposite: horses restless with the noise and clamor of the gathered folk. Ornate gates lay open at their left, allowing ever more people to amble up from the sloping western approach. The main structures of the estate loomed opposite the entryway, marble walls bright white beneath a blue sky. Behind those masterworks, rock gave way to sheer cliffs that reared over the shadowed slums below. The sun burnt down on the elevated gathering, warming flesh and manure to scent the air with a mingling of shit and sweat. Agnar had clear sight of Thorfinn, a thin-limbed youth in gold-and-red standing ahead of a stable stall, flanked on all sides by the grey guards of the stone city. He appeared eager and fearful, barely listening to the armoured man that stood beside him. ¡°My plan is not so grand,¡± Geirmund said. ¡°Gudmund would want us to let Engli die. He has embarrassed himself, and our family. He attacked a man that invited him as a guest. There is nothing more to be done than that.¡± Agnar glanced to his right, where Engli sat on a stool, pale and shaking. Sybille knelt before him, offering words of encouragement. ¡°I don¡¯t like that plan, brother.¡± ¡°You said the other day that you wouldn¡¯t blink if he ended up dead.¡± ¡°Ah, true, but there I thought he would be fighting goblins.¡± ¡°There is nothing you can do,¡± Geirmund warned, gripping his shoulder. Agnar strode forward, shrugging free of his older brother. ¡°Engli. You look¡­ uneasy.¡± Engli managed a weak smile from his seat. ¡°I don¡¯t really know what¡¯s happening.¡± ¡°It¡¯s simple enough,¡± Agnar explained. ¡°You decided to punch Thorfinn in the cheek, and now he¡¯s decided he wants to kill you.¡± Sybille scowled, her lip was swollen and split. ¡°The duel isn¡¯t to the death.¡± ¡°Accidents happen. I won¡¯t blink when your innards spill, Engli. None of them will.¡± Engli¡¯s brow creased. ¡°My thanks for your kind words of encouragement.¡± ¡°Here.¡± Agnar drew his sword, handing it over by the handle. ¡°You can use this.¡± Engli shook his head. ¡°They¡¯ll look poorly on that. They¡¯ve given me an axe.¡± ¡°Can I take a look?¡± Agnar asked, smiling when the weapon was handed over. He struck the iron head against the wall and the haft snapped. ¡°Damn unfortunate that they chose one in such a poor condition.¡± He handed the broken handle back. ¡°Unless you want the sword, after all?¡± Engli swallowed. ¡°I¡¯ll take the sword.¡± ¡°Good enough,¡± Agnar said, handing him the blade. ¡°Now your friend Thorfinn here looks weak. But not that much weaker than you. He¡¯s got his own sword, and he¡¯s taller, and he¡¯s not sat there looking like a ghost. So if I¡¯m making a wager, then I¡¯m going to guess that you end up dead.¡± He broadened his smile. ¡°But look how happy I am, Engli,¡± he added encouragingly. ¡°I must know something that the people who can¡¯t hear me don¡¯t know¡­ only I don¡¯t. Thorfinn wants to fight you alone. But he¡¯ll only do that if he¡¯s sure he¡¯ll win. So I think you ought to get on your feet and start testing that sword. You might get to live if he asks to fight in pairs.¡± Engli studied the polished blade, then looked up at Agnar. ¡°You¡¯ll fight with me?¡± ¡°Against Thorfinn, I¡¯ll fight with anyone.¡± Agnar dipped his head, smiled at his sister, and walked back to his brother. Geirmund¡¯s gaze had no warmth to it. ¡°Thorfinn will not ask to fight in pairs. All you¡¯ve done is disrespect him by giving your sword to his enemy. If you do not wish to make a proper effort at forming this alliance then you should spend the days drinking or whoring. No disrespect, brother, but I don¡¯t need you here for this.¡± Agnar¡¯s mirth held. ¡°Do you know why Engli attacked him?¡± ¡°I expect that I will soon enough.¡± ¡°You¡¯ve become a blind man of late,¡± Agnar chided. ¡°Take a look at your sister¡¯s lip. Her eyes are sore like she¡¯s been crying. By my guess he struck her with words. She struck him with her hand, and he answered in kind. Then Engli took it upon himself to have the last word.¡± Agnar shrugged. ¡°Thorfinn already tried to kill him. By luck alone, I was in earshot, close enough to¡ª¡± Geirmund walked towards his sister, studying her with troubled eyes. He spoke no words, then strode towards Thorfinn and his gathered guards. Geirmund shouldered through plump men and perfumed women, not bothering to wait or step around, his teeth gritted as he ignored the baffled outrage and whispered curses. The armored man stepped forward to stand between Geirmund and Thorfinn. ¡°You need go no further, son of Gudmund.¡± ¡°Step aside, Atsurr.¡± Thorfinn regarded the guard with distaste. ¡°What is it you want, Geirmund?¡± ¡°My brother has done you disservice by offering his sword to a talented fighter,¡± Geirmund solemnly explained. ¡°I want to be clear that my father does not in any way condone the actions of his youngest son, and as such I come to offer my own blade for you to use. Or, should you wish, I will wield it myself in your defense.¡± Thorfinn¡¯s eyes narrowed. He placed a hand on his own sword. ¡°I have no need.¡± Geirmund dipped his head in respect. ¡°I wish you luck, then, son of Thrand.¡± ¡°I thank you for your luck and your offer,¡± said Thorfinn. Geirmund offered a tight smile. He made his way back around the storehouses opposite, avoiding the growing crowd. Engli was now up and swinging his sword, smiling at encouragement from Sybille. Geirmund passed them by, not answering their suspicious looks, and came to stand beside his brother. ¡°What was that about?¡± Agnar asked. ¡°A petty deception,¡± Geirmund answered. ¡°Should you have your chance at fighting, I would ask that you do not kill Thorfinn. I would agree that he needs to be humbled, but his death would get us nothing.¡± Agnar glanced between the son of Thrand and the son of Gudmund. ¡°I can promise you nothing, brother.¡± Geirmund¡¯s calm visage remained unchanged. ¡°Nor would I ask you to. Do not risk your life for our sake, brother. I have men of the guard with us in plain clothing. We will fight our way out of here if so needed.¡± If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. *** Hjorvarth traveled the main road of Timilir, which rose ahead of him in a gentle slope. It led to the enormous plateau that towered over the shallower third of the city, serving as the shorter side of a shadowed valley that housed hundreds of huddled shacks. Hjorvarth knew that the poorest lived there, while the richest lived on elevated rises that had better vantage. He wasn¡¯t sure whether it was height or light that gave them worth, though he could see the use of the sun when planting a garden. He dismissed the thought, and barged his way through the crowded folk that clogged the way ahead to Jarl Thrand¡¯s Estate. Ruby walked in his shadow, keeping to silence after having given up on idle chatter. Hjorvarth paused and Ruby thumped into his back. He plucked a golden ring from amid the sea of feet. ¡°Has anyone lost a ring?¡± ¡°Did you say a ring, friend?¡± a man beside them asked. ¡°Ah, yes, that one.¡± ¡°If you lie to me, friend, I will break your arm.¡± ¡°Ah¡­ hah.¡± The man smiled, brushing his hands down a purple robe. ¡°A woman passed by here, searching for a ring. Struck by her husband as I recall. Beat her to her knees and ripped it clean from her fingers. But with the heat, well¡ª¡± He tried to snap his fingers, but they slid noiselessly together. ¡°Slipped right off. If you give me the ring, I can look for her.¡± Hjorvarth carefully nodded. ¡°Swear that by the gods, and I will hand that over.¡± ¡°Do not give him the ring, Hjorvarth,¡± Ruby hissed. ¡°If he¡¯s told it true I¡¯m sure we¡¯ll find her somewhere crying. In any case, we should hurry. Unless you want your friend to die for the sake of a stranger.¡± ¡°You are in a rush?¡± the purple-robed man surmised. ¡°Go, then. Keep the ring for now. If you wish, you can meet me outside the gates, or at the slope, when this is done, and I will endeavor to help you return it.¡± Ruby smirked. ¡°I¡¯m sure you will.¡± The purple-robed man dipped his head. ¡°As am I.¡± ¡°As am I,¡± Hjorvarth echoed, shouldering forward. He pushed further into the tight pressed crowd that stank of cloying perfume and bitter sweat. A defensible white wall fenced off the estate, though the ornate gates had been opened. Three grey guards stood at each side of the archway with their spears held in loose grips. ¡°I¡¯m surprised Brolli never murdered Jarl Thrand. It seems simple enough.¡± ¡°Jarl Thrand isn¡¯t actually here, though,¡± Ruby replied. ¡°You should probably mind your words as we approach.¡± Silence washed over those gathered like a slow wave, weighing the stifling air with silence before it was broken by a solemn declaration. ¡°I, Thorfinn, son of Jarl Thrand, challenge Engli, son of no man I know, to a duel for striking me in my own home without good cause. It should be known that he has come here in the company of Chief Gudmund¡¯s sons,¡± he added. ¡°Those that herald from the unimportant town known as Horvorr. Yet they assure me that they do not support the cowardly actions of their guard. With that in mind, and in honor of Brikorhaan the Shield Brother, I challenge him to a duel of pairs. Do you accept, Horvorrian?¡± ¡°I do,¡± Engli¡¯s words were barely loud enough to be heard. ¡°Get of my way,¡± Hjorvarth growled, pushing folk aside. He met threats with a lifeless glare that robbed them of further protest. ¡°Is there any man here who wishes to fight with Engli?¡± Thorfinn continued. Hjorvarth had sight of the storehouses and stables now. Engli and Thorfinn stood amid a clearing in the crowd, facing one another. Thorfinn wore a gleaming shirt of chain that seemed to match the hue of his hair and his red-and-gold clothes. The only other three folk so separated were the children of Chief Gudmund. ¡°I will,¡± Agnar declared. ¡°And let it never be said that I am not a charitable man.¡± Thorfinn met the words with a thin smile. ¡°You have no weapon.¡± ¡°True.¡± Agnar knitted his brows, then spun to Gudmund. ¡°Brother?¡± Gudmund drew his sword, offering it to Agnar. ¡°He may borrow my father¡¯s sword.¡± Thorfinn¡¯s mirth twisted to hatred then to resignation. ¡°Fortunate it is that my attacker has at least one¡ªtwo¡ªfriends in this world. As well as a whore to call his own.¡± ¡°Tall talk is for small men,¡± Engli answered. ¡°I would know.¡± Thorfinn glared, then smiled in benevolent fashion. ¡°Who here wishes to fight alongside Thorfinn, son of Jarl Thrand?¡± He seemed to bathe in the dozen shouts that went out in answer, then turned his gaze towards the huge brute at the edge of the crowd. ¡°What about you, big man? Do you not wish to honor yourself?¡± Hjorvarth shrugged, appearing wild and shabby among those gathered. ¡°I am a man of Horvorr¡¯s Guard. And I do not believe that you would choose anyone other than those in your employ. In honest truth, I do not expect that you can truly count upon any man unless his purse is weighed by your gold. That and besides, you will not win regardless of who you choose to fight with you. Brikorhaan will not allow it.¡± Atsurr stepped forward, armour rattling now he drew his sword. ¡°Do you presuppose to speak for a god, Horvorrian? Do you dare to insult the rulers of this city while standing within the walls of their home?¡± ¡°I spoke the truth as I see it, Atsurr,¡± Hjorvarth¡¯s words were cold, hinting not at all towards the fear rising inside of him. ¡°You are well known to me as a respected fighter. So I will gladly duel you in Broknar¡¯s honor to divine who holds the true truth.¡± Thorfinn moved to block the armored man. ¡°This not the time nor the place, Atsurr. If you wish to fight, you can fight with me.¡± Atsurr stepped back, and bowed. ¡°Of course. I will gladly fight by your side.¡± Hjorvarth winced, having hoped to prevent exactly that. Agnar raised his brows, and walked to stand beside Engli. ¡°I suppose we ought to get to the fighting.¡± He appeared the least prepared of them all, wearing only a weapon belt with his dark leggings and green shirt. ¡°Have we any priests to stand as witness?¡± The purple-robed man from before stepped out ahead of Hjorvarth. ¡°Yes,¡± he announced. ¡°By Muradoon¡¯s Bright Eye, I declare this duel sanctified and begun. Spirit Talker take your souls should you fall here.¡± ¡°Not exactly the god I was hoping for,¡± Agnar muttered, switching with the short blond man so that he faced Thorfinn instead of the armored guard. Atsurr strode ahead of the son of Jarl Thrand, and readied his weapon. Agnar smiled, turning once more, then charged forward with a two-handed grip on his sword. He brought down a savage cut that sliced the air where Atsurr had stood, leaving Agnar unbalanced before a metal heel struck his side. ¡°That was foolish,¡± he thought, waiting to be hacked across the back as he rolled clear, but swords clashed beside him instead. He got to his feet in time to leap back from a wild swing of Thorfinn¡¯s sword. Behind Agnar, Engli staggered back as Atsurr cleaved paint and wood from his shield. Agnar side-stepped a thrust from Thorfinn, feinted in reply, then ran towards the fighting pair instead. He swept his sword in a horizontal arc towards the armored man and it crashed into the half-turned blade of Atsurr, snapping iron, biting through chain and into the flesh of hips. Atsurr let go of the broken weapon, reaching for a belt dagger, but the flat of Engli¡¯s sword careened into the guard¡¯s helmet. Agnar smiled, his mirth lapsing now Thorfinn¡¯s pommel struck the back of his skull. Hjorvarth frowned when Agnar and Atsurr tumbled in unison. Engli and Thorfinn shared a wary pause, both blond men eyeing their combatants, before the man of Horvorr¡¯s Guard recklessly charged, shoving his battered shield into the son of Jarl Thrand. Thorfinn¡¯s answering strike screeched off the shield boss. He stumbled back, face shocked and his grip limp as his feet went out from under him. Engli stepped forward, leveling his sword towards the fallen man. Dozens of grey guards rushed out from the crowd, weapons drawn. ¡°The duel is won,¡± the purple-robed man declared. ¡°By Engli of Horvorr, son of no man I know!¡± ¡°You have my thanks for that,¡± Hjorvarth murmured, his voice drowned amid a sea of confused outrage. ¡°None needed.¡± The Godi of Muradoon smiled up at him. ¡°Alas, the pretty girl with you stole the ring.¡± Hjorvarth reached into his empty belt pouch, then searched the crowd for Ruby. ¡°She is gone,¡± the Godi assured. ¡°As we should be as well. Come, Horvorrian. Before they close the gates. Your friends are already well prepared.¡± A score of men in brown and green gathered around Geirmund while he knelt down beside an unconscious Agnar. Hjorvarth saw then that most had concealed axes or swords beneath their well worn clothes. Geirmund wasted no time in having them lift his brother from his feet, then they all set swiftly off towards the open gates, forcing their way through the crowd with half-drawn weapons. Thorfinn followed after them, shouting and red-faced, as his own grey guards flanked his approach. ¡°I demand you stop, son of Gudmund!¡± he shouted. Geirmund paused, then turned back to the gates to leave the safety of his men. ¡°To what end? The well is poisoned now, Thorfinn. My sister has no mind to marry you. I will have a messenger sent to agree new terms.¡± ¡°This a minor mishap,¡± Thorfinn dismissed, despite the hatred twisting his face. ¡°Your guards must leave, but that is all. My father would be most displeased if you were to leave this city. He will happily address your concerns without further need of slow communication through unreliable messengers. You sister knows not what she says.¡± Geirmund¡¯s smile was cruel and disbelieving. ¡°She said nothing at all, you worm of a man. You struck a woman who would be your wife. You struck my sister,¡± he added in a snarl. ¡°Thank all the Eleven Elders that I do not kill you were you stand.¡± His hand brushed over a pommel that was not at his belt. ¡°As I said, a messenger will be sent.¡± ¡°You will stay,¡± Thorfinn hissed, ¡°and you will discuss this with the honor and dignity that is expected from a man of your standing. You are acting like a child.¡± ¡°So says the boy that struts like a cock in an effort to impress a mass of fat, garish, fools.¡± Geirmund ruefully shook his head. ¡°This barbed talk is beneath me. Let us not delay each other any longer. Good day to you, son of Thrand.¡± ¡°Do not walk away from me,¡± Thorfinn snapped, stalking after him. ¡°You are my lesser! If you do not turn to face me, I will bring ruin upon your entire family!¡± Geirmund laughed a sad laugh, slowing but not bothering to turn. ¡°Do your worst¡­ coward.¡± He looked in frustration to Agnar, wondering at the horrified eyes that stared back at him. Geirmund then realized, as time seemed to slow, that all of Horvorr¡¯s Guard wore that same shocked expression and he was likely about to be stabbed in the back. Geirmund turned, meaning to draw his family sword to parry, but his grip closed on nothing, and he glimpsed little more than a snarling face and a glinting blade. Flesh then clapped amid a blur of fur and leather. Bone crunched into stone. Sudden silence gave way to a confused commotion. A woman screamed out in horror. Geirmund knew the huge man ahead. Hjorvarth stood frozen, staring blankly down at the broken skull of Thorfinn, whose golden hair had turned a sickly shade of red. ¡°The Jarl¡¯s son is dead!¡± Atsurr declared, as the grey guards gathered near the estate gates. ¡°Seize the murderer!¡± ¡°Oh.¡± Geirmund¡¯s mind surged to life. ¡°Draw weapons! Form up! Protect Hjorvarth!¡± 6. Solitude 6. Solitude ¡°Strange to think I spent so much of my life on my own, and now I am never alone. Even with Sibbe and Hjorvarth safe in Timilir, I am surrounded at all times by dozens of men who only ever take a break from their belligerent noise when they are sleeping, at which point they violently snore. Perhaps this is why I have returned to writing. I barely speak with anyone, save for small words here and there for the sake of putting on a happy face and not ignoring warriors who might soon have opportunity to save me from a goblin¡¯s jaws. I do visit Brolli at times, to see how he is settling in, and I am surprised how quickly he has given up drinking and smoking. Though those first few nights were horrendous to witness. When I look at him, as he stares off at nothing, I see a sort of purity in his black eyes. There was no happy reunion between he and his brother. Gudmund did not embrace him or even look him in the eye. It was as if I returned a lost dog to an owner who had shooed the animal away in the first place. Yet despite this Brolli is seemingly at peace. When I asked him why, he said, ¡°We¡¯re not at peace. We¡¯re at war.¡± Which was true as not. We will be marching in through the Snake Basin path in just a few days. I did ask Gudmund if he wished for me to lead a band of men, but he simply looked at me with a confused sort disdain and suggested instead that I try not to get myself killed. I look forward to showing him I can hold a blade just as well as a tune.¡± Grettir scratched at his overgrown beard, scowling at the pale wisps of his own breaths as they faded into the frigid night air. He had volunteered to keep guard, and let the other men stay in the main tent while he sat amid the wintry dark. He had kept watch the night before as well, because he had been having grim dreams of late. Dreams of Ragadin¡¯s return and vast goblin hordes come to finally wreak vengeance on Gudmund and Grettir. But Ragadin was surely dead. No one had seen him since the Blackwood, not even in the Midderlands. A goblin like that was far too obsessed with reputation to just slink off and die. Like as not he¡¯d been killed by another Great Chief or died of wounds from his many battles. That was what Grettir told himself at least. Brolli had been offering mad warnings just before they left and surely that was what made Grettir dream of goblins. But he had dreamed of another goblin too. Just as large and monstrous as Ragadin had been but with a blackened face of twisted features and snarling fangs. There was something about the dreams that seemed all too real. And made Grettir feel, for the first time in many winters, fear for himself. Not just the constant worry that came with wanting the best for Sybille and Agnar and Geirmund. But real bone chilling fear that makes your heart go cold in your chest. ¡°I¡¯m just old,¡± Grettir gruffly assured. He¡¯d known old warriors, of course. Still knew them. Horvorr¡¯s Guard was not exactly flush with fresh recruits. Engli and Hjorvarth were the youngest men among them now. Though the son of Isleif could easily be confused for a man much older. The young warriors were always brave, of course. But the rest, as the seasons weighed on them, were always complaining. Seeking out some new thing to be afeared of. So doubtless this had happened to Grettir as well. The hirsute warrior decided in the end that old age would soon take him. And a death fighting goblins would be far preferable to that. He searched all around him, listening to the sighing wind and all was clear and all was quiet. Then, flickering in the distance, he glimpsed the light of a torch atop the snaking mountainous path to Timilir. Then another, and another. Grettir gritted his teeth. ¡°Should have broken his legs.¡± *** ¡°Strange,¡± came the high and eerie voice of the night black goblin known as Lazoor. He had been watching the tiny manling encampment, considering slaughtering them all while they slept in a colourful tent, but now the other manlings were coming down by the mountains as if they knew of the looming threat. Though Lazoor could still not quite believe just how small was this force sent roaming by The Young Wolf. Horvorr¡¯s Guard was meant to be an innumerable fighting force of great warriors. Not a sad gathering of grey and overripe manlings. Lazoor half-wondered if he couldn¡¯t have simply killed them all with his own two claws. But then that was a needless risk. And he was not in the habit of putting his life on the line for no gain at all. It was not as if Braguk Moonbear or those enormous triplets would be grateful. They would just bellow of how he stole their honor and demand some tribute. If he even mentioned that he was out here watching the manlings, they might grow suspicious. Lazoor tried to decide whether more would be gained by telling Braguk Moonbear that the manlings were moving, or whether he should simply return to the rest of the clans. The manlings did not often travel by night and the other goblins would soon emerge from the Middle Lands Pass, so there was no great risk of them escaping. Even if they did, the dozens of manlings did not inspire much fear. But then Braguk often knew things he had no right of knowing. He was always talking to the Moon and learning all sorts of secrets. Perhaps it was better to say he saw the flames on the mountains and decided to take a closer look, and spare any need to explain why he was watching the manling encampment so closely to begin with. ¡°I wouldn¡¯t.¡± Lazoor turned to the manling¡¯s voice. Proud and assured. The hooded figure wore a dark robe, sitting legs outstretched with his back to a small boulder. Lazoor would have towered over the manling even if he were standing, but in these positions the black goblin loomed at thrice his height. ¡°Braguk is busy with his own plans,¡± the manling went on. ¡°Best not to give him any more reasons to distrust you. Of all the Great Chiefs, he considers you the true threat.¡± ¡°What is this?¡± Lazoor hissed. ¡°A boulder?¡± ¡°No!¡± You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story. ¡°A friendly conversation?¡± ¡°Who are you?¡± the black goblin then demanded in snarl. ¡°Answer me.¡± ¡°I¡¯m the son of no man you know.¡± ¡°Hm.¡± Lazoor bared his razor sharp teeth. ¡°I understand. I will eat you now.¡± ¡°Not so friendly, then.¡± Lazoor did not understand the last words, but neither did he care. He lashed out with blinding speed, only to for his claws to rasp off of hard stone. He leapt back, cautious as always, and scoured the surrounding snow. Yet the robed man was nowhere to be seen. ¡°Tricky,¡± Lazoor chided, before disappearing as well. Then all that remained was a golden ring, which shone dully in the faint moonlight. *** Ragadin made his way through the Blackwood Forest at great haste, leaping easily over fallen trees, sprinting without difficulty across treacherous footing while a pair of massive axes rattled in a cross upon his back. Of all the Great Chiefs in Southwestern Tymir, Ragadin considered himself best suited for scouting and delivering messages. He also thought he stood apart as the greatest fighter amongst all the goblins. He did not see that as a boast. It was fact. He was not as Lazoor the Black, using magic to deceive. He was not as Braguk Moonbear, or even Dalpho, a being of such enormity that grace or skill held no consequence. Ragadin was as a goblin should be. Pure. An honourable fighter. He felt more affinity for the old warriors of Horvorr, for the Young Wolf, the Black Heart, and the One Swing, then he did for his own people. In truth, Ragadin believed that the goblins were done. Chief of Chiefs Gahr¡¯rul had been dismembered many years ago. Yet the Great Chiefs did not band together to avenge him then. No, they waited like cowards until time itself had withered their enemies. There was only one among them that could be excused. Lazarus. The Great Chief that stood no bigger than Ragadin¡¯s knee, no larger than Dalpho¡¯s foot. Yet size was of no consequence to Ragadin. Prodigious height made Braguk Moonbear no less a cannibalistic wretch. Lazarus had the excuse of youth on his side. He had not lived through the old war. He had not sworn loyalty to the Chief of Chiefs. He had been birthed to a time when the meat of Gahr¡¯rul¡¯s body had long been churned to filth. In truth, Ragadin believed he himself was done. He no longer saw purpose in the world around him. He had spent his prime days fighting across the Midderlands for clans that were obsessed with slaying and eating one another while the manling lords got fat on richer lands. There was no honor in that. No honor in living. This new clan was a gathering of cowards that lacked the courage to die. Yet Ragadin would fight one last time, as he had once tried at the Battle of the Blackwood. Lazarus saw a future for the goblins of the region. Ragadin, a fighter of the past, would offer his last years in sacrifice. He slowed as he gained sight of a disorganised encampment. Dozens of fires scattered about ruined woodland. Hundreds of goblins gathered around the flames, eating, sleeping, or fighting. Though most broke from their tasks to watch the approach of a Great Chief, of a gargantuan goblin who had to struggle not to crush insignificant kin underfoot. Ragadin wondered whether the disregard he held for his own people was truly a marker of his own diminished worth. He saw awe in their gazes, respect, fear, admiration, and all the while he felt his own hollow regard. ¡°I am everything to them,¡± he thought, ¡°and yet they are nothing to me. Why can I muster no semblance of respect?¡± He surveyed his surroundings. Moss, grasses and protruding roots covered the ground where fires and goblins did not. Trees dotted the darkness around the gathered hundreds. Shadowed sentinels that stood with solidity where the warmth of flames faded. Mountains rose to the North, preceded by rocky plateaus and walled stone pocked by the maws of small caverns. Ragadin looked for a cave with no sign of fire, and soon spotted the blubbery back of the goblin he sought. Dalpho sat blocking the mouth of a cavern. He did not share likeness to the goblins of other clans, or even to his own clan. To most, he was an oddity. Ragadin suspected that the spawning pool that birthed Dalpho had been close to the sea, for the Great Chief had the girth of a whale and the face of a long-nosed seal. He was so large that he made Braguk Moonbear seem ordinary. Ragadin ascended to the plateau with ease. He slowed to a stop behind Dalpho. Hundreds of scars, caused by blades, claws, and teeth, marred the rolled flesh of the Great Chief¡¯s massive back. ¡°Dalpho.¡± Dalpho mumbled in surprise. He struggled to turn his head, beady eyes glistening with firelight. ¡°Ragadin.¡± ¡°I had no mind to frighten you.¡± ¡°You did not,¡± Dalpho assured in a rumble. ¡°For a moment, I took your voice as a man¡¯s.¡± ¡°I hear yours more as storm clouds.¡± ¡°Yes.¡± Dalpho¡¯s nod creased his chins. ¡°Allow me to rise.¡± The Great Chief tore rock from the cavern mouth with his rounded shoulders. He shook the stone plateau with his great weight. Ragadin stepped forward and the heat of a burning brazier rippled out to greet him. ¡°What word?¡± Lazarus stood over the flames. Ragadin thought for a moment that the lithe goblin was further away, struggling to reconcile the statures of Lazarus and Dalpho. Four dozen goblins, none more than half the size of Ragadin, waited within. They gathered into two groups that stood at opposite sides of the cavern. The rotund goblins shared porcine faces, while their wiry kin had appearance of bats. Balluk crouched in the corner behind his fat clan. He was a head taller than Ragadin, though that height would always be mired by bowed legs and a hunched back. Ragadin despised Balluk. He always had. Balluk was born by defilement of a spawning pool. Gahr¡¯ruls decaying organs had been thrown into the water that warmed eight birthing sacks. They had split the linings of seven, allowing the unborn goblins within to be consumed in a vain attempt at remaking the Chief of Chiefs. Yet in the end all they managed to make was a snarling monstrosity. Height availed Braguk Moonbear nothing. It availed Balluk less than that. Lazarus rasped his long claws against the brazier. ¡°What word, Ragadin?¡± ¡°Horvorr¡¯s Guard marched through the night. They avoided the ambush of the clans in the East before it was ever laid. By my own guess, I would say that the One Swing knew of the threat. I can see of no other reason for his pace, lest he fears some enemy follows their band from the manling mountains.¡± Dalpho settled down near the cave and the ground shook once more with his weight. ¡°How long before they reach Fenkirk?¡± Lazarus asked. ¡°Two moons at most. We should ambush the manlings ourselves. We may find ourselves a simple end to this, if we can capture the sons of the Young Wolf.¡± Lazarus stared into the writhing flames as if remembering the past. ¡°Did Gudmund offer us a simple end?¡± ¡°He did not,¡± Ragadin replied. ¡°Yet bad examples abound. If you wish to slaughter them, then slaughter them. Dalpho can bring down the gates with ease and we can overrun the town. Yet the manlings within are no more responsible for the actions of the Young Wolf¡ª¡± He waved towards Balluk and his rotund clan. ¡°¡ªthan these fat goblins are for the cowardice of their misshapen leader.¡± Balluk¡¯s sneer bared his filthy teeth. ¡°Do you wish to challenge me, Ragadin?¡± ¡°I can think of no thing that would bring me greater dishonour.¡± ¡°Enough,¡± Lazarus warned. ¡°When and where would you ambush them?¡± ¡°After the sun next rises. On the Snake Basin Path.¡± 7. Messengers 7. Messengers ¡°Messengers like priests are god guarded. To strike one is folly, and to curse oneself. And yet I have lost count of the number of messengers who have to my knowledge been slain. By monsters, of course, but also by men. Whereas I cannot think of a single man who has not dearly suffered for slaying a follower of any one of the Eleven Elders. And these could be numbered with a single hand.¡± Eirik and Ralf stood in the shadow of Gudmund¡¯s Hall. They both served in the household guard of the Chief of Horvorr, which made them men of little prominence, because they had both not fought for over a dozen years. They appeared the more insignificant for standing ahead of the grandiose doors. The hall itself seemed out of place. A masterwork monument amid a dreary town of long wooden houses, one-room fishing huts, and small storage sheds. Those two guards, one old and rotund, the other young and skinny, served as truth to a plainness that the hall belied. They stood as mundane reality behind the carved imaginings of wolves and bears that showed light against dark on the wood of the doors. Both men had had easy days of late, and spent most their time sleeping or turning folk away when asked for an audience. The Chief of Horvorr had requested no visitors until his children returned. He had been restless, shouting in the night, and often wandered around at odd hours or went fishing for longer than those who made a feeble living from the trade. But neither Eirik or Ralf, despite their loyalty and concern, had any great urging to question Gudmund. On any matter at all. They were both looking forward to Grettir¡¯s return. Or Geirmund¡¯s. Or even Agnar¡¯s. So long as there was someone else around to reason with Gudmund. Footsteps sounded out as a a blue-cloaked messenger approached. He crossed onto the churned mud of the fenced yard, passing between a pair of blackened braziers. Coughing to announce himself, he declared, ¡°I bring message for Chief Gudmund from Grettir of Horvorr¡¯s Guard.¡± Eirik¡¯s curious smile creased his smooth cheeks. ¡°Is that right?¡± The messenger frowned. ¡°I have no reason to lie.¡± ¡°I¡¯m not saying you are. I¡¯ve just never known Grettir to send anyone that wasn¡¯t a man of Horvorr¡¯s Guard.¡± Ralf had been dozing against the wall, but the words woke him. He murmured then plucked his spear from the ground. He wore thick cotton and leather that made him appear all the rounder. ¡°Who¡¯s this?¡± ¡°Messenger,¡± Eirik muttered. ¡°Messenger,¡± the messenger echoed firmly. ¡°I must speak with Chief Gudmund. Will you let me in?¡± Ralf scratched at his bulbous nose. ¡°What¡¯s the message?¡± ¡°I have been instructed to bring it straight to him.¡± Ralf squinted up at the clouded noon sky. ¡°He¡¯s likely sleeping.¡± ¡°The sun is fully risen,¡± the messenger snapped. ¡°If you will not let me pass, then give me my payment.¡± Eirik laughed. ¡°What a rat bastard we¡¯ve got here. If Grettir sent you then you¡¯ve already got the coin. Because he would know that he¡¯s sending a bad message and he would know that Chief Gudmund doesn¡¯t like to hear those.¡± The messenger¡¯s face lapsed. ¡°That is not true.¡± ¡°Then I suppose we ought to let you in so you can explain that to Chief Gudmund.¡± ¡°Or I could leave and not deliver the message.¡± Ralf scratched at his bulbous nose. ¡°I think we¡¯d be obligated to chase you down and beat the words out of you.¡± ¡°I am guarded by the gods,¡± the messenger hissed. ¡°You would not dare strike me.¡± ¡°Look around, friend,¡± Eirik said, sweeping his arms to encompass rows of homes and the rounded surround of towering logs. ¡°There¡¯s no gods here to guard you.¡± He nodded towards the many-roofed Ritual House of Muradoon. ¡°Save for the Spirit Talker. But if that¡¯s where you want to end your day, I¡¯ll take you straight to the Godi.¡± ¡°Godless Horvorrians,¡± the messenger muttered. ¡°Exactly that, friend. Exactly that.¡± Eirik nodded, reaching for his spear. ¡°Now about this message.¡± This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report. *** Eirik and Ralf rowed further onto the dark expanse of Horvorr¡¯s Great Lake. They sat in a small fishing boat, sparing no words. Oars dipped and rose with a patter. Water hushed against creaking wood. Birds wheeled through clouds, circling in silence. The walled settlement beyond the embankments shrank, while tall forests and chalky mountains beyond the water loomed ever larger. They had passed within sight of distant boats, and now slowed to turn their own as they drew close to a smaller vessel. The dory floated on the rippling water, seemingly abandoned. ¡°Gudmund?¡± Eirik shouted. ¡°Are you sleeping or drowning?¡± Ralf¡¯s wheezing breaths underscored a long silence. ¡°Neither,¡± replied a tired voice. Eirik smirked. ¡°A messenger came to the hall.¡± ¡°Then you should have brought him instead of Ralf. Either way, it could have waited.¡± ¡°You don¡¯t exactly look busy.¡± ¡°You can¡¯t see me.¡± Eirik frowned. ¡°You¡¯re not¡­?¡± ¡°Not, what?¡± Gudmund asked. ¡°Not rowing onto the lake to play with my cock?¡± ¡°Your words,¡± Eirik said. ¡°Always better to judge a man by what he thinks.¡± ¡°I didn¡¯t think that.¡± ¡°No?¡± Gudmund doubtfully asked. ¡°And what do you think, Ralf?¡± Ralf scratched at his nose. ¡°A messenger came to the hall.¡± ¡°Sounds more like an echo than a thought to me,¡± Gudmund chided. ¡°Echo his message, then, if you¡¯re so inclined.¡± ¡°Grettir¡¯s sent word that things went wrong in Timilir.¡± Gudmund¡¯s hands brushed against wood. His heart began to beat very heavy in his chest. Brolli had been warning Grettir that Ragadin was back and they were all soon destined for the Lady¡¯s Shadow. Of course, Brolli had long gone mad from a lifetime of violence and wraithweed. But then Agnar had, had a strange way about him before he left. He¡¯d even gone so far as to tell his father that he hoped to see him soon. The Chief of Horvorr was now deeply regretting not traveling with his children. ¡°Is anyone dead?¡± ¡°Four men,¡± Eirik replied. ¡°Score more wounded.¡± Gudmund¡¯s throat was dry when he swallowed. ¡°My sons?¡± ¡°No.¡± ¡°Grettir?¡± ¡°No.¡± ¡°Sybille?¡± ¡°No.¡± Gudmund laid back with a sigh. He silently mocked himself for being scared by his mad brother and a few night of awful dreams. ¡°And you two are still living,¡± he replied. ¡°So how wrong can things be?¡± ¡°Thorfinn was murdered,¡± Alf said. ¡°Really?¡± Gudmund¡¯s laugh was baffled. ¡°I take it the blame goes to Agnar?¡± ¡°No,¡± Eirik answered. ¡°Engli ended up in a duel with him. The messenger wasn¡¯t clear on why, but they fought in pairs. Agnar and Engli against Thorfinn and Atsurr.¡± Gudmund had never liked the blond man. Something about his smile was too eager to please, which made it all the more clear he wanted to impress the Chief of Horvorr. Doubtless not because of his standing in the town but because he was Sybille¡¯s father. ¡°Never would have guessed the little man would be so vicious.¡± ¡°The duel only caused wounds for Atsurr,¡± Eirik went on. ¡°Geirmund tried to leave when it was finished, but Thorfinn gave chase. They bandied words until Geirmund turned his back. Thorfinn tried to stab him, only to get punched in the head by Hjorvarth, which threw him onto the road¡­¡± ¡°¡­which cracked his head right open,¡± Alf finished. The two guards held to silence, boats rocking as they waited for reply. ¡°Did they leave the city?¡± Gudmund asked. ¡°They did,¡± Eirik replied. ¡°A few men were struck by arrows, and they crossed blades with a dozen guards. But I doubt they were too eager to trap a group of armed men inside the walls. The messenger said they¡¯re on their way back.¡± ¡°Is Hjorvarth with them?¡± Ralf nodded. ¡°Aye.¡± Gudmund whistled for a while. ¡°No word of a pursuing force?¡± he reasoned. ¡°None of my children are wounded? Grettir¡¯s not going to show up with another missing arm to offer an uncomfortable hug?¡± Eirik raised his blond brows. ¡°No to all three, I¡¯d say.¡± ¡°As would I,¡± Ralf agreed. ¡°And here I had myself braced for something more tragic or exciting,¡± Gudmund declared. ¡°Row on back, then, and pass word to someone that works for Brolli. Or just sit in his tavern and start spinning the tale. I expect he¡¯ll want to hear it.¡± ¡°Or you could always tell him yourself,¡± Eirik offered. ¡°He¡¯s your brother, after all.¡± ¡°No sense breaking a habit that old.¡± ¡°Better to hold tight to grudges until you¡¯re dead?¡± Ralf asked. Gudmund smiled bitterly as he considered all the betrayals he¡¯d suffered in his life, and how he dearly hoped to repay them. Then he sighed, contented with the knowledge that his children would soon be safe at home. ¡°Past that,¡± he answered. ¡°If you can.¡± 8. Those Dead 8. Those Dead ¡°Trolls had always intrigued me. As a boy, they haunted my dreams. Mouths with hundreds of teeth. Cruel, featureless faces of wax. And of course, as most mothers told it, they had a penchant for eating unruly young children. But in Southwestern Tymir I saw one for the first time with my very own eyes. Ten feet tall, as broad as a bull, with a thick-limbed coal-skinned figure that looked to have been shaped with all the nuance of a child¡¯s hands. Far from aggressive predators they were passive carrion. They had a penchant for eating anything dead or rotten. Swallowing whole like a snake, they digested all they ate in a bubbling bath of acidic wax. This caustic liquid then served to maintain the creature¡¯s form. Through cuts and abrasions. Through more savage attacks. And even through movement. Without nourishment, the creature simply hardened into a lifeless husk. In excess, the reserve for molten wax grew in the stomach and the outer layers of settled flesh grew broader and bulkier, until they dwarved even huge men. But that is not to say that they were harmless. Left alone, they ambled along the battlefields devouring the remnants of combatants. But when a man impeded them, they would not hesitate to eat him alive. And stopping that, when every attack was met with spray that burnt both iron and flesh, proved so difficult that most men were left to die.¡± Geirmund sat, elbows resting on raised knees, in the back of the covered cart. Sunlight lanced through holes in the battered fabric and every now and then the wheels would catch a rut or a rock and send his wrists jutting towards his chin. He had been thinking for a long while. Grettir believed this was a strength of Geirmund''s but more often than not his mind simply wandered in circles. Ahead of him, through the wide opening at the back of the cart, the loyal warriors of Horvorr¡¯s Guard, sturdy and sunlit, stretched out along the Snake Basin Path. Six carts, all uncovered, and over three score men. This was once the most treacherous part of the journey, with a sheer drop to the right, and an open plain and an enormous forest to the left. The shadows of the towering trunks could shadow any force, be they a dozen or a thousand. And at one time they had. But those were his father¡¯s days and the sprawling clans of old had long since diminished. Now goblins attacked by the dozen or the handful, if it all. Grettir hadn¡¯t even sent scouts through the trees, to avoid any delay. Horvorr¡¯s Guard had done well, Geirmund thought, leaving the stone city at such haste without great losses or real challenge. They had done what he asked without question and reacted so quickly that Timilir¡¯s guard were left wanting, unable to properly answer them. But Horvorr¡¯s Guard were not pleased. Not one of them. Firstly, because every man had business in the city, and had expected to stay there for ten days, not ten hours. Secondly, because most had friends and family in Timilir¡ªsome had wives and children¡ªand they now had no clue when or whether they would be able to return soon or at all. But they did not blame Gudmund¡¯s son. Nor Hjorvarth¡­ or at least if they did they had no mind to raise it with him. They blamed the weakest man they could find. So Sybille had asked if Engli could ride in the lead cart. To Geirmund¡¯s left, he sat. Opposite Sybille. Geirmund glanced at his sister. Silent and sullen, she was. An ugly bruise marked her pale cheek. Her lip had been split. Her dress, once an illustrious purple, now ripped, wind battered. Stained and ruined at the hem. She had not been badly harmed¡ªthank all Eleven Elders¡ªbut she had lost no small measure of innocence. And though Geirmund did not show it, for he had found that being unreadable was a useful trait, his blood boiled within him. And he thought back to that sound of flesh on flesh. A sudden clap. And then the awful crunch of bone on stone. Too swift, perhaps, but well deserved. And what terrible strength had the son of Isleif. That his swiftness matched even that was a worrying thought. For any man, or monster, that faced him, at least. And like that a Jarl¡¯s son, perceived to be untouchable, was transformed in a moment to little more than meat. Hjorvarth had barely spoken since, save to Agnar. Geirmund had thanked him, of course¡ªand he was in truth beyond grateful ¡ªbut the huge man seemed aloof. Uncaring. Or perhaps Geirmund knew him too poorly and he was¡­ troubled. But surely this was not the first time he had killed a man? He was an enforcer for the Black Hands, after all. Presumed successor to Brolli. But what if it was? Did he see in him that same loss of innocence? And is that why he felt such disquiet in his heart? Or was it the fact that Jarl Thrand might now go to war with Horvorr? Did he simply fear what his father would think when they returned home? Gudmund had trusted in his oldest son to see this venture through without incident. ¡°What will our father do?¡± Sybille asked, breaking his reverie. A moment passed before he turned. Her blue eyes were now sharp as ever. ¡°I do not know, Sybille.¡± That keen gaze darkened. ¡°What would you do?¡±. Here Engli, who was what one might consider a pretty man, better fitted as a bard or a courtier than a hired sword, turned to look at the son of Gudmund. In his green eyes, hope and fear both. ¡°I do not know,¡± Geirmund offered lamely. ¡°I suppose¡­ if there was a way forward without bloodshed then I would broker a peace. The stone city offers amusement that Wymount and Fenkirk do not. It is for some of our men, what they live for.¡± ¡°And if Jarl Thrand asks for Agnar¡¯s head?¡± Sybille pressed. ¡°Now that would be difficult.¡± Here Geirmund upturned his palms with mock consideration. ¡°Such a large and unwieldy¡ª¡± He trailed off when his sister¡¯s gaze turned plainly cruel. ¡°Our father would never bargain with his son¡¯s life.¡± Sybille¡¯s smiled coldly at that. ¡°Only his daughter¡¯s.¡± ¡°I did not mean,¡± Geirmund began with awkward laughter. ¡°He loves us all, Sybille. He has no love for Thrand.¡± She considered the words. Then Engli asked, calmly, ¡°And if he were to ask for Hjorvarth¡¯s head?¡± ¡°Unless freely given by the man himself,¡± Geirmund answered honestly, ¡°I doubt we are up to the task.¡± Engli, expression blank, nodded in all severity. ¡°And if he were to ask for mine?¡± Geirmund fixed him with a severe stare, then gently smiled. ¡°Is this why you are so quiet, Engli?¡± he asked. ¡°You think I mean to pack and parcel you as livestock?¡± He shook his head. ¡°My father is an unpredictable man,¡± he admitted, ¡°but my brother is not. He is predictably unpredictable. And, should you think me so cold, that fire hearted fool would never would never allow it. I can tell you this, though,¡± he said in a more serious tone. ¡°My father has never liked you. He will not like you any more or any less when all this is done. But, for your sake, you need to be kept apart. So I will suggest that you become a household guard. Which may not be to your liking, or it may be exactly to your liking,¡± he went on, with a mocking look to both the young man and woman. ¡°But if you¡¯re asking me plainly, Engli, would I trade away your life?¡± Geirmund waited and watched the man. He kept a gentile smile on his face while he did so, pretending to deliberate. He could respect the blond man more for asking, even if it did in truth offend him that he would even think Geirmund capable of such a heartless act. He rose to what height he could in the cart, ready to return to the road, and clapped Engli on the shoulder. Well muscled despite his stature, Geirmund noted. But then he was the son of a blacksmith. ¡°Of course not.¡± He glanced pointedly to Sybille. ¡°You may not think so, but it takes courage to strike at a Jarl¡¯s son. You did right by my sister and I will not wrong you in answer to that. Nor will Agnar. Nor will Grettir. And nor will Gudmund.¡± ¡°Thank you, brother.¡± Sybille looked at him with genuine warmth then. ¡°It seems I¡¯ve caused a lot of trouble.¡± Geirmund chuckled, moving past them. ¡°Fear not, Sybille. I¡¯m sure there¡¯s plenty more to come.¡± *** ¡°Is this what has become of the Young Wolf¡¯s pack?¡± Ragadin asked. The green kin around him, varied in their shapes and sizes, gibbered in joint answer. They were arrayed, as much as could be managed, under the shadows of the great trees above and around them. Horvorr¡¯s Guard, like a labouring beast, trudged forward along the Snake Basin Path. To all appearances, which Ragadin knew deceived well enough, they were completely unaware. These men were old. Grey. Staggering despite a lack of wounds. Most were only large in their bellies. Others were so thin that brittle pink skin clung to their weathered faces. Ragadin pitied them, studied his own wretched company, and then felt envious. To have his old clan with him, to fight this battle with fallen friends, would have brought great honor. He should have simply died in the Blackwood. He should have died when the true goblins died. Now he would have to reap his way through a band of no more than six dozen. Or he could simply stand here, taking no part, and send his hundreds to wash these manlings from the safety of the path and down into the Snake Basin. He had made that climb before, walked those sunken forests, and knew well enough that those lucky enough to scale the cliff side would in truth be those most cursed. Ragadin was waiting, wondering why the charge had not yet been sounded. Yet he had faith in Lazarus. For now. Horvorr¡¯s Guard would have no chance. Their only good ground was that of the path. The corridor plain that divided the forest and the road was already piled with snow, which covered stony mud. The first charge would put their backs at a sheer drop, where most men might simply choose to leap to their deaths. To avoid whatever grim fate awaited those eaten by goblins. Eternal suffering, or so Ragadin had heard, as if to be eaten alive was not punishment enough. Ragadin held the middle ground. Dalpho the left. Balluk the right. Three forces made up of dozens of clans. Lazarus would be somewhere, on Dalpho¡¯s shoulder perhaps, but if he were anywhere else then none would recognise him. Ragadin scoured the ugly faces of his kin and knew well enough that he could not tell them apart. Dozens upon dozens stood around him, spreading like dirty mould, restless and waiting, fighting with or squeaking to one another. A foolish sort of innocence. Ragadin thought they seemed benign. Yet he knew they would feast on flesh, on each other, with rapture. Hunger ruled. In all things. After all, hunger for vengeance had brought him here. Hunger for honor. Or perhaps more aptly a quest to sate the eternal sense of absence. Ragadin would act for he knew of no other thing to do. He might well tell himself that his kin are not worth fighting for, and they might not be, but that did not sway his need. You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story. His hunger would be answered. *** Horvorr¡¯s Guard appeared weatherbeaten. Tired eyes and stooped strides made it seem as though their march had lasted for weeks, rather than a few days. They wore the clothes they lived in. Plain shirts, some dyed, most stained and faded; thick jackets stitched together from leather, wool and fur; and loose leggings, wrapped from knees to boots with strips. They all wore, without exception, a beard, though there were different cuts and styles. Those younger tended to have theirs twisted into braids, which were in turn decorated with rings of bone, metal, and cloth meant to bring luck or offer protection. Grettir himself had twisted his into three braids, two short and one long, all three decorated with bone. He was unduly hairy, even by the standard of those around him, which made it hard to see his eyes at the best of times, but now, scowling, he bore a strong resemblance to the oxen trudging alongside him. He appeared a savage man, built both brawny and lean. Scars marred his nose and bearded cheeks. He showed missing teeth when he chose to spit or speak. He walked at an odd angle, lop-sided, though that was a recent trait. He worried he looked odd, even piteous, while he made his way down along the caravan, talking and nodding to the fighters he passed, clapping them on the arm when he only had one of his own. Grettir would often glance across the snowy plain that separated the road from the shadows of a towering forest. He would look to Hjorvarth as well, who was easy to spot as the only man in that caravan who stood taller and broader than Grettir. Hjorvarth marched alongside a crate, sack and snow-laden cart. His tailed red hair swayed with a determined stride, clasped by three copper bands that glinted in the sunlight. He wore a great painted shield across his back, while his well sharpened axe hung at his belt alongside his polished dagger. ¡°Hjorvarth.¡± Grettir greeted, falling in beside him. ¡°A word?¡± The huge warrior¡¯s stony visage remained unchanged. ¡°You¡¯ve had three.¡± ¡°More than a word then.¡± Grettir stepped off of the road, boots sullying the pristine snow, while the rest of the caravan rattled on. ¡°It¡¯s about Timilir.¡± Hjorvarth strode forward. ¡°Can you be more specific?¡± ¡°Jarl Thrand is going to want you dead.¡± The warrior¡¯s pale gaze shifted towards the shadowed trees. ¡°Why would he want that?¡± ¡°Because you killed his son?¡± ¡°His son died.¡± Hjorvarth nodded, very slowly. ¡°But he brought about his own death.¡± ¡°You had the right of it,¡± Grettir agreed, struggling to make his harsh voice sound earnest. ¡°But Jarl Thrand is his father. He isn¡¯t going to care why it happened, or whether or not you had good reason to hit him. All he¡¯ll know is that his son is dead. He¡¯ll know that you killed him, and he¡¯ll send a runner to Gudmund asking for your head.¡± Hjorvarth shrugged. ¡°And?¡± Grettir¡¯s frown nearly hid his eyes. ¡°By what magic should I change Jarl Thrand¡¯s mind?¡± Hjorvarth added. ¡°It does me no good worry on the actions of some decrepit curmudgeon. His son is dead¡ªand my sympathies for that. But had he been a better father¡ªhad he not raised such a coward for a son¡ªthen Thorfinn might still be walking the waking life.¡± Grettir¡¯s eyes narrowed. ¡°You killed the son of the most powerful man in Timilir.¡± ¡°I killed a man who didn¡¯t much deserve his life.¡± ¡°I can¡¯t tell if you¡¯re joking, Hjorvarth. Or if you think this is some kind of a joke.¡± ¡°A joke?¡± Hjorvarth growled. ¡°Is that a joke?¡± ¡°What?¡± ¡°How else should I see it, when you think I would take to my murdering a man with anything less than severity.¡± Hjorvarth¡¯s jaw grew taut. ¡°Is this really what you wanted to talk about, Grettir? Because I have no interest at all in this discussion.¡± ¡°Clear enough to me now that I¡¯m wasting my time,¡± Grettir muttered, looking past the huge man to see the train of carts leaving them behind. ¡°Jarl Thrand will want revenge over this,¡± Grettir then warned. ¡°If you return to Horvorr, Gudmund will offer you safeguard, and all this ends in war.¡± The huge warrior shrugged his shoulders. ¡°Better to fight and die than live in fear.¡± ¡°Is it?¡± Grettir asked. ¡°Timilir has enough men to destroy Horvorr times over.¡± Hjorvarth turned to the distant carts. ¡°Men are men, and Jarl Thrand is an old man.¡± ¡°How does it matter that he¡¯s old?¡± Grettir asked, following after him. The larger man was unduly fleet footed in the snow, while the older warrior was struggling to keep up. ¡°Jarl Thrand doesn¡¯t have to swing his own sword.¡± Hjorvarth grunted as if perturbed. ¡°I only liked the way it sounded.¡± ¡°You¡¯re an odd man, Hjorvarth.¡± ¡°A man is who he is.¡± ¡°I suppose you like how that sounds, as well?¡± Hjorvarth looked over his shoulder, glancing at Grettir¡¯s boots, then crossed onto the road once more. ¡°That is just the truth.¡± The one-armed veteran eventually caught up, and fell into step. They followed the dirt path, marked by hooves and carved with wheel ruts. ¡°Looks like you were wrong,¡± Grettir then mentioned, his rough voice a little lighter. Hjorvarth did not even glance at the one-armed man. ¡°Hm?¡± ¡°You said no goblins on the way in means goblins on the way out.¡± ¡°Hm,¡± Hjorvarth repeated in an unhappier tone. ¡°No goblins.¡± He swept his gaze across tree trunks, then up towards the great canopy of settled snow and interweaved leaves. ¡°Though I have the surest feeling that we are all soon to be slaughtered.¡± ¡°That¡¯s a little grim.¡± ¡°Things happen as they happen, Grettir,¡± Hjorvarth declared without inclination. ¡°I only wish you had sent scouts through the trees. *** Agnar offered quick smiles and short words of encouragement as he strode by the men of Horvorr¡¯s Guard. He wore a long blue shirt and dark trousers, thumbs in his sword belt as he watched the hugest of their number approach. ¡°Hjorvarth!¡± He frowned now the man drew close. ¡°You look unwell. I hope Grettir isn¡¯t causing you grief.¡± ¡°It is nothing,¡± Hjorvarth muttered, his pale gaze unfocused. Agnar¡¯s smile was wolfish. ¡°Nothing?¡± ¡°I didn¡¯t sleep.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t tell me you¡¯re feeling bad about Thorfinn¡¯s death?¡± Agnar asked. ¡°Is that what Grettir asked you about? What did he say?¡± ¡°He wanted me to stay in Fenkirk for fear that Jarl Thrand would go to war with Gudmund,¡± Hjorvarth explained. ¡°Though I wasn¡¯t exactly sure how my staying at either town would start or prevent that.¡± ¡°I told him not to bring that up. You¡¯re coming to Horvorr with us, and that¡¯s that.¡± Agnar shook his head in disbelief. ¡°Fenkirk. The Mayor would have his dog Hakon on your scent within the week, and then they¡¯d both send you packed and wrapped to the stone city.¡± He laughed through his teeth. ¡°That Grettir would even suggest it.¡± ¡°Forget I made mention,¡± Hjorvarth said. ¡°He¡¯s had my reply.¡± Agnar nodded. ¡°Come on. We¡¯ll go sit with Geirmund and Sybille at the front.¡± Hjorvarth looked to the trees once more. Small figures were now weaving in and out the shadows, small claws marking the distant snow. ¡°Blow your horn.¡± ¡°What?¡± ¡°Your horn.¡± Hjorvarth nodded to the polished horn at Agnar¡¯s belt. ¡°Blow.¡± Agnar frowned for a moment, then raise the horn to his lips. A deep note resounded along snowy plain and rolled down into the Snake Basin, echoing back, amongst the flutter of a hundred birds, as if a horn had been blown by a faraway on-looker in reply. Half a dozen men, those that had charge of a cart raised their weathered palms to call a halt. Wooden wheels ground to a stop amid the crunch of boots, rasp of hooves, and the angry lows of shaggy oxen. A cold and lonely wind swept along the path as the exhausted gazes of three score fighters turned to regard the towering forest. Scores of creatures stood beneath the canopied leaves. The figures seemed in discord with one another, screeching and fighting, stepping out onto the sunlit snow then scampering back into the shadows. A shrill horn blared from the trees, sending more birds to flight, then more sounded out to form a discordant and bombastic chorus that echoed back on itself. A sprawling rows of goblins emerged from the forest. Humanoid creatures that were shaded from green to brown to black, weighted from skinny to obese, standing from the height of a man to only as tall as his hips. They wielded wooden spears, their own long claws, or small blades carved of stone and bone. ¡°Cut the oxen loose!¡± Grettir ordered, his rough voice cutting through the din. Axes bit through wood with a snap of leather, leaving pairs of oxen yoked together, wandering forwards without the familiar weight of a cart at their backs. Hundreds of goblins stepped out from the shadows and onto the snow. Screeching and jeering assailed the Snake Basin path amongst the shrill horns. The goblins seemed to grow encouraged by their own noise, quickening their pace, encouraging those behind them to step forward in a charge of misshapen creatures. A seething wave of brown, black, and green spilled out over pristine white. ¡°Turn the carts!¡± Grettir roared. ¡°Then form together and stay low!¡± Hands found holds on worn wood. Horvorr¡¯s Guard forced the carts over, wheels splitting and sides cracking while crates and sacks tumbled onto the deep snow. Only two carts remained upright, one that was larger and roofed, furthest along the path, and another at the back of the caravan. ¡°I¡¯ll help at the back,¡± Agnar suggested. ¡°Go up front and help Geirmund.¡± Hjorvarth hesitated for only a moment before running towards the lead cart. A dozen goblins drew within a stone¡¯s throw of Horvorr¡¯s Guard. With a snap of their wiry limbs, they started to throw rocks: one hurtling over a cart to crunch into the cheek of the old man that crouched beside Agnar. He turned to the end of the caravan to see two yoked oxen facing the cliff¡¯s edge, while three men, Grettir among them, tried to flip the cart that they were fastened to, but it was overburdened and too heavy for them to shift. Head low, Agnar rushed to join them now countless goblins swarmed through snow. ¡°I thought you said you could lift it?¡± Grettir was growling at the old man who then flopped over with a rock locked in his caved skull. ¡°Back to the others, Grettir!¡± Agnar grabbed his one-armed uncle. ¡°I¡¯ll cut the yoke.¡± He went to haul the lanky man nearby clear as well, but a goblin leapt over the wagon bed and barreled into the man to send them both screaming down into the Snake Basin. Agnar then clambered onto the cart, cutting through the goblin at his right, while a dozen others were trying to clamber up after him. He deftly leapt forwards to cleave through the yoke, but the shaggy oxen caught the smell of blood and the noise of battle. They lurched forward and Agnar¡¯s footing shifting, forcing him from his feet while they veered towards the cliff edge. Using all strength in his arms and elbows, Agnar clawed himself upright by aid of sacks of grain and then forced himself up to unsteady feet. He watched the oxen lowing as they sailed over the cliff¡¯s edge to the basin below, and turned, vaulting over a rogue crate, while the rest of the cart went after them. Agnar cleared the lip of the wagon before the front dipped and rattled over the edge, smashing into the cliff with a clamour of cracked bones and shattered wood. He landed amid a screeching crowd of goblins. Slamming his boot into a bony head, he tumbled into a rolling fall. He slashed wildly with his belt knife, catching flesh, before thumping to a stop atop a different goblin. The creature snarled, fangs bared, and tried to scratch out his eyes. Agnar drove his head down, cracking the smaller skull, before a spear punched through his shoulder. He tried to roll clear, but the ragged spear anchored his flesh with unyielding agony. A great weight then slammed into the young man¡¯s back, forcing his face into the goblin beneath. Blood gushed forth, blinding Agnar, while broken fangs sliced into his mouth and cheeks. He bit down on his own tongue, hoping to muster the strength to rise, but there was no force left in his limbs, just the cold burn of nauseating pain, worsened as more claws savaged his back and a dull blade sawed through his ear. Agnar lashed out with a blind swing¡ªhis arm caught and wrenched back. Freed with searing pain. He sagged onto the broken goblin, and made a last effort to turn his head. Recognition flickered through his mind at the sight of a severed arm. His last thoughts, fogged and suffocated by a hopeless agony, turned to Grettir. 9. Named 9. Named ¡°The Young Wolf. One Swing. Blackheart. And, of course, Isleif the Bard. These are the names given to us by the Great Chiefs. Though my own was earned back during The Midderlands Wars. It may be true all goblins have names of sorts, but the ones earned in battle, through victories and deeds, are honorific titles of sorts. With them comes respect, and also a form of protection. Because goblins of no renown of their own do not dare to slay us. For fear that they would die or, if they managed to succeed, that a Great Chief would kill them for the act. The advent of this has led to a new kind of warfare. Ritualistic duels between named goblins and named men. It is helping to turn the tide. Though I fear that there are some goblins that neither of us could overcome alone. The battle last we crossed paths with the Great Chief Ragadin. By Joyto¡¯s Luck, did we prevail against him long enough for our men to battle back his clan and force his retreat. Yet now Brolli has convinced himself he can beat Ragadin in a duel. And further believes that it is the key to ending this entire war. Gudmund has forbade him from making the challenge.¡± A horn sounded, low and long, from the wrong side of the battlefield. Ragadin winced. Dozens of birds alighted into the clear sky. Goblins had horns of their own, made from the bones of their kin, and the clans under his command were quick to answer. A cacophony of high piping erupted on all sides, leaping into the air, towards the now halting caravan, and down into the forested floor of Snake Basin. Horvorr¡¯s Guard looked to the largest manling among them, his hair the colour of fire, and then another, a grizzled warrior with one arm, began shouting commands. Reins were freed, beasts ushered forward, laden wagons pushed over for makeshift walls. Ragadin¡¯s kin had already crept from trees and onto the pristine snow. They looked back in hesitation. ¡°Charge!¡± The earth shook, white crystals melting into brown sludge, as dozens of green figures¡ªclawed fingers twitching, bony limbs swinging¡ªpoured forward in a screeching, gurgling wave. Those with horns sounded them. Those with rocks readied them. Ragadin considered racing with them, but he saw plainly that the battle was won as the field of snow was churned entirely by the gathered clans. Horvorr¡¯s Guard, struggling to wheel a caravan around to seal their flank, appeared sturdy but all the more insignificant. The old manlings along the rest of their line locked shields and prepared themselves. The clans hurled stones before they closed with the wall of wood and iron and flesh. The song of madness erupted as green figures then hurled themselves into swords, axes, and shields, screeching as they reached with teeth and claws for the neck, ears, eyes, and chest. Broken bodies tumbled back. Blades flashed before they sank deep and erupted from severed limbs. Scores died within moments, others staggering back and screaming, while only a few of the fur-clad fighters had fallen. Ragadin sighed, both relieved and disappointed, now the wagon meant to seal off the end of the caravan was sent over the cliff¡¯s edge by a pair of panicked beasts instead. A lithe manling, having nearly been thrown clean over, had managed to jump atop the bed, and now made best effort to leap before the wagon flipped. He cleared the distance and landed on solid ground, only to find himself amid the porcine clans of Balluk. He fell atop one goblin before dozens of kin leapt at them both. Moments later a severed arm was lifted from the air, ring flashing on the finger. Then Balluk¡¯s clan spilled forth to the manling¡¯s exposed flank. Dalpho, standing amid the soiled snow, simply ordered his goblins to usher a troll, by spear point, towards the covered wagon at the head of the caravan. This was were the Young Wolf¡¯s pups would be hiding, and their lives would pay to open the gates of Horvorr. His clans had barely fought, and did not even bother to encircle the wagon. They would wait, and hope, for the wax monster to win their honor for them. Ragadin had hoped this would all be harder. He had hoped for a contest. He contented himself instead by watching the one-armed manling stood frozen in horror. The bearded warrior seemed fixated on the flashing ring. Ragadin dismissed the thought as countless green figures charged forth to engulf the rest of the manling caravan. *** Grettir recognised Agnar¡¯s ring on the severed arm being waved aloft and any hope he¡¯d held died in his heart. His ears rang with screams. Goblins gnawed and tore at men apart as if they were carrion-born. For one long breath, he felt grief and panic, and then all those awful sounds were used as fuel for cold fires in Grettir¡¯s moss green eyes. Engulfed by a tumultuous silence of unbridled rage, he tightly gripped his axe. A goblin runt ran forward, thrusting with a filthy spear. Grettir sidestepped, cleaving through the goblin¡¯s head. He spun to the right, swinging his axe through the throat of a goblin that meant to cut in at his armless side. He rounded back to the left, driving his boot into the belly of a fatter goblin, hurling his axe at another that had been about to throw a stone. A large goblin, block-headed and well-muscled, bellowed ahead. The smaller kin came furtively in from the sides. Grettir ran past the smaller goblins, twisting clear of a large axe. He smashed his head into the large goblin¡¯s own, pinning it by the shoulder, tearing out its throat with his teeth. He drove his head into the goblin¡¯s nose and stole the axe as it staggered back. Holding the crude weapon in a one-handed grip, he faced the encircling goblins. A mad man did he seem in that noonday light. Hirsute face and wild beard stained black, glistening with goblin blood. ¡°One Swing!¡± a goblin shrieked in awe and terror. ¡°The One Swing!¡± Grettir, berserk and enraged, paid no mind to his echoing name. He began a rampage, carving through goblins now they scrambled over one another in manic efforts at escape. *** Ragadin grew perturbed as his kin were hacked apart, cowed, by a single warrior. Others joined the one-armed manling¡¯s cause and soon Balluk¡¯s clans were trampling one another in their efforts at escape, dozens thrown from the path and into Snake Basin. ¡°Turn back!¡± Balluk snarled in the distance. ¡°Turn back or I will kill you all!¡± Ragadin stepped out of the shadows. He now knew the manling. Grown old, ugly and hairy. Grown grey. One arm stubbed like a felled tree. Yet he was still the same. ¡°One Swing.¡± Ragadin would slay this hero of old. He would prove his own worth. ¡°Forward! Ever forward!¡± he demanded, but his clans did not answer. Instead they too fell back, screeching and scampering as they trampled their kin. ¡°For Brikorhaan!¡± a manling boomed like thunder. ¡°For the Shield Brother!¡± Ragadin watched with dismay while half of his clans fled from only a dozen wounded manlings while the others stood dumbfounded, soon hacked to pieces, or charged forward only to be slaughtered. He glanced over to the snarling monstrosity that was Balluk and watched the giant goblin tear his own kin to pieces while cursing their cowardice. Yet he was the coward. Ragadin lifted the pair of massive axes from his back, ancient and grey, each made to be used by both hands. They were of the finest make he had ever found and he only valued his honor above them. ¡°Gone are the days when I lived for this,¡± he mused. ¡°I am sickened by all around me. In the company of warm corpses. Give me an honourable fight. Prove that my life still has worth.¡± He surged forward towards the young warrior, huge for a manling, who had shouted out and first blown the horn. ¡°I challenge you, Fire Giant!¡± he declared, barely heard above the senseless din. Fire Giant had an ally beside him but that grey manling stood frozen in recognition. He remembered the Great Chief. Ragadin leapt, axes high, meaning to hew through both manlings. Fire Giant was ready but shoved his ally aside, sparing the grey manling at the cost of killing himself. He avoided the axes but such was the impact that he staggered. Ragadin stepped forward, tripping him, and the warrior landed hard on his back. This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon. He appeared as a fallen child before the Great Chief. Ragadin stomped down, meaning to crush the warrior¡¯s skull and bring a swift end to things, only to find his foot stopped by crossed elbows. Fire lanced across his hip. The Great Chief wheeled around with both axes to see the grey manling with his sword and shield readied. The first strike sent the manling spinning in a cloud of shattered wood, leaving back and spine exposed for the second. Ragadin¡¯s small glee in what would¡¯ve been a simple kill turned to horror when weight shifted beneath him. Agony surged up his heel. The Great Chief staggered, trying to steady himself despite the dagger in his foot. The old manling leapt forward, sword raised, and hacked deep into one shoulder. Ragadin used teeth to tear through his lower jaw and throat. Fire Giant had risen. More manlings approached. The Great Chief glimpsed the twisted visages of fearful kin. Ragadin tried to hop back, only to find another manling that then thrust with a spear. Metal pierced flesh, driving him sideways, but he managed to grasp with his wounded arm, enclosing the throat and crushing bones. Ragadin then hurled the dying manling at his allies, only to wince as wounded shoulder muscles fully tore. The Great Chief, one arm useless, struggled to pull the spear shaft from his chest. Wood snapped. Black blood gushed onto the churned snow. Ragadin tried to lash out at the nearest attacker, but crumpled to his knees. He scowled at the manlings coming to surround him. Fire Giant¡¯s eyes were pale and uncaring. He stood readying a throwing axe. ¡°You are weak!¡± Ragadin declared. ¡°Unworthy of ending my name. You did not win. You will kill me, but you will never beat me. I had you, Fire Giant.¡± ¡°Had me?¡± the huge manling boomed. ¡°Do you mistake this for a game?¡± ¡°This is my life!¡± Ragadin spat blood and shuddered. ¡°This is all that I am.¡± Fire Giant¡¯s weight shifted in answer. ¡°It was.¡± *** The axe struck bone with a vicious crunch. Hjorvarth struggled to steady his breath at the sight of mutilated men all around him. He took no joy from the ruined goblins sprawled amid the mud and snow. Dozens of their kind watched in silence, edging away, as if waiting for their leader to rise. Ten men of Horvorr¡¯s Guard gathered back together near the huge man and the gargantuan corpse. ¡°Ragadin?¡± came a confused whisper from amongst the wiry goblins. ¡°Ragadin,¡± came a louder echo. ¡°Ragadin! Slayer of Ragadin! Only woe comes from facing the Slayer of Ragadin!¡± ¡°Only woe!¡± another agreed in a fearful whine. The filthy goblins bowed their heads with solemnity, before scrambling into retreat. ¡°What now?¡± asked a man plainly suffering exhaustion. Hjorvarth noticed the others were looking to him. He saw no sense in pursuing the goblins that ran back towards the tree line, while joining Grettir and the other blood-covered men to the east seemed needless, as they were slaughtering foes well enough on their own. Those at the head of the caravan though, where goblins writhed around a troll, had been surrounded. ¡°This way,¡± he suggested in a calm tone. ¡°We¡¯ll save the others or else die in the attempt.¡± ¡°That¡¯s mad,¡± the lean man beside him hissed. ¡°Lady¡¯s Shadow for us all. Don¡¯t you get that, you big fool? We ought to run. By the gods, I think we¡¯d have a better chance if we tried to climb down into the Snake Basin.¡± ¡°I¡¯m certain of little,¡± Hjorvarth replied. ¡°But this is likely your last battle¡ªboth of ours¡ªso you should fight as best as you can. Brikorhaan does not take fools or cowards into his band.¡± ¡°That he doesn¡¯t,¡± agreed an older man. ¡°As long as you don¡¯t get swallowed by that troll, we¡¯ll all meet again in Ouro¡¯s belly.¡± *** Engli drove his axe into an ugly green head. The haft snapped and the scrawny body toppled back onto the wagon bed. Shafts of sunlight lanced through through the covering above him. A warm wind scented with iron and refuse swept in through the ragged tear in the fabric to his right. Goblins clambered in through the gap, squeaking and jeering, teeth bared as they tried to make their way to the young woman in the corner. Engli leapt forward and tackled one onto the cart. The goblin tried to bite but he forced its head back, smashing it against the wood until the skull cracked. He dismissed his own disgust, and struggled up. Engli started to run to Sybille¡¯s aid but realised she had cut the throat of the goblin beneath her. Turning back, he glimpsed a savage smile. A stone club struck his temple. The world shifted, faded to black, then returned in a blurred scene of daylight. Engli pawed at the cart bed as warm blood ran down his brow. He could hear faint screaming beneath the ringing in his ears. He recognised a brown dress and a woman¡¯s kicking legs. He tried to trip the goblin dragging her but it had already passed. ¡°Engli!¡± Sybille¡¯s nails clawed into the wood. She grabbed for the cart¡¯s sides but another goblin emerged to help drag her out. Engli had managed to rise to one knee. He made a drunken effort at stumbling forward and leaping out of the cart. He fell to the path below in a tangle with both goblins, then rolled clear and reached for the stone club that had fallen from grasp, turning in time to bludgeon the goblin clambering atop him, sending up a spray of blood and fangs. Engli rolled the corpse away, revealing a clear blue sky and a bright sun overhead. A criss-cross of shadows then obscured his vision. When the rope tightened, Engli realised he had been netted. He was pulled forward, his flesh scraping against debris now he made a desperate effort at struggling free. Engli tried to turn but the net was too small, nearly doubling him over. He could see Sybille find a weapon within the cart and leap down on an unsuspecting goblin, but she was far away, too far away to help, and the goblin that dragged Engli seemed to have boundless strength and energy. The sight of the cart dwindled. Engli tried to bite and scratch through the net, to no avail. He tried to throw his weight and drag his feet but the goblin dragging him did not even hesitate. Growing weak and desperate, he prayed for his friends and family instead, resigned to the fact that he would die. He only hoped that better men had managed to hold the line. He tried once more to strain the ropes, to slow himself, digging his bleeding fingers into the earth. The goblin stopped, grunted, and ropes grew lax. Solid footfalls approached. Engli turned to see a huge, wild-eyed man looming over him. ¡°Hjorvarth?¡± ¡°The battle is not ended.¡± Hjorvarth ripped through the net with his belt knife. ¡°You need to rise.¡± Engli grabbed the offered hand. He realised he was not nearly as far away from the carts as he thought. Horvorr¡¯s Guard had broken into three battered groups, two of which were further along the plain and heading towards the main cart, where Geirmund and ten other men fought against scores of goblins and a black wax troll. Horns sounded out from the trees in a slower chorus and the westernmost goblins that were not fully committed began to break away into a unified retreat. Several of the fighters moved to aid Sybille even though goblins fled from her direction. The black troll then grabbed Geirmund with both huge wax hands. Lifting him high in the air, the troll¡¯s rounded head, once featureless, split open to reveal a maw filled with teeth. The men around tried to hack through the malleable limbs, but molten liquid pooled wherever they struck and ate through wood and iron. Geirmund¡¯s sword smoked as he drove the blade over and over into the wax hands. But his arms were getting tired and acrid mix and steel and wax coated his fingers. He kicked out as his boots dangled mere inches from the troll¡¯s mouth. Engli ran forward, close enough to hear but not close enough to help now the screaming started. The troll¡¯s teeth crunched noisily together, tearing through feet and ankles, paying little mind to the ruined weapons that hacked in from all sides. Hjorvarth came in behind the creature, his hands now gripped on one of Ragadin¡¯s huge axes. He wheeled around to cleave through a black wax foot in a single swing, upsetting the troll¡¯s balance then did the same to the other. Molten wax pooled out at first, restoring the first leg, but began to trickle out too slowly to seal both wounds. The troll toppled towards the stub limb, fresh black wax hardening to dull grey, and then remained there unmoving and frozen. Engli had stopped his charge, stayed by the sight before him. Geirmund appeared terrified even in death, hands reaching in desperation, mouth wide as if he had almost crawled out of the creature and now screamed for help. ¡°There¡¯s Lady¡¯s work in this,¡± a tall man muttered. ¡°Lady¡¯s work?¡± Hjorvarth asked coldly. ¡°It is a fate woven by your own fair hands.¡± The tall man suffered shock for a moment, then outrage. ¡°Say that again?¡± ¡°The words hang in the air as eternal truth.¡± Hjorvarth glared at a rotund balding man. ¡°As it does for you.¡± He turned his hateful gaze on well-built youth. ¡°And you. The three of you ran to play handmaiden for Sybille when she was at no risk at all. So by the gods,¡± he added with venom, ¡°don¡¯t dare speak of Lady¡¯s work in my hearing when this is the plain failure of three gods-damned cowards.¡± Engli looked among the survivors of Horvorr¡¯s Guard for Grettir. He waited for reply to come from a man that wasn¡¯t accuser or accused, but they all watched in grim silence, their expressions made no better by the dark blood that stained their weathered faces. The tall man scowled, tightening his grip on an axe. ¡°You are mistaken, Hjorvarth. But I¡¯ll forgive your ignorance.¡± Engli had never seen Hjorvarth so animated. He had never a seen a look of such pure disgust. ¡°You have but a moment to withdraw that lie,¡± Hjorvarth replied, his voice steady even as his pale gaze trembled with rage. ¡°I won¡¯t take the blame for your sake,¡± the tall man dismissed. ¡°You were the one running off across the plain.¡± ¡°To save a man that you allowed to be netted and dragged away. I watched you as you watched it happen.¡± Hjorvarth dropped the massive axe. He shook his head in disgust. ¡°In sight of the gods, in honor of Broknar the Elder and Brikorhaan the Shield Brother, I challenge you to a duel so we can measure your honor and divine the truth.¡± ¡°Did you get hit on the head?¡± The tall man scowled, stepping back. ¡°Have you gone completely mad? Was it not enough that you murdered the son of Jarl Thrand?¡± He looked to the fur-clad fighters that encircled him. ¡°Is no one going to stop this?¡± ¡°I wonder if Geirmund thought the very same thing.¡± Hjorvarth gripped the man¡¯s swinging wrist. ¡°The gods are watching, friend.¡± He shoved the man back, suffered a kick to the knee, then felled him in a single punch. ¡°They watched you fall.¡± Engli saw momentary relief among the others as the fight went no further. Hjorvarth then turned to the balding man. ¡°In sight of the gods¡ª¡± ¡°Stop!¡± he pleaded. ¡°The lass was in trouble. It wasn¡¯t¡ª¡± ¡°In sight of the gods!¡± Hjorvarth repeated. ¡°In honor of Broknar the Elder and Brikorhaan the Shield Brother! I challenge you to a duel so that we can measure your honor and divine the truth!¡± Sybille sat with her back to the cart, watching with muted concern while a huge brute strode forward to beat his peers. She had the thought that her uncle should be stopping this, not knowing that he was desperately searching for the body of her other brother. 10. Long Shadow 10. Long Shadow ¡°Gudmund¡¯s greatest foe, Gahr¡¯rul, casts a long shadow for a creature who has never been seen. Every goblin knows his name, yet none can describe him. Or, rather, they all describe him differently. He is as a mountain, hidden only by merit of the Black Wood¡¯s towering trees, looming over Braguk and Dalpho both. He is a weapon smith, kin to Ragadin, unmatched in honest combat. Or he is agile, so swift as to be unseen, like a miniature more deadly version of Lazoor the Black. He has immense magic, or none at all. He fights with great fists or sleek claws or manlings blade. Through all this I begin to wonder whether he truly exists. I myself had been nowhere and everywhere in the Midderlands, after all.¡± Lazarus¡¯s rasped his long claws against of his blackened brazier as he scrutinized the dying coals. He stood warmed by fading heat with only one other goblin to keep him company. Dalpho blocked the cavern with his blubbery bulk, beady eyes glistening with the sullen red of the flames. ¡°What now?¡± ¡°Now?¡± Lazarus asked, glancing upward. ¡°Now we have succeeded and failed at the same time. Ragadin¡¯s plan has left our clans savaged while Braguk Moonbear and his ilk have hardly met with any real losses. We can only hope that he holds to the deal we made. And, if he does, we can use our friend here to convince Gudmund the Wolf to open his gates.¡± The friend in question, a wretched man with only one arm, his shaking frame covered by a newly skinned deer, lay in a crudely wrought cage between Lazarus and Dalpho. A similar prison, housing a silent and seated man in a robe, stood opposite. ¡°Do you think that will work?¡± the robed man asked. ¡°Truly?¡± Lazarus riled slightly at the interruption. ¡°Is that not how you manlings think?¡± ¡°I dare not speak for the multitudes, Lazarus.¡± Lazarus scowled up at his enormous friend. ¡°Who is this manling?¡± ¡°Balluk captured him,¡± Dalpho rumbled. ¡°He was in company with a small group of manlings.¡± ¡°Men,¡± the robed man said. ¡°They worked for Brolli.¡± ¡°The Black Heart?¡± Lazarus asked. ¡°None other.¡± ¡°You are well informed for a manling in a cage.¡± ¡°Am I?¡± he asked, plainly amused. ¡°Perhaps I can rise above even that estimation.¡± ¡°In what way?¡± ¡°I am a wandering prophet.¡± ¡°Prophet?¡± Lazarus asked, unsure of words. ¡°I see things that have yet to happen.¡± ¡°Oh. Then I am not interested, manling seer.¡± ¡°Yet I will tell you all the same.¡± ¡°That might cost you your life.¡± ¡°What are the chances?¡± he asked as if he didn¡¯t want an answer. ¡°Your prisoner will avail you nothing.¡± ¡°No?¡± ¡°No. Braguk Moonbear is serving the manling known as Jarl Thrand of Timilir. He rules the settlement in the place you know as the manling mountains. Braguk will come, tonight, asking for this prisoner. He will take him when you refuse. Your alliance will be at an end. And you and your large friend here will be next to useless while Moonbear claims this entire region.¡± Lazarus sighed. ¡°Good for you that I am not easily riled.¡± ¡°Indeed,¡± he replied. ¡°Will you free me if I¡¯m right?¡± ¡°Perhaps. Well¡­ no. Your death is certain. I only spoke those words because I doubt the foresight of one captured.¡± ¡°I do not like this manling,¡± Dalpho put in. ¡°We should slay him soon.¡± Lazarus hesitated for only a moment before nodding. ¡°But why doubt the foresight of those captured?¡± the manling asked. ¡°One who could predict would in turn avoid.¡± ¡°Perhaps,¡± he replied. ¡°Unless, of course, I wanted to be captured.¡± Lazarus crept closer. ¡°And why ever would you want that, manling?¡± This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon. ¡°I wanted to meet you, Lazarus. I wanted to see some things for myself. And I thought you deserved to know, given your motivation, that those you have made peace with are in fact aligned with the manlings you so despise.¡± ¡°And why would Braguk Moonbear need the help of a manling?¡± Lazarus asked. ¡°Food.¡± ¡°Food?¡± Dalpho asked. ¡°To feed those who now owe him loyalty. To feed himself so he could spawn those triplets.¡± The Salt Sage upturned his gloved palms. ¡°Goblins will eat anything, won¡¯t they? Unless there¡¯s nothing to eat and then they eat each other. And wasn¡¯t that the problem all this while? Not enough food to remake the clans of old? Not enough land?¡± ¡°We take no food from manlings,¡± Lazarus replied. ¡°Perhaps that is why the Moonbear¡¯s clans dwarf yours?¡± He shrugged. ¡°Besides he got more than food from that bargain. Braguk Moonbear is a coward, a fact well known. But he was hiding in the Midderlands Pass. As were others. Others who died at the hands of the men of Jarl Thrand.¡± ¡°You have convinced me, seer,¡± Lazarus said. ¡°Braguk Moonbear would indeed profit from such aid. Now you need only tell me why a manling would want his neighboring clan to be destroyed by goblins that will one day turn their greedy gazes to the manling mountains. Tell me that and I might well let you go.¡± He reconsidered. ¡°That, as well, was a lie.¡± ¡°I will tell you all the same,¡± the robed man happily answered. ¡°The manling mountains cannot be, and have never been, broken by goblins. But the very presence of goblins in this region allows Jarl Thrand to claim that he is now defending his other neighbours. He also hates Gudmund, as Dalpho hates Braguk, and would want nothing more than to see all those that have supported him drown in blood.¡± ¡°Then this¡­ Thrand is mad?¡± ¡°Cruel.¡± ¡°Mm.¡± Lazarus glanced back at the dying fire. ¡°I have never understood cruelty.¡± ¡°I¡¯m afraid I understand it all too well.¡± ¡°Then I needn¡¯t feel guilt for ending your life. Stay still, manling, and I will open the gate. A clean cut, I swear.¡± ¡°One more prediction?¡± he asked. ¡°Go on.¡± ¡°When you open this gate, I will be gone.¡± Lazarus¡¯ lips drew up over his sharp teeth. ¡°Then let me open it and see.¡± ¡°Be wary,¡± Dalpho rumbled. ¡°He is harmless,¡± Lazarus assured, slicing through the rope that bound the cage. Iron creaked as he pulled back the gate. Empty. He stepped inside, and swiped an idle claw through the air. The manling was indeed gone. ¡°Curious.¡± ¡°What is?¡± came a sibilant question. ¡°What is curious?¡± Lazarus managed to stop himself from flinching. He turned to see the tall night-black figure of Lazoor. ¡°Nothing.¡± Lazoor bared sharp teeth in an eerie smile. ¡°Where is Braguk?¡± ¡°Busy,¡± Lazoor answered. ¡°Very busy. He sends me to retrieve the captured pup.¡± ¡°He is safe here.¡± ¡°He will be safe with us.¡± ¡°He is mine,¡± Lazarus warned. ¡°Braguk should come here himself.¡± Lazoor¡¯s eyes narrowed to slits. ¡°I will take him.¡± Dalpho remained crouched, arms and legs tensing, at the cavern mouth. ¡°If you do,¡± Lazarus replied, ¡°our alliance is at an end.¡± ¡°If our alliance is at an end then we will crush you,¡± Lazoor hissed. ¡°Your clans are savaged. I have seen your camp.¡± Lazarus could not refute that. ¡°Why do you need him?¡± ¡°Because our alliance has changed,¡± Lazoor explained. ¡°Braguk rules both the Eastern and Western Clans now, and he has asked for the pup. Or,¡± he added quietly, ¡°I could simply slay you both and take him. The decision is yours, oh mighty Lazarus, small goblin with large claws.¡± ¡°Will Horvorr be ours?¡± ¡°Of course. It was agreed.¡± ¡°And are the Eastern Clans close?¡± Lazarus asked. ¡°When do we slay the Young Wolf?¡± ¡°Soon,¡± Lazoor answered. ¡°They will be here soon.¡± ¡°You have not slain those of the Blackwood?¡± Lazarus reasoned. ¡°They prove troublesome for our weaker kin. And Braguk, such is his way, proves hesitant to involve the Great Chiefs.¡± ¡°Himself least of all,¡± Dalpho grumbled. ¡°Indeed.¡± Lazoor turned to smile. ¡°But we will win, eventually. One way or the other.¡± ¡°What other way is there?¡± Lazarus asked. ¡°Krakan Bonesipper believes he can reason with the manling forest clans.¡± ¡°We will have no part in that,¡± Lazarus rebuked. ¡°They betrayed us before and they will betray us again.¡± ¡°How the younglings speak of history,¡± Lazoor lamented. ¡°But, yes, no part for you. The Western Clans will stay among the trees north of Horvorr. They will remain, quiet and silent, until the coming of the Eastern Clans.¡± ¡°How long?¡± Lazarus asked. ¡°How long will we wait while the Young Wolf prepares?¡± ¡°Until the coming of the Eastern Clans,¡± Lazoor snarled. ¡°As I have already said. Now may I take the pup?¡± Lazarus thought for a long moment. ¡°Of course, Lazoor.¡± Lazoor might have bowed as was his habit but he was too tall for the cavern so he was already bent. Dalpho and Lazarus remained silent while he took the shivering manling from the cage and then disappeared with the same ease as the robed prisoner. ¡°Lazarus,¡± Dalpho spoke with quiet concern. ¡°I do not like any of this.¡± ¡°Nor do I. Nor do I.¡± Lazarus strode back towards his brazier, throwing in fresh fuel. ¡°Have the clans start gathering wood.¡± ¡°For what?¡± ¡°Horvorr¡¯s Guard leaves once each season. Perhaps they are foolish enough to try the next. If not then we will need some other way to get past the walls. We will need some other way to conquer the town without grievous losses.¡± ¡°But Braguk¡ª¡± ¡°Has sold his honor to a manling. Our alliance is at an end.¡± 11. Desperation
Part Two - Debts of All Kinds
11. Desperation ¡°You cannot choose your family. My father taught me that fact. Not by word but by deed. Brolli and Gudmund now share barely more than silence. I am more a brother to Brolli, or so he says, than is Gudmund. Grettir takes that place on the other side. We four were once fast friends but now there is a vastness between us. As if to look or speak to one another is to conjure every horrid memory of the endless war with the goblins. As if my smiling at Grettir is not a friendly gesture but a meek apology for the early death of his loving wife. As if that mirth means the same to Gudmund. And to Brolli. Because I sit in my tavern, with Hjorvarth and Sibbe, and lord my happiness over them. But do they know that my memory is failing? Have they seen how sickly my wife has become? Have they witnessed the sullen hatred in my boy¡¯s eyes? Do they know how desperate I am to cross that vastness and have friends again? To stop drinking? To be a true husband and father? To save my wife from this cruel fate of the gods? Yet my bold actions, my plays at change, remain solely within my imagination. Every word from my lips relates to my search for the Hall of Hrothgar. I speak with Brolli as the days pass, look him clear in the eye, and see the overwhelming sadness there. And I wonder if I am witnessing reflection. But we smirk and laugh and haggle over prices. ¡®Bad snows. Bad men. The last expedition hasn¡¯t returned. More coin needed.¡¯ His words are all of business and not one of us speaks the plain fact that my wife is dying. That this next expedition needs to be the last. That I am a rich man, too rich, but I am now impoverished of time.¡± Gudmund stood reminded of his own soul as he leaned against the damp wood of the parapet and stared down on a desolate and windswept plain. He had seen this all before, scores of times, but now the sight left him hollowed and broken. He had conquered this place that others thought unassailable. Horvorr¡¯s walls rose tall, unnaturally so, and could not be climbed. The logs used were so thick that no man would ever likely breach them. So Gudmund had simply asked the goblins to open the gates. In good faith. Faith was cruel. Gudmund had always understood that but now the notion rarely strayed from his thoughts. He had envisioned this day, summer ending and snows falling, with his sons at either side of him. His daughter, Sybille, newly engaged to the son of a man that her father hated. All at his bidding. Yet he stood alone. Horvorr¡¯s Guard, his guard, had not returned with news of an upcoming marriage. They had limped back through the enormous gate, three of every four of them slain, bringing news of an ambush on the Snake Basin Path. That attack led by the Great Chief Ragadin. A monstrous goblin, twice the height of any man, who had once fought in the old war. Ragadin who had fled and not returned for ten winters. Only to lead an attack that ended in his own death. To lead a war that only lasted long enough to take Gudmund¡¯s sons and then end too soon to allow him any semblance of revenge. Fate was cruel. Gudmund raised his gaze from the plain that encircled dreary Horvorr. Wintry mountains rose to the north, stretching from west to east like the back of a stone dragon, separating the Midderlands and Southwestern Tymir. He had once placed all his hopes in the caverns and trails along those mountains, wanting more than anything to find gems or metals that would make right the years and blood spent to take this region. But he hadn¡¯t found any gold or silver, despite the men he hired to clear the mountains of goblins, rogue trolls, and wild wolves. There was coal, important enough, but that was hard work for hardy men. The easterners and northerners that came with dreams of mining wealth only complained about the cold until they either died of frostbite or fled back to warmer regions. Gudmund had only managed to last this long by taxing the neighboring settlements for the services of Horvorr¡¯s Guard. The once imposing force, filled with mercenaries and veterans of the old war alike, was now membered by grey-bearded old fools. Cowards, even. Cowards who had failed to protect the sons of their leader. The Chief of Horvorr had looked in the wrong places for wealth. He¡¯d let the fisherman in the western mountains keep their land, without retribution, and now they made more coin selling fish and whale bones than he could ever hope to see. Fenkirk made even more coin than that, working useless wood into pointless decorations. While Horvorr languished, walls tall and imposing, standing beside what was once worthy of the name Great Lake. But Gudmund had made a mistake there as well. Too many fishermen came and then nearly all the fish were dragged up from the water. Now only a dozen old men rowed out and made a living from the fishing. Horvorr was dying, had been dying for a long time, but there had still been a chance that the sons of Gudmund would do better. Geirmund had wisdom. He was kind and noble. He was a better man than his father. Even Agnar was a better man than his father. And now only Sybille remained. A daughter made brotherless by fate and fatherless by spite. Gudmund knew he wronged her, by the day and by the hour, but he could not stomach talking to his daughter. He couldn¡¯t witness her misery and grief. Because then he might have to feel that himself. Truly. Not stand as some detached, confused observer to his own ruin. Gudmund loathed this place, this simple town of simple people and simple houses. He hated being able to survey his entire region, a region he barely even ruled, from walls that were never even assailed. Southwestern Tymir was long and narrow, so he could look eastways and see the desolate plain surrounding Horvorr give way to The Blackwood. He could make out the dirt road that wound between the thick canopy of autumn leaves, reaching Fenkirk, stretching further to the path above the Snake Basin, where no man had ever been. Past that to the wider, almost arable, places where farmers tried to rear crops that came out stilted. But then that was the way of this region. Expectations rising above reality. Outcomes dealing humility. You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version. There was only one true way into Southwestern Tymir. Beyond the scattered farms, the Eastern Pass weaved into the mountains that rose steadily to the stone city of Timilir. That was where Sybille should have been, spending time with her young husband. That was where Gudmund should have been heading, attendant to a marriage where he meant to murder the father of the groom. And now he had lost his sons, his courage, and would never have his revenge on Jarl Thrand. Gudmund turned westward, towards Wymount. He was surrounded on all sides by places and people happier than him. Dark smoke rose from the towering forests that overlooked the Great Lake of Horvorr. A lot of smoke. There were villages among the trees though, and simple folk were prone to setting their homes on fire. Gudmund watched the column curl up into the sky like a grey snake and wondered if he shouldn¡¯t send someone to investigate, but then remembered that Grettir had already organized an expedition. Horvorr¡¯s Guard, what was left, would be marching forward once more in search of any other surviving Great Chiefs. Gudmund wished the useless cowards luck. His sons had died defending the region, ending the war with the goblins with finality, and now these old fools wanted to go out into the mountains to chase shadows, so that they might win back some honor or respect. Though there were days when Gudmund considered leading the expedition himself, in search of his own death. Grettir would look after Sybille. That¡¯d be for the best. Gudmund had only started climbing to the top of these walls on the hope that he might summon the courage to jump. He hadn¡¯t. Not yet, perhaps not ever. He¡¯d considered leaping into the Great Lake as well, drowning in spirited water, but he didn¡¯t like the idea of being trapped down there. And the truth was he was still a fighter. He¡¯d seen grey flecks in the red of his hair. He¡¯d gotten slow. Lazy. But he wanted nothing more than to have been there with his sons. He could have died in their place. But he had stayed here, at his home, and waited. He had waited for his expectations to be met and had been answered with reality. Faith was cruel. Fate was cruel. The sun had barely risen in the sky. Pink and gold stained the horizon. Drifting clouds smothered most the heat and light. Horvorr had yet to waken. Those folk still grieved for the loss of husbands, brothers, and sons. Horvorr appeared insignificant from above, barely more than a hundred huddled houses bolstered by scores of storage sheds and the dozens of fishing huts that lined the embankments. Those houses, long and curved like upturned boats, had been here all along. Each stolen. Most etched with marks in the wood from the goblins that had once lived there. Gudmund¡¯s Hall had been here too. He hadn¡¯t raised the large walls or paid for the ornate carvings along the great doors. He¡¯d just brought wolf banners to hang them from the rafters, and then thanked Joyto the Trickster for the luck of there already being a throne there worked with lupine affectations. Gudmund had no doubt that one day all those here would be dead and some new folk would arrive to take up residence, knowing and caring nothing at all about those who came before. That was the way of the world. Take and forget. Destroy and dismiss. He had tried his hand at building more striking structures, and he had to credit the craftsman who had built the distant two floor home that overlooked the embankments. He¡¯d given that to Grettir and Kata, back when she was still walking the waking life. Her widow still lived there, using only one or two of the rooms. Proof that all gifts turned to poison. Homes, wives, children. How Gudmund loathed the so called generosity of the gods. Eleven Elders and not one of them kind. Yet no one questioned that fact. All honor to Brikorhaan the Shield Brother but no questions as to what happened to the brother he was supposed to be shielding. Though he no doubt ended his days like every other fool that put his faith in the god. Dead. Killed in battle like both of Gudmund¡¯s sons. And then were that not enough they had to face the judgment of Muradoon, The Spirit Talker, revered for his gift of talking to corpses. Yet if that very same man walked the waking life he would be cut down as a charlatan or cursed as a shadowed fool. Joyto saved them all from the World Worm. Ouro the Devourer. The World Eater. He had tricked the serpent into eating its own tail. But maybe that was the mistake. Maybe the serpent was the only one with a right mind. Maybe he¡¯d come to destroy everything because everything needed to be destroyed. Gudmund shakily sighed. He sat down on the edge of the wall walk, legs dangling over a fatal drop to a row of broken homes. Sam¡¯s Tavern lay opposite that, the only man who had chosen to live close to the Ritual House of Muradoon. Gudmund wondered if he¡¯d even realised. He lamented the irony that only he knew of. Sam was a man who truly was¡ªand long had been¡ªliving in the shadow of death. That tavern had been made by the same men that built Grettir¡¯s home. For an old bard who¡¯d got lost in the snow. So had Horvorr¡¯s Armoury, rising to two storeys near the eastern gate, but the walls had been so thin that they¡¯d piled mud around the lower floor. That left Brolli¡¯s, as tall as the armoury, standing directly opposite Gudmund¡¯s Hall. There was even a road leading straight from one place to the other. Yet in the past ten winters Gudmund had never followed the path to visit his younger brother. And he had no mind to break that habit. The most ominous building of all had always been here: the Ritual House of Muradoon was lived in by a single Godi, Lovrin, who Gudmund had begun to visit far too much, paying coin for soothing tinctures. But then they helped keep away any true pain or suffering, which was worth more than most other things. The Ritual House had black walls and a dozen red roofs, despite there being only a single floor. Carved crows, paint still unfaded, perched in pairs atop each gable. The lack of folk in Horvorr had allowed the Godi to knock down the nearby structures and extend a fenced yard, which ended not far from the oxen pen. Those hairy, mindless beasts were the last thing of worth belonging to Gudmund. But then the herd and the coin and the relics and the trinkets and the title and the honor and the reputation all stood as nothing next to the endless expanse that was his loss. The numbing grief that inspired a sense of utter insignificance. Gudmund pressed his calloused hands against the rough wood of the wall walk. He only needed to push. Or just lean too far forward. He then noticed a bare chested man running along the dirt roads. Hard to miss for most. Harder than that for Gudmund. Hjorvarth was the biggest man in Horvorr. Broader than Grettir even before he got old and lost an arm. He was the brute they either praised for slaying Ragadin on the Snake Basin Path or cursed for nearly beating another man to death. He was also the foster son of Brolli. Or he used to be, at least. Gudmund didn¡¯t pay much attention to the life of his young brother, because he knew that too much scrutiny might lead him to exile his own blood. He did hate Brolli, but he would never betray him. Not at any cost or for any reward. Not even for the head of Jarl Thrand. Hjorvarth would run, as he had the days past, around the settlement. Over and over. He would run for no reason that Gudmund could see. Guilt, maybe. A sense of failure. Or simply an old routine. Gudmund couldn¡¯t entirely blame him for the deaths of Agnar and Geirmund. He understood that Horvorr¡¯s Guard had been outnumbered and that they were lucky to survive with one man let alone a dozen. But that didn¡¯t stop the anger. He didn¡¯t seethe any less. Hjorvarth had possessed the strength and skill needed to save a dozen men and he had chosen the wrong damned dozen. He should have just saved the two. Leave those old bastards to their belated deaths. That was the best they could have ever hoped for. Grey men making red snow. Gudmund had said as much to his brother, speaking with Brolli for the first time in a long time on the bank of Horvorr¡¯s Great Lake. He repeated the answer given under his breath, ¡°¡¯Or maybe you should¡¯ve been with your boys when they were screaming for help, brother.¡¯¡± Despite the cold and the tincture numbing his heart, Gudmund felt like weeping. But then his father hadn¡¯t raised any women. And he didn¡¯t want to begin what might never end. The Chief of Horvorr¡¯s drive to die had abandoned him. So he simply rose to his feet and wandered home, no longer noticing the dark smoke to the west or the fledgling columns newly rising from the east. He dismissed the distant war horns with the ringing of his own ears. 12. Man of a Giant 12. Man of a Giant ¡°I had heard much of Brolli the Black before I rode out to find him in the Low Lands. The rumours of his addictions had not prepared me for the man I met that night. I had imagined a savage warrior, and what I found instead was an emaciated man shaking in an alleyway, crouched on all fours to better suck the liquor from his sick. As my mind fades, I think more and more often on that night. I fear for the day when the roles will be reversed.¡± Hjorvarth had finished his run then washed and drank from a crumbling stone well. He had pulled on his oft-mended clothes of wool and fur and leather, and then walked to the embankments to help old men put their boats into the water. He had done all that the mornings past, simply to make the days go swifter. To avoid seeing those whom he owed explanations. He had barely visited Isleif, or Sam, or Brolli. He had barely spoken with anyone. Things had not gone well for Hjorvarth since the battle at the Snake Basin Path. On the day, he¡¯d had Joyto¡¯s Luck, but ever since little had gone his way. Grettir had removed him from Horvorr¡¯s Guard for attacking other members. And then the precious wages he was owed, which he needed to pay his debt to Brolli, were not given either. Chief Gudmund had decided that the survivors of the battle were better paid in harsh words than coin. This left Hjorvarth unable to pay his debt to Brolli, who was both the only man who would offer him employ and the one man Hjorvarth had no interest in working for. Grettir had broken the run of bad fortune though, offering a chance to not only rejoin Horvorr¡¯s Guard but to lead the next expedition as well. The Autumn Trip would be greatly important, as the warriors who went would be responsible for tracking down the goblins who had fled from the Snake Basin path. With traders and travellers already seldom seen, Horvorr, and the whole of Southwestern Tymir, badly needed this next expedition to succeed. So Hjorvarth took great pride and felt quite glad that he would be the one leading. He also felt unyielding pressure, as well. His father, Isleif, had once led the greatest expedition of fighting men in the history of Tymir. And every man, woman and child knew how badly that venture had ended. Hjorvarth strode into a dirt courtyard formed by the curved backs of long wooden houses. Leaves skittered through the yards while closed shutters rattled with the wind. He kept his pale gaze towards Brolli¡¯s place, which stood lofty and grey despite warped timbers and patches of rot that appeared as open sores. Black shutters marked three upstairs rooms; and a double door, of the same wood, predominated the bottom floor. Hjorvarth stepped over the broken stair. He paused on the porch to study the ornate archway: carved to show twin wolves savaging one another, a third lying dead beside them. He had once marked his days by crossing under that archway, working for his foster father, but that ended when Ivar robbed a guard of his life for refusing a bribe. Hjorvarth felt doubly glad that Grettir had let him back onto Horvorr¡¯s Guard. But he had to tell Brolli that he was leaving, and that he would be settling his debt a season late. He had no clue whether it had been wise or foolish to wait until the very last day. Hjorvarth stepped forward, lifting the warped door over scraped floorboards, then closed it quietly behind him. A walled stair divided Brolli¡¯s place into two grey-painted spaces, separating the taproom on the left from the gambling room opposite; where tall stools stood huddled about lambskin tables, scratched and marked for the proper rolling of bones. Hjorvarth waited while a pale and black-clad young man made his way behind the counter opposite the door. ¡°Hjorvarth,¡± Ivar said with a sly smile. ¡°Come to play the tables?¡± ¡°Does that question need an answer?¡± Ivar¡¯s smirk broadened. ¡°Usually, no. But things must change. Because there I was suffering guilt over killing a guard¡ªyour words of judgement echoing in my head¡ªand then I hear that you¡¯ve gone and murdered the son of Jarl Thrand. Broke his skull clean open on the road,¡± he added as if chastising a child. ¡°So I thought if Hjorvarth¡¯s taken to murder, he might¡¯ve taken to gambling as well.¡± Hjorvarth took a steadying breath. ¡°I¡¯ve come to speak with Brolli.¡± ¡°He¡¯s out,¡± Ivar dismissed. ¡°And if he wasn¡¯t, I¡¯d have to go warn him in case you begin another mad rampage.¡± ¡°Jarl Thrand¡¯s son would have stabbed Geirmund in the back,¡± Hjorvarth snapped. ¡°You cut the throat of a guard who hadn¡¯t even drawn his sword.¡± Ivar¡¯s mirth held. ¡°I had meant the men on the Snake Basin Path. I heard one lost his eye.¡± ¡°I acted as I saw fit,¡± Hjorvarth replied. ¡°I was not wrong.¡± Ivar raised his brows. ¡°Yet Grettir removed you from the guard.¡± ¡°He has now asked me back to lead the Autumn Trip.¡± Ivar¡¯s eyes narrowed. ¡°You¡¯re lying.¡± ¡°I have not taken to murder, or gambling, or lying. As I said, your company bothers me. If you want to be free of judgement for your crimes, then go and surrender yourself to the justice of Timilir.¡± Ivar managed a thin smile. ¡°I¡¯ll go to Timilir when you do.¡± Hjorvarth met the words with an unhappy stare. He walked into the taproom, where a large stone hearth offered warmth and light to mismatched tables and chairs. Three old men sat undisturbed amid the unused furniture. One of the aged trio nodded at the huge visitor, and then they all began to mutter amongst themselves. Hjorvarth paid them no mind as he turned to the counter of the taproom¡¯s right wall. A rotund man stood behind the bar, wearing a leather apron over a red shirt. He offered a reluctant smile. ¡°Hjorvarth.¡± ¡°Arnor.¡± Hjorvarth nodded in greeting. ¡°Is Brolli in?¡± ¡°He¡¯s in the kitchen. And not in a good mood.¡± Arnor reached for a bottle on the rack behind him. ¡°I¡¯m guessing you¡¯ve come for work?¡± ¡°No,¡± Hjorvarth said. ¡°Grettir let me back on Horvorr¡¯s Guard.¡± ¡°Really?¡± Arnor¡¯s chubby cheeks creased. ¡°That¡¯s good to hear. Bastardly of them to throw you out, but that¡¯s good to hear.¡± Hjorvarth shrugged. ¡°Grettir was of a mind that I should offer apology to the men I fought with, but he saw sense in the end.¡± ¡°Well, I¡¯d be careful telling Brolli.¡± Arnor turned the liquor over in his hands. ¡°He¡¯s been waiting for you to come in, already has a job lined up, and he¡¯s got his heart set on you taking it.¡± This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon. *** Brolli stood in his cluttered kitchen with the shutters open behind him, letting in the hazy light of a cold day. He might have been a handsome man were it not for his eyes, small and dark, that corrupted all else around them, making proud lines seem bullish and thin lips seem cruel as he frowned down at his worn and bloodied carving table. A boar lay there, hairy coat pulled back over tusked head to reveal wet flesh. Brolli kept his black beard close cropped about his heavy jaw, and seemed not to mind that it glistened with sweat and blood. Though he did break from his work then. He turned to the open window, breathing deep the cleaner air as he looked out at a dreary town of windswept browns. A breeze whistled into the kitchen, joined by the tap of blood that dripped from the table and onto watery floorboards. Brolli paid the sounds no mind, but his delicate ears did twitch at the creaking of heavy steps. He turned back to his carving table, straightened his dark silver-buttoned jerkin, and rolled up the pinkish sleeves of his white shirt. Three dissimilar cupboards lined the opposite wall. Each rattled as footfalls grew close to the door which then whined inward. Hjorvarth ducked under the frame and squeezed between a tall cupboard and a squat cabinet. ¡°Hjorvarth.¡± Brolli glanced up in disdain. ¡°Some reason you¡¯re bothering me?¡± Hjorvarth stood a head taller, so had to look down. ¡°I¡¯m here to talk.¡± Brolli drove his cleaver into the wood, left trembling as he picked up the rag beside him. ¡°So you are, and so you have been. Now where¡¯s my coin?¡± ¡°I will need¡ª¡± ¡°What you need is to pay your debts, boy.¡± Brolli wiped his bloody hands on the rag. ¡°But I¡¯ve heard all about what you did out on the Snake Basin Path so there¡¯s no work for you now on Horvorr¡¯s Guard, is there? Lucky for you, I¡¯m a generous sort. Got¡ª¡± ¡°I have work. I am leading The Autumn Trip, but¡ª¡± ¡°No,¡± Brolli snapped. ¡°No you¡¯re not. You¡¯re going to stay here, and we¡¯re going to organise our own expedition to get clear of this region.¡± ¡°In flight of Horvorr?¡± Hjorvarth unhappily asked. Brolli tossed the pinkish rag aside. ¡°In search of survival. The goblins aren¡¯t done.¡± ¡°Where would we even go?¡± Hjorvarth demanded. ¡°You are exiled from every region in Tymir. There is no safe place for you beyond these walls.¡± ¡°So that should tell you just how serious I am, shouldn¡¯t it?¡± Brolli asked. He beaded with sweat despite the cold. ¡°That I¡¯m willing to travel to places where hundreds of men want me dead. That I¡¯m more afraid of staying here than I am of the Midderlands Path.¡± Hjorvarth slowly nodded. ¡°Have you been smoking?¡± Brolli answered with a cruel smile. ¡°You think I¡¯m addled, do you?¡± ¡°I share your concerns about surviving goblins. But your plan is foolish. Worse still, cowardly. I will not abandon¡ª¡± Brolli brushed the onyx pommel of his sword. ¡°I¡¯m a coward, am I?¡± Hjorvarth sighed in frustration. ¡°That is not what I¡ª¡± ¡°So I¡¯m a fool? Well let me tell you, boy, I¡¯d rather be a living coward or a living fool than a dead hero. There¡¯s no honor in being a corpse.¡± ¡°I will lead Horvorr¡¯s Guard and end any threats to the region,¡± Hjorvarth replied evenly. ¡°Once that work is done, there will be no further need to pursue your plan.¡± ¡°Yet I¡¯ll pursue it all the same.¡± ¡°Without me, then,¡± Hjorvarth said. ¡°I leave tomorrow.¡± ¡°Without you,¡± Brolli agreed. ¡°But if you think I¡¯m leaving Isleif to die here while you go out in search of your death then you¡¯ve lost more of your mind than I have¡ªor even he has. My band of cowards and fools will have your father in their company.¡± ¡°Brolli,¡± Hjorvarth spoke in a low tone. ¡°We are family, and I will suffer a lot for that. But I will not suffer threats of you stealing my father. Sam is charged with his care. He and Isleif will not be harmed, by you or by anyone, or I will come back here searching for your death.¡± Brolli grinned. ¡°You¡¯re the one threatening me.¡± ¡°I am,¡± Hjorvarth agreed. ¡°And I have heard you out, and I have given you answer. I mean to leave in the morning and lead the Autumn Trip.¡± ¡°Then you¡¯re going to die.¡± Hjorvarth shrugged his huge shoulders. ¡°I will be back in a season, Brolli, with the coin to cover the debt between us. That is all that I can do,¡± he stressed. ¡°That is the best that I can do. For you and for everyone else in Horvorr.¡± Brolli was shaking his head. ¡°You got mauled the last time. This''ll be no different.¡± ¡°This will be different,¡± Hjorvarth assured. ¡°Because I will not risk the lives of the men who follow me for the sake of a day¡¯s travel. Be reminded that the enemy you fear may not even exist. You should stop smoking, Brolli,¡± he then added more kindly. ¡°I have already watched one father lose his mind. I do not wish not suffer that twice.¡± Brolli watched his foster son for a long while. ¡°I almost want to believe you.¡± ¡°I have never given you any reason at all to doubt my word.¡± ¡°True,¡± Brolli admitted. ¡°But your father¡¯s my oldest friend. My only friend. I¡¯m not leaving Isleif to get eaten alive. Even if that means I have to kill your dear friend, Sam.¡± ¡°I do not believe you,¡± Hjorvarth replied at length. Brolli bared his teeth in a mocking smile. ¡°That¡¯s your mistake to make.¡± ¡°As yours would be yours. But you now have my word that I will avenge Sam.¡± ¡°Then I¡¯ve still got nothing to worry about, have I?¡± Brolli countered. ¡°Once the goblins chew the flesh from your bones, you won¡¯t even be able to rise up as a draugr.¡± Hjorvarth met the words with a careful nod. ¡°So what would you have me do? Take your threats to heart? Fight you to the death, here and now?¡± Brolli glanced at his belted sword, at the boar, then up at his foster son. He shook his head, turning away to face the open shutters. ¡°I won¡¯t grieve for you, boy.¡± *** Hjorvarth struggled to close the kitchen door because his hands were shaking. Brolli had often been a man for spells of grim warnings and lamentations. But this was the first time that Brolli had threatened to kill Sam or to take Isleif. Hjorvarth marched through the taproom. Only to come to an abrupt stop. Ivar, teeth gleaming and hands on hips, blocked the way ahead. ¡°You almost walked in there like you thought he¡¯d be happy to see you. Like you¡ª¡± ¡°I have no time or patience,¡± Hjorvarth growled. ¡°Move aside.¡± ¡°Ivar.¡± Arnor watched from behind the taproom counter. ¡°Get out of his way.¡± Ivar scowled at the barkeeper. ¡°You don¡¯t get to tell me what to do.¡± ¡°He doesn¡¯t want to talk to you. And he¡¯s clearly¡ª¡± ¡°Mind your own business, you fat bastard,¡± Ivar cut in. ¡°I¡¯ll do¡ª¡± Hjorvarth¡¯s fist thumped into the smaller man¡¯s cheek. Ivar careened from his feet, head bouncing into the counter. He crumpled to the dusty floorboards as if he were dead. The three old man in the tap room fell silent and craned forward in their seats. Hjorvarth¡¯s hard visage lapsed to horror. He looked at his own clenched fist. Ivar groaned and the three old men lost interest. He started to paw at the floor. ¡°I am sorry, Ivar,¡± Hjorvarth said, uncertain of his words. He crouched down. ¡°I did not mean¡­ I did not want to strike you. I should have¡ª¡± Ivar scrabbled for the knife at his belt. ¡°I mean you no harm. I was¡ª¡± ¡°Get away from me!¡± He brandished the small blade. ¡°Get back!¡± Hjorvarth stepped back, head bowed, and stumbled out of the tavern having very nearly murdered a man who had once been his friend. He had already killed the son of the Jarl of Timilir, and had beaten another man near to death on the Snake Basin Path. If he did not master his anger and become a worthy leader, then those with him would suffer and those waiting at home would have no answers when they failed to return. Hjorvarth refused to follow in Isleif¡¯s footsteps. He would not end up lost in the snow. 13. Missing 13. Missing ¡°Our expedition is lost, and there is now no way back. A slide of snow and rocks has collapsed the return path and crushed dozens of men. I can only thank Joyto that of all the carts to be destroyed, the one that remains holds Sibbe¡¯s body. Soldier has taken charge of our remnant force, three score in all, but I put no faith in the loyalty of those with me. We will march further into the mountains, in the only direction we can. I pray that we are heading the right way, that the Hall of Hrothgar lies ahead of us, and that my wife will be restored. But by night I dream of death, and in my heart I do not believe that any of us will survive this.¡± Sam¡¯s Tavern had only been owned by one other man. Both owners sat at the middle table of the taproom, two bowls of murky stew between them. A rustic stone hearth bathed them in firelight, baying away the cold and darkness that encroached from all sides. Sam¡¯s long face took to the warm glow, but it barely edged his raven hair. He regarded the old man across from him with dark eyes that spoke to profound pity. Isleif himself had a milky gaze, distant, as if in search for something long lost to him. ¡°I had a dream, you know,¡± he murmured, words quiet and haunting. Sam humoured him with a smile. ¡°You can tell me later.¡± ¡°I was in the snow.¡± Isleif¡¯s clouded gaze reflected writhing flames. ¡°Isleif, you can tell¡ª¡± ¡°I didn¡¯t know which way to go. The snow it fell so fast, and my breath I couldn¡¯t catch, then I tripped, and I laughed¡ªsnow bath.¡± Isleif stared off into the shadows. ¡°I was buried¡­ buried. Buried. Buried, buried¡ª¡± Sam leaned forward on the table, dark bags showing under his tired eyes. ¡°Isleif.¡± Isleif blinked. ¡°Yes?¡± ¡°Could you please eat your food before it goes cold?¡± ¡°I would need a spoon.¡± Isleif glanced down at his bowl of murky stew, and chuckled. ¡°Oh, I have one. Never mind.¡± He scooped a brown spoonful into his mouth. Sam sighed, reminded of when he used to feed his son. He swallowed a mouthful of his own lukewarm stew, then looked up at shadowed rafters, at a rope burn on the main beam. He rubbed idly at his neck. Isleif finished his bowl of stew, then took up his small wooden cup. He drank the water, hand shaking, and set it down. ¡°Sam,¡± he said, voice calm and clear. Sam lowered his gaze. ¡°Mm?¡± ¡°You seem worried.¡± Isleif¡¯s owly brows knitted in concern. ¡°What¡¯s troubling you?¡± Sam frowned at an old man that no longer looked lost. ¡°Isleif?¡± ¡°Yes?¡± ¡°Isleif?¡± he asked again. Isleif smirked. ¡°Yes?¡± ¡°Is¡ª¡± ¡°Bad luck to say it a third time, Sam. I¡¯d rather you didn¡¯t.¡± Sam offered a slow nod. ¡°Sorry. I just¡­ never mind.¡± ¡°It¡¯s fine,¡± Isleif assured. ¡°You should eat your stew.¡± Sam nodded and smiled, seeing his friend across from him. He couldn¡¯t remember the last time the old man had been his old self. ¡°Are you sure there¡¯s not something wrong, Sam?¡± Isleif asked. ¡°Is it about, Dan? Have you still not had word?¡± ¡°No.¡± Sam¡¯s mirth faded as he shook his head. ¡°Not for a long while. Not from Mardis, either.¡± ¡°Mardis?¡± Isleif peered down at his own wispy white beard in puzzlement. He twisted strands around one finger, tugged and winced. ¡°Did she go to find Dan?¡± ¡°She never said.¡± Sam glanced at his mug. ¡°I woke up and she was gone.¡± ¡°Without word?¡± Isleif puckered his wrinkled lips. ¡°That doesn¡¯t sound like her. How long?¡± ¡°Years.¡± Sam ran a hand through his black hair. ¡°And I¡¯ve just been waiting for her to come back.¡± ¡°Years?¡± Isleif¡¯s eyes narrowed. ¡°I saw her just the other day, Sam. At the market stalls, or¡ª¡± He shivered. ¡°Perhaps I saw her by the lake.¡± ¡°It wasn¡¯t that long ago.¡± Sam smiled to assure him. ¡°I meant that it felt like years.¡± ¡°Oh.¡± Isleif nodded. ¡°I know what you mean. Still, I don¡¯t blame you for being worried. If Hjorvarth had left town without telling me, I¡¯d be as bad or worse.¡± He squinted up at the rope-burned beam. ¡°I¡¯m still happy to help you, you know. Once I find the Hall, and once Sibbe is well again. I¡¯ll help you for as long as it takes to find Dan. She¡¯ll understand.¡± ¡°Thank you, Isleif.¡± Sam lifted his mug, both to drink ale and to shield his teary eyes. He grasped his spoon again, meaning to let the matter rest, but then looked up at his old friend, who seemed so sharp-eyed and wise. ¡°Do you think I should go out and look for Mardis?¡± Isleif smirked. ¡°I wouldn¡¯t worry about that, Sam. Unless you¡¯ve given her reason not to come back.¡± He scowled down at his empty cup and bowl. ¡°Unless you think that she is in some kind of danger. Unless you¡¯re worried, Sam. If you¡¯re worried, then we can go and look for her right now.¡± ¡°Let¡¯s forget about it,¡± Sam said, worried by his old friend¡¯s wildness. ¡°There¡¯s nothing we can do.¡± Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site. ¡°Of course there is.¡± Isleif leapt to his feet and a knife flashed out from his great fur jacket. ¡°There always is!¡± Sam¡¯s face fell to worry. ¡°Where did you get that knife?¡± ¡°It¡¯s my knife.¡± Isleif frowned. ¡°Why would it matter where I got it from? We¡¯re wasting time!¡± ¡°Mardis is fine.¡± Sam smiled. ¡°She¡¯s fine, and she¡¯ll be back soon.¡± He rose slowly. ¡°So would you hand me the knife?¡± ¡°My knife,¡± Isleif insisted, his hand shaking as he pointed the blade towards Sam. ¡°This is my knife.¡± ¡°Your knife, then.¡± Sam nodded. ¡°Would you put it¡ª¡± ¡°Why?¡± Isleif narrowed his cloudy eyes. ¡°Why do you want my knife, Sam? If that is you. If you are you. If you¡¯re not some skin-stealing shape-changer. If you¡¯re not¡­¡± He glanced fearfully at surrounding darkness, then scrutinised Sam. ¡°You look older than I remember. I thought it was just the firelight, but look at all those creases in your skin.¡± ¡°Isleif.¡± Sam swallowed. ¡°Keep your knife if you like, but it¡¯s cold and dark outside and¡ª¡± ¡°Creases!¡± Isleif jabbed his knife through the air. ¡°Explain them! Why do you look so old!?¡± ¡°Because I am old!¡± Sam scowled. ¡°Over forty, now. Dan left five winters ago, Mardis not longer after that.¡± ¡°No.¡± Isleif shook his head. ¡°That is a lie is what that is. An odd, mad-man¡¯s shape-changing lie! Now tell me who you are¡ªwhat you are¡ªand what you¡¯ve done with Sam, or I swear I¡¯ll spill your guts onto the fire.¡± ¡°It¡¯s just me, Isleif,¡± Sam said, keeping a careful watch on the fur-bundled old man. ¡°It¡¯s just, Sam. I worked for you as a boy when you first came here. I knew your wife, and I knew your son.¡± ¡°Where are they?¡± Isleif shouted. ¡°What have you done with my family?¡± ¡°Hjorvarth will be back soon.¡± ¡°And where is Sibbe? Why are you here, and not her? Why are you at my tavern when it¡¯s so late at night¡­ so cold, as you say?¡± ¡°You gave your tavern to me. I didn¡¯t even want¡ª¡± ¡°Liar!¡± Sam stumbled back as the old man lunged. His knees buckled as he hit a chair¡¯s seat. ¡°You can have it back, Isleif! But the reason I¡¯m older is because you¡¯re older!¡± Isleif stalked forwards, knife gleaming in the firelight. ¡°And how could I grow old and not know of it?¡± ¡°I do not know,¡± Sam said. ¡°But if anyone is pretending to be a man that they¡¯re not, then it¡¯s you.¡± He shook his head. ¡°The Isleif I know wouldn¡¯t kill a man for no good reason. Least of all his friend.¡± Isleif opened his mouth to speak but paused at the creaking of the tavern¡¯s door. The fire danced with a sudden rush of night air that stole all warmth from the tavern. Hjorvarth emerged from thick shadows, entering at odd angle to fit through the frame. He saw his father, poised with a knife in the firelight. ¡°Isleif?¡± ¡°He thinks I¡¯m a shape-changer, Hjorvarth!¡± Sam warned. Hjorvarth furrowed his thick brows. ¡°Did you give him a knife?¡± Isleif turned to the huge, red-haired and leather-clad man. He tilted his head. ¡°Hjorvarth¡­?¡± ¡°Isleif.¡± Hjorvarth stepped towards his father with his hands up and outward. ¡°Would you set that knife down and¡ª¡± Isleif bounded off the spot and Hjorvarth braced his feet. The old man let the blade slip from grip, and ran with arms outspread, his fur jacket hanging shaggy until he wrapped his arms around his son. ¡°Hjorvarth.¡± He squeezed, and buried his head into his son¡¯s chest. ¡°I thought you had left me.¡± Hjorvarth stood rigid in the embrace. He placed his hand upon the old man¡¯s back. ¡°I often do. But then I always come back, so there¡¯s no need to worry on it.¡± Sam ran a hand through his black hair. He plucked the knife from the floor, and took both the bowls off to the kitchen. ¡°I was trapped in the snow,¡± Isleif whispered. Hjorvarth sighed. ¡°I know.¡± ¡°So cold in the snow,¡± Isleif murmured. ¡°A long time past though, and in another place.¡± Hjorvarth stooped to meet his father¡¯s milky eyes. ¡°It¡¯s warm here, isn¡¯t it?¡± ¡°I suppose it is.¡± Isleif nodded distractedly, then smiled. ¡°Warm by the fire.¡± Hjorvarth led him to the grey hearth, anchoring his weight while he sat down beside it. He let Isleif nestle against the warm stonework, then tucked in the edges of the huge fur jacket. He saw that his father¡¯s cup was empty, so filled a mug of ale and brought it back. Isleif took the mug with a smile. He stared down into dark liquid as though it were oblivion, paying no mind as his son walked by the counter. Hjorvarth stepped through the open door and into the kitchen. The room was modest, made narrow by disorderly cupboards and counters. Sam stood at the closest corner, scouring a bowl over a stone basin. ¡°Before you speak, I didn¡¯t give him the knife, but it was my fault¡ª¡± ¡°The fault¡¯s mine,¡± Hjorvarth assured. ¡°I should have been back hours sooner.¡± Sam sighed and let the bowl splash into murky water. ¡°Brolli delayed you?¡± ¡°No.¡± Hjorvarth stared for a while in silence. ¡°He spoke some mad warnings. But nothing will come of them and they would only worry you.¡± Sam arched a brow. ¡°Can I hear them all the same?¡± ¡°He is of a mind that Horvorr is surrounded by goblins. And he is going to flee, taking Isleif with him, whether I accompany them or not.¡± ¡°Oh.¡± Sam¡¯s gaze wandered. ¡°So I should start barring the door and carrying a knife?¡± ¡°He had been smoking, and looked half crazed. He¡¯ll wake in the morning and realise he¡¯s been a fool.¡± ¡°And what if he wakes and instead decides he wants to murder me and take Isleif?¡± ¡°He won¡¯t,¡± Hjorvarth assured. ¡°Brolli isn¡¯t as black as most folk claim.¡± ¡°Isn¡¯t he?¡± Sam asked. ¡°A man hated or feared by every person in this town, even by his own brother. A man outlawed in every other region of Tymir. And I know for fact that he wasn¡¯t underpaid by Isleif. He had enough coin left over for three years of whoring, smoking, and drinking. He conjured this debt up in his own mind so that you couldn¡¯t be rid of him. He wants to make you suffer because he pissed his money away. So in what way have they misjudged him?¡± ¡°Brolli has his faults,¡± Hjorvarth conceded with a dip of his head. ¡°But he took care of Isleif when all others shunned him. And he took me in, as well. He looked after us for five winters. So I¡¯ve no issue working a season to pay him back for a debt real or imagined.¡± Sam¡¯s guilt seemed to dampen his anger, so he only nodded his understanding. ¡°You looked after us as long as you could,¡± Hjorvarth reassured. ¡°And you look after us now. Back then you had to take care of your own wife, and your own son.¡± ¡°Aye.¡± Sam glanced at the floorboards. ¡°And that did me a lot of good, didn¡¯t it?¡± Hjorvarth was unsure whether to voice a lie or speak the truth. ¡°You are still a young man. When my debt is settled, when I have coin saved, we could always leave this place in search of your wife and your son. I owe you that much. I owe you more than that.¡± Sam shook his head. ¡°You don¡¯t owe me anything at all.¡± Hjorvarth would have offered a fierce refusal of that but both men turned now the tavern¡¯s main door shuddered and swung open with a shrill of wind. 14. Wandering Prophet 14. Wandering Prophet ¡°I have many regrets: causing the death of my drunkard father, swearing and failing to do better for my own son. I regret that my quest to save Sibbe was in the end the death of her. I regret that I have squandered my opportunity at a happy life with a loving family to make a mockery of what was offered me. Yet I was forewarned of it all, so my greatest regret must be that I paid no heed to the prophecy that came with that cursed map to Hrothgar¡¯s Hall.¡± Isleif sat by the taproom¡¯s grey hearth, watching the stranger who had ambled into the shadowed tavern. The figure wore a thick robe of pale blue, faded to white in places, layered with stains in others. He seemed to watch the old man for a long moment before turning towards the counter in time to see two men step out from the kitchen. Isleif couldn¡¯t help but feel that all three of these men were familiar, that he almost recognised the gentle barkeeper and the sullen brute. ¡°Evening,¡± Sam said with an uncertain smile. ¡°Can I help you in some way?¡± The stranger stepped forward, revealings rags wrapped around his hooded face. ¡°I¡¯m not entirely sure. I was told, on some authority, that this was a tavern. And I¡¯d hoped to stay here. But now your friend¡¯s stare is making me uneasy.¡± ¡°I thought you might be dangerous,¡± Hjorvarth explained, before making his way to the table nearest the hearth. He still stared at the stranger from his seat. ¡°I suppose that¡¯s explanation enough,¡± the robed man said without conviction. He turned back to the bar with a smile that only showed in his blue eyes. ¡°I would like food if you have it, and dark ale with a handful of salt.¡± Sam met the request with an odd look. ¡°Seems like a waste of salt.¡± ¡°I¡¯ll pay. But if you¡¯ve none to spare, then forget I asked.¡± Isleif, still seated by the fire, peered at the robed man, recognising the ease of his words and the melody of his tone. He held tighter to his fur jacket. Sam had waited while the stranger stood still. ¡°Do you want to take a seat?¡± The robed man glanced at the unlit candles seated in sconces on walls and on stands around tables. Darkness had a hold on each corner of the tavern and on the hazy rafters. ¡°I¡¯d wager you don¡¯t get much custom?¡± ¡°No,¡± Sam answered, turning towards the kitchen, ¡°we don¡¯t.¡± The robed man wandered through the taproom, brushing his fingers against tabletops, lifting and inspecting chairs, looking up at the ceiling and down at the dusty floorboards; glancing at bones, paintings and memorabilia hanging from nails or nailed to the walls. Hjorvarth thought that he denigrated with his touch and gaze, but Isleif felt the opposite: that the stranger viewed each thing with sentimental appreciation. Hjorvarth¡¯s stern visage remained cold despite the firelight. ¡°Have you been in Horvorr long?¡± ¡°Less than a day.¡± The robed man ambled to the table. ¡°And yourself?¡± Hjorvarth frowned. ¡°I¡¯ve been here since I was a boy.¡± The stranger turned to the hearth. ¡°And what about you, old friend? Where did you live before Chief Gudmund wrested these lands from goblin hands?¡± Isleif¡¯s teeth gleamed in an eerie smile. ¡°I lived in the snow.¡± ¡°Oh.¡± The stranger nodded under his hood. ¡°That must have been cold.¡± ¡°It was.¡± Isleif chuckled. ¡°Don¡¯t you remember?¡± ¡°I¡¯m afraid I don¡¯t.¡± He strode towards the fireplace. ¡°Though I¡¯m not fond of the cold, so that¡¯s probably for the better.¡± Hugging himself under the fur jacket, Isleif nodded as if he fully understood. He watched the shadow looming behind the robed man and thought it looked down on its maker in judgement. Hjorvarth was staring at the meager flame of the candle on his table. ¡°You said you arrived today?¡± The stranger nodded. ¡°I did say that.¡± ¡°How?¡± Hjorvarth held his hand above the candle¡¯s burning wick. ¡°There¡¯ve been no traders for at least a week. No carts or travellers. Not from Fenkirk or from Wymount.¡± The stranger¡¯s shadow shrank as he approached. ¡°I wouldn¡¯t know anything about that. I travelled alone. And I travelled by foot.¡± Hjorvarth looked up at the robed man. ¡°You walked here, on your own, from Fenkirk?¡± ¡°I didn¡¯t visit any settlements,¡± he answered. ¡°I began my trek from Timilir.¡± ¡°Timilir?¡± Hjorvarth let out a slow sigh. ¡°Has someone put you up to this?¡± The stranger scratched at the rags covering his face. ¡°I¡¯m not quite sure what you mean.¡± ¡°I mean that I don¡¯t believe you,¡± Hjorvarth said. ¡°Perhaps I misunderstood your joke, but I can think of no reason why, or how, you would travel here from Timilir. With the only routes open to you, avoiding Fenkirk, being the mountains to the north or the plains to the south. Both scarce in food and water, lasting a week at least, all while hunted by wolves and worse.¡± ¡°A week?¡± The stranger looked askance. ¡°Well I now feel embarrassed.¡± Hjorvarth grunted. ¡°So you admit you were lying?¡± ¡°Oh. No.¡± He met Hjorvarth¡¯s pale gaze. ¡°Not that. I more meant my journey took over a month, and so your swift estimates shamed me. Though I will admit I found myself lost more often than not.¡± Hjorvarth stared. ¡°If you are trying to be funny, then your time would be better spent speaking to a man with a sense of a humour.¡± ¡°Perhaps,¡± the robed man replied lightly. ¡°But then my main interest in coming here lies with you, Hjorvarth. So I¡¯m spending my time as well as can be hoped.¡± ¡°My name is Rognar.¡± ¡°Hah. And here I thought we weren¡¯t joking.¡± ¡°No joke,¡± Hjorvarth evenly replied. ¡°So your time is ill spent.¡± ¡°Isn¡¯t that your father? Isleif the Bard?¡± Hjorvarth turned to the bundled man by the grey hearth. ¡°Isleif, have you seen your son, Hjorvarth?¡± ¡°I haven¡¯t.¡± Isleif squinted over at the table. ¡°Is he in his room?¡± ¡°Isleif.¡± The stranger waved to get his attention then gestured towards Hjorvarth. ¡°Are you sure that this man isn¡¯t your son?¡± ¡°No. Gods no.¡± Isleif chuckled. ¡°He¡¯s far too big to be my son. Hjorvarth¡¯s only a small lad, and wiry thin at that.¡± ¡°My mistake, then.¡± The stranger upturned his gloved palms. ¡°I suppose I should have taken the descriptions more to heart. You see I was supposed to be looking for a man as tall as a house¡­ and you¡¯re not really that much taller than a door, are you? You¡¯re not as wide as a barn either¡ªor, as one man quite helpfully put it, ¡®as wide as Big Hilda, only all bone and muscle instead of tits and fat.¡¯¡± ¡°We all make mistakes,¡± Isleif murmured, not looking at either of them. The robed man nodded. ¡°I mistook the hair, as well. They told me blood red, or the colour of copper, yet clearly yours is closer to rust.¡± He looked behind the huge man. ¡°That he had it tied back, hanging past his arse. Yet your own stops halfway down your back.¡± Hjorvarth nodded, neither humoured or annoyed, and his hair swayed, weighed with three polished copper bands. The stranger sat back down with a resigned sigh. ¡°And the most striking difference¡­ is that they told me he was an honest man.¡± Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site. Hjorvarth gritted his teeth. ¡°I treat with men as they treat with me.¡± Sam, standing behind the kitchen door, decided to walk out with soup and ale in hand. Both men sat in silence as he set a chipped bowl ahead of the Sage, and a warped mug beside that. ¡°Let me know if you need anything else.¡± The stranger dipped his hooded head. ¡°Thank you.¡± Sam looked to Hjorvarth and Isleif but the son didn¡¯t notice and the father seemed to be sleeping, so he walked back to the counter. The robed man pulled his rags down his nose and past his chin. He took hold of the spoon that lay half-drowned in the stew, and stirred it through. He shoveled up what he could, supping and scraping, and then drank the dregs from the bowl. He wiped his face with a thick sleeve, then picked up the mug of ale, quaffed it without a breath, and set it down with a hollow knock. Window shutters rattled with a whistling wind. Coals crackled in the fire. Darkness shrank and encroached against the undulating flames. ¡°Your long journey left you with a fierce appetite,¡± Hjorvarth said dryly. ¡°It¡¯s like you said, no food on those plains.¡± He shrugged. ¡°Though the wolves were keen on having me for dinner, so they must have seen something I missed.¡± Hjorvarth frowned. ¡°Those wolves were likely trying to eat you.¡± The stranger laughed loudly, but quieted when his mirth was not shared. ¡°Who are you?¡± Hjorvarth asked. ¡°What is it you want?¡± ¡°I am a Sage of Tomlok, and I¡¯ve come here to¡ª¡± ¡°A Salt Sage?¡± Hjorvarth cleared his throat. ¡°¡®And so the Salt Sages dine, one and all, supping brine in sea blue robes stained crystalline.¡¯¡± He raised his weathered hand to halt the Sage¡¯s reply. ¡°¡®A song is sung, a racket made. A sea bed feast is then arrayed. Drinks forgotten, lobsters splayed as beards twist down to driftwood plates, ensnaring forks while crabs escape and hands are wrung and soon entrapped, but those old men do not react. Their eyes ensnared by tangled hair¡­ no light ever reaches there.¡± The Salt Sage glanced at his own lifeless robe. ¡°That¡¯s a fantasy.¡± ¡°Or simply another reason not to trust you.¡± Sam watched with a curious smile, drinking from a mug of ale. ¡°Either way,¡± the Sage said. ¡°I intend to make a journey, and¡ª¡± Hjorvarth regarded him without warmth. ¡°To the Hall of Hrothgar?¡± The Salt Sage belatedly nodded. ¡°Indeed.¡± ¡°Then you¡¯ve come a long way for nothing.¡± Hjorvarth glanced over to his sleeping father, then rose to his feet. ¡°I leave Horvorr in the morning, and I¡¯ll be gone for a season at the least.¡± ¡°So you don¡¯t want to know what happened to your father?¡± the Salt Sage asked. ¡°How so large an expedition simply disappeared into the mountains?¡± He turned as the huge man walked towards the door. ¡°There is gold out there, Hjorvarth! Grand treasure and unimaginable riches! But more important than all of that, here is a chance to restore your father¡¯s reputation. To find answers for the families of all those men that were lost on his trip.¡± ¡°Those men are long buried,¡± Hjorvarth said, his voice deep and rolling, ¡°in the snow and in the past. And I have no desire to follow in their footsteps.¡± He stopped in the crimson shadows by the door and turned back to the black-haired barkeeper. ¡°Good night, Sam.¡± Sam smiled in concern, hearing the tavern shudder and creak under the weight of screeching weather. ¡°I¡¯ll throw him out if you want.¡± Hjorvarth shook his head. He opened the door to howling wind, struggled with an inward swing, but dragged the door with him while he walked out into darkness. The grey hearth rippled with life, then settled with the door¡¯s closing. ¡°A curious man.¡± The Salt Sage smiled at Sam. ¡°May I have another?¡± Sam narrowed his eyes, considering whether he wanted the robed man to stay. ¡°Fine.¡± He reached for a mug but hesitated. ¡°You do have coin?¡± ¡°On my person?¡± The Salt Sage shook his hooded head. ¡°Tomlok¡¯s Order is not rich, so we survive on charity.¡± Sam scowled. ¡°That might be a fair thing to say, Sage, had you not made specific mention of coin when you first came in.¡± ¡°Oh.¡± The Salt Sage slowly nodded. ¡°I¡¯ll have it without the salt this time.¡± He regarded the unhappy barkeeper. ¡°What about this? I¡¯ll tell you your future. For the food and for the drink¡ªand because I can tell you¡¯re a good man at heart¡ªwhat with sheltering this old man and his troubled son.¡± ¡°Watch your words, Sage,¡± Sam warned. ¡°You know their names.¡± ¡°My apologies.¡± The Salt Sage upturned his gloved palms. ¡°I only meant to say that I would be happy to tell you your future, so as to forewarn and forearm you for your good service.¡± Sam sighed as he turned to fill a mug. ¡°You can have your ale, but I¡¯ve no interest in your prophecy.¡± ¡°Oh?¡± the Sage asked. ¡°Why¡¯s that?¡± ¡°If you could see the future, then you¡¯d have known there¡¯s no chance of Hjorvarth ever agreeing to travel to the Hall.¡± ¡°Do you think so?¡± ¡°Plenty of others have tried.¡± Sam took a mug of ale from the counter. ¡°They¡¯ll say that Hjorvarth¡¯s fated to right Isleif¡¯s great failing by virtue of being his son.¡± He weaved between the tables. ¡°You ask them why they want to help, and they¡¯ll say to honor the gods, or the dead, or the families of those fallen. But what they really want is to build Hjorvarth into a legend.¡± He set the mug ahead of the Sage. ¡°One that they can be a part of.¡± ¡°I can see how he might find that tiresome.¡± The Salt Sage spread his gloved hands across the table. ¡°But my meeting with Hjorvarth went exactly as planned.¡± ¡°Then you¡¯ve an odd plan,¡± Sam said. ¡°If you¡¯re sleeping here, you¡¯ll have to make do with a chair or the floor.¡± He glanced to the grey hearth. ¡°I¡¯ll leave the fire to burn, but don¡¯t start piling logs on if gets cold. All the wood comes from Fenkirk. And like Hjorvarth said we haven¡¯t had a delivery in a while.¡± ¡°Of course.¡± The Salt Sage nodded. ¡°But it¡¯s not vague you know.¡± Sam frowned. ¡°What isn¡¯t?¡± ¡°My prophecy, for you. It isn¡¯t some charlatan¡¯s sentiment painted in broad strokes.¡± The Salt Sage pulled his mug close. ¡°I won¡¯t tell you if you don¡¯t want to hear it, but I think it would be of interest.¡± Sam stood there for a long moment, and eventually took the seat opposite. He gestured his accord. ¡°You¡¯ve been waiting for your wife, Mardis, to return to Horvorr. She left you, after an argument about whether you should go searching for your son.¡± The Salt Sage sipped from his ale. ¡°That¡¯s right, isn¡¯t it?¡± Sam nodded very carefully, as though words he assumed insignificant were now weighted with lead. ¡°Yes, but¡ª¡± ¡°Mardis will never return to you. You will die in Horvorr.¡± The Salt Sage glanced at the fire. ¡°Cold and alone. You¡¯ll find your death in the bed you go to sleep in tonight. A much older man. Overly burdened with regret.¡± The Salt Sage raised his mug, eclipsing a bewildered expression. He took a long gulp, and lowered it to see a much darker stare. ¡°Is this some kind of joke?¡± Sam snapped. ¡°How would you know about my wife, or what we argued of?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t control the future, Sam.¡± The Salt Sage smiled. ¡°I can only tell you what I see, and I¡¯ve told you just that. Now I have no more to say about your wife, but I could speak of your son, Dan.¡± ¡°Is that right?¡± Sam asked, tone venomous. ¡°A happier future than my own?¡± The Salt Sage studied the rafters. ¡°That would depend on whether or not you¡¯re willing to travel to Timilir to prevent his death.¡± ¡°Oh.¡± Sam bared his teeth. ¡°So my wife is never coming back to me, and my son is going to die?¡± ¡°If you travel to Timilir within the next few days, then¡ª¡± The Salt Sage marked something dangerous in Sam¡¯s black eyes. ¡°I¡¯ll leave.¡± He pushed up from his chair and backed towards the door. ¡°Perhaps we can speak of this another time. Your son is in danger, but¡ª¡± ¡°Get out.¡± Sam glared at the robed man. ¡°And don¡¯t ever visit here again.¡± He was still shaking when the stranger left and the door rattled closed. Darkness drew closer on all sides as the fired smoldered in the hearth. Isleif sat watching with a lost gaze that mirrored the flames. ¡°Friend?¡± Sam looked over as if he had forgotten he wasn¡¯t alone. ¡°Yes, Isleif?¡± ¡°My reputation precedes me, does it?¡± Isleif grinned. ¡°Or have we met before? I don¡¯t mean to be rude but our band grows larger by the day and I¡¯ve never had a quick memory for names. I was simply wondering where everyone had gone?¡± ¡°Late night raid,¡± Sam answered out of habit. ¡°They¡¯ll be back in the morning.¡± ¡°Oh. Well then you and I should pretend we went, shouldn¡¯t we? You tell them I was there. I¡¯ll tell them you were there. Then they¡¯ll be none the wiser that we slept by a warm fire while they were sawing through goblin throats.¡± ¡°That sounds reasonable.¡± ¡°Reasonable,¡± he echoed with some doubt. ¡°And what¡¯s got you so down?¡± ¡°I¡¯ve just been told that my wife¡¯s never coming back to me.¡± ¡°Half the women in the Midderlands get told the opposite of that. Or they don¡¯t get told at all. Or do you mean she¡¯s left you for another man? Tragic, is that. But not in the way you might think. Tragic that you misjudged her, is what I mean. Tragic that you loved a woman that wasn¡¯t ever really yours.¡± Sam blinked. ¡°She didn¡¯t leave me for another man.¡± ¡°No?¡± Isleif asked. ¡°Well goblins make for messy bedmates, friend.¡± ¡°You don¡¯t understand.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t,¡± Isleif agreed. ¡°But I¡¯ll keep trying to cheer you up all the same.¡± Sam wasn¡¯t sure if he felt touched or mad. ¡°Do you believe in prophecies?¡± ¡°So your wife was a witch?¡± Isleif asked with a smile. ¡°But, no, I¡¯m afraid I¡¯ve not much faith for that these days. Though I do have two outstanding.¡± He waited for a reply that didn¡¯t come. ¡°First is that I¡¯ll marry the daughter of a Jarl. Second is that I¡¯ll find the Hall of Hrothgar¡­ costing me everything.¡± Sam felt the blood drain from his face. ¡°But the way this is war going, friend, I doubt I¡¯ll live to find a brothel and fuck a whore. I¡¯m glad of that in a way. Seen some things I can¡¯t unsee. Not sure I want to live to be an old man. Cruelest kind of curse is that.¡± Sam sat there, silent, heart thumping in his chest. ¡°I can see I haven¡¯t cheered you up,¡± Isleif said with slight lament. ¡°I think I¡¯ll go to sleep and wait for the others. Remember the story, all right? We were both on that raid. We¡¯ll even wake up early and roll around in the mud.¡± Sam watched as the old man winked, closed his eyes, and settled into sleep. He likely would have ran out into the screeching wind and dived into Horvorr¡¯s Great Lake had he known that both those predictions had come true. But instead he sat there and hoped for the best. As Isleif long had. As Sam always had. And while he did the robed stranger made his way to another troubled husband whose wife would never be coming back to him. 15. Restless 15. Restless ¡°My dealings with Chief Gudmund have become so troublesome that I regret first meeting him at night. To most other men that would be the mark of a tardy or desperate visitor. To a man once meant to be a Jarl of the High Lands, a messenger arriving by darkness is the worst of omens. I suppose I should be thankful that I did not meet him while he still held his old estate. I would have sorely missed my tongue.¡± Gudmund¡¯s Hall had succumb to a fretful dormancy. Wind broke upon unadorned walls, whistling and screeching, but failed to move the dark-and-silver banners that loomed from sturdy rafters. They had been woven with wolves, hung above the vacant benches of twin feasting tables: both almost as long as the hall, so that they stretched from the huge and ornate doors to the austere reception chamber opposite, which housed two more banners and an imposing chair. Gudmund¡¯s chair had been wrought wider than any man had need for, crafted with a large backing that had been carved in the likeness of a wolf howling at the moon. Two curtained corridors opened to either side of the seat, those that led to the other half of Gudmund¡¯s Hall, which housed seven rooms in all. Dust had gathered on the rug-strewn floorboards, along the cupboards and drawers of the guest room, and atop the beds and war-chests that once belonged to Gudmund¡¯s sons. Gudmund¡¯s daughter, Sybille, owned the only room in Gudmund¡¯s Hall with a lock or a door. A young blond guard sat outside it, his legs crossed, his eyes glazed. He had propped his shield beside the door, and sat watching a fat candle burn atop a wooden platter. Engli appeared a little dour in the mellow light, hoping all the while that he wouldn¡¯t have to spend another night listening to a young woman grieve her fallen brothers. Sybille suffered her sorrow in silence though. She stared up at a shadowed bed canopy, walled behind curtains and trapped under blankets, her sleep delayed or broken by the threat or onset of harrowing nightmares. Gudmund lay awake as well, his hairy chest and unruly beard glistening with the dampness of cold air. He panted mist into the darkness, wrestling with grief and fury that threatened to consume him. Each heard a purposeful clunking of wood, a slow groan of hinges, as the huge doors of the main hall swung inward. Wind howled through the silence and set the wolf banners rippling above twin tables. Firelight painted the walls with a crimson glow, wavering with the flames of blackened braziers. Shadows stretched across empty benches as a robed man and a stout guard made their way into Gudmund¡¯s Hall. The pair got around the door and tried to heave it closed, pushed back by the wind despite their efforts. The weather then faded and the door swung back into its frame. Engli flinched as an enormous boom shook the air then echoed twice more before it faded. He crept through the curtains and into the antechamber, his right hand gripping an axe, his left hand squeezing a candle. Gudmund, Chief of Horvorr, strode out from the curtains opposite, wearing only his sword belt.¡°To me, Engli.¡± He stared out into the darkness, his wild gaze lambent with candlelight, his pupils huge in his eyes. ¡°Announce yourselves!¡± The Salt Sage and Ralf approached from between the shadowed feasting tables. ¡°Be at ease.¡± The Salt Sage offered a shallow bow. ¡°A mishap with the door is all it was.¡± Gudmund scowled at the stout guard. ¡°You let a stranger in my hall at night?¡± Ralf scratched at his bulbous nose, his ruddy cheeks turning redder. ¡°I¡ª¡± ¡°It was my fault,¡± the Sage said, ¡°entirely. You might be angry that Ralf has let me in at this hour, but I left him no choice in the matter. I told him that the gods would forsake him should he turn me away in this weather. Which they surely would. I know that your daughter is shaken, and that frightening noises in the night¡ª¡± ¡°Do tell,¡± Gudmund snarled, ¡°what manner of stranger walks unwelcome into my home at night, and offers counsel, yet more unwelcome, without greeting? What manner of fool speaks of my daughter when he has never even met her?¡± ¡°A Sage of Tomlok.¡± The Salt Sage dipped his head towards Gudmund¡¯s sword. ¡°So I can be reasonably certain that there are no enemies in your hall.¡± Gudmund stepped forwards, not lowering his weapon. ¡°And why have you come?¡± ¡°To speak with you¡­ at a more reasonable hour.¡± The Salt Sage turned towards the flaxen-haired guard. ¡°Engli, would you show me to my room?¡± ¡°Room?¡± Gudmund asked. ¡°What makes you think you can stay?¡± ¡°I think that you are a godly man,¡± the Sage explained. ¡°A sensible man. Such that you would not willingly offend the gods, and the Helmsman least of all.¡± Gudmund laughed a bitter laugh. ¡°It is Tomlok that offends me, Sage. Where was his warning when my sons went to their deaths?¡± He shook his head in disgust. ¡°And as to the gods and my godliness, I think you¡¯ve mistook me for a man that cares a whit. They¡¯ve done nothing for me, and I¡¯ll do nothing for them. So try for a different appeal, or leave this place before I cut you down.¡± ¡°Horvorr is at serious risk,¡± the Sage said with all severity. ¡°And I have travelled a very long way to bring you this warning. But if you wish not to hear it then I am of no mind to force you.¡± If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. Gudmund glared. He reluctantly lowered his sword. ¡°One night. I¡¯ll hear your warning in the morning. Be ready to run if I take no liking to it.¡± ¡°Of course,¡± the Sage said, beckoning Engli. ¡°My thanks.¡± ¡°Ralf!¡± Gudmund called over to the stout guard, who had started creeping back to the main door. ¡°Take my guest to his room.¡± Ralf rushed back to the three men. He bowed low to Gudmund, then ushered the Sage through the curtained corridor. He returned not long after, stopping opposite Engli. The guards shared worried glances, then both men watched the floor while they waited for the Chief of Horvorr to speak. ¡°You can go,¡± Gudmund said. ¡°Not you,¡± to Engli, when both moved to leave. Ralf bowed before hurrying through the feasting tables. The door opened to a windless yard lit by two blackened braziers, then came to a resounding close that faded to leave the gloomy hall in silence. Engli could only faintly see Gudmund the muted candlelight. The Chief of Horvorr stared, but spoke no words. ¡°Engli,¡± he eventually said, his proud voice giving the blond man a chill. ¡°Don¡¯t ever forget your shield again.¡± ¡°I won¡¯t.¡± Engli bowed in apology. ¡°On my word.¡± ¡°Now I need you to listen to me,¡± Gudmund explained. ¡°If that Sage leaves his room tonight, then I need you to kill him.¡± Engli belatedly shook his head. ¡°I can¡¯t kill a Sage.¡± Gudmund loomed closer, and scowled down. ¡°You would defy me?¡± ¡°In all else, no.¡± Engli looked askance. ¡°But for the gods, of course.¡± ¡°The gods,¡± Gudmund mocked. ¡°Then go back to brushing my daughter¡¯s hair.¡± He spun on his heel, and strode into the dark. ¡°I¡¯ve no use for godly cowards.¡± *** Engli watched the curtains long after the naked man had passed through them. Unease cloyed at him when he did turn back to his own corridor. He passed by the rooms of Gudmund¡¯s fallen sons, of Sybille¡¯s brothers, and knew emptiness resided behind the curtained entryways. He stared at the fur-covered floor, but couldn¡¯t stop himself from thinking of how Hjorvarth had saved him, how if he hadn¡¯t needed saving then Hjorvarth would¡¯ve been able to save Geirmund instead. He wasn¡¯t able to shake the thought that he should have just died, so that Geirmund could have lived. He shouldn¡¯t have called out for help. He should have gone quietly to his death. Engli sighed, setting the candle back on the platter. He startled at a creaking door. Sybille leaned out, wearing a tawny gown lined with wolf fur. Her red hair fell over her pale shoulders. ¡°Engli?¡± she asked in a soft voice quieted by disuse. ¡°What happened?¡± ¡°It was nothing,¡± Engli assured with a smile. ¡°The wind.¡± Sybille glanced at his axe and he slid it back into his belt. ¡°It scared me, that¡¯s all.¡± Sybille covered her mouth to yawn. ¡°Then why were you speaking to my father?¡± ¡°He has a visitor. A Sage of Tomlok.¡± Sybille rubbed at her eyes. ¡°That can¡¯t be good.¡± ¡°Why wouldn¡¯t it be good?¡± ¡°He wouldn¡¯t come all this way just to let us know that everything is going to be fine.¡± ¡°That¡¯s a fair point,¡± Engli admitted. ¡°Why do you think he¡¯s here?¡± Engli wanted to speak with her, but Gudmund had warned him more than once about keeping his daughter awake. ¡°You should go back to bed, Sybille.¡± ¡°I can¡¯t sleep.¡± Sybille opened her door wider. ¡°Sit with me?¡± ¡°I shouldn¡¯t,¡± Engli said. ¡°I need to watch the hall.¡± ¡°So leave the door open. You were only going to sit outside my room.¡± Sybille stepped forward, soreness of the raw skin under her eyes now clear in the candlelight. ¡°Please, Engli. I can¡¯t sleep and I don¡¯t want to be alone. Not when it¡¯s so quiet, and so cold.¡± Engli frowned as if disconcerted. ¡°I¡¯ll stay until you fall asleep.¡± Sybille beamed, even as tears rolled down her cheeks. They left the door open, letting candlelight suffuse into the small room. Sybille settled back onto her feather mattress and nestled under woven blankets. Engli tucked her in, then sat on the end of her bed. He let the time pass in silence, often glancing over to the shadowed mound of furs and blankets that covered her. ¡°I hate this,¡± she spoke in a tearful whisper. ¡°I hate the quiet.¡± Engli offered no answer. She sat up to look at him. ¡°Agnar should be muttering in his sleep, or laughing with a woman, or just laughing at himself. Geirmund and Grettir should be talking in low voices across the hall.¡± Sybille swallowed and sniffled. ¡°There should be more than this. More than the wind and the quiet and the cold. They should be living and laughing around me¡­ I shouldn¡¯t have to sleep next to their empty rooms. I shouldn¡¯t have to be alone.¡± Engli had no words for her, even though her sadness wrenched him. He dare not say that she had him, because he wasn¡¯t what she wanted. She wanted her brothers, and her family. Engli was only the coward that survived while they died. ¡°I wish Grettir would stay with us,¡± Sybille spoke more firmly. ¡°But he can¡¯t stand it any more than I can. He said that I could stay with him¡ªthat we both could, but Gudmund won¡¯t move. He doesn¡¯t even make his own food. He just spends all his time in his room, not speaking to anyone. Not to me, not even to Grettir.¡± ¡°He is grieving,¡± Engli said. ¡°It¡¯s no fault of yours.¡± ¡°He thinks it is,¡± Sybille whispered. ¡°He doesn¡¯t say it, but I can see it. When he really looks at me, I can see the disappointment in his eyes. He would rather that I died¡ª¡± ¡°That isn¡¯t true, Sybille,¡± Engli argued with as forceful a whisper as he could manage. ¡°And it does no good to convince yourself that it is. If he seems disappointed when he looks at you, then it¡¯s surely because he sees how sorrowed you are.¡± Sybille stared at his silhouette. ¡°Do you truly think so?¡± ¡°Yes,¡± Engli assured. He almost spoke of how Gudmund had been much the same when grieving his wife, but remembered she had died giving birth to Sybille. ¡°I think you should go to bed now, Sybille. Gudmund worries you¡¯re not getting enough sleep.¡± ¡°Did he tell you that?¡± ¡°Yes.¡± Engli nodded. ¡°And he seemed to think that I had something to do with it.¡± 16. Redemption 16. Restless ¡°I sometimes wonder if I will ever redeem myself. Not that there is truly anything to redeem. But it could be said that the outcomes of my otherwise well intended actions have been less than desirable. And, naturally, have caused some resentment among those who were affected. But all those men knew what they¡¯d signed up for. The first expedition had already gone missing. And they all greedily took the coins from my hands. But now the widows are piling up and their tongues are wagging in grief. And all on a sudden, I am spoken of not as Bard but Isleif the Disgraced instead. What is it they expect me to do? Lead the next expedition myself? Perhaps they will have kinder words for me when I, too, am dead. If I did not have Sibbe and Hjorvarth to care for, I might even consider it. See with my own eyes what is out in the mountains causing scores of fighting men to disappear without a trail.¡± Dawn¡¯s approach brought half-light to the fur-strewn corridors of Gudmund¡¯s Hall. In Sybille¡¯s room, shadows had barely been lifted as she slept soundlessly under her blankets. Engli dozed on the end of the bed, his legs overhanging the edge. The Salt Sage stood over them both. ¡°You should probably get up, Engli. Gudmund will be awake soon.¡± Engli mumbled to himself. He started to stretch, striking a bedpost instead. ¡°Engli. You ought to get up.¡± He opened his eyes, colourless in the faint light, then frowned up at the robed man. ¡°What are you doing in here?¡± ¡°I could ask you the same question,¡± the Salt Sage whispered. He then chucked. ¡°I need to speak with you, Engli. I thought it best to wake you before Gudmund found you sleeping in his daughter¡¯s room.¡± Sybille murmured. ¡°Engli?¡± ¡°It¡¯s nothing, Sybille.¡± Engli pushed up to a sitting position. ¡°It¡¯s almost morning. I¡¯m going to go.¡± ¡°Oh.¡± Sybille yawned, pulling the covers tighter about her. The Salt Sage helped the blond man to his feet. ¡°Something wrong, Engli?¡± Engli glanced away from the rag-wrapped visage. ¡°No. You¡¯re just stronger than you look.¡± ¡°A common complaint.¡± The Salt Sage walked towards the door. ¡°Are you coming?¡± Engli crept across the room. He glanced back at the bed before pulling the door to a close. He then nearly walked into the robed man. The Salt Sage snickered. ¡°Did you forget about me already?¡± ¡°I scare easy when I¡¯m tired.¡± Engli backed towards the door. ¡°And the chill and the dark doesn¡¯t help.¡± He offered a polite smile. ¡°Do you have a name, Sage?¡± The Salt Sage shook his hooded head. ¡°Oh.¡± Engli nodded. ¡°How did you know mine? Did Ralf or Eirik tell you?¡± ¡°I guessed.¡± ¡°You have my thanks for waking me,¡± Engli said, lifting his shield from the floor before he turned to leave. ¡°Have you ever heard of the Hall of Hrothgar?¡± Engli paused in the corridor. ¡°You won¡¯t find anyone in Horvorr who hasn¡¯t. I hope you¡¯re not¡ª¡± ¡°I am, and I wanted to know if you wished to accompany me.¡± ¡°No.¡± Engli frowned back at the robed man. ¡°And so you know, Sage, a lot of men have gone before you. Hundreds. And only one has ever come back.¡± ¡°I expect that they¡¯re all dead,¡± the Salt Sage dismissed. ¡°But then they all went looking in the wrong places.¡± ¡°Good luck, then, if you¡¯re set on going. But I would warn you against the journey.¡± The Salt Sage smiled. ¡°And you¡¯re sure you don¡¯t want to come with me?¡± ¡°I¡¯m sure,¡± Engli replied as he turned to leave. ¡°I¡¯m more than sure.¡± ¡°Engli.¡± The Salt Sage grabbed him by the shoulder. ¡°Do you really think Gudmund will let his daughter marry a man whose name is not known beyond the walls of his own home? Or the walls of his parent¡¯s home, as the case may be?¡± ¡°I wouldn¡¯t know.¡± Engli shot an angry glance and shrugged free of the grip. ¡°I don¡¯t give it much thought.¡± ¡°I think you give it a give it a great deal of thought, and I think the answer that you often come to, on your less than hopeful days, is no.¡± Engli managed a thin smile. ¡°Is that right?¡± ¡°Just a guess,¡± the Sage said. ¡°I¡¯m not wrong about Gudmund though. It was one thing when he had his sons.¡± He upturned his gloved palms. ¡°But now Sybille is all he has, and he isn¡¯t going to give her away to likes of you.¡± ¡°The likes of me?¡± Engli asked with anger and amusement. ¡°I¡¯ll admit, I¡¯m slightly wounded.¡± ¡°I¡¯m simply telling you the truth, Engli. That there¡¯s no chance for you and Sybille¡­ unless¡ªbut, no, never mind.¡± ¡°Unless?¡± ¡°Unless, Engli, son of Linden, was not just a guard of Horvorr.¡± ¡°And who else would I be, Sage?¡± ¡°No less than one of the heroes that found the Hall of Hrothgar.¡± Engli bitterly laughed. ¡°Me and you on this journey, is it? A pair of heroes.¡± The Salt Sage nodded. ¡°A pair of heroes, exactly that. Though I don¡¯t count myself among them. There¡¯s another coming along.¡± Engli raised his blond brows. ¡°Isleif himself, I suppose?¡± ¡°Close,¡± the Sage said. ¡°Very close, but no. It¡¯s his son, Hjorvarth.¡± ¡°Hjorvarth?¡± Engli¡¯s mirth gave way to doubtful concern. ¡°Hjorvarth has said that he¡¯s going to help you find the Hall of Hrothgar?¡± ¡°Not yet. But he will,¡± the Sage¡¯s voice had taken on a dark edge. ¡°One way or the other.¡± Engli felt the chill more keenly than he had a moment before. He started stepping backwards. ¡±Well you go and convince him, and if he agrees¡ªwhen he agrees, I mean¡ªthen I¡¯ll be more than happy to accompany you. How does that sound?¡± ¡°How does it sound?¡± The Salt Sage swept forwards to grasp the young man¡¯s shoulder, matching his smile and meeting his wary eyes. ¡°Like a song from Frold himself.¡± *** Linden, Engli¡¯s father by law, had bought his home for himself, so it had only three small rooms. The main room had been built the largest, while the two rooms adjacent were each half the size, separated only by a single step. He had meant to use one as a workshop, but had never had the chance, given that Engli took it as his room for the years past. He slept with Anna in the other, his wife of nearly ten winters. The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. The main room was used for all else but sleeping, with corners that were huddled and stacked with weaved baskets, fishing rods, blankets, and never-to-be-repaired tools that Linden had collected to fix in his forge. A tall table took up most the space, only wide enough for two seats on either side. Linden and Engli sat there, the father with his back to cupboards, the son with his back to the door, while Anna stood to the right at the stove, preparing her family¡¯s food. She then stirred a large pot that hung above a modest fire, which still burned high enough to fill the main room with smoke and heat, joined by the benign scent of carrots and potatoes, and the reek of fish soup. Linden took great joy watching his small wife in her element. She had blond hair and green eyes like he did, and they were both short in stature. She was more beautiful than he was though, with a dangerous glint in her eyes that seemed suited to her wiry frame. Linden himself had soft eyes, a little cunning, a little childish, but mostly kind. He was broad in the shoulder and built sturdy from winters of hammering anvils. He sat fiddling with a loose thread of his shirt¡¯s sleeve. ¡°And what¡¯s wrong with you, son?¡± Engli paid little mind to the question. His mind was slowed by a lack of sleep and clouded by thoughts of the night and morning past. ¡°If you¡¯re going to act like you¡¯re sleeping, you might as well go to sleep.¡± ¡°Hm?¡± Engli glanced up at his father. ¡°Oh. There¡¯s nothing wrong.¡± ¡°You hear that wife?¡± Linden turned to Anna, who stood by the stove, her cheeks aglow with firelight as she wiped sweat from her brow. ¡°He hasn¡¯t spoken more than a few words since he¡¯s come in, but there¡¯s nothing wrong.¡± ¡°Have you considered, husband¡ª¡± Anna looked back, squinting in defense of the heat ¡°That he doesn¡¯t want to talk to you about whatever it is?¡± Linden gravely nodded. ¡°I had considered that. But I was not yet ready to accept it.¡± He turned to his son. ¡°Is that how it is, Engli?¡± ¡°No,¡± Engli said with a shake of his head. ¡°I was thinking. Of small things.¡± ¡°Thinking,¡± Anna remarked as if impressed. ¡°He must have learned that from me.¡± She walked over to the cooking pot, tasted the soup, and started to break apart the tinder in the fire. Linden and Engli sat in silence while she went about the business of filling bowls and setting them on the table. She got a mug of ale for each of them too, and then left them to blow on their soup. Anna then bent by the oven and used a flat-ended tool to lift out a loaf of golden bread. She placed that onto a large cloth before setting it on the table as well. Linden swallowed a spoonful of soup. He winced and coughed. ¡°Burnt your mouth?¡± Anna asked. Linden nodded as he drank from his ale. Anna shook her head at husband before she looked to her son. ¡°How was work, Engli?¡± ¡°Gudmund had a visitor,¡± Engli said, taking more notice of the smoky surroundings. ¡°He came at the dead of night.¡± Anna cut the loaf down the middle. Once more to make it quarters. ¡°Oh?¡± ¡°He said he was a Sage of Tomlok.¡± Linden wiped froth from his mouth. ¡°Tomlok?¡± Anna set her own bowl beside him. ¡°That¡¯s the Helmsman, husband.¡± ¡°He ferried those who wanted their future¡¯s told to Muradoon¡¯s Isle,¡± Engli added. ¡°But he became jealous of Muradoon¡¯s gift. So he tried scoop out his eyes.¡± ¡°Ah.¡± Linden nodded. ¡°So you asked ask him for your future. And that¡¯s what¡¯s got you so down.¡± ¡°You better not have,¡± Anna warned. ¡°I didn¡¯t ask him anything, other than his name,¡± Engli said. Linden shrugged, and resumed eating. ¡°He did mention some things about Gudmund.¡± ¡°Gudmund,¡± Linden muttered. He noticed his wife scowling, so smiled and took a breath. ¡°What did he say then, son?¡± Anna shared the still steaming bread. Linden groped for a piece while watching his son. Fingers touched the crust, and he jerked them back. ¡°He said that Gudmund wouldn¡¯t marry his daughter to someone¡­¡± ¡°Like you?¡± Linden asked. He blew on his fingers. ¡°So what? I tell you that all the time. You¡¯ve got Gertrude, or Dalla, neither of them taken, and both would make a fine wife. Good women with wide hips and useful skills. You should forget about being a household guard, and go back on the road.¡± Anna was scowling. ¡°Husband.¡± ¡°I mean to say,¡± Linden said, smiling at his wife, ¡°that it doesn¡¯t matter. You had to have known, son. You¡¯re not children anymore. You even went with Sybille and her brothers on the trip to Timilir. Did you not consider that she might end up married when the whole purpose of her visit was to swear herself to Jarl Thrand¡¯s son? Or were you hoping that Hjorvarth would murder her other suitors, as well?¡± ¡°Murder?¡± Engli asked with anger. ¡°Thorfinn tried to stab Geirmund in the back.¡± Linden proffered his palms. ¡°I made no judgement. I only meant that Gudmund aims to find her a husband, a rich man, or an important man, and more than likely both.¡± He carefully pulled away a piece of bread, then tossed it into the soup. ¡°Take any notions you have for that girl, and throw them away. That¡¯s what I say.¡± Engli sighed. He dipped bread into his soup. ¡°You saved her life,¡± Anna reminded. ¡°And that¡¯s a fine thing, Engli.¡± ¡°But not fine enough?¡± he asked. ¡°Might have been,¡± Linden said. ¡°If his sons didn¡¯t get themselves killed.¡± Anna swatted his shoulder. ¡°Do not speak ill of the dead, husband.¡± ¡°If his sons hadn¡¯t died,¡± he amended. ¡°But Gudmund¡¯s never been a pleasant man. And now he¡¯s got no sons, and he¡¯s got no wife either.¡± Linden sighed. ¡°I don¡¯t know why you don¡¯t just work for me, instead of risking your life for less coin.¡± Engli knew that men often learned a family trade, but he knew as well that his real father had been a fighter. ¡°I¡¯ve no mind to be a blacksmith.¡± ¡°Why not?¡± Linden asked, struggling to smile. He took a breath, shying away from his wife¡¯s warning stare. ¡°I know why, of course. We¡¯ve talked about it enough. But not every man has to become his father. The man that made me was a drunkard and a bully, and I might beat a lot of things but I¡¯ve never hit a woman.¡± He raised his brows, drummed his fingers against the table, then reached once more for his spoon. ¡°Forget I made mention.¡± Anna rubbed her husband¡¯s shoulder. ¡°Any idiot can swing a sword or an axe, Engli. But it takes skill to make one.¡± Smiling, Linden leaned over to kiss his wife. Engli watched them and grew uneasy with the settling silence. ¡°And what if I can¡¯t forget about Sybille?¡± Linden¡¯s answering smile was apologetic. ¡°Then I¡¯d say you¡¯re not trying hard enough.¡± ¡°Is it so much to ask for a wife that I love?¡± ¡°Love?¡± Linden scoffed. ¡°That¡ª¡± Anna placed her hand over her husband¡¯s own. ¡°You don¡¯t love her. And even if you did¡ªand you don¡¯t¡ªwhat could you do? Do you think Linden says these things to hurt you?¡± she asked. ¡°Gudmund will not let you marry his daughter, even if she wanted to marry you. You guard her, and you saved her, but that doesn¡¯t mean she owes you her hand. Gudmund has already paid you back, and it wouldn¡¯t surprise me if he was angry at you for letting his sons die.¡± Engli blinked. ¡°How would that be my fault?¡± ¡°It isn¡¯t,¡± Linden assured. ¡°But Gudmund has turned mad and spiteful. Just tell me this¡­ how are you going to convince him to marry his daughter to you?¡± Engli decided to study his soup. ¡°And does she love you?¡± he pressed, despite having no answer. ¡°If she does, can you be sure that it isn¡¯t because of her grief? That it isn¡¯t because she lost her brothers, and she has no one else? And if you love her, Engli¡ªand I agree with your mother that you don¡¯t¡ªis it right of you to trade on her loss for your gain?¡± ¡°I would never do that,¡± Engli nearly shouted. ¡°That isn¡¯t what I¡¯m trying to do.¡± Linden only smirked at his anger. ¡°I know it isn¡¯t, son. But I prefer anger to brooding.¡± He shrugged. ¡°And what¡¯s your answer to the rest of my questions?¡± ¡°The Salt Sage told me that he is going to the Hall of Hrothgar, and asked¡­¡± Engli noticed his mother¡¯s dark regard. ¡°He asked if I would go with¡ª¡± ¡°You are not going,¡± Anna quiet words were clearly heard. ¡°And you will never speak of that place in my hearing again. Do you understand me, Engli?¡± Engli smiled in confusion. ¡°But¡ª¡± ¡°Engli,¡± Linden spoke in a low, warning voice that he often used when he was fearful of his wife¡¯s ire. ¡°Eat your food, and think about what I said. You¡¯re not too old to learn a new trade. And you¡¯re still young and handsome enough to find a wife that will help you instead of hurt you.¡± Engli almost let the matter rest. ¡°He said that Hjorvarth would be going, ¡®one way or the other.¡¯ Like a promise. Or a threat.¡± ¡°I wouldn¡¯t worry about that,¡± Linden said. ¡°Unless this Salt Sage happened to be built like a hill giant.¡± ¡°He¡¯s leaving this morning, isn¡¯t he?¡± Anna asked. Engli blinked. ¡°For where?¡± ¡°Grettir put him in charge of the Autumn Trip,¡± Anna explained. ¡°He¡¯ll be gone for a season or more. So you can go and check the gate and make sure that he¡¯s gone so that you won¡¯t need to worry about this other journey. But I¡¯d be honestly surprised if your new friend survives even a day in Gudmund¡¯s Hall if he speaks as freely as that.¡± Engli started to rise. ¡°Eat your food first. They won¡¯t leave for a while.¡± Engli sat back in his seat and started to eat, wondering if he shouldn¡¯t now ask to leave with the rest of Horvorr¡¯s Guard. Hjorvarth had saved his life after all, and now might be the time to repay the favour. Or he might make a fool of himself and become further indebted. But Engli would never forgive himself if the huge warrior went without him and died. Maybe Linden was right. It was time to give up on being a household guard. 17. Loyal Second 17. Loyal Second ¡°There is a new song sung in the taverns of Timilir, The Bear of Vendrick. By my own understanding, it is a thinly veiled effort at insulting a once-loved hero who eloped with the daughter of Jarl Alfgeir. The latest rumours say that this hairy beast has fled to Southwestern Tymir. I wonder if I should sing the song to Grettir.¡± Grettir sat opposite the Salt Sage in Gudmund¡¯s Hall. They were the only two men dining on the benches and Grettir wasn¡¯t actually eating. Even so, this was the most men that had dined there in the past month. Grettir had been told to watch over the Salt Sage, but he thought the man seemed harmless and unremarkable, save for that he wrapped his face in rags, which was an odd sort of way to hide the true intentions that showed on a person¡¯s face. The Salt Sage had made a slow effort of eating oats, but he now looked up from his bowl. ¡°How did you lose your arm?¡± Grettir¡¯s laugh was rough like his voice. ¡°Fond of simple questions?¡± ¡°I meant no offence,¡± said the Sage, scraping up the remnants of his meal. ¡°None caused.¡± Grettir glanced at the black sleeve sagging from his right shoulder. ¡°Goblins are always soiling their spears, and one gave me a small cut. It had happened before so I paid it less mind than I should have. It started to turn bad, and I tried to burn it out¡­ which didn¡¯t make things much better.¡± The Salt Sage nodded. ¡°So I had to go to the Ritual House. I was carried there,¡± he amended. ¡°And then the Godi hacked off my arm. He told me that I was lucky to be alive, given all of the blood I¡¯d lost.¡± He laughed a disappointed laugh. ¡°I punched him in the throat for that. I shouldn¡¯t have, mind, but I wasn¡¯t much in a good mood.¡± ¡°Understandable,¡± the Sage replied. ¡°But you still lead Horvorr¡¯s Guard.¡± ¡°Do I?¡± Grettir sighed, and rubbed at his bearded chin. ¡°Hard for me tell these days. They¡¯re getting restless.¡± ¡°Rebellious?¡± ¡°Aye,¡± he admitted. ¡°They weren¡¯t paid for the season past.¡± ¡°Because they failed to protect the sons of Gudmund?¡± Grettir studied the visitor for a long while before giving answer. ¡°I wouldn¡¯t say that to folk round here. Gudmund least of all. He¡¯ll agree with you readily enough but he¡¯s not a man that should be reminded of his losses. All the worse if those words come from a stranger claiming to be sent by a god that did him no favours.¡± The Salt Sage met the sentiment with silence. He pushed away his empty bowl. ¡°Why does Gudmund think that he deserve favours from the gods?¡± ¡°I¡¯m not laying blame.¡± Grettir upturned his weathered palm. ¡°Only warning you that he¡¯s took grievance against the gods before you ever came to Horvorr. And if you misspeak then it might well cost you your life.¡± His eyes narrowed. ¡°Whatever protection you¡¯ve been afforded elsewhere, you won¡¯t have it here. I won¡¯t go as far as saying this place lacks faith, but you might have noticed we¡¯ve no shrines to any god but Muradoon the Spirit Talker.¡± ¡°My thanks for your warning, Grettir.¡± The Salt Sage dipped his head before rising. ¡°I¡¯m now ready to see Gudmund.¡± Grettir stepped up from the bench. ¡°I¡¯ll lead you to him.¡± The robed man and the one-armed man walked away from the feasting tables. They fell in step at the imposing chair, and strode through the curtains of the left corridor. ¡°If you don¡¯t mind me asking,¡± Grettir said. ¡°What does a Sage of Tomlok actually do?¡± ¡°Do?¡± the Sage asked. ¡°I suppose most are sent to the Driftwood Grotto, where they drink sea salt until they¡¯re half mad and are happy enough to be left alone scrawling out prophecies in the darkness. Fingernails against stone.¡± ¡°Oh.¡± Grettir nodded as if that were usual enough. ¡°But you¡¯re different?¡± ¡°Yes.¡± The Salt Sage studied furs on the floor. ¡°I¡¯m long past half mad.¡± Grettir chuckled. He paused outside the counsel room. ¡°Wait here until I call you in,¡± he instructed before ducking through the purple curtain that marked the door. Eight black-and-silver banners covered the walls within, which made the counsel room appear ever-ready for darkness. Chief Gudmund sat waiting on the high-backed chair of an octagonal table. The eight seats were each dark and varnished, worked with gold symbols that depicted stars, scrolls and runes. Broknar the Elder¡¯s full likeness had been carved, light against dark, into the tabletop. The god of wisdom wore a conical helm, wild hair tangling down, reaching to meet a twisted beard. Sunken eyes, owly brows atop them, peered down towards the great and endless scroll that unfurled into his lap. Gudmund scrutinised the carved scroll as well, reading the false language scrawled. He hadn¡¯t bother to comb and his unruly red hair stood apart from his formal black clothing. He managed a tired smile for his oldest friend. ¡°Grettir.¡± Grettir wore all black as well, so both men appeared suited to the room. ¡°Gudmund.¡± ¡°You might as well bring him in.¡± Grettir took the seat at his Chief¡¯s right, where the carved scroll gave appearance of spilling over the edge. ¡°Sage!¡± The Salt Sage swept through the curtains. ¡°Chief Gudmund.¡± He bowed in greeting. ¡°I thank you for the audience granted.¡± ¡°Forced or taken might be closer to the mark,¡± Gudmund replied. ¡°I¡¯d thought it some trick of the night when I saw you last. Why have you covered your face?¡± ¡°When I was a young boy, I told a man that his wife would leave him, and he did not take well to the news,¡± the Sage said without hesitation. ¡°I was in a forge at the time, and the furnace was near to hand. His wife did leave him in the end. When she could not reconcile her husband with the man who had so burnt my face.¡± Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation. Gudmund sniffed. ¡°I¡¯m half tempted to make you show me your burns. But the sooner you begin the sooner you finish. So go ahead.¡± ¡°If you¡¯re sure?¡± the Sage asked. ¡°I am.¡± Gudmund waved his hand towards the chair opposite. ¡°Sit.¡± The Salt Sage dipped his head, and pulled out the high-backed chair. He sat with two banners behind him and it looked as though the silver-woven wolves were poised to strike. ¡°I have come here on the bidding of the Elder Sages.¡± He spread his gloved palms across the black table. ¡°Those of the Driftwood Grotto.¡± Gudmund waved him on. ¡°Southwestern Tymir has long been troubled by Goblins, has it not?¡± the Sage continued. ¡°Ever since Jarl Harrod broke their main strength in the Midderlands.¡± Grettir nodded. ¡°Aye.¡± ¡°He did,¡± Gudmund said. ¡°And then he drove them south and into our mountains for us to deal with.¡± ¡°Which you have, honourably,¡± the Sage said. ¡°Yet the last attack cost you greatly.¡± Gudmund stilled him with a raised hand. ¡°I¡¯ll tell you now that I¡¯ve no patience for you, Sage. So don¡¯t speak of cost when you know nothing of what I¡¯ve paid. Don¡¯t speak of a battle that you didn¡¯t attend. If you¡¯re here to warn me, to bring a message, then go ahead. But don¡¯t be clever with your words.¡± The Salt Sage straightened. ¡°If we cannot speak of battles we did not attend then I suppose the both of us must remain silent.¡± Gudmund met those words with a cruel grin. ¡°Unless you¡¯ve come all this way to die, I¡¯d flee this room before you¡¯re running on bloody stumps.¡± ¡°Strike me and the gods will curse you.¡± Gudmund started to laugh, then slammed the table instead. ¡°I am already cursed!¡± ¡°Gudmund,¡± Grettir entreated. ¡°This man has a come a long way. Is there any real harm in hearing him out?¡± ¡°Why don¡¯t we ask that of the man that burned your face, Sage?¡± Gudmund growled. ¡°He was married before he met you, was he not? And after? No doubt reviled for his violence and then forced into a life of isolation. No child for him. No woman for him. No respect. No happiness.¡± The Salt Sage¡¯s chuckle held malice. ¡°So you would not hear me out for fear that my humble words will poison your fate?¡± ¡°My fate can be no more poisoned.¡± ¡°Then where is the risk?¡± the Sage brightly asked. ¡°Speak, then!¡± Gudmund demanded. ¡°Deliver your cruel prophecies!¡± ¡°The Snake Basin Path was but the first strike in a wider war,¡± the robed man explained. ¡°Those whom you defeated, whom you stole these lands from, have returned. The hundreds slain number as nothing to the thousands that remain. Your region is overrun. You are surrounded.¡± The Salt Sage took a deep breath. ¡°Your sons died for nothing, Gudmund. They died because you refused your duty. And if you do so again¡ª¡± Gudmund lifted the table, flipping it up and into the air. The Sage¡¯s seat collapsed with a crunch while the rest were scattered in all directions. The Salt Sage was already standing with his back to a black banner. He reached for his sword but Gudmund¡¯s own blade pressed against his throat. The Chief of Horvorr hauled the robed man from his feet. ¡°You¡ª¡± ¡°¡ªanswered a question that you asked! Do you think it does you good to act so rabid, Gudmund? You may have lost your faith, but the people of Horvorr have not. You spill my blood in your house, under sight of the gods, and you will be cursed. Your sons, and all of your line, no longer welcome with Brikorhaan.¡± Gudmund met the words with a smirk. ¡°I should kill you now and be done with this.¡± ¡°If your grief is so deep,¡± the Sage spoke coldly, ¡°perhaps you ought to kill yourself.¡± ¡°Gudmund!¡± Grettir roared, his axe drawn and glinting in the dim light. ¡°You need to let him go.¡± ¡°You¡¯d end my life to protect this stranger?¡± Gudmund asked in disbelief. ¡°Not for him. I would end your waking life to safeguard the one that comes after.¡± Gudmund nearly cried as he laughed. ¡°And what if nothing comes after, old friend?¡± he demanded. ¡°What then? What will I have waited so long for?¡± ¡°That wait will be even harder with the lingering smell of a corpse,¡± Grettir argued. ¡°And he¡¯s not wrong. We¡¯ll all suffer if you take his life.¡± Gudmund scowled at the hapless man in his lifeless robe. He kept hold as he lowered him to the floor. ¡°Leave my town tonight or I will come and kill you. I don¡¯t care about the gods. But he¡¯s not wrong when he says you¡¯ll make an awful sort of smell.¡± He shoved the robed man towards the purple curtain. ¡°Thank you.¡± The Salt Sage bowed, backing towards the door. ¡°But I won¡¯t be leaving this town. At least not until I¡¯m good and ready.¡± Gudmund chuckled, but he trembled with hate. ¡°Then you will die as the sun rises.¡± ¡°If only that were true,¡± he replied wistfully. ¡°Nevertheless¡ª¡± ¡°Sage.¡± Grettir pushed the robed man towards the curtain. ¡°Time to leave.¡± ¡°Time to leave,¡± Gudmund agreed. ¡°But¡ª¡± Grettir shoved him into the corridor. He urged the robed man forward, arm around shoulder. ¡°Have you got a death wish, Sage?¡± The Salt Sage sighed. ¡°My apologies. I¡¯m often rankled when men threaten to kill me for no reason.¡± ¡°No reason?¡± Grettir asked. ¡°I wanted to kill you myself.¡± He shook his head in frustration, and ushered the robed man into the main hall. ¡°Did you?¡± The Salt Sage stopped at the foot of the ornate chair. ¡°I was simply delivering my message.¡± ¡°Aye,¡± Grettir muttered. ¡°Delivered like the stab of a dagger. You¡¯re a cruel man, Sage, and you¡¯ve no place here.¡± ¡°Nor will you, or anyone else, when the goblins arrive in their thousands.¡± Grettir offered no answer to that. His hirsute visage was troubled. ¡°How much coin has Gudmund given to the Ritual House?¡± the Sage then asked. ¡°Is that business of yours, or even mine?¡± Grettir scowled. ¡°It¡¯s time for you to leave.¡± ¡°The Godi of Muradoon¡­ Lovrin, yes?¡± Grettir belatedly nodded. ¡°He lives at the Ritual House.¡± ¡°He has given Gudmund some tincture to help him sleep?¡± ¡°What of it?¡± ¡°Baneful to the mind,¡± the Sage answered. ¡°He means to soften Gudmund, and profit from his grief. Only he has the measures wrong, which makes it closer to poison.¡± Grettir leaned close to meet his eyes. ¡°And why are you telling me this?¡± ¡°Because when a man refuses to help himself, it is up to those that care about him to help in his stead,¡± the Sage explained. ¡°Accompany me to the Ritual House, Grettir. And I will prove to you that Lovrin is poisoning Gudmund. And¡ªwhen I do¡ªI would like you to delay, or cancel, the Autumn Trip.¡± ¡°And why would I do that?¡± ¡°Because you will know that I am an honest and perceptive man. You will know that you can trust my warnings. Whether delivered as knives or as flowers.¡± Grettir eventually led him toward the ornate doors. ¡°I don¡¯t like you, Sage.¡± ¡°That¡¯s fine,¡± he replied. ¡°I was never asking for that. Not from you. Nor anyone.¡± 18. Timely Intervention 18. Timely Intervention ¡°Strange to think that I almost ended my days, after so many reckless adventures, at the hands of a jilted husband. I might have fancied myself in a fight against an angry Gudmund, but when Brolli stumbled upon the scene as well, I soon resigned myself to my fate. No matter how badly he has suffered, nor how much drink or drugs he may have drowned himself with, Brolli the Black cannot¡ªby any man of our era¡ªbe beaten in a duel. Strangely though, Brolli did not side with his older brother. He almost came to blows with him instead. And, as swiftly as I came to terms with my oncoming death, I was then faced with disbelief, and disgust, to listen to the story that Brolli and Hilda span up together from thin air. Here I thought I was the storyteller. In any case, it was a timely intervention. Gudmund, for his part, swallowed story and anger both. Who knew such a rash man could conjure such self control. Perhaps because he believes as I believe that raising a sword against his younger brother is a fool¡¯s errand. Or, with the war as precarious as it is, perhaps he is not willing to lose the ¡®Blackheart.¡¯¡± Horvorr¡¯s Main Gate lay open in preparation for the Autumn Trip, which made for no clear path because the churned road lay blocked by shaggy oxen, half-laden carts, and two dozen bearded fighters. Those men were mostly grizzled and bearded, wearing chain shirts, padded leather and thick wool. Horvorr¡¯s Guard had been busying themselves with preparations, but now they all turned towards Horvorr¡¯s Barracks, which had been built within a mound of earth, so that the black walls of the second floor appeared to sprout from the ground, and the main door could only be reached by a stair that began at a wooden podium. Grettir stood on that podium, hirsute face wary as he looked down at the gathered men. He had seen Lovrin and the Ritual House and the Godi had been all too panicked when the charges were brought against him. He had indeed brewed a dangerous tincture. ¡°No doubt you¡¯re all wondering what I have to say,¡± Grettir declared. A muttered agreement carried through the crowd. Hairy oxen stamped and spluttered amongst those of Horvorr¡¯s Guard. ¡°Not good news, I¡¯m afraid.¡± Grettir tried to smile despite the distrustful muttering. ¡°This expedition has been delayed.¡± ¡°Delayed?¡± one man shouted above the other complaints. ¡°Till when?¡± asked another. ¡°For a while,¡± Grettir replied, uncertain of the answer. ¡°Until then all of this needs to be packed away. The carts and oxen returned¡ª¡± ¡°Fuck yourself!¡± one shouted. ¡°We need work!¡± said another. ¡°We¡¯ve got to clear the roads!¡± demanded a third. ¡°Our families need food!¡± ¡°I understand all that!¡± Grettir called back. ¡°I do! But¡ª¡± ¡°But what?¡± A broad man, who was named Hadin, threw his chain armour into the mud. ¡°This is shit, Grettir!¡± ¡°Is it shit?¡± Grettir descended the stair and strode forward into the angry crowd. ¡°Is it shit, that I¡¯m trying to save your lives?¡± Hadin was lean compared to those around him, his black hair tied back into a tail. ¡°From what?¡± he shouted, rousing the crowd¡¯s anger. ¡°We know the risks!¡± another man called. The Salt Stage stepped to the podium¡¯s edge above, looking down on those gathered. ¡°Goblins were going to ambush you all! They number in the thousands!¡± ¡°Who is he?¡± a young man asked everyone. ¡°Who are you?¡± he demanded of the Sage. ¡°He is a guest of Chief Gudmund,¡± Grettir answered. ¡°Chief Gudmund,¡± Hadin spoke the word as an insult. ¡°The man who is no more fit to lead than a one-armed cripple.¡± ¡°That is bold talk, my friend,¡± the Sage shouted. ¡°Yet I fear the gods favour your troubled leader. They would not allow him¡ª¡± An errant fist clacked shut his teeth and the robed man tumbled onto the stairway. Runolf, a burly ginger man, took his place on the podium. ¡°And what protection did the gods offer you, stranger?¡± ¡°Surrender your weapons, Runolf.¡± Turning back to the stairs, Grettir drew his axe. ¡°You are to be arrested for striking a holy man and an honoured guest. You no longer have a place on Horvorr¡¯s Guard.¡± Hadin came up behind Grettir, to his armless side, and brought a sword to his bearded neck. ¡°You¡¯re the one who can¡¯t hold a shield, Grettir. Maybe you¡¯re the one that no longer has a place. So why don¡¯t you drop your axe and then we can all go and discuss Horvorr¡¯s Guard with the Chief of Horvorr? He¡¯s makes all the decisions, after all.¡± ¡°There will be no discussion,¡± Grettir grated, baring his teeth in a snarl. ¡°Take your blade from my throat or this ends in exile for you both.¡± Hjorvarth came upon the crowd then, late as always for the preparations. He had seen the uproar from down the road, which had shifted to a tense silence of quiet violence and hesitant unease. He now shoved his way forward through the men of Horvorr¡¯s Guard. ¡°Let go,¡± Hjorvarth warned from behind Hadin. ¡°I will not ask twice.¡± The black-haired man glanced back with anger. ¡°This doesn¡¯t involve you.¡± Hjorvarth grabbed him by the wrist and shoulder. He wrenched back Hadin¡¯s arm until he cried out and buckled to his knees. He then placed his boot on the man¡¯s back. ¡°Are you done?¡± Hadin had gripped a dagger with his free hand. He tried to thrust back, and¡ªshoulder popping loose from the socket¡ªscreamed. Hjorvarth let the man drop, and turned to the wary crowd with a sword in one hand and a knife in the other. ¡°You should all put your weapons away,¡± his quiet words rumbled through the silence. ¡°I know not what Grettir has said. I do know that he is a man who has saved all your lives, times over. That it is all you who owe loyalty to him. And if that is not enough for you to sheathe your weapons then¡ª¡± Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon. Knife gripped, Runolf leapt off the podium and ran at the huge man¡¯s back. He staggered when Grettir kicked out his knee, bringing the blade down lower than he had hoped, only scraping paint from the shield on Hjorvarth¡¯s back. Hjorvarth rounded on the burly man. He grabbed him by the collar and smashed a pommel into his nose. Runolf reeled back from the blow, tripping up on his own legs, before toppling onto the mud. Hjorvarth¡¯s grip tightened on sword and knife now he strode forward. Horvorr¡¯s Guard grew uneasy once more, though no man moved to intercede. ¡°Don¡¯t,¡± Grettir warned, despite him wanting them dead. ¡°They¡¯re not worth a life of exile, Hjorvarth. They¡¯re not worth the blood on your hands.¡± Hjorvarth let out a slow breath. He belted his knife with a shaking hand then buried the sword into the earth. Runolf lay unconscious, blood pooling from his nose, while Hadin cradled his arm on the floor, hissing curses and swearing vengeance. ¡°Enough violence!¡± Grettir strode back atop the podium. ¡°I understand that you are all upset, rightly so, and I will come and see each of you to discuss it further. But you will not be leaving today.¡± He glanced down at the wounded men. ¡°So go back to your homes, and back to your families, and I will see what I can do.¡± Horvorr¡¯s Guard stood silent while those words faded in the sweep of a chill wind. Men of all appearances exchanged glances and forwent their anger with long sighs or troubled frowns. They nodded assent and the crowd began to break apart, taking the wounded with them, leaving behind the gear and the beasts and the carts. ¡°You¡¯re a good man,¡± a bald-headed man said to Hjorvarth, clapping him on the back before leaving with the others. Shaggy oxen stood tethered in the line of half-readied carts. Tails swished as they stamped and lowed along the mud-churned road. Hjorvarth stood confused but stepped forward to meet the robed man and the one-armed man who stopped at the bottom of Horvorr¡¯s Barracks. ¡°Grettir.¡± ¡°Hjorvarth.¡± Grettir¡¯s hirsute face seemed wary. ¡°I¡¯d say thanks for your help but I¡¯m not sure you needed to cripple a man.¡± Hjorvarth found himself angered by that. ¡°Speak words or don¡¯t speak them. But waste no man¡¯s time by discussing what you might say. As to your concern, from now on I will endeavor to stand and watch when folk cut your throat. But I did not come here for needless praise. I came to ask what all that was about.¡± ¡°You didn¡¯t hear?¡± Grettir asked in a careful tone. ¡°I¡¯ve delayed the Autumn Trip.¡± ¡°Why?¡± ¡°Allow me to explain.¡± The Salt Sage raised his gloved hand for attention. ¡°Goblins have reached a unification of sorts, and now they¡¯re planning to wage a war against Horvorr, in order to claim back the region that is their ancestral home. And, as part of that, there was an ambush waiting for your seasonal trip. So, to avoid your deaths, I suggested that Grettir delay your leaving. Thankfully, he listened.¡± Hjorvarth unhappily stared. ¡°How would you know that with any certainty?¡± ¡°Tomlok whispers and I hear him.¡± ¡°He warns you of all danger?¡± The Salt Sage upturned his gloved hands. ¡°More or less.¡± ¡°But not when rowdy men swing fists at your face?¡± Hjorvarth ventured. ¡°That would be the less I spoke of.¡± Hjorvarth grunted as if annoyed or amused. ¡°And does this same ambush not now wait for traders, travellers and all the other people that will be needed to spare this place from starvation? What is your plan, Grettir?¡± he demanded of the one-armed man. ¡°To hide behind walls where folk are at each other¡¯s throats? In what world is that a good idea?¡± Grettir hesitated. ¡°I will discuss our options with Gudmund.¡± ¡°The option was simple enough. Tell me of your feared ambush and I would have sought it out myself. Or, simpler than that, left through the other gate.¡± ¡°I understand that you¡¯re angry and you no doubt think I¡¯ve disrespected you.¡± ¡°Disrespect?¡± Hjorvarth asked bitterly. ¡°Do you think my pride weighs so heavily in my mind? You have endangered these people. As you endangered us all on the Snake Basin Path. I told you, time and time again, that we would be attacked. I told¡ª¡± ¡°And I am trying to learn from that lesson!¡± Grettir cut in. ¡°I am trying to do what is best for this town.¡± Hjorvarth could only shake his head. ¡°Then you are failing, Grettir. Pay less heed to the words of strangers.¡± ¡°Hjorvarth,¡± the Sage said. ¡°Since you¡¯re no longer busy, I don¡¯t suppose¡ª¡± Hjorvarth silenced him with a black look. The Salt Sage bowed in apology, stepping back. ¡°Another time, perhaps.¡± ¡°I wish never to speak with you again,¡± he answered, marching towards the oxen. Grettir made no delays in leaving with the Salt Sage. When they had walked for a short while down the dirt road, he said, ¡°What is it you were you going to ask Hjorvarth?¡± ¡°I need his help with something only he can help with.¡± ¡°He¡¯s not going to do whatever it is you want him to do,¡± Grettir warned. ¡°So I¡¯d give up while you¡¯ve still got your good health.¡± ¡°He¡¯ll do me no harm,¡± the Sage assured as if amused. ¡°Or he¡¯ll break one or two bones. Like he did to Runolf and Hadin just then, and like he¡¯s done to dozens of men in the past.¡± ¡°I¡¯m sure he has his reasons.¡± ¡°Or he makes them,¡± Grettir said. ¡°He beat two men senseless on the Snake Basin Path, and put another close to death.¡± ¡°What reason did he make for that?¡± Grettir sighed. ¡°They had been near to hand when Geirmund fought the troll. When¡ª¡± He bit down on his words. ¡°Hjorvarth blamed them for Geirmund¡¯s death. He said that they stood around acting as handmaids for Sybille when they should have been fighting.¡± ¡°And was he wrong?¡± ¡°I wasn¡¯t witness,¡± Grettir admitted. ¡°But you can¡¯t beat cowardice out of a man.¡± The Salt Sage laughed. ¡°I think you¡¯re wrong there, Grettir. And aren¡¯t you the one who asked him to lead the expedition?¡± ¡°That¡¯s why it bothers me,¡± Grettir muttered. ¡°He¡¯s strong. Brave, or stubborn. He¡¯s even swift minded despite his strange way of speaking. But he lives in his own world where right is right and wrong is wrong and only a gods-damned fool would ever confuse the two. The men with him, those meant to follow him, won¡¯t ever understand that. So when he looks or talks to them they can¡¯t help but feel judged.¡± ¡°Perhaps because he is judging them?¡± the Sage reasoned. Grettir grunted. ¡°True enough.¡± ¡°But folk don¡¯t like to be judged, do they, Grettir?¡± ¡°Not to my reckoning.¡± ¡°Because then they¡¯d be faced with the truth of what a useless excuse for a person they really are,¡± the Sage fondly mused. Grettir slowed to a stop amid a dirt crossroad. ¡°I¡¯m not sure I¡¯d go that far.¡± ¡°Coincidentally, I must also diverge from your path. I have other business to attend.¡± The Salt Sage deeply bowed. ¡°Best of luck explaining all of this to Gudmund, Grettir.¡± 19. Hopeless 19. Hopeless ¡°Listen. Listen. Listen! No, you listen to me! I¡¯m trying¡ªI¡¯m trying. I¡¯m trying. I¡¯m always trying, but the gods give me no moment of peace. Please save me. If you¡¯re reading Ah. I appear to have happened across a mad man¡¯s unfinished scrawlings but this is important, and I¡¯ve checked the rooms and spoken with Brolli and he assures me that there¡¯s no one around here madder than I am. So listen closely. Think back to the past. Kata and Grettir. Gudmund and Hilda. Isleif. Isleif. Why does that name sound so familiar? I need to sleep more, this place is covered in pages. Every marriage. Every pairing. Every birth. This town is dying. The cold is not reason enough. Why are there so many women in Wymount!? Think back to The Landing. Landing Day. Women. Women. Women. Arriving at a town with high walls and a wide lake. Women. Jealous women. Drowned women. What if they are still here? Spirits. Restless. Cruel. What if they are all still here? What if they have made this town a cursed place of broken widows? What if Listen here, when I find whoever has been using my inks and paper to write down this nonsense, I¡¯ll likely kill the man. Or woman! That much I swear. So if you¡¯re reading this, quill wet with ink, then I am telling you to put that damn feathered thing down! By the gods, I think I¡¯m losing my mind. Maybe it¡¯s for the better. Maybe that old woods witch told the truth. Knife to throat. Knife to throat.¡± Sybille sat on the edge of her brown-curtained bed and stared into the silver-framed mirror opposite. She stood out amongst her earth-hued room¡ªwhether the darker colours of her cupboards and wardrobes, or the paler browns of speckled furs that covered bed and floor¡ªbecause of her blue dress, carefully embroidered with sea pearls, and her own red hair which shone in the noon light flooding in from the open shutters. She had been thinking of something. Or nothing. Or many things. But whatever they were or weren¡¯t, they had left her drowning in despair. Sybille was studying her sore, teary cheeks when a soft knock sounded at the door. ¡°Sybille,¡± said a gruff speaker. ¡°Could I have a word?¡± Sybille brushed her cheeks with her sleeve. She nodded to no one. ¡°Come in, Grettir.¡± Grettir opened the creaking door, ducked under the low frame, and grinned in greeting. Despite the smile, his green gaze was furtive. ¡°Grettir,¡± Sybille¡¯s voice was strained from sobbing. ¡°Would you tell me something?¡± Grettir perched on a chair by the desk, his back to the silver mirror. Disheveled as he appeared, he looked a little out of place. ¡°I¡¯ll give the best answer that I can.¡± Sybille¡¯s slight smile held no joy. ¡°How did my brothers die?¡± she eventually asked. Grettir¡¯s brows furrowed. ¡°You were there, Sybille.¡± ¡°I meant,¡± she began. ¡°I mean¡ª¡± ¡°Why did they die?¡± Grettir ventured. ¡°I can¡¯t answer that, Sybille. Because there is no good answer. No real answer.¡± ¡°There must be.¡± Sybille¡¯s brow knitted. ¡°If¡ª¡± ¡°If is a poison, Sybille,¡± Grettir rebuked. ¡°Things are as they are.¡± He tried to kindly smile, but it only made him look savage. ¡°Your brothers are with Brikorhaan now. As any man would ever hope to be. They had short lives but they had good lives.¡± ¡°Yes.¡± Sybille nodded. ¡°They did, but¡­ Geirmund would have been Chief. A much better one than Gudmund. And now¡ª¡± ¡°Geirmund was a good lad,¡± Grettir agreed. ¡°A good man. But you¡¯re too hard on your father. He does his best, Sybille. He does the best that he can do. It¡¯s not easy, you know, being the one in charge. Speaking of Gudmund, I need¡ª¡± ¡°Did you love your wife, Grettir?¡± Sybille suddenly asked. Grettir blinked. ¡°That is an odd question, Sybille. And not one I would make a habit of asking men.¡± Sybille lowered her gaze to the floorboards. ¡°Yes,¡± Grettir said. ¡°I loved Kata. Of course I did. And I love her still.¡± She met his eyes. ¡°What will I do if my husband doesn¡¯t love me?¡± ¡°Why wouldn¡¯t he?¡± Grettir asked in mock. ¡°You know what I mean.¡± Sybille brushed hair from her eyes. ¡°What if a man only marries me for land and taxes?¡± ¡°Then that would be a cold man.¡± Grettir¡¯s mirth gave way to sorrow. He placed his hand on her shoulder. ¡°But I wouldn¡¯t let memories of Thorfinn and Jarl Thrand poison your hopes for the future. Not all men are the same. There are plenty that will see you for the kind and charming girl that you are. And if your luck holds, you¡¯ll get to choose your own husband. I doubt your father will ever think to marry you off again.¡± Sybille met his moss-green gaze. ¡°He will, Grettir. And now it will be all the worse because I¡¯ve no family of my own.¡± ¡°Am I not family?¡± Grettir asked with a pained grin. ¡°Of course,¡± Sybille whispered. ¡°But when I¡¯m old¡­ I don¡¯t know. I would have felt better knowing that my brothers were out in the world.¡± She sighed. ¡°What would I have done at Jarl Thrand¡¯s estate were it not for Engli? Cried like a child when Thorfinn hit me and done my duty to pledge myself to him? I would have watched Engli get killed had Agnar not joined in. Then Engli would be dead, then they would all be dead, and I would still be sworn to Thorfinn.¡± She smiled despite the tears welling in her eyes. ¡°Gudmund doesn¡¯t care about me, Grettir. Not truly. He wants to be rid of me. Now more than ever. And once he does, I¡¯ll be alone. Even more than I already am.¡± The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation. ¡°I understand your fears, Sybille.¡± Grettir solemnly nodded. ¡°But¡ª¡± He sighed, and scratched at his wild beard. ¡°I don¡¯t have the right words. I came here because I needed you to speak for me. I need your help convincing your father of something. So why don¡¯t we see if we can manage that, and then we¡¯ll speak to him on matters of marriage?¡± ¡°Oh.¡± Sybille thought for a long moment, then pushed to her feet. ¡°We¡¯ll do that, then.¡± She straightened her sea blue gown. ¡°What do we need to convince him of?¡± ¡°Not to kill the Sage, and not to kill me,¡± Grettir answered, ¡°when he finds out that I¡¯ve put a halt to the expedition on the word of a stranger. And it would be good, as well, if we could convince him not to drink the tincture that Lovrin gave him.¡± *** Thick clouds made the night sky hazy and muted, smothering the light of the stars and the moon, but the glow of candles spilled out from the open doors of Gudmund¡¯s Hall, lending idle braziers a dull shine and baying darkness away from the fenced yard. ¡°Get out!¡± Gudmund roared. ¡°The both of you!¡± Engli had only just reached the fence gate, and was confused by the outburst. Sybille hurried out of the hall and Grettir strode after her. Gudmund cut into the candlelight with his shadow, which was then eclipsed by the door¡¯s thunderous closing. The booming sound echoed into a now unchallenged darkness. ¡°That didn¡¯t go so bad,¡± Grettir said. Sybille managed a tearful laugh. She sniffled amidst the shadows. ¡°He¡¯ll calm down.¡± Grettir turned to rest his hand on her shoulder. He heard footsteps, and stepped aside to reach for his axe. ¡°Who goes there?¡± ¡°Engli,¡± he said, walking towards them. ¡°What¡¯s going on? Where¡¯s Ralf and Erik?¡± ¡°He sent them home,¡± Grettir said. ¡°Us as well.¡± Engli glanced at the looming hall. ¡°That is Sybille¡¯s home.¡± ¡°She can stay with me tonight. I¡¯ve got plenty of rooms.¡± Grettir scratched at his wild beard. ¡°Now that you¡¯re here though, Engli. And since you¡¯ve nothing better to do. Do you mind walking Sybille to my house?¡± He cleared his throat. ¡°I meant to do this earlier, but I need to get some men and put the beasts away.¡± ¡°It¡¯s done.¡± Engli regretted the words as soon as he spoke them. ¡°It¡¯s done. Hjorvarth did all the work, but I helped him nearer the end.¡± ¡°Hjorvarth?¡± Grettir asked in surprise. ¡°Even so, I still need to visit a few folk. So if you could walk her home all the same?¡± Sybille had dried her eyes and steadied herself. ¡°Don¡¯t I get a say in this?¡± ¡°Of course not.¡± Grettir patted her on the back, sending her stumbling forward. ¡°You¡¯re only a woman.¡± He laughed, and ambled off into the darkness. Sybille stepped close to Engli. ¡°Do you even know the way?¡± ¡°I was hoping you would,¡± he admitted. ¡°I do.¡± Sybille took his arm, leading him out past the fence. The warmth of her touch quickened his heart. ¡°When I was younger, I would often sleep there with my brothers.¡± ¡°I¡¯d find it lonely living in a place so big as that on his own.¡± ¡°He had hoped to have a family,¡± Sybille explained. ¡°His wife was still alive when he first moved there.¡± Engli frowned for only a moment, never hearing of his widow before. ¡°I¡¯m surprised he didn¡¯t take another wife.¡± ¡°Is it so surprising? That he wouldn¡¯t want to burden a new woman with an old love?¡± Engli opened his mouth, then thought better of his answer. ¡°I suppose not.¡± They walked a while in silence, hearing the quiet sigh of the wind and the soft lapping of Horvorr¡¯s Great Lake. They passed between shadowed houses, sheds, and storefronts. Chicken coops stood in fenced yards, and a lamb slept by the post that held him. A rat skittered by their feet, too fleet to be heard. ¡°Do you remember when Isleif sang a song about Grettir?¡± Engli asked after a while, answered by a confused glance. ¡°We were only young, sat in Sam¡¯s Tavern, and then something happened. Grettir had him by the neck¡ªIsleif, I mean¡ªand then they brought their swords out, and they were fighting. I remember thinking it was pretend, but I had never seen Grettir look so angry, and now I¡¯m almost sure they tried to kill one another. Or he tried to kill Isleif at the least.¡± ¡°What stopped him?¡± Sybille asked. ¡°Hjorvarth¡¯s mother got between them.¡± ¡°A curious thing to call her. Her name was Sibbe if you¡¯d forgotten.¡± ¡°Sibbe,¡± he echoed, though he hadn¡¯t forgotten. He could still hear his own mother screaming out that name at a desperate, crystalline pitch. ¡°She drowned, didn¡¯t she?¡± Sybille asked more of herself. ¡°She drowned trying to save her son.¡± She waited for a reply but didn¡¯t notice that the young man beside her was lost in memories of bright-eyed children racing across softly cracking ice. ¡°I suppose she had a choice, at least. That¡¯s more than my own mother had.¡± Engli realised they¡¯d stopped. ¡°What do you mean?¡± ¡°I meant what I said,¡± she replied. ¡°She died for me before she ever even knew me. Surely if she could choose she would have lived to raise her sons.¡± Engli frowned. ¡°Is that what you would do?¡± ¡°Yes.¡± Her keen regard held no warmth. ¡°I suppose that I would.¡± ¡°What if there was a way to save you both?¡± ¡°Then I would save us both.¡± ¡°But if there was a risk, as there often is, and you didn¡¯t really know?¡± Engli met her narrowing eyes with a stern stare. ¡°My point being that there are no certainties when it comes to having children or trying to save someone from a frozen lake,¡± he explained. ¡°Your mother might not have wanted to die, but that doesn¡¯t mean that you caused her death. Or that there was any way to save her. Or that you¡¯re in any way to blame. She might well have chosen to save you at any cost.¡± Sybille watched him for a long moment. She then started to walk once more. Engli followed despite feeling like he had overstepped. ¡°Was I there?¡± Sybille asked after a while. ¡°At this tavern?¡± ¡°Sat beside me,¡± Engli said. ¡°In a blue dress.¡± ¡°A blue dress?¡± she echoed in a curious tone. ¡°That is an odd thing to remember.¡± Engli bowed his head in embarrassment. ¡°You¡¯re wearing blue now.¡± ¡°True,¡± she conceded. ¡°But I don¡¯t remember the night. Isleif was a fair fighter though. I would often see him sparring with Hjorvarth.¡± ¡°He was smaller then,¡± Engli mentioned. ¡°Much,¡± Sybille agreed, her hair swaying in the breeze. ¡°Are you good friends, then? You and Hjorvarth. If you were with him today?¡± ¡°We were¡­ as children. And he saved me at the battle.¡± ¡°Where you saved mine?¡± Engli reluctantly nodded. ¡°But when I saw him today, he didn¡¯t even seem to remember me.¡± ¡°Does that matter?¡± Sybille asked. ¡°I suppose not,¡± Engli admitted. ¡°But I had wanted to offer my thanks.¡± He glanced up at the night clouds. ¡°I had never been so scared as I was before he saved me.¡± He smiled haplessly at Sybille. ¡°You¡¯re right, though,¡± he decided. ¡°It doesn¡¯t matter. I¡¯ll just have to pay him back by deed instead of praise.¡± ¡°Bold.¡± Sybille fixed him with a serious look, and then quietly laughed. Engli sighed in reply. He knew that it sounded bold, but the truth was that he didn¡¯t have any choice. He had to do something great, or heroic, if only to convince himself that him surviving better men was anything other than a mistake of fate. They linked arms once more, wandering the dark night. Both sure that they didn¡¯t belong. Both happy enough to be together. 20. Signed in Blood 20. Signed in Blood ¡°I must write this to keep a record. The Godi of Muradoon has pronounced Sibbe dead, and refused to hand over her body. Brolli sacked the Ritual House in my name. I know not whether to kill him or kiss him. I must set out immediately, there may still be hope if I can bring her body to the Hall of Hrothgar. I have entrusted my tavern and my son to Sam. He is a good man, but I fear for the character of his wife. I have spent most my treasure to fund a force of unprecedented size and quality. I hope to finally discover what has slain those sent on earlier expeditions. I will not stop until I find the Hall. When my wife is restored to me, I will finally have the time to be the husband and father that I should have been all these winters past.¡± Isleif lay by the grey hearth in the taproom, mumbling in his sleep, turning and rolling, becoming entrapped in his fur jacket. He whispered the name Sibbe and his aged face creased with a sleeper¡¯s smile. He was silent for a while longer, at peace, and then he groaned before opening his eyes. The old man rose, wrong-footed by bundled fur, and steadied himself on the hearth. He yelped, pulling his hand away, and kicked free his feet. Isleif¡¯s night shirt was so worn and thin that the firelight shone through to his bony frame as he crept forward into the taproom. Clattering from the kitchen preceded the splash and hiss of boiling water onto floorboards. ¡°Damn,¡± Sam whispered. Isleif licked his parched lips. ¡°Where was I?¡± He wandered through the taproom, caressing the counter as he did. He stopped near the main door, studied it for a long while as if he might leave, and then turned instead to the left, towards a single table with four chairs, which stood wreathed in the darkness of the far corner. He passed by the bar¡¯s dividing wall, turning left again into a shadowed corridor that ended in an open door. Isleif made his way into the room that had once belonged to Sam¡¯s son. A small space. The bed on the left took up half the floor. Inside the kitchen, Sam had gotten to his knees to mop up the spilled broth with a large rag. He paused when he heard rummaging from his son¡¯s room. ¡°Rats?¡± he asked. He looked up at the blackened pot hanging over the fire, flames reminding him of a troubled old man. ¡°Isleif!¡± ¡°Yes?¡± Isleif asked, his ponderous tone muffled by the wall. Sam slipped on the spilled broth when he rushed to his feet, having to slam his hands into the wall to avoid the flames of the cooking pot. He ran out from the kitchen, climbed over the counter, and rounded the corner towards the open door. He swept his gaze over the robed man, pale robe near blended into the shadows, who sat very still on the corner chair of the corner table. ¡°There¡¯s no liquor in there, Sam,¡± the Sage said. Sam startled, tripping over himself, but caught his balance on the wall. ¡°That¡¯s twice you¡¯ve done that.¡± The Salt Sage set a bottle of golden liquid on the table. ¡°Are you worried about this?¡± Sam frowned at the shadowed table. ¡°You. You¡¯re not¡ª ¡°Welcome here?¡± The Salt Sage barked laughter. ¡°I¡¯ll admit that was an easy one. What about this, then? If Isleif walks out that door with Mardis¡¯ harp, then I¡¯ll stay, and if he doesn¡¯t,¡± the Sage added with a weighing gesture, ¡°then I¡¯ll leave you alone. For good. I swear it. I¡¯ll even leave this whole god forsaken town.¡± Sam knew his wife would never leave Horvorr without her harp, even if she had planned to return. ¡°Fine.¡± ¡°Look at this,¡± Isleif¡¯s excitable words escaped through the open door. ¡°Quite fine. Quite fine. Why ever leave it under the bed?¡± He emerged, and squinted at Sam. ¡°Oh. It¡¯s you again.¡± The old man cradled an ornate red-and-gold harp. He plucked a tune while he walked, skipping the strings that were snapped at the back. The Salt Sage sighed as if deeply amused. ¡°I do hope you¡¯re not considering going back on our wager.¡± ¡°That¡¯s not hers,¡± Sam insisted. ¡°You must have put it there.¡± ¡°There¡¯s dust on the wood, Sam. Perhaps you should consider what¡¯s more likely? That I found a harp, identical to your wife¡¯s own¡ªwith the same strings snapped¡ªand placed it under her bed, behind a number of other things, without you ever noticing. Or¡­ whether your Mardis simply forgot her harp.¡± ¡°She¡¯d sooner forget me and the boy than that harp.¡± ¡°She wasn¡¯t playing it that often though, was she?¡± the Sage asked. ¡°Not for years, really. I think she began to lose her enthusiasm for music when you let Isleif take the stage every night, instead of your own wife. For the sake of profits. But then he always could carry a tune, couldn¡¯t he, Sam?¡± Isleif had sat back by the fire, with the harp readied on lap. He began to strum a slow tune, singing a wordless song in a quavering voice. Sam sneered. ¡°It dumbfounds me that you are not murdered daily.¡± The Salt Sage laughed a sad laugh. ¡°I keep a careful balance, though. Did I not speak more plainly yesterday? They were simple truths, and you dismissed them as lies. Tell me this then, at least. What reason would I have to deceive you?¡± ¡°What reason would you have to even care?¡± ¡°Care?¡± the Sage asked. ¡°All that was for the price of the food, Sam. As agreed. And I¡¯m here now because I need a place to stay.¡± Sam smiled in disbelief. ¡°You want to stay here?¡± ¡°I¡¯ve nowhere else to go.¡± ¡°Then tell me the real truth,¡± Sam demanded. ¡°Admit to me that you¡¯ve got no gods given clue about my son or my wife. Whether she¡¯s coming back or whether he¡¯ll die.¡± The Salt Sage sighed as he turned over the golden bottle in his hands. ¡°I can do one. Or the other. Not both.¡± Sam¡¯s dark eyes trembled. ¡°Why are you doing this to me?¡± The Salt Sage shrugged. ¡°Why do people ask if they don¡¯t want the answers?¡± Sam simply shook his head, and marched towards the kitchen. ¡°You really should sit, Sam! Because I¡¯m not going to let you stab me with that knife, and this really is the last opportunity you¡¯ll have to save your son. Listen to reason!¡± he implored. ¡°Don¡¯t you have enough regrets? Don¡¯t we all have enough regrets? Don¡¯t you at least want to hear me out? Where¡¯s the harm in a word?¡± Sam stopped beside his counter, forlorn eyes reflecting the weak firelight. ¡°The rafter above your head,¡± the Sage said, ¡°has been abraded by rope. Rope that was wrapped around your neck. Rope that would have choked the life out of you had Isleif not wandered into this tavern under the belief that he was still the owner. And as to why you did it, Sam, you were desperate. And when you kicked the chair away, you were far more desperate than that to live. And you decided, after your old friend saved you, to make right the wrong you made when you kicked him out of your home. When you turned your back at the willing of your wife. You decided that you would try and be a good man, even though you had failed at being a good husband and a good father. And now I sit here, humbly and honestly, offering you an opportunity to right all your wrongs. And for some reason that enrages you.¡± Sam met the words with a regard both sorrowed and severe. He had the pallor of a haunted man. ¡°We¡¯ll need to eat first, of course.¡± The Salt Sage set the golden bottle on the table. ¡°And we¡¯ll have a drink too.¡± He upturned his gloved palms. ¡°I¡¯m afraid this isn¡¯t a quick explanation. Things are never simple with King Rubinold or Jarl Thrand. Not to mention that charmer, Smiler. Kobold politics and human depravity.¡± Sam stared. ¡°And am I supposed to know what any of that means?¡± Isleif¡¯s hands drew idle on the harp. ¡°A kobold is like a giant rat,¡± he explained, setting the instrument on the ground. ¡°They have such beady eyes, you know, and snouts for sniffing out tubers.¡± He chuckled and the Salt Sage added to the laughter as if they were the oldest of friends. *** The Salt Sage whistled a ponderous tune as he walked the courtyard to Brolli¡¯s place. He was quick up the stair, avoiding the broken step, and he smiled before he shoved open the doors, which scraped painfully against misused floorboards. A rowdy chorus gave pause now men turned to the noise. The gambling room had been filled with over a dozen armoured guards, drunken for the most part, old men and fat men with twisted beards or rounded bellies, a deal of them wearing swords or axes. Those men of the delayed expedition glared at the Sage for his interruption¡ªthen a set of bones clattered and a man cheered; others lamented, and in the following clamour the robed man was quickly forgotten. Ivar stood behind the counter, left brow narrowed, right unmoving atop a swollen eye. The three old men still sat at that same table in the taproom, while Arnor set a platter of mugs before them. Horvorr¡¯s Guard, those tired of gambling or some other pursuit, drank and ate among surrounding tables. Ivar reached to scratch his eye, but let his hand fall. ¡°Who are you and what do you want?¡± ¡°I¡¯m a traveler.¡± The Salt Sage dipped his head in greeting. ¡°Here to see a man named Brolli.¡± ¡°He¡¯s out,¡± Ivar said in a flat tone. ¡°Now, now, Ivar. You really should have learned your lesson with Hjorvarth. I might not hit quite as hard as him, but I¡¯ll no more tolerate your lies than he will.¡± Ivar licked his lips. ¡°How did¡ª¡± ¡°Tell me where he is,¡± the Sage growled. ¡°I¡¯ve long days ahead of me, long nights as well, and I don¡¯t want to waste my time, here, talking to the likes of you.¡± Ivar blinked. ¡°He¡¯s upstairs.¡± ¡°Thank you.¡± The Salt Sage offered a small bow. ¡°And, Ivar, don¡¯t scratch that eye, or it will turn bad. Lovrin will try to burn it out, of course, when it does. But it won¡¯t work, so you¡¯ll die shivering. No one will come to see you. I don¡¯t think anyone will even notice that you¡¯ve died.¡± If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it. Ivar noticed his own rising hand, and forced it back to his side. The Salt Sage walked past the bar, ignoring the hard looks of those eating and drinking at the taproom tables. He crested the corner, and made his way into the walled stairs. The steps opened out into a straight landing, which offered access to four rooms. He turned left into the corridor, once more to face a door. Muffled screaming sounded through the wood. The Salt Sage rapped with a gloved hand. He waited while Brolli and Alrik spoke in hushed tones, then the door opened a crack. ¡°Is Brolli in there?¡± the Sage asked. Alrik frowned. He was a lean man, with curly brown hair. He had a kind face, marred by scars and craters. ¡°Who wants to know?¡± ¡°I do,¡± the Sage replied. ¡°Don¡¯t know your voice,¡± Brolli put in. ¡°We haven¡¯t met. I arrived in town yesterday.¡± Brolli grunted. ¡°You can let him in.¡± Alrik dipped his head before stepping back from the door. The Salt Sage strode into the small room. Fierce heat stifled the smoky air, along with the scents of blood and sweat. A narrow-chimneyed stove and a single sturdy chair served as the only furnishings. The chair housed a fourth man, his belly and thighs glistening with sweat. Pallid despite the heat, slashes made vivid streaks down his flabby chest. His wrists had been bound to the chair. One hand ended in two trembling fingers and three charred stumps. Brolli held tight to a cleaver now he crouched over the seated man. ¡°A pleasure to meet you, Brolli,¡± the Sage said in a tone more measured than usual. ¡°I am a Sage of Tomlok.¡± Brolli glanced at him without warmth. ¡°You don¡¯t much look like one.¡± ¡°You¡¯re not the first person to tell me that.¡± ¡°I¡¯m speaking a plain truth. I¡¯ve met a Salt Sage. And he looked a lot more impressive than you.¡± The Salt Sage did not offer an immediate answer. ¡°You,¡± the bound man¡¯s voice shook with pain and exhaustion. His face creased into a desperate smile ¡°You need to help me. I didn¡¯t do any¡ª¡± Brolli slapped him in the face. He glanced back at Alrik. ¡°Give him a poke.¡± Alrik pulled a glowing poker from the stove fire. ¡°So you doubt my¡ª¡± the Sage began. Brolli stayed both standing men with a raised hand. ¡°Don¡¯t know who you are. Don¡¯t care who you are. Tell me what you want before I get annoyed.¡± Alrik stepped closer with the hot poker. ¡°I don¡¯t¡ª¡± The fat man stared up, eyes wide with terror. ¡°I don¡¯t. I swear¡ª¡± Brolli shoved a rag into the man¡¯s swollen mouth. ¡°As it happens,¡± the Sage said. ¡°I came here to help you.¡± ¡°I already have a helper. Don¡¯t need two. So you ought to leave while I still let you.¡± ¡°I could tell you where Aksel is hiding his gold.¡± Brolli smirked. ¡°Let me guess. He¡¯s hid it in Timilir or Fenkirk or some other place that I can¡¯t readily check?¡± ¡°No,¡± the Sage replied. ¡°He still owns his old home in Horvorr. He still keeps to his old hiding places.¡± Aksel¡¯s terrified gaze flitted from Alrik to the Salt Sage. Alrik gestured with the poker. ¡°This is probably going to go cold.¡± ¡°So put it back in the fire?¡± Brolli shook his head. ¡°And as to you, stranger, how in the Lady¡¯s Shadow do you know this fool¡¯s name? Or where he lives¡ª¡± ¡°Because Tomlok tells me what I need to know.¡± Brolli bared his yellowed teeth. ¡°Does he?¡± ¡°He does,¡± the Sage assured. ¡°But if you¡¯re doubtful then I need only guide you to the buried treasure to prove the truth of my claims. And, if my faith has failed me, you can always strap me into a chair alongside your guest here.¡± ¡°A wondrous offer from a fearless man,¡± Brolli said without enthusiasm. ¡°Those''re exactly the kind I don¡¯t trust. For all I know you could be a hired knife just wanting to lure me and my dear helpers into a grim ambush.¡± ¡°From what I¡¯ve heard, I expect you¡¯d see that as all the more reason to attend.¡± ¡°You¡¯ve read me all wrong, stranger,¡± Brolli disagreed. ¡°I don¡¯t want anyone I care about to die for my sake.¡± ¡°Then you could go alone,¡± the Sage lightly suggested. ¡°I could at that.¡± Brolli sniffed. ¡°And I would. Only I have to wonder why it is you want to help a man like me?¡± ¡°I will require a favour in exchange for my help.¡± ¡°A favour?¡± Brolli gratefully sighed. ¡°Good.¡± ¡°Two favours, actually. Firstly, I¡¯d ask that you spare Aksel any further harm.¡± Brolli shrugged. ¡°I¡¯ll leave him with his life.¡± ¡°Secondly, that you use half of the coin to buy Sam¡¯s Tavern. At dawn, tomorrow.¡± ¡°That¡¯s not much time to work with.¡± Brolli¡¯s dark regard turned doubtful. ¡°Add to that, I know he doesn¡¯t want to sell.¡± ¡°I can guarantee that he does now. If I¡¯m wrong, a day wasted. If I¡¯m right, then you¡¯ll have the tavern you wanted, and you¡¯ll have been paid to purchase.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t trust him,¡± Alrik put in. ¡°Sounds far too good to be true.¡± ¡°He¡¯s got you there, stranger, hasn¡¯t he?¡± Brolli pressed. ¡°Why me? Why not make this offer to anyone? And don¡¯t bother telling me this is about Aksel.¡± ¡°You are only person in this town who has a reason to buy that tavern. Those who are too honest to steal from me will be too soft to hurt Sam. Those who would hurt anyone they please may well hurt me. And then there is the other group who might simply keep the coin and refuse to buy for fear of your retribution. So you stand there and question my choice, but I am certain that this is my only option.¡± Brolli nodded. ¡°Not a bad answer. But why do you care so much about Sam?¡± ¡°He will not survive the coming war if he stays in Horvorr. Nor will Hjorvarth.¡± ¡°So you¡¯ve come all this way to save men you barely know?¡± ¡°Well, I did once consider myself a great friend of a man in this town.¡± ¡°And what happened to him?¡± ¡°So far as I know he is still sleeping by the hearth in Sam¡¯s Tavern. And when he wakes he will not even recognise me.¡± Brolli surprised smile slowly shifted to sympathetic. Chin in hand, he studied the robed man for a long while. ¡°Take me to this buried treasure.¡± *** Sam, Brolli, and the Salt Sage sat at the middle table of Sam¡¯s Tavern. Isleif lay in the corner by the unlit hearth, wrapped in his blanket, idly strumming at his harp. He had watched them for the hour past as they made a clink of coins and gemstones. The sight reminded him of an old deal that he had made with Brolli, though he wasn¡¯t sure what it was, or why he made it. Still, this seemed as if his own memory played itself out ahead of him. Sam appeared as desperate as Isleif had ever been, running his hands through his black hair as often as he could. He looked like he hadn¡¯t slept a wink and he would keep glancing to the parchment ahead of him, to the gems and coins piled on the table. Then he would drink from his mug. All the while Brolli stared, grinned and laughed, and the Salt Sage kept on at his talk, his wheedling and his insisting, making a song with his own melodic voice. ¡°I can¡¯t leave Isleif,¡± Sam said, not knowing that Horvorr¡¯s Guard had never even departed. ¡°Not until Hjorvarth gets back.¡± ¡°No?¡± Brolli sniffed, his bullish face hateful. He knew well enough that Hjorvarth spent hours on the embankments whenever he was stressed or enraged. He¡¯d had Ivar ready and waiting to delay him despite the Salt Sage¡¯s assurance that Hjorvarth wouldn¡¯t return till noon. ¡°Didn¡¯t stop you before, did it?¡± Sam glanced away before scowling back. Brolli smirked. ¡°I¡¯ll look after Isleif, is what I mean. I¡¯ve done it before, and for a lot longer than you.¡± ¡°And how do I know you won¡¯t just leave him out on the street?¡± Sam asked. ¡°Careful,¡± Brolli snarled. ¡°Or I¡¯ll just open your throat and sign this with your blood. Isleif is a friend of mine, as it happens.¡± He glanced at the bundled man. ¡°And I don¡¯t turn my back on friends, whether they remember themselves or not. Which is a lot more than can be said for the likes of you.¡± ¡°Sam,¡± the Sage spoke softly. ¡°Hjorvarth won¡¯t be back from the Autumn Trip for at least a season. If you wait for him to return then Dan will¡ªwell, he¡¯ll die. And Brolli isn¡¯t wrong. He has Arnor to help him. And they were the ones that looked after Hjorvarth when he was a younger, angrier man, and when Isleif himself was far from mellowed.¡± Brolli grunted his agreement to that sentiment. ¡°You want to sell or not? Make your choice, I don¡¯t mind which it is. If you¡¯ve not got the courage to save your son, that¡¯s fine by me. But I won¡¯t have you using Isleif as an excuse. Bad enough there¡¯s already a hundred widows blaming him for the death of weak husbands.¡± Sam looked to the Salt Sage, who smiled behind his rags. ¡°You¡¯ll make sure that Hjorvarth gets my letter?¡± The Salt Sage dipped his hooded head. ¡°Of course, Sam. I swear it by Tomlok and Broknar both.¡± He paused. ¡°Now are you ready to sign?¡± Sam swallowed and barely nodded. ¡°Where¡¯s the ink?¡± Brolli held out a slender dagger with an emerald hilt. ¡°Make your own.¡± Sam took the blade and pricked a finger. He dipped a quill in the blood, made his mark on dusty parchment, and handed it over. Brolli grabbed Sam¡¯s hand, stabbed him with the quill, then scrawled his own name. ¡°We¡¯re all done, then,¡± the Sage declared, almost as if regretful. Sam stared at the hooded man. ¡°I hope you told me the truth.¡± ¡°I¡¯m too honest to lie, Sam.¡± ¡°Well aren¡¯t you a joke of a man?¡± Brolli then angrily asked of Sam, clearly disgusted. ¡°Hjorvarth was telling me just the other day that you¡¯d sworn to take care of Isleif.¡± He bared his stained teeth in a bitter grin. ¡°You know it does my heart good to know that the real bastard¡¯s of this world are all hiding behind kind faces.¡± Sam glared, but his gaze soon fell to the contract on the table. ¡°You¡¯ve signed, Sam.¡± The Salt Sage reached forward to roll up the parchment. ¡°With your blood. So there¡¯s no changing your mind now.¡± ¡°Right you are, Sage.¡± Brolli raised his brows. ¡°As to you, Sam, two oxen and a cart are waiting at the gate. Should have all you need, but you can take that dagger as well,¡± he added with a sly smile. ¡°In case you need to stab anyone else in the back.¡± He then waved towards the door. ¡°Close that on your way out.¡± Sam¡¯s eyes widened in incense. ¡°Who¡ª¡± ¡°Another word,¡± Brolli roared, ¡°and I¡¯ll cut out your tongue!¡± He slowly shook his head. ¡°I don¡¯t think you understand quite how angry you¡¯ve made me. But then I don¡¯t expect you to know what loyalty is to a man that has it.¡± Brolli straightened, one hand resting on the onyx pommel of his sword. ¡°Now I¡¯m tired of seeing your face, so you should get out of my tavern. Unless you¡¯re planning on spending the night, and all the nights after, in the Lady¡¯s Shadow.¡± ¡°There¡¯s no need for any of that.¡± The Salt Sage scooped coins and trinkets into a leather pouch. ¡°Go where I¡¯ve told you to go, Sam. Do what I¡¯ve told you to do. And your son will be fine. Of that you can be assured.¡± Sam took the pouch, which seemed to weigh both hand and heart, then shouldered a heavy leather pack. ¡°Sam Longarrow.¡± The Salt Sage sat back on his seat. ¡°When they ask in Timilir, that is your name.¡± Sam turned back when he reached the door. Brolli shot him a black look, flicking his wrist in dismissal. ¡°Bastard,¡± Sam muttered, not sure if he was speaking to himself. He only then noticed Isleif, who stared back as if greatly sorrowed. The old man hurriedly shuffled over. ¡°You look fit to travel.¡± Isleif knitted his owly brows. ¡°Where are you going with all those things?¡± ¡°I¡¯m going to Timilir, to go and help Dan.¡± Sam smiled to reassure Isleif. ¡°He¡¯s in trouble. But once I find him, I¡¯ll bring him back.¡± ¡°Oh. I¡¯ll come with you,¡± Isleif said. ¡°You can¡¯t.¡± ¡°But I always said that I would,¡± Isleif insisted, blinking tears from his milky eyes. ¡°Don¡¯t make a liar of me, Sam.¡± ¡°I need to do this on my own,¡± Sam said feebly. ¡°You need to stay here and look after Hjorvarth.¡± ¡°Sibbe will do that.¡± ¡°She can¡¯t. She¡¯s visiting her family in Timilir.¡± ¡°So we¡¯ll take the boy with us,¡± Isleif argued. ¡°He¡¯ll enjoy the adventure.¡± ¡°Not this time,¡± Sam said. ¡°I won¡¯t even be gone long. Once I find Dan, we¡¯ll both come back to see you.¡± ¡°You will,¡± Isleif said with a nod. ¡°But I won¡¯t be here then, Sam. We won¡¯t ever see each again.¡± ¡°That¡¯s fool talk, Isleif.¡± Sam reached out to embrace him. Feeling how frail he had become under the fur, he hugged Isleif as tight as he dared. ¡°I¡¯ll be back soon.¡± 21. Blind Eye 21. Blind Eye ¡°Despite many winters with the both of them, I am still no closer to truly understanding the bond between Brolli and Gudmund. They speak so openly of their hatred for one another, yet never act on the words. Time and again, I have seen them risk life and limb to save each other on the battlefield in moments where I was sure that they would be lost. Gudmund once hurled his only axe to save his disreputable brother in an arc that by all rights should have been impossible to hit while being savaged by a dozen goblins. Yet the throw was true, and Gudmund struggled on despite having a great chunk torn from his neck and many other wounds beside. Brolli did not even thank him for this. So I reasoned that he did not know and instead thought that the axe that spared him was errant. But when I mentioned the throw to him, he simply laughed and derided his brother as an idiot for disarming himself on a fool¡¯s gamble. War gratefully behind us, the now Chief of Horvorr is still protecting his brother despite the cost to his own reputation. It is by now known to all folk that the Black Hands in Timilir are being led by Brolli from afar. And Jarl Thrand has since offered considerable coin for Gudmund to merely displace him from Horvvorr. Brolli¡¯s crimes within Horvorr¡¯s walls cause grumblings among the settlement, so such an act would serve dual purpose. Yet Gudmund continues to turn a blind eye. He acts, oftentimes, as if Brolli does not even exist. They have not spoke a word in winters.¡± Brolli sat in the only chair of his office, hunched over a cluttered black desk. Growing tired of looking at scrawled missives and outdated ledgers, he lifted the brass spectacles from his nose. He didn¡¯t need the papers to know that he was out of pocket, and he could see clearly enough with his own eyes that he had put bad money after bad money; even with the extra from Aksel, he had spare coins to his name. A soft knock sounded at the door. He could tell it was Ivar by the timid strike. Brolli looked up at his surroundings, no furnishings at all past his wide black desk. He liked to have the bastards stand, or sit on the floor like boys. He¡¯d had to cut off a man¡¯s hand for leaning on the wall once. Not really because he wanted to. He had made the threat though, and threats, like debts, had to be paid. Even if Brolli was the one owing. Brolli sighed, rubbing at his aching eyes. He was reaching for his spectacles when he heard the second knock. ¡°What?¡± Brolli asked, then shouted when he decided he had spoken too softly. The door knob twisted erratically, and sure enough the skinny man walked in all clad in black and shaking like a leaf. Brolli stared at him, waiting, and waiting, and waiting. ¡°What?¡± ¡°I know you told¡ª¡± ¡°Not to bother me, but clearly you didn¡¯t listen. So now that you¡¯re here, you ought to tell me what it is you thought so important.¡± Ivar nodded and swallowed. ¡°There¡¯s a man wants to speak to you about Gudmund. He wouldn¡¯t say any more than that.¡± Brolli noticed how badly the lad¡¯s eye had swollen. ¡°You look a bloody mess, boy. Go and clean your face. Oh, and send the bastard up.¡± Ivar almost tripped in his haste to leave. ¡°Lady below,¡± Brolli muttered to himself. He opened his top draw, the one that never came smoothly open, and put his spectacles out of view. One thing to have a weakness, something else entirely for others to know. Brolli waited until he was bored, and considered finding Ivar and beating him for being such a useless fool. ¡°Hello?¡± came a fearful voice, belatedly followed by a feeble knock. ¡°Come in!¡± Brolli growled. ¡°Gods above, do you want me to nail a sign on the door?¡± A chubby man crept in through the half-open doorway, as if scared of disturbing the hinges. After he scoured bare walls and empty floorboard for chairs, he chose to stand central, opposite Brolli. Then he thought better of that and side-stepped to the left. ¡°Brolli.¡± He lifted a flat cap from his greasy hair. ¡°My¡ª¡± ¡°I don¡¯t need to know your name. Close the door.¡± The chubby man did that, then walked back. He stood there looking like a pig, like a man who had a coward¡¯s heart, by his weak eyes, his weak bearing, and by the way he shook and quivered to himself even though it wasn¡¯t really that cold. ¡°Usually,¡± Brolli said. ¡°The person who came here to speak to me would speak to me. So I don¡¯t know if you¡¯re trying to deliver the message unspoken, but if you are then I¡¯m not hearing you.¡± He scowled. ¡°Open your mouth.¡± The chubby man had paled. ¡°I¡¯m sure you¡¯ve heard¡ª¡± He swallowed. ¡°Heard about what happened with the Autumn Trip, and with Horvorr¡¯s Guard.¡± He smiled at Brolli¡¯s nod. ¡°Now I know you¡¯ve no love for your brother. And neither have a lot of folk. But this latest, what with not paying us, and canceling trips and all else, well¡­ it won¡¯t stand, will it?¡± He shook his head. ¡°I¡¯ve been sent¡ª¡± ¡°Who sent you?¡± ¡°Well, he asked me not to say.¡± ¡°I respect loyalty,¡± Brolli replied with an understanding smile. ¡°I was saying as much just this morning. But the next time you¡¯re asked that question you¡¯ll be strapped down and missing three fingers. So I¡¯ll have your answer all the same.¡± The chubby man took a steadying breath, which did him little good. ¡°Lo¡­ Lodin. He was the one who asked me to deliver the message.¡± Brolli urged him on with the wave of a hand. ¡°Unburden yourself.¡± ¡°He wants to speak about Gudmund. He¡¯s¡ªwe¡¯re¡ªof a mind that Gudmund isn¡¯t fit to lead. Lodin wants to meet, and talk about new leadership. Those were the words he used. He wants to know if you¡¯d try your hand at leading Horvorr. And then you¡¯d be able to get your brother back for all the bad blood between you.¡± ¡°Bad blood.¡± Brolli sniffed. He watched the man sweat as the silence stretched. ¡°So which one of us would be Chief? Is it Chief Lodin, or Chief Brolli?¡± ¡°Chief Brolli, of course,¡± the chubby man nearly shouted. He started laughing, or struggling for breath. ¡°So, what do you think?¡± ¡°Have you got children?¡± Brolli asked. ¡°Um.¡± He frowned. ¡°Why do you ask?¡± ¡°Be at ease,¡± Brolli said, his voice beyond calm. ¡°I only ask ¡®cause I can trust a man better if he has kids. If he¡¯s loyal to his wife, and his family. You know what I mean, don¡¯t you?¡± ¡°Oh.¡± He nodded, creasing his own chin. ¡°Yes. I have kids. Ella¡¯s my girl, and Toma¡¯s my boy. If it¡¯s a matter of loyalty, Brolli, you¡¯ve no need to worry on me.¡± ¡°Not going to back out on killing Gudmund?¡± Brolli asked. The chubby man shook his head. ¡°Lodin¡¯s set on it, he says so himself. He ain¡¯t going to let this pass. Treating us like that. Not paying us. It ain¡¯t right.¡± Brolli let out a long sigh. ¡°I had to be sure¡­ surely you understand that?¡± ¡°Of course.¡± He nodded quite seriously. ¡°I understand a man like you doesn¡¯t like risk.¡± ¡°Some risks are unavoidable.¡± Brolli rose from his chair, walking over to him. ¡°Shall we shake on our deal?¡± ¡°Well, you¡¯d be making the deal with Lodin. I¡¯m¡ª¡± Brolli stabbed him in the throat, though the man didn¡¯t quite seem to understand. ¡°You said all the right things, really, you did.¡± He smiled in apology, grabbing a hold of the man¡¯s greasy hair. ¡°You just mistook me for a bastard so black that he would stab his brother in the back. But I would never do that. Because Gudmund is family. Family is blood.¡± He dragged the dagger so deep that he scraped bone. ¡°And blood is important.¡± *** Brolli reclined in his chair, wondering when the smell of blood had so grown to sicken him. He probably shouldn¡¯t have even killed the man but then he¡¯d been in a foul mood, and he doubted that finding and killing the rest of the conspirators would prove difficult. Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator. Fleet footfalls ascended the stairs and a moment later the door swept open. Alrik popped his pock-scarred face into the room. He noticed the pool of blood, smeared across the floorboard and up to the window. ¡°Brolli.¡± Brolli eyed him with false suspicion. ¡°Something amiss?¡± Alrik closed the door behind him. ¡°Those three old men noticed a fat man fall from a window.¡± He glanced at the open shutters. ¡°Know anything about that?¡± ¡°Doesn¡¯t sound like the kind of thing I¡¯d waste my time with.¡± Brolli drummed his fingers on the dark table. ¡°But if I had to guess the man came in here asking me to betray my useless brother and he didn¡¯t get the answer he hoped. He must have killed himself out of disappointment.¡± ¡°How do you want me to explain his throat?¡± Brolli waved his hand towards the vacant frame. ¡°Must have cut himself on the glass. If anyone asks, tell them I¡¯m happy to show them the broken pane.¡± Alrik dipped his head. ¡°I¡¯ll pass the message on to Ivar and Arnor.¡± ¡°Before you go,¡± Brolli said, ¡°I want you to have Ivar find out anything he can about a man named Lodin. He might be a member of Horvorr¡¯s Guard. Speaking of, get him to make sure the Salt Sage delivered that barkeeper¡¯s letter to Hjorvarth. I don¡¯t want the big bastard to think that I actually went and murdered his friend. Oh, and make sure that Arnor keeps an eye on Isleif.¡± ¡°It¡¯ll be done,¡± Alrik said. ¡°But I¡¯d rather do one or both myself.¡± ¡°I need you here,¡± Brolli said. ¡°We¡¯ve got things to plan, and you never know who might show up to claim the jumper¡¯s body. They might find themselves confused in their grief and try and take more than one. If take my meaning.¡± ¡°Folk are unpredictable.¡± Alrik scratched at his scarred cheeks. ¡°What do you want me to do if he shows up here? Hjorvarth, I mean.¡± ¡°I¡¯ll be spending the evening downstairs, so I¡¯ll deal with him.¡± Brolli waved in dismissal. ¡°I¡¯ll see you down there.¡± Alrik nodded and left without further word. Brolli let out a slow sigh, lifted his hands above the table to see that they were shaking. He wasn¡¯t sure what it was, but something had set his nerves on edge. He considered warning Gudmund but decided to do that later. He then thought about seeking out Hjorvarth on his own, so that the big bastard didn¡¯t need to have to hear what had happened from a smart-mouthed coward like Ivar, but Brolli dismissed that idea as well, deciding he didn¡¯t lose anything by waiting. He would let the boy come to him, just like they had to when that smiling cunt of a bartender kicked them out on the street. And here they all where with history repeating itself. In all his musings¡ªas the bottom draw of his desk came easily open, as he reached with his shaking hands for the bone pipe and the brass pot of grey herbs¡ªhe never once considered that he had only once left his home in the past week, that he had barely ventured beyond his courtyard the season past, and that he hadn¡¯t crossed through the gates of Horvorr in over a winter. He stared out at his empty room, sucking on his pipe, breathing out sour smoke that clouded his view of all of the blood. *** Brolli rubbed at the short stubble of his newly shaved beard. He had put on a fine white shirt, after noticing that he had gotten a lot of blood on the other one. He had blood stains on his leggings as well, but they were black and he couldn¡¯t be bothered to fiddle with the belt string. He shivered, and sighed through his teeth. ¡°Why is it so fucking cold in here?¡± Arnor, still wearing his faded red shirt, stared from behind the bar. ¡°Question or complaint?¡± Brolli smiled in annoyance. ¡°Can¡¯t it be both?¡± ¡°I suppose,¡± Arnor admitted, glancing over at the roaring fire of the loaded hearth. He lifted his leather apron to wipe away the sweat beading on his brow. ¡°But then you¡¯ve already stacked it pretty high. It¡¯s stifling in here.¡± The three old men nodded in agreement with that sentiment, but dared speak no word of it to Brolli. ¡°Well,¡± Brolli spoke through chattering teeth. ¡°I would say that I¡¯m sick, but I don¡¯t get sick.¡± He clenched his fists, and managed to stop himself from shaking. ¡°Could you boil me some wine, Arnor?¡± ¡°Could you boil me some wine, Arnor?¡± Isleif mirrored his worried tone. ¡°What?¡± Brolli glanced at the blanket-wrapped old man sat beside the hearth. ¡°Oh. Come away from that fire, you old fool. You¡¯re going to go up in flames.¡± Isleif chuckled to himself. ¡°Don¡¯t we all burn in the end?¡± ¡°Some of us do.¡± Brolli nodded. ¡°All the same, I¡¯d rather you didn¡¯t catch fire in my taproom.¡± ¡°Some of us do.¡± Isleif¡¯s aged face lapsed to melancholy as he stared back at Brolli. ¡°Some of us don¡¯t. Some of us shouldn¡¯t.¡± He rose up, shedding blankets. He kept one green and one brown, holding both at his collar bone and wearing them like a cloak. ¡°Do you think he went to fetch me wine?¡± ¡°No.¡± Brolli got up to pull out a seat for Isleif. He then tightened and tucked the blankets around the old man. ¡°You don¡¯t get any wine before dusk.¡± Isleif squinted at the open window. ¡°Night¡¯s approach is close.¡± ¡°Storms coming,¡± Odi put in from a table away, his two old friends nodding their agreement. ¡°Biggest one for years by the look of it. Bruma Stormcaller must have a grudge against someone in Horvorr.¡± ¡°Oh, she does,¡± Isleif enthused. ¡°Many grudges, deeply held. But this is a charlatan¡¯s storm.¡± He stared out at the firebright taproom. ¡°What was I saying?¡± ¡°Nothing worth repeating,¡± Brolli assured. ¡°You said it was almost night, but it¡¯s barely past noon. There¡¯s a great big gathering of storm clouds blocking out most the sky.¡± He snapped his fingers to get the old man¡¯s attention. ¡°Are you in your right mind?¡± Isleif shook his head. ¡°I¡¯m certain of nothing¡­ except for that.¡± He twisted his wispy beard. ¡°Bad dreams?¡± Brolli sighed, bowing his head to offer a look of genuine fear. ¡°And you?¡± ¡°Would that I could remember them,¡± Isleif said. ¡°I do have an inkling we¡¯re in the wrong place.¡± Brolli nodded. ¡°I get that feeling too. Did you know that Ragadin attacked Horvorr¡¯s Guard on the Snake Basin Path?¡± ¡°No.¡± Isleif shook his head. ¡°But I more meant this table than the town.¡± Arnor walked over with a steaming mug and a steaming cup. Brolli pointed to the table nearest to the kitchen and furthest from the blazing hearth. ¡°Put them over there.¡± Arnor narrowed his eyes, but walked over and set them on the empty table. Brolli checked to see that no one other than the three old men were watching him, then scooped up Isleif and his blankets, and carried him over to the far table. He took the seat opposite, grabbing the mug and passing Isleif the cup. ¡°Well¡­?¡± Isleif frowned down at the dark liquid. ¡°Berry wine by the look of it.¡± He turned his wrinkled cheek to the steam. ¡°Very hot.¡± ¡°I meant the table,¡± Brolli said. ¡°Are we still in the wrong place?¡± Isleif shrugged. ¡°Almost certainly, but not quite as wrong as that other table.¡± He looked over to the middle table, squinting at the three old men in suspicion. ¡°I think that one might be best.¡± Brolli met the sentiment with a wry laugh. ¡°Surprised you¡¯ve still got the heart to play tricks on folk.¡± Isleif sighed to himself and smiled. ¡°I would gladly give it away.¡± ¡°Do you remember Ragadin?¡± Brolli asked. ¡°Didn¡¯t we already speak of this?¡± Isleif¡¯s owly brows knitted. ¡°I know the name, but no more than that. Is it a place?¡± ¡°Forget I asked,¡± Brolli said. ¡°I¡¯m going to leave Horvorr, is all. Soon. Tomorrow, if I can.¡± ¡°Oh.¡± Isleif nodded in surprise. ¡°And am I coming with you?¡± ¡°I hope so.¡± Brolli spread his hands at either side of his steaming mug. ¡°Still need to convince Hjorvarth. And I need to hire some men for the trip.¡± Isleif sipped from his wine. ¡°I would ask Alf,¡± he spoke quietly, as if his drink ailed him. ¡°Have your men come in?¡± ¡°Not a one,¡± both men said at once. ¡°I hate it when you¡ªIsleif, stop saying what I¡ª¡± Brolli struck the table. ¡°Isleif.¡± He sighed, hearing his own voice alone. ¡°Is there something you¡¯re trying to tell me?¡± Isleif peered at him as if through a fog. ¡°Sorry?¡± Brolli felt a chill seep into his back, hands shaking in his lap. ¡°I¡¯m saying I need advice, old friend.¡± ¡°Oh.¡± Isleif rubbed at his wispy beard. ¡°Did you try sitting over there?¡± Brolli could only laugh at himself. ¡°Never mind me, Isleif. You just drink your wine, and try to get some sleep.¡± They sat drinking together in silence, listening to the murmurs of the three old men, the raucous pop of the angry fire. Smoke grew thicker in the air, so Arnor went around opening all the shutters, letting in the dreary half-light of the stormy day. Brolli set down his spent mug. ¡°Sometimes I think I never should have gotten you the men for that trip.¡± Isleif offered no answer. He only stared into his own cup. ¡°I¡¯ve always been reckless,¡± Brolli said quietly. ¡°With coin. With drink. With smoking and all else. I won¡¯t pretend that a life means a thing to me, no more than does the man that holds it. But it¡¯s no lie to say I regret what I did. Your life had a worth. And I let you throw it away.¡± He sighed. ¡°You¡¯re not even listening¡ª¡± ¡°Some things can¡¯t be stopped,¡± Isleif whispered. ¡°Do you mind if I sit back by the fire?¡± ¡°I¡¯m trying to say I¡¯m sorry,¡± Brolli growled. ¡°A lament I am all too familiar with.¡± Isleif looked up with solemn, milky eyes. ¡°Would that anyone I apologized to ever believed me¡­ or thought me deserving of their forgiveness. Would that we could force back the wind, snow, and seasons, and look at each other again across this table. And you could shout and spit in my face, like you did, and you could reject me, firmly reject me, like you didn¡¯t.¡± He let out a long sigh, and pushed up from his seat. ¡°We are friends, Brolli. Old friends. Friends can hold grudges. I want no less and no more than that.¡± ¡°Let me help you,¡± Brolli said. ¡°I¡¯m quite fine.¡± Isleif shook his head, his blankets draped over his back. ¡°I¡¯m ready, in fact.¡± ¡°For what?¡± Isleif glanced back in bemusement. ¡°The storm, of course.¡± Storm clouds rumbled with a doleful, earthshaking resonance. The skies then opened. Raindrops cascaded down to make a deafening sound. The old bard appeared saddened by the chorus, reminded of forced applause, while his truest friend heard a foreboding hiss. 22. Black Heart 22. Black Heart ¡°As we conquer further into Southwestern Tymir, the goblins have begun to call some of us by name. They have given Brolli the title of Black Heart. I wonder if they know how unfair that is. For of all the men in our company, he is the one who seems to care the most. Gone is the man that had defeated his demons. With each slaughter he becomes more the wretch I first met and less the hero he could be. It is hard to see him suffer, but if we do not conquer this region I will never reach the Hall.¡± Brolli remained at the same table in the taproom, no doubt putting too much faith in the ramblings of Isleif. But never enough faith to ask to sit with those three old men. He leaned back in his seat, three empty mugs and a half-eaten meal ahead of him, pork chewed up and spat back out. Arnor hadn¡¯t offered to clear the table. He knew that Brolli was a man who preferred to have the mess left to mark the passing of time. Brolli could barely hear himself breathe over the hammering rain. The air had turned cold and humid. Arnor had put buckets and iron pots on the landing above, so a persistent din sounded down through the floorboards as well: hollowed notes of rain knocking into cups or buckets, or the flat chime of water breaking against a pot of tin or iron. The shutters had been closed, making the air smokier, and all the more stifling even with the chill. Arnor had padded the gaps with any blankets and cloths that he could find, though most of those were now soaked through so water trickled down from window sills and onto the dusty floorboards. Those three old men spoke their complaints under cover of the weather. They had been joined by other folk too, those hoping to find some warmth or company to shelter through the storm. A dozen men had gathered around the gambling tables. They played at bones while a wizened, black-clad old man kept count, and while Alrik supervised from a tall stool in the corner, one hand ready on a knife. None had come to collect the man who had fallen from the window, leaving the pallid body to sink further into the mud. Brolli pushed away his plate, and watched the aged trio mutter to themselves. All they ever did was drink together. He wasn¡¯t sure whether he pitied them or envied them. ¡°Brolli?¡± Brolli barely heard the timid question, but he turned to see Ivar stood ahead of the counter. Half-drowned, his black clothes sagging over his skinny frame, rainwater tricking down from his swollen eye. ¡°I found it!¡± Brolli scowled. ¡°Found what?¡± Ivar pointed to a driftwood staff leaning by the hearth, glistening wet. ¡°I found it!¡± Brolli¡¯s scowl deepened. ¡°A stick?¡± ¡°A staff,¡± Ivar spoke as quietly as he could while still being heard over the downpour. ¡°The Salt Sage asked me to bring it. Where is he?¡± Brolli rose to his feet. ¡°Are you asking me questions now?¡± He shoved the young man back into the counter. ¡°Your job is to run errands for me, boy. Not for the Sage. So go clean yourself up, and get to work before I make a mess of your other eye.¡± Ivar kept his gaze low as he nodded and fled. Brolli realized he¡¯d forgot to ask how Hjorvarth had taken to the news that Sam was a snake bastard who¡¯d abandoned Isleif at the drop of a hat. But he figured he couldn¡¯t have taken events too badly if Ivar was still up and about. No doubt his foster son was still out sulking by the lake, getting lashed by the wind and the rain. Better cold than dead. Hjorvarth would come and beg for Brolli¡¯s forgiveness eventually. There was no other choice. Horvorr¡¯s Guard were a few days away from starting a bloody uprising, and soon enough the only way out of this gods forsaken place region would be to join up with Brolli. Even Gudmund would have to see sense at this rate. There was still that one-armed cunt to contend with but he didn¡¯t have a plan. Grettir was the sort of blind fool who still believed in folk¡¯s goodness, despite a lifetime of examples proving the opposite. For the first time in his life, everything was going Brolli¡¯s way. Arnor was watching intently behind the counter, arms crossed above his apron. Brolli stared at the barkeeper. ¡°Problem, Arnor?¡± ¡°No.¡± Arnor shook his head. ¡°Though I¡¯ll admit I¡¯m a little worried about you.¡± ¡°Keep your concerns to yourself.¡± Brolli glanced back at his table. ¡°Clean that away, and fetch me some more wine.¡± Arnor relented with a nod, and made his way to the kitchen. Brolli now sat where he had before Isleif had convinced him to move. He chose to face the fire, keeping his back to the door, so that he could watch for the old man¡¯s disapproval. Isleif had his eyes closed though, sweating and muttering in his sleep, his wispy hair aglow with firelight, restored to the colour of youth. Brolli sighed. Then he laughed and sighed again. He thought himself a fool, and longed for the days when he shivered in his own shit. He longed for the days when he had valued his life enough to fight for survival. He¡¯d been beaten and captured, not able to stretch his arms for the bars of his cage. He¡¯d been sold. That was meant to be his final disgrace before a brutal death in the fighting ring but he was still young enough to kill a hundred men. To want to kill more than that. Brolli had earned his freedom, but felt more trapped by the open world, so went back to what he did best: killing men. He fought long enough to earn more coin than most men in Southwestern Tymir. He had fought until the crowd that loved him grew jealous, until those bastards decided he had risen high enough and now they needed to watch him fall. And then he had started to smoke. He smoked their hate away. He smoked the nightmares away, and had even managed to quiet his anger for a while. Brolli never wanted to stop fighting, but in the end they wouldn¡¯t let him fight. He had gone too far in a smoke haze and hacked man and monster to pieces, started to chew them both up. So his name faded like a song on the wind, and that might have been fine if he hadn¡¯t gambled all of his money away. Now all he had left was his freedom: freedom to live in Horvorr, in a property that wasn¡¯t even his, smuggling weapons and herbs and doing black deeds just to scrape up a decent living. But he had finally come to an idea that would bring him back to where he needed to be and now the goblins were coming to pay him back for his sins. If he escaped though, or if he was wrong and simply needed more sleep, then he could make a better life. And if that didn¡¯t work out then he could always try and convince Hjorvarth to fight in the ring. Maybe then Brolli could finally go back to living pure. They¡¯d sing songs of Brolli and Hjorvarth for all the years to come. Brolli almost thanked the Salt Sage for ridding him of Sam, but he had no love for the stranger, who had been too happy with the deal. Brolli was certain it had been meant to screw Sam, but he still wasn¡¯t sure if he had been meant to suffer for it too. Yet the man had been here to help Isleif. And Isleif was a man who once had powerful friends. And there were times when Brolli didn¡¯t care at all about his own future. He just wanted to make right the lives of those he liked. He¡¯d suffered the worst betrayal early on. And he¡¯d delivered vengeance in kind. Everything beyond that had seemed grey and muted. A life half-lived. Brolli¡¯s mind lay contested by memory and mythology. He kept thinking of Ouro and how The World Eater had consumed itself with thoughtless greed. And then his thoughts drifted back to a long night in his family¡¯s gardens. He had run away from his home, hiding in the grasses, his possessions in a sack beside him. The day had been hot and he had been hopeful. But then the rains came and the air grew close and cold. The wind howled and the trees creaked. The young boy¡¯s dreams of escape where replaced by an overwhelming desire to return to safety. To be warm again. To be free from the weather and the unknown dangers of the darkness. He feared he would be punished, of course. Geirulf had always been as strict as he was cruel. But Gudmund had waited in the stables for his little brother, warm blanket in hand. Raindrops gave way to a moment of startling silence. ¡°Brolli!¡± Alrik warned. Footfalls thundered across the floorboards. Brolli managed to turn far enough to see Arnor. The barkeeper held a plate in his hands, standing wide-eyed and open-mouthed. If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. The view of the world shifted now weight smashed into the back of Brolli¡¯s chair. He had tried to brace himself on the table, which only forced the other end up and into his face. The chair snapped under him and his knees thudded into the floorboards. ¡°What did you to Sam?¡± Hjorvarth roared, silencing both taproom and tables. Brolli knelt before the upturned table, his back wedged in the broken chair. He groaned, bleeding from his nose and lip. ¡°Hjorvarth!¡± Alrik drew two long knifes now he emerged from the crowded gamblers. ¡°Brolli hasn¡¯t done anything to Sam. And you¡¯ve no right at all to attack him in his own home. So stand back before this gets out of hand!¡± Hjorvarth turned, soaked in rain, heaving breaths, his pale eyes wide and devoid of all reason. ¡°I will kill you.¡± ¡°And I you,¡± Alrik assured, setting his stance and weighing the blades in his hands. ¡°If you make me. This¡ª¡± Hjorvarth lurched around, grabbing the table, spinning back and hurling it through the reception. Alrik tried to sidestep, but it smashed into his shoulder, dislocating that and sending him stumbling towards the open door. Alrik staggered back to the corner as the huge man closed. He lashed out, wrist caught, and got pummeled against the walls. Wood snapped now a stool broke against Hjorvarth¡¯s back. Hjorvarth lurched around to strike the wizened old man clean in his cheek. That upset the gamblers, who charged forward, and started an earnest brawl. Hjorvarth shrugged off blows, kicking out knees, putting men down in one or two swings, until the wounded littered the floor, and those standing had backed well clear. Hjorvarth charged back into the taproom. Brolli had gotten free of the chair, even had one hand on his hilt, but no time to draw. He dived onto his side as a boot crunched into floorboards. ¡°I warned you!¡± Hjorvarth threw the broken chair. ¡°I warned you, Brolli. And you killed him. You murdered him!¡± ¡°You need to listen me!¡± Brolli got to his feet, shaking his head, offering his palms in surrender. ¡°Look what you¡¯ve fucking done! You¡¯ve come in my place, attacked me, attacked my customers. You¡¯ve beat Alrik half to death. You kicked me in the back, came at me like a gods-damned coward. Now I can appreciate,¡± he continued, speaking with plain venom, ¡°that this all a misunderstanding. But you need to realise that if it goes any further¡ª¡± ¡°It has already gone far enough!¡± Hjorvarth rebuked. ¡°I won¡¯t abide it. Not this! I won¡¯t let this rest. I won¡¯t let you kill him and wash your hands of it.¡± ¡°Listen to me!¡± ¡°I told you this would happen!¡± Hjorvarth boomed. ¡°You are a murderer. A law breaker. And by all rights you should be outlawed, and it is only by some grim mockery of Joyto alone that you live under your brother¡¯s shadow. And you are a coward, Brolli. The worst kind of coward. Instead of going after the people who wronged you, you make a hell of the lives of small people. Of people who have done no wrong to you. Or anyone! But I have had enough. And I will have an end to this!¡± ¡°You want an end?¡± Brolli asked. ¡°Well I can give you that, boy!¡± Hjorvarth lunged when Brolli reached for his sword, boot crushing hand against hilt. He tackled him into a table, forcing it back in a clatter of chairs. Hjorvarth grunted as he suffered a head to the nose and a punch to the gut, then grabbed Brolli in a bear hug. ¡°Let me go,¡± Brolli hissed, ¡°or I will rip out your throat with my teeth.¡± Hjorvarth pressed his head against Brolli¡¯s. ¡°And I¡ª¡± He shoved him back, sweeping out one leg, punching him in the brow. Brolli managed to stop the boot that followed with braced arms, sending him crashing back into dusty floorboards. The three old men, sitting on one of the few tables still standing, watched in silence. Hjorvarth stepped forward and placed his heel on his foster father¡¯s chest. ¡°What happened to Sam?¡± ¡°He¡¯s dead.¡± Brolli bared bloody teeth. ¡°He¡¯s on his way to Fenkirk. With no guards and a laden cart. He¡¯s worse than dead.¡± ¡°Tell me the truth!¡± Hjorvarth demanded. ¡°I want the truth and I want it from you!¡± Brolli laughed despite the pain. ¡°We¡¯re all dead, Hjorvarth. So what does it really matter?¡± ¡°It matters to¡ª¡± A wooden crack resounded through the taproom. Hjorvarth staggered. He swayed drunkenly before tumbling to the floorboards. Isleif stood over the both of them, wild-eyed and worried. A great gnarled cane held high above his head. Brolli blinked up at the old man. ¡°Isleif?¡± ¡°Are you all right, Brolli?¡± Isleif asked in a panic. ¡°Who was that man¡­? I think I might have killed him.¡± Brolli laughed a mad laugh. ¡°If you haven¡¯t, then I will.¡± Footfalls sounded out on the stairs. The Salt Sage swept through the open door with Runolf and two of the men that Hjorvarth had beaten and humiliated on the Snake Basin Path. They were each sodden from the rain but seemed keen eyed to see the huge man brought down. And they had all already drawn their weapons. Brolli tried not to wince, struggling up from the floor. Battered as he was, he¡¯d struggle to kill even one of the three. ¡°What¡¯s all this about?¡± ¡°Witnesses,¡± the Sage replied. ¡°To Hjorvarth¡¯s drowning. Unfortunate that he chose to swim the Great Lake.¡± Brolli¡¯s reservations, barely felt amid the storm of his rage, were burnt away at the sight of all the gamblers. Of Alrik, bloodied and beaten. Of all these eyes watching him. Of all these witnesses to his embarrassment. Beaten and insulted by a man he had raised. By a man he had treated as his own son. ¡°Unfortunate,¡± he agreed. Yet two voices, of compassion and cruelty, whispered in his head that all this was best resolved in the darkness of the embankments. Kill the boy or kill them all, Brolli would be leaving as the sun rose with fresh blood trailing behind him. He would only have to go and see his brother to offer him a final chance. Arnor¡¯s rounded face was a picture of judgement. ¡°Brolli,¡± he spoke the name as both a plea and a warning. The armed men now carried away fallen Hjorvarth. The Salt Sage had left with his staff. So the disparate pair faced each other in silence. ¡°Bring Alrik to the Ritual House,¡± Brolli instructed with complete calm. ¡°I¡¯ll take care of all this myself.¡± *** No moonlight reflected in the dark water of Horvorr¡¯s Great Lake, only the ruddy glow of a torch that Randall held. Runolf stood at his left, and Brand at his right. Those three faced Brolli in a half-circle, who looked towards black water while Hjorvarth knelt ahead of his feet. The huge man slumped to one side, and he only stayed upright because Brolli had hold of his long braided hair. ¡°What are we waiting for?¡± Runolf asked. ¡°Just push him in.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t know your name.¡± Brolli said, his voice calm as the lake¡¯s water. ¡°But if you speak again, you¡¯ll end this night in a pig¡¯s trough. Do you understand me, friend?¡± Runolf swallowed and took a small step back. ¡°We¡¯re waiting for two reasons. Firstly, because the Sage asked me to, and he¡¯s done me a deal of favors lately. And, secondly¡­¡± ¡°Secondly?¡± Randall asked, rubbing at his chubby cheeks. ¡°Was that you, or a different man? Never mind.¡± Brolli shook his head. ¡°I¡¯ll give a gold ounce to the man that kills whoever just spoke.¡± ¡°Surely, you can¡¯t be¡ª¡± Randall looked at Brand and Runolf, and they watched him with contemplative eyes. He started running. Runolf chased him for a dozen seconds, until he kicked Randall in the back of the knee. The fat man buckled and tumbled into the mud. ¡°Don¡¯t. Please!¡± Randall rolled over in time to catch a dagger with his wrist. Runolf kicked him in his belly, blade scraping against bone as he pulled it free, then he stabbed Randall in the throat, ending a scream just after it began. Randall¡¯s arms wavered ahead of him in a desperate defense, and he pleaded in gargling whimpers. He had died by the fifth cut. Runolf stabbed him ten more times, wiping the dagger in Randall¡¯s balding hair. Brand had a tight grip on his own knife when Runolf returned. Brolli chuckled. ¡°You know who never would have done a thing like that? Hjorvarth.¡± He jerked tailed red hair, and Hjorvarth murmured. ¡°Too good for it.¡± Brolli looked back across the lake¡¯s black expanse. ¡°Better than you, a lot better than you. Still¡­ he¡¯s too good. Too good for his own good. Why didn¡¯t he ever learn that good men need to do bad things?¡± Runolf opened his mouth to speak. Brand looked around at shadowed fishing huts. ¡°No,¡± Brolli said. ¡°I don¡¯t want an answer.¡± Hjorvarth groaned, and mumbled with a rag in his mouth. He tried to stand, but his wrists were fastened to his ankles. ¡°Awake are you?¡± Brolli asked. ¡°Don¡¯t struggle. I¡¯ve had enough of that, more than enough. Now I¡¯m going to take that rag out of your mouth, and I¡¯m going let you have a few words, and then I¡¯m pushing you in the Great Lake.¡± Hjorvarth shouted through his rags. His effort stopped when Brolli¡¯s sword touched his throat. ¡°This is borrowed time, Hjorvarth,¡± Brolli warned. ¡°Borrowed time. If you want to speak, then you can stay calm. If you want to drown, then keep struggling and I¡¯ll cut your throat in the bargain.¡± Hjorvarth¡¯s broad shoulders grew lax. ¡°Good.¡± Brolli sighed. ¡°I want you to know that I¡¯m going to look after Isleif. I know that I¡¯ve threatened him before, but it was just a way to leverage you. He¡¯s an old man, and he¡¯s good company. So don¡¯t you worry about your father when you¡¯re drowning. You just make peace with the Eleven Elders.¡± Brolli leaned over to pull tug the rags out his mouth. Hjorvarth sucked in a breath, and gave a sad laugh. ¡°You¡¯ll look after Isleif?¡± ¡°I will.¡± Brolli nodded, squinting up at the lightless sky. ¡°Don¡¯t get me wrong, boy. This is personal. If you¡¯re going to attack a man, the least you can do is announce yourself, and do it out on the street. And after all I¡¯ve done for you. Keeping you and your father under my roof for all those winters. Keeping him safe from the angry brothers and sons of all those men he led to their deaths. And you decide to kick me off my fucking chair with no more courtesy than a drunken brawler?¡± Brolli disgustedly shook his head, gripping tighter to his sword. ¡°But¡­ your sins aren¡¯t your father¡¯s, no more than my father¡¯s sins are mine.¡± Silence stretched, while the blade slowly teetered towards Hjorvarth¡¯s bonds. Brolli¡¯s mind was in a murky turmoil, unsure what path to take. He¡¯d killed more men than he could count. He¡¯d never hesitated before. Not even when he killed his own brother. And after what Grim had done, Brolli was sure his heart was broken. He would never love again. Yet Sibbe was kind despite his terrible reputation. And the boy¡­ the man¡­ the huge foolish bastard before him was as much Brolli¡¯s son as Isleif¡¯s. More than. Hjorvarth had always been the one good thing he had done. The one thing he didn¡¯t have to regret. The one thing that brought him true, untainted pride. Until now. Brolli couldn¡¯t shake the weight of the eyes watching him, of the expectations of strangers or the savage precedent he had set for himself in all the winters of extortion, torture and murder. Yet his own voice whispered a merciful mantra. Let him go. Let him go. I should just let him go. Brolli¡¯s ears twitched at soft footfalls now Engli and the Salt Sage approached from the darkness, coming up on the gathered men¡¯s left. ¡°What¡¯s going on here?¡± Engli asked, reaching for his dagger. ¡°Here I thought we might be too late!¡± the Sage called. Brolli blinked, and pointed his sword towards the blond man. ¡°Who¡¯s he?¡± Runolf¡¯s eyes widened.¡°That¡¯s Hjorvarth¡¯s, friend!¡± He ran at Engli, his bloody hilt still in his hand. The Sage stepped quickly forward, and swung his weight off of his right foot so that his left shoulder struck Runolf¡¯s chest. Runolf coughed, and spluttered. His dagger fell from his limp grip. Brand panicked and rushed them with his knife. He slashed at Engli, who stepped back and swept out his foot. Brand tripped and fell to his knees. Engli slammed his heel into Brand¡¯s long nose. It drove him backward, and he slammed into the ground. ¡°What is this, Sage?¡± Brolli asked. ¡°What game are you¡ª Rope snapped now Hjorvarth freed his wrists. Brolli took a measured step away, his foot slipping on wet mud. His free arm went out for balance while the other became tangled in Hjorvarth¡¯s hair. The Salt Sage strode forward, offering his gloved hand. Brolli reached out to grab it, but his heel skidded further, sending him falling backwards from the embankments. Hjorvarth¡¯s hair snapped taut, and the both of them plunged into black water. 23. The Last Son of Geirulf 23. The Last Son of Geirulf ¡°Having spent nearly a season under the command of Gudmund, one begins to wonder how he ever managed to convince so many men to follow him. I also questioned whatever possessed him to spend so much blood and coin on trying to conquer such a bleak, inhospital region to begin with. I remember before all this began hearing the unwelcome news that Weskin, once the most powerful Jarlship in the High Lands, had been subject to a sudden and bloody uprising. With all those of high station put to the sword, there was not a single survivor. What I failed to realize is that the Jarl¡¯s son, Gudmund son of Geirulf, was stationed in Tymir when this tragedy occurred. He had indeed survived. Outliving his father, his wife, and his firstborn daughter. No doubt he thought the Great Chiefs would make for easier prey than a dozen Jarls. And that he could turn his sights to vengeance after a swift and heroic victory in Southwestern Tymir. But since this war began, all the other lords of the High Lands have suffered their own uprisings, or else bent the knee to The Low King. While Gudmund is stuck in an endless war with a relentless goblin horde. This I learned from his new wife, Hilda, who barely knows him. A swiftly arranged pact with Jarl Thrand of Timilir, who no doubt wished to have a safeguard in place should Gudmund ever lay sole claim to the region.¡± Gudmund sat forward in his imposing chair, infuriated by the itchy cushions piled behind him. He sat with his hands clasped on each wooden arm as the people trickled into his hall. He did his best to keep untidy brows and green eyes fixed into a determined stare, to keep cracked lips turned up into a welcoming smile. Horvorr¡¯s people wore clothes of worn fur, cracked leather and thick cotton. They spoke to one another with plain words. Most men had a habit of playing with their beards, whether braided, combed, or unruly, while the women seemed to use their restless energy in entertaining the few children. They all rubbed themselves for warmth when a biting wind swept in from the town outside. ¡®Hollow,¡¯ Gudmund thought. ¡®Hollow eyes, hollow cheeks and their hands cupped to blow into hollows.¡¯ He glanced down at Muradoon¡¯s altar: dark wood engraved with a scene of spirits, daggers and sacrifice. The altar stood amid the corridor that opened into the main hall. Grettir and a dozen other men of Horvorr¡¯s Guard had gathered by it, axes at belts and painted shields on backs. Gudmund looked as civilized as he had in years, but his neck ached under the weight of a bronze circlet. He had combed his red hair and now wore a fine shirt, black at stark contrast with his snow-leopard cloak. Untold anger still consumed him. Made him ill. He shook despite efforts to keep still, to seem proud and respectable. Shivering, he wondered what his daughter had done with Lovrin¡¯s tincture. Gudmund had barely slept, owing not at all to being woken at dawn. The night before last had been a busy one. A tragic one. Gudmund had already tried to take his revenge against Hjorvarth by blade but that failed so now he¡¯d try once more in the formal fashion. Gudmund¡¯s white cloak trailed behind him now he rose. He settled into a deliberate stride, guards forming into a line at either side of the altar, then looked down at the people of Horvorr as a man might look upon nothing at all. The guards waited for him to speak, noise of the crowd growing louder, and then looked to Grettir. ¡°Quiet!¡± Grettir roared and the guards, Ralf and Eirik among them, took up with him. They shouted until rough men and weathered women had fallen close to silence. ¡°People of Horvorr!¡± Gudmund called, searching the crowd even though he saw little more than hazy morning light. The men shuffled forward to leave a half-circle before the altar, while the women remained seated along the table benches. ¡°I have not brought you all here for any happy reason.¡± Gudmund shook his head, suffering a sudden melancholy that made his gaze aimless. ¡°I have brought you here,¡± he continued, expression hardening, ¡°because the night before last four men were murdered.¡± A small blond boy tugged at his an old woman¡¯s moth-eaten dress, asking her the meaning of the words, while those around him murmured to one another, most reacting with slow nods or disinterest. ¡°Who?¡± Linden asked from the back of the crowd. The question was echoed. Grettir cleared his throat. ¡°Randall, son of Rand, who himself died over a year ago, and his widow a decade before him. Brand, father unknown, but son to Lara.¡± Lara, a tall lady with silvering black hair, blinked. Women moved to comfort her, urging her to sit now she started to weep. ¡°Runolf, son of Alf, who was outlawed five winters ago for trying to kill a man. And, the fourth¡ª¡± ¡°Brolli.¡± Gudmund stared blankly down at the dreary gathering. ¡°Third son of Jarl Geirulf. My younger brother.¡± ¡°Gudmund!¡± Anna¡¯s voice pierced through murmurs of acknowledgment. ¡°Where is my son?¡± ¡°Arrested,¡± Grettir answered. ¡°Along with Hjorvarth, son of Isleif, for the murder of those four just named.¡± Linden pushed through the crowd with his wife. ¡°Engli would not kill any man.¡± ¡°No?¡± Gudmund asked. ¡°Then I¡¯m sure you and your wife, more than anyone else, would welcome a trial.¡± ¡°A trial?¡± Anna asked. ¡°And who has accused him?¡± ¡°He admitted his own guilt, Anna,¡± Grettir spoke solemnly, exhaustion weighing his hirsute face. ¡°Now you and your husband be quiet.¡± ¡°In one hour!¡± Gudmund called. ¡°We will hold a trial for Hjorvarth and Engli, to determine whether or not they are guilty of murder, or whether their crimes can be justified by another measure.¡± He waved to the curtained corridor. ¡°Lovrin!¡± Lovrin hobbled forward in his heavy purple robes. He held a small, panicked lamb. Gudmund turned to the hunched Godi. ¡°Would you say the rites, and clear this place of any misdoing on behalf of Muradoon?¡± ¡°I will, my Chief,¡± Lovrin said, briskly stroking the white-furred head. Gudmund stepped back and the lamb bleated. The men watched standing, the women from their seats. Most had no joy in their eyes, as if they had begun to waken to the bleak lives that they had lived these years past, coming to a cold and inhospitable place in hopes of a better life, only to settle for a life mislived, a hard life, with no joy at all. Though there were those among the gathered that felt gladdened by the news of Brolli¡¯s passing, who wanted nothing more than to witness the sacrifice of Chief Gudmund of Horvorr. Lovrin pinned the lamb to the altar, bringing the curved blade to a downy white neck. *** Gudmund sat back on his chair, rigid like a scowling statue. The gathered folk talked along the benches of tables that now met at their ends. Children had been brought back to their homes, so there were less women. Most the fishermen had left too, and now readied themselves about Horvorr¡¯s Great Lake. Drunkards and embittered warriors came as late replacements, making the air thick with the smell of unwashed men and alcohol sweat. Anna and Linden sat on the forward bench of the right table. All those to Anna¡¯s right were women, stout or tall, but older than thirty winters for the most, while all those to Linden¡¯s left were men, rowdy and rough-faced for the main. ¡°Are we just going to sit here?¡± Anna hissed. ¡°Gudmund is not going to give a fair trial for the death of his brother.¡± Linden smiled for appearance¡¯s sake. ¡°Probably not. But what would you have us do?¡± ¡°Well,¡± Anna whispered. ¡°You could challenge Gudmund for his position. And ask to fight in pairs.¡± ¡°With you?¡± Linden smiled in earnest as he shook his head. ¡°You might beat Grettir, but I don¡¯t think either man would agree to fight a woman. Besides, wife, Engli talks well, so why don¡¯t we let him get out of this on his own?¡± Hjorvarth crested the corridor then, wearing a blue tunic. Too tight for his huge chest. He had his hands bound ahead of him. Grettir followed at his back. Engli came after them, with Ralf behind. Those gathered forgot their conversations, and turned to watch Hjorvarth and Engli drop to their knees at either side of the altar. The hall quieted now folk turned and settled along the benches. ¡°Little brother,¡± Gudmund whispered in regret, and then he surged from his chair. ¡°Broknar the Elder gave laws to men! Because without law there would be chaos. Because it is not just our honor that separates us from the likes of goblins, monsters, or any other creature of the Lady¡¯s Shadow. It is order, code, civility and respect that sets us apart. It is a sense of justice.¡± He stopped at the altar, placing his palms at either end to avoid the blood. ¡°Broknar that forbid the murder of man, because he knew that we had greater enemies to face than those of our own kind. He knew that a life was too valuable a thing to take. Too valuable a thing to waste¡­ and, with that in mind, these two have been brought before you, people of Horvorr, to stand trial for the murder of four of our men.¡± Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings. The crowd made little noise but they paid full attention. Gudmund looked to the blond youth. ¡°Here is Engli, son of Linden.¡± He turned to red-haired brute. ¡°Here is Hjorvarth, son of Isleif. Both men have admitted their guilt in one or all murders.¡± He glanced at each of them again. ¡°Unless the tale has changed?¡± Along the tables, Anna tried to stand but Linden held her still. ¡°No?¡± Gudmund asked. ¡°That is good, then. Engli, would you rather speak now, or after?¡± Engli gazed at the cold curiosity of the bearded men and pale women. ¡°I would speak after.¡± ¡°And you, Hjorvarth?¡± Gudmund asked. ¡°I will speak now,¡± Hjorvarth spoke in a slow, troubled tone. ¡°I had meant to be out of town for the Autumn Trip,¡± he began without hesitation, ¡°but it was delayed the day we were due to set out. This left me in a foul mood, and after I had put the¡ª¡± ¡°Hjorvarth,¡± Gudmund said. ¡°Unless Brolli was with you¡ª¡± ¡°After I put the oxen away,¡± Hjorvarth continued. ¡°I went to sleep out by the lake. I woke there the next morning, as would be expected, then I went to see Sam at his tavern, where my father stays. I tried to open the door, but it was barred. I knocked, and Ivar answered, who works for Brolli. I asked where Sam was, and he showed me a letter that was written by another man. I took it to mean that Brolli had captured or killed Sam, because he had made much the same threat days earlier,¡± his tone was fatalistic, but his anger was rising. ¡°Ivar offered no explanation to convince me otherwise.¡± ¡°So you¡¯re¡ª¡± ¡°I went to Brolli¡¯s place,¡± Hjorvarth spoke over Gudmund. ¡°There were dozens of men there, but I could barely hear them. I attacked Brolli, and his men. And his customers tried to defend him. I threw them aside, punched Alrik on the head until he stopped. Brolli warned me, kept warning me that I was making a mistake. I threw chairs, and tables. I beat some men to sleeping. Then I had Brolli on the floor, and I demanded that he tell me what he had done with Sam, to admit what he had done, but he only laughed.¡± He shook his head in regret. ¡°Next I know I woke on the embankments. Arnor has told me since that Isleif hit me over the head with a staff.¡± ¡°If Arnor wishes to speak on your behalf he can offer himself as witness,¡± Gudmund said. ¡°He is busy taking care of my father.¡± Hjorvarth shrugged. ¡°I woke on the embankments with my arms bound. So I guessed that Brolli meant to drown me in the lake. He said just that. I only begged that he look after Isleif, and he agreed. He spoke in regret, almost as if he meant to let me go. I heard a disagreement, a man being stabbed to death, but it was night and I could barely turn to see. Brolli lowered his sword to my bonds, perhaps to stab me through the spine or cut me loose.¡± Hjorvarth¡¯s sigh shook with sorrow. ¡°The Sage then called out. Engli was with him. I heard fighting and managed to snap my bonds. Brolli stepped clear from me, slipping on wet mud, but the Sage was near him. He offered his hand to Brolli, but kicked him in the chest instead. Brolli had wrapped my hair around his arm¡­ so he dragged me in with him. I could barely see in the water. Brolli tried to drag me down and I fought back. We were both so deep that I gave up all hope of living.¡± ¡°Yet here you are,¡± Gudmund noted. Hjorvarth¡¯s nod was grudging. ¡°I woke choking on the embankments, suffering the cold. Then once more in the Ritual House with Lovrin standing over me.¡± He glanced back at Gudmund. ¡°I had only left there when Gudmund and Grettir found me. Gudmund tried to attack me but I caught him by the wrist and neck, and choked him until he dropped his sword. I then walked here under Grettir¡¯s promise of protection.¡± Most of the crowd watched the huge man with something close to amusement, while others talked amongst themselves, having only come to see whatever Gudmund would do to the men that killed his brother. ¡°A brief account,¡± Gudmund said without enthusiasm. ¡°Before Hjorvarth is questioned we will hear the account of Ivar, who says he is witness to the murders.¡± Ivar walked out from the dark curtains of the left corridor, his complexion paler than usual, his swollen eye an angry red. ¡°Ivar.¡± Gudmund led him ahead of the altar. ¡°Do you swear an oath that what you say is the truth. An oath to Broknar, to all Eleven Elders above, and to the people of Horvorr below?¡± ¡°I swear it on my honor, and by the gods.¡± Ivar nodded. ¡°I will tell what I have saw, with my own eyes and only that. By Broknar, I swear it. And the Lady take me should I break that oath.¡± Gudmund gestured. ¡°Go on, then.¡± ¡°Well, I was at the stable procuring things for Brolli¡ª¡± ¡°Stable?¡± Gudmund frowned. ¡°These people have no interest in your daily affairs. We need only know what happened at the lake.¡± Ivar nodded. ¡°Well¡­ I saw a torch, by the lake. I had followed Brolli there, because¡­ well, that doesn¡¯t matter I suppose. I saw Hjorvarth there, along with all the men you mentioned. He was talking with Brolli, and then Brolli said a thing, and Hjorvarth became angry. Runolf tried to stop him, but Hjorvarth stole Brolli¡¯s sword and thrust clean through Runolf¡¯s heart.¡± Hjorvarth bit down on his anger. ¡°Then,¡± Ivar continued, ¡°Brolli tried to stop Hjorvarth¡ªto reason with him, but Hjorvarth refused. Brolli grappled with him when he wouldn¡¯t give back the sword. Then Engli came from nowhere and attacked Brand for little reason I could see. He kicked him from his feet and stomped on Brand¡¯s head so that it broke open on a stone. Hjorvarth and Brolli fell in the water. Randall was the last man standing, and he tried to run, but Engli chased him down and stabbed him times over.¡± ¡°Why would you lie about such a thing?¡± Hjorvarth asked with true bemusement. ¡°You have had your opportunity to speak,¡± Gudmund said. ¡°Who are you to question the honesty of any man, Hjorvarth?¡± Hjorvarth tried to rise but Grettir placed his hand on the huge man¡¯s shoulder. ¡°Ivar, is that all you saw?¡± Gudmund asked. ¡°Yes.¡± Ivar nodded. ¡°Then I called murder, as is the law.¡± ¡°That it is, then.¡± Gudmund waved towards the doors, now half-closed. ¡°You may go, or sit and watch.¡± ¡°I have one more thing to say.¡± Ivar turned back. ¡°I know for fact that Hjorvarth owed Brolli a great debt of coin.¡± Hjorvarth glared. ¡°A debt I aimed to pay.¡± ¡°Mind to your silence, Hjorvarth,¡± Gudmund warned. ¡°So he can question me, but I can¡¯t question him?¡± ¡°It was your choice to speak first,¡± Gudmund said. ¡°But you¡¯ll have plenty of questions to answer yet. And I do recall as well, that you owed Brolli coin.¡± He paused. ¡°Tell me, do you still intend to pay him now he is dead?¡± Hjorvarth furrowed his brows. ¡°No, but¡ª¡± Gudmund raised his hand. ¡°That¡¯s all you need say.¡± He inclined his head to Ivar. ¡°You can go.¡± Hjorvarth seethed in silence as he suffered the pitiless regard of those gathered. ¡°You¡¯ve put us to trial.¡± ¡°Yes.¡± Gudmund waved his hand to encompass the guards, altar, and crowded hall. ¡°That¡¯s what all this is about.¡± ¡°Yet you make no mention of Brolli murdering Sam. Nor any of his other murders, or any other crime committed while you sheltered him here.¡± Gudmund¡¯s eyes narrowed before he smiled. ¡°And what exactly are you accusing me of, Hjorvarth? Of wanting to protect my brother?¡± ¡°Of letting him get away with murder,¡± Hjorvarth growled, words echoing across the hall. ¡°Specifically, the murder of Sam?¡± Gudmund asked. ¡°Yes.¡± ¡°Then who I am to deny you?¡± Gudmund asked. ¡°I aim to serve the people of Horvorr, and try as I might to forget it, you are one of those people. As this should end quickly, I call on Edgar, who works for Horvorr¡¯s Guard as a barkeep in our barracks, to provide an account of what he witnessed yesterday.¡± Edgar crept out from the same curtain Ivar had. He wore a thick woolen jumper that poorly fitted his lanky frame. He stopped near the line of guards, scratching at his straw-colored hair, not sure what to make of the confused folk watching him. ¡°Edgar,¡± Gudmund spoke in calm, clear voice. ¡°Please give us a brief account of what you saw yesterday, before I consider bringing a dead man to trial for murder.¡± ¡°About Sam?¡± Edgar asked, stepping up to the altar. ¡°Well¡­ Sam, that owns the tavern not far from where I work, came to Horvorr¡¯s barracks yesterday morning. I helped him with his oxen. And to load some things onto a cart.¡± ¡°That is¡ª¡± Hjorvarth began. ¡°Enough!¡± Gudmund snarled. ¡°Do I need to gag you, Hjorvarth? Does no man here have peace to give his rede?¡± Hjorvarth met the sentiment with a trembling gaze. Gudmund sighed, turning back to Edgar. ¡°Did you see Sam leave Horvorr? Did he say where he was going?¡± Edgar reluctantly nodded. ¡°Sam told me that he was going to Timilir, to save his son, and he hoped to find his wife as well.¡± ¡°So,¡± Gudmund said, ¡°by your account, Sam the tavern owner left this town with a laden cart, led by oxen. And you have no reason to believe that he returned. Or any reason to believe that if he did, he would have any way to enter Horvorr?¡± ¡°That¡¯s true.¡± Edgar stared out at the dreary townsfolk. ¡°We closed the gate after he left. ¡°And do you have any reason at all to believe that Sam is dead?¡± ¡°One.¡± Edgar nodded. ¡°Hjorvarth is a man of his word.¡± He turned to the huge man, wrists bound behind his back, blue shirt stressed with each shaking breath. ¡°Had I not seen Sam leave with my own eyes, that would be enough. But as I saw him leave Horvorr, alive and well, I can only guess that Hjorvarth believes what he says. But he has been misled, or he is mistaken.¡± Gudmund nodded. ¡°It gladdens me to see a man with such faith in his neighbours.¡± He urged Edgar away from the altar, and took his place. ¡°As to you, Hjorvarth. You were keen to speak before, so I¡¯ll allow it now. What exactly do you have to say in defense of what Edgar has said?¡± Hjorvarth¡¯s stony face had darkened. ¡°Sam would not leave without giving me word.¡± ¡°He almost did,¡± Edgar said, pausing until invited to speak further. ¡°But he thought that you had left on the Autumn Trip. He stopped to write you a letter, but we had no ink or parchment, and he said he had already left word with the Sage.¡± He shook his head. ¡°If I¡¯d known it wouldn¡¯t reach you, then I would have sought you out myself. I¡¯m sorry, Hjorvarth, I am.¡± ¡°Hjorvarth,¡± Gudmund spoke loudly. ¡°It would seem you have fallen afoul of some bad luck. Perhaps this could have all been avoided had you listened to Brolli when he told you he didn¡¯t kill Sam, as several witnesses will soon attest to. Or we can forgo those accounts if you accept that you have made a mistake, that Brolli warned you, but you ignored his warnings in your wrath, which led to whatever happened at the lake¡­ which ended in Brolli¡¯s death, not your own, for reasons¡ªfor a false murder¡ªthat clearly has not come to pass. A murder, by account, that you had little reason to believe had happened.¡± He waited now all the hall fell to silence. Men and women watched as Hjorvarth sagged further to the floor. ¡°He didn¡¯t murder Brolli,¡± Engli said from the opposite side of the altar, ¡°and his reasons for attacking Brolli are his own. Maybe he was mistaken. But the murders that we are accused of, that this trial is for, took place by the embankments of Horvorr¡¯s Great Lake. So I have to ask what consequence words spoken in Brolli¡¯s taproom are, when by your own request you wanted to hear what happened at the embankments.¡± ¡°Fair words,¡± Gudmund said. ¡°But I¡¯d say Hjorvarth is a big enough man to speak for himself.¡± Hjorvarth thought back to all that Brolli had said, to what Alrik had said. He had been given chance to stop, to calm down and to listen. Brolli hadn¡¯t even drowned him outright, not after he had broke apart his taproom, embarrassed him, and made a mockery of the respect he had built for himself. He had attacked his foster father, spat back all the good that Brolli had ever done. ¡°Perhaps,¡± Hjorvarth¡¯s troubled tone rolled through the hall. ¡°Perhaps I made a mistake. But I was dragged, and drowning. Were it not for the Sage, I would have died with Brolli. Were he not there at all. I think we both would have lived. So you can ask your questions and summon your witnesses. But the man you need to speak to is the Sage, as he is the one behind the whole of this.¡± 24. One Way or the Other 24. One Way or the Other ¡°There¡¯s one kind of man that bothers me above all else. The man who, when speaking to me, and of me, cannot compel himself to keep Joyto¡¯s name from his mouth. All praise for my achievements. For my finding a treasure horde. For my escaping bondage in the mines of Timilir. For my bringing peace back to the Midderlands and sending the goblin clans back behind Ragni¡¯s Divide. These things, one and all, I achieved on my own. My own sweat. My own blood. My own, I am not ashamed to say, tears. And yet¡­ Joyto. Joyto my great enabler. For surely his Luck was gifted to me to borrow as my own. And, surely, any man who had that Luck would have achieved the very same things. How I wish to scream, ¡®No.¡¯ No! Joyto is no friend of mine. He has not gifted, nor even loaned me, a single thing. I was born in a cold hovel without a coin to my name. The son of a wastrel drunk who beat me for entertainment. I had no mother to speak of, and not even a single friend to support me. I was alone. I had the Luck of Muradoon running a race with one eye closed. But that didn¡¯t matter. Because I fought for the life that I have. My legend¡ªnot Joyto¡¯s. No matter the cost. No matter the pain. No matter the misery. I penned my tale with my own blood while all Eleven Elders worked against me. Because I decided that I would. I refused to fail. I was always going to be Isleif the Bard. One way or the other.¡± Raised voices played back off of the high roof of Gudmund¡¯s Hall and those gathered craned forward over the feasting tables. Hjorvarth had suffered dozens of questions, listened to the words of the men he had beaten at Brolli¡¯s, who had sworn that he was nothing more than an angry brute who would murder any man, that it was of no surprise that he killed Brolli, and that it was a mistake for the man to invite Hjorvarth out to the lake to help cool his temper. Hjorvarth had tried to rise several times, bit his tongue on many occasion, shouted back on others. He was red-faced. Three guards now stood between him and Gudmund. ¡°In sum then.¡± Gudmund had flushed to the colour of his parted hair. ¡°You attacked my brother in his own home, along with dozens of other men who have suffered serious wounds. Contrary to what they say, you claim an old man managed to subdue you, your own father as it happens¡­ who wasn¡¯t able to even to act as witness. You then claim you woke up at the lake, arms tied and bound. That you fell in with Brolli, that he dragged you in, which quite happily frees you of any blame.¡± Gudmund took an exaggerated breath. ¡°Yet you yourself said that Brolli seemed to be about to set you loose, so can you say his death was justified? And what of the other three dead men. Are you claiming that it was Engli that killed them all?¡± ¡°No.¡± ¡°To what?¡± ¡°Engli did not kill them,¡± Hjorvarth spoke in a trembling voice. ¡°And I did not mean to kill Brolli.¡± ¡°Engli did not kill them?¡± Gudmund asked. ¡°Then who did?¡± ¡°I have told you, time and time again, that I did not see them die.¡± ¡°And did you know any of these men? Would you say you had any cause to murder them?¡± ¡°No.¡± ¡°Again, to what? I happen to know you know each of them. And I have witnesses that you exchanged hard words with them before. Would it be a lie to say that?¡± Hjorvarth shook his head. ¡°A word never killed a man.¡± ¡°I¡¯m sure that it has,¡± Gudmund replied. ¡°But you traded more than words on your last patrol did you not? You beat Brand so bad that his nose and jaw broke. And you got into a fight with Randall the same day.¡± Hjorvarth nodded. ¡°I beat them, yes. Because they¡ª¡± ¡°Did I hear it true as well, that Runolf tried to stab you the day before he himself was stabbed?¡± ¡°He did, but¡ª¡± ¡°But you wouldn¡¯t have killed any of them?¡± ¡°I would not.¡± ¡°And you got into one other fight on your patrol, didn¡¯t you? With Finnvid, son of Finn.¡± ¡°Yes, for the same reason.¡± ¡°You broke his nose. Ruined one of his eyes. Now he can barely speak.¡± Gudmund looked to the purple-robed man amid the women. ¡°Lovrin, what was it you said?¡± Lovrin peered out from his hood. ¡°He was very lucky to be alive, and it was a wonder his eye did not go bad.¡± ¡°So Hjorvarth almost killed him?¡± ¡°Only the gods know for certain. But I would think yes.¡± Gudmund turned to the bound man. ¡°And did you mean to do that?¡± Hjorvarth sighed. ¡°I hit him because he stood around while¡ª¡± Gudmund raised his hand. ¡°So you meant to hurt him that badly?¡± ¡°I had no particular wound in mind. I hit him until he fell over.¡± Grim laughter came from the tables. Gudmund¡¯s smile was tight. ¡°And did you have any particular wound in mind when you murdered the son of Jarl Thrand?¡± The question inspired silence amongst the tables. Horvorr¡¯s Guard, Grettir among them, grimaced in distaste. Hjorvarth¡¯s frustration faded to cold antipathy. ¡°I meant to stop the man with a surety. So that he would not be able to stab your son in the back!¡± ¡°Ah,¡± Gudmund sighed. ¡°And yet my sons are still dead. My brother, as well, thanks to you.¡± ¡°I would not deny the latter act. But I can tell you plainly that you need look no further than your own reflection to find the man that is most to blame for the death of your sons. I saw sixty-six men on that field. I attacked those who showed cowardice. Had you been there, to stand with us, you would have known that.¡± Gudmund paused for only a moment. ¡°And I expect you would want to kill me for my absence?¡± ¡°I am sworn to your service, Chief Gudmund,¡± Hjorvarth answered in a sober tone. ¡°I will ever stand in your defense.¡± ¡°It is a shame you do not so readily uphold the obligations of our law.¡± Hjorvarth turned back to a row of tired faces that now reflected pity. He understood the truth of the last words. He had spent too much time speaking in defense of what he hadn¡¯t done. He should have simply accepted what he had done. There was no gain in shared punishment¡ªunless the Salt Sage suffered¡ªso Hjorvarth might as well take blame for all four dead. ¡°Gudmund!¡± Engli called. ¡°I would like to speak now. Otherwise, I fear we will just be retreading ground for the sake of your big head. And, believe it or not, we here are not so fond of your voice as you seem to be.¡± Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon. Linden grinned and Anna laughed, others with her, though some had the good grace to do it quietly or cover their mouths. Gudmund glared. ¡°You would do well to learn some respect.¡± ¡°I must have misheard you.¡± Engli¡¯s eyes narrowed. ¡°Or that was not an answer to my question.¡± ¡°You wish to speak, then?¡± Gudmund asked. ¡°I want not to hear your voice anymore.¡± Engli smiled in frustration. ¡°If me speaking accomplishes that, then I am all for it¡­ Chief Gudmund.¡± ¡°Let him speak,¡± Grettir grumbled. ¡°This has gone on long enough.¡± Gudmund regarded the blond man. ¡°Engli, son of Linden, will now give his account. And after that, with help of the gods, I will determine the fate of these men.¡± Engli took a breath. ¡°I would firstly say, that in no story given has Hjorvarth pushed Brolli in the lake. And it should as well be clear that if Brolli falls in the lake, it is no more Hjorvarth killing him than it is the spirited water. And I doubt that anyone here would think to try and save those sinking instead of trying to swim up themselves. As to Brand, Randall, and Runolf.¡± Engli shrugged. ¡°Randall was already dead before we arrived, and Runolf¡¯s wrist and chest had been well bloodied as though he was the one that stabbed Randall. Grettir can swear to that, and it would fit with Hjorvarth¡¯s talk of an argument.¡± Gudmund raised his hand. ¡°Grettir. It appears Engli makes a claim on your behalf. Do you actually support it?¡± ¡°Yes.¡± Grettir gave a slow nod. ¡°Runolf had blood on his sleeves. And by my own guess he stabbed Randall.¡± ¡°So that leaves Runolf,¡± Engli said, ¡°who had committed murder himself. So even if I had killed him¡ªeven if I could have killed him¡ªit would be of no real consequence. But it was the Salt Sage that murdered Runolf, and if you¡¯ve not heard of the Sage, then I¡¯m sure Grettir will swear that a man is in Horvorr calling himself that, and so would Gudmund¡¯s daughter, Sybille.¡± ¡°I have seen him!¡± Sybille declared as she crested the corridor. ¡°And so has Grettir, and so has my father.¡± The Salt Sage had entered the main hall not long before then. He now clambered over the feasting table and squeezed between Linden and Anna. ¡°Sorry,¡± he said, stumbling towards the altar. ¡°Hello!¡± He waved to those on the tables. ¡°I am the Salt Sage! And though I¡¯ll admit it gladdens me to be so well known,¡± he added, ¡°I don¡¯t recall being at that lake. In fact, it seems quite impossible given that I spent these past nights praying to the Helmsman for guidance.¡± He looked back to Engli. ¡°Apologies, friend. Do carry on¡­ what happened next?¡± ¡°A jest, Sage?¡± Engli frowned. ¡°You jumped in and put a rope around Hjorvarth, as agreed, and then I pulled him out.¡± The Salt Sage smiled. ¡°I¡¯m afraid you¡¯ve confused me. You spoke that like a question, but then you followed it with a jest. I wish that I could lay claim to such a feat, but I spent the night in Muradoon¡¯s Ritual House.¡± He turned to the purple-robed Godi. ¡°Did I not, Lovrin?¡± Lovrin grumbled, pretending to wake. ¡°Did somebody speak my name?¡± ¡°Lovrin,¡± Gudmund said. ¡°Was the Sage at the Ritual House these nights past?¡± ¡°Oh.¡± Lovrin nodded under his hood. ¡°Yes. Yes¡­ he has been keeping me company.¡± Gudmund smiled. ¡°It would appear, Engli, that you have been found out as a liar, unless you mean to question the word of two holy men?¡± ¡°Well, I wouldn¡¯t say that,¡± the Sage said. ¡°My robe is not expensive, nor do I wear it at all times. He might have just seen someone in another robe. Nevertheless, I have come here to make a pronouncement.¡± He walked towards the altar, and waved the guards out of the way. ¡°Please move,¡± he said to Gudmund, who refused. ¡°I would like to hear what he has to say!¡± Linden shouted. ¡°Stand aside, Gudmund!¡± Anna called. The sentiment was echoed. Gudmund stepped back. ¡°My thanks.¡± The Salt Sage turned to the tables. ¡°Good people of Horvorr! I have come here because Tomlok has spoken to me. His words came to me one month ago when I woke in the middle of a fever dream. They played like riddles at first, rattling around in my head for many days before I could make any sense of them.¡± The Salt Sage nodded to himself. ¡°I saw scenes, and people, and faces. I witnessed war! And I knew above all else that Tomlok had sent a message to me, and that he wished for me to do¡­ something! But what?¡± He upturned his gloved palms. ¡°I could not be sure. So I drank salt water until my visions came clearer. Until a great, and icy lake appeared in my mind, and with that I realised that what I had seen could only belong to a single town. I realised that my dream had been of Horvorr!¡± The Sage¡¯s melodic call echoed back from lofty rafters and benches creaked under the weight of elbows. ¡°I told the Elders of the Driftwood Grotto what I had seen. I told them that Tomlok had sent me this vision, and they agreed that I should come here. So I did¡ªI travelled with a group of men until I reached Timilir. And on my journey I listened and prayed to see what Tomlok would reveal to me.¡± The Salt Sage paused. ¡°He answered only with silence. I thought, perhaps, that it might be a lack of faith in those that rode with me.¡± The Salt Sage glanced to the floor, then swept his gaze along the benches. ¡°So I abandoned my party and ventured forward alone. Becoming so lost along barren ground that no man would ever find me if I died, and with the cold and hunger, and a pack of wolves at my back, that was not an unlikely outcome. After four days, wolves howling in the darkness behind me, I came across a fallen tree. I buried myself amongst its roots, worming into weakened soil, and I waited. I did not intend to sleep, nor did I want to, but sleep took me all the same, and it was then that the whispers began again.¡± ¡°I crawled out from that tree with the rising sun! I followed Tomlok¡¯s guidance eastways. He steadied my course, allowing me to forget my hunger and lethargy. I walked for two weeks, through storm and snowfall, until I arrived at Horvorr three days ago, and I still had no clue as to why he sent me here. So I went to the Ritual House on my arrival, praying to Tomlok these days and nights since for further guidance.¡± Lovrin hobbled to the center of the room. ¡°Has he answered you at last?¡± The Salt Sage gravely nodded. ¡°He has.¡± A grey-bearded man rose from his seat. ¡°What did he say?¡± ¡°That you are all godly folk!¡± the Sage declared. ¡°Hardworking and much respected by the gods, but that Tomlok respects you most of all, as he himself was once a fisherman.¡± Those gathered nodded at that and agreed the sentiment to one another. Though most of the fisherfolk were now shivering out on Horvorr¡¯s Great Lake. ¡°But he also delivered less happy news than that.¡± The Salt Sage¡¯s pause stayed them all. ¡°For he told me that he loved you, only to explain why he had sent me here. Why he had sent me here to save you.¡± ¡°Save us from what?¡± Lovrin asked, his shaking voice barely high enough to cut through competing voices. ¡°He told me that unless I did as he wished, Horvorr will burn, and its people will suffer at the hands of goblins. Those driven down from the Midderlands! Those that have now regrouped, and formed a horde that numbers two thousand. A horde that is gathered and ready. A horde that will descend on Horvorr within the season!¡± Panic spread about those on the benches and voices rose over one another. ¡°Sage!¡± Grettir shouted, cutting through the din with his gruff voice, only wanting an end to the madness. ¡°What did he wish for you to do?¡± The Salt Sage raised his hand, nodding with understanding while noise began to settle. ¡°A moment to speak then,¡± he said. ¡°I know this must cause you all some concern, but I also know that Tomlok would not have sent me here for no reason. If I do as he asks, I am certain that your town will be saved.¡± He took a deep breath. ¡°The Helmsman told me that I would find two men, disparate in size and temperament. A blond man, and a red-haired man. He said not their names, but he told me that they would be wrongfully accused of a great crime¡­ perhaps even a murder.¡± Those gathered looked towards the two men bound at either side of the altar. ¡°I hear him now!¡± The Salt Sage raised his hand, looking slowly from Engli to Hjorvarth. ¡°He tells me that I will know one man by the bear upon his back!¡± The Salt Sage ambled over to Hjorvarth, and knelt to meet his pale eyes. ¡°Tell me, friend, what is your name?¡± Hjorvarth¡¯s answering look was a mix of hatred and confusion. ¡°My name is Hjorvarth, as you well know.¡± ¡°And what animal is painted upon your shield?¡± Hjorvarth sighed. ¡°A bear¡ª¡± He followed it with an argument, drowned out by declarations that this was the man sought. The Salt Sage turned back to his crowd, raising his hand again, nodding slowly until the folk settled down. ¡°Gudmund,¡± the Sage said, not turning to look at the red-faced man. Gudmund¡¯s murderous gaze lay fixed on the robed man¡¯s back. ¡°Yes¡­ Sage?¡± ¡°I¡¯ve no idea what this trial is about,¡± the Sage said, ¡°but for the sake of Horvorr, and its people, I do earnestly believe that I will need both these men to accompany me.¡± ¡°I see.¡± Gudmund nodded. ¡°And what do you think of this, Lovrin?¡± he asked the Godi. ¡°Any thoughts on his prophecy?¡± ¡°Yes!¡± Lovrin declared with wonderment and all seated turned to him. ¡°I had a dream just then. On those benches. Muradoon told me that many would be taken by his hand¡­ if a journey was not made to find the Hall of Hrothgar.¡± ¡°Hrothgar!¡± The Salt Sage rushed to Lovrin. ¡°Tomlok has spoken that word. Tell me, is it a place near here?¡± Lovrin nodded. ¡°It is.¡± The Salt Sage placed his hands on the Godi¡¯s hunched shoulders. ¡°Then I know it in my heart, that that is where we must go.¡± He turned back and regarded those seated. ¡°I would only ask now¡ªof all of you¡ªdoes anyone here oppose this quest? Does anyone here feel that these men be needed for any further reason, when they have been called forth for greatness by the Helmsman himself?¡± ¡°I do,¡± Hjorvarth said, his voice unheard under an onslaught of noes. Engli and Sybille spoke no words as they looked at each other in shock and loss. Gudmund, grim faced and wrathful, kept his hollow stare towards his oldest friend. 25. Other Sides
Part Three - Journeys
25. Other Sides ¡°The variety of tribes in Southwestern Tymir makes me question whether the name goblin is a mark of shared ancestry or simply a declaration of unity. In the Midderlands, each clan chooses a dozen of their kin with the shape or traits desired, and those donors gorge themselves until they are ready to regurgitate a birthing sack into an earthen pool. If the clans of Southwestern Tymir reproduce in the same way, I can see little reason for the drastic differences between them. Though there was a belief in the Midderlands that a Chief would be reborn once returned to his pool. If the unborn goblins truly can make use of flesh destroyed by the water¡¯s acidity, perhaps it might work for animals as well.¡± Within the walls of Horvorr, events were beginning and ending. Gudmund wandered in a blind rage in his search for the Sage. Grettir stole the town¡¯s only pair of horses. Hjorvarth, Engli and the Salt Sage had climbed to the high walls and descended, in a somewhat painful struggle, by exceedingly long ropes. They had then, at the urging of their guide, covered themselves in the black wax known as troll blood, so as to cover their scent. Sam, now far further afield than that, rode his rickety cart with only two oxen for company, all the while watched by the hungry gazes of those goblins that lied in wait. North of Horvorr though, in the dense pine forests near the northern ranges, a small humanoid creature sat perched on a low branch, watching three shadowed figures cross the barren plain of the distant settlement. Loffi and all his clan of goblins were about the trees, so he could not see them, nor could he be well seen, beyond a moonlit sliver of his bat-like face. ¡°Shouldn¡¯t be here,¡± warned the shrill-spoken whisper of a fearful goblin, Moonkin. ¡°Shouldn¡¯t be here,¡± echoed another named Moonkin. ¡°Nonsense,¡± said Loffi, taller than the complainants, even with a slight hunch to his spine. His clan were lean, wretched, but he was slightly more wiry. ¡°Dalpho said,¡± the first Moonkin reminded loudly. ¡°I didn¡¯t hear him. Call me a liar?¡± ¡°No,¡± Moonkin whispered. ¡°Not that.¡± Distant footfalls of a heavy tread set rustling amongst the leaves. ¡°Shouldn¡¯t be here,¡± a third Moonkin warned. ¡°Moonkin,¡± Loffi said, slowly. ¡°Yes?¡± came a dozen whispers, all of Loffi¡¯s clan being named that. ¡°Be quiet.¡± ¡°Yes,¡± came a sullen voice alone. Through creaking branches and canopied leaves, Loffi¡¯s clan caught sight of a gargantuan goblin with a hunched and twisted frame, with wild eyes that sat uneven in a misshapen skull, fanged teeth which protruded past uneven lips. ¡°Balluk,¡± one whispered. ¡°Balluk,¡± the others echoed. Loffi snorted derision and snot. He wiped it off, glad enough that Balluk was going the other way. He looked over to the three shadowed figures, but decided that they wouldn¡¯t cross paths with the Great Chief of the West. ¡°Shouldn¡¯t be here,¡± Moonkin reminded. ¡°Shouldn¡¯t be here,¡± Moonkin agreed. ¡°Fine,¡± Loffi said, climbing up from his perch. He made a reckless effort of sprinting down the long branch, then jumped onto another tree. He got down that with aid of his claws. ¡°Stay high,¡± he told those above. ¡°Keep slow. Go back to cave.¡± ¡°Follow Loffi,¡± a voice countered. ¡°Follow Loffi,¡± a voice agreed. ¡°Go back to cave,¡± Loffi said, more sternly. ¡°That.¡± ¡°Do that,¡± the Moonkins answered. Loffi carried on across the forest floor, having a little trouble telling hard ground from sinking mud and small holes from the craters of torn up trees. He walked straight into one of those, but snapped both clawed hands into the dry-leaved mud above. He looked down to see a staked pit full of skewered goblins, and sighed through fanged teeth. ¡°Loffi?¡± a voice asked from above. Loffi snorted, spattering snot into the trap below. He clambered out from the hole. A rustle and laughter sounded from above. ¡°Fell,¡± a squeaking voice explained. ¡°Should not do that.¡± ¡°Unhearing?¡± Loffi asked them in a vicious snarl. ¡°Go back to cave.¡± ¡°Follow Loffi?¡± asked Moonkin. ¡°Follow Loffi,¡± Moonkin agreed. ¡°Not know way.¡± ¡°Follow Loffi to cave?¡± a nervous voice ventured. ¡°I¡¯m not going to cave,¡± Loffi said. ¡°To cave,¡± a voice agreed, with a rustle of leaves. ¡°Do that.¡± ¡°Be quiet.¡± Loffi narrowed his orbish amber eyes. ¡°Follow Loffi.¡± A dozen small and wretched goblins nodded their heads, most smiling, in the trees above. Loffi¡¯s large ragged ears twitched at the sounds of boots scuffing mud and snapping twigs. He shifted his ears to listen for more distant sounds: water running, kin squealing and chattering; a savage growl, likely from Balluk, in the distance. He moved carefully, slowly, getting closer to the sound of those three figures who now crossed into the forest. He climbed a nearby tree, and followed them from branch to branch, listening to their words. ¡°You say you want us to kill goblins,¡± said Hjorvarth, who to Loffi appeared a huge, black-skinned and monstrous thing, with a tail hanging from its head. ¡°Yet we see that monster and you¡¯re happy to let it pass.¡± Loffi looked to the other two: one wearing a manling robe, covered in black as well; and the smallest of the creatures, still a deal taller than Loffi and a lot wider, had no tail at all, but had hard black skin like the largest one. Loffi sniffed; the air was full of the stink of trolls. They walked towards a river, through a winding path between huge trees. They made a ruckus for all their crunching of leaves and their groaning. Loffi thought it an odd group, and so he wanted to speak to them. ¡°Agreement,¡± he told his clan, as he moved quickly and easily from one branch to another. ¡°Clever. Bluff.¡± ¡°Loffi clever,¡± Moonkin agreed. ¡°Clever Loffi,¡± Moonkin corrected. ¡°Let it pass?¡± the Sage asked. ¡°Even if we could have killed it, the noise would bring in every goblin for miles, and that means an end for all of us.¡± Hjorvarth slowed to a stop as they reached a stone-scattered stream, which cut through a grassy mound. They were surrounded on all sides by endless shadows, broken by the thick outlines of tree trunks, most of those ringed with mushroom stairways, or stained with some other fungus or moss. Long tufts of grass sprouted up around them as well, offering cover to goblins other than Loffi and his clan who had managed to encircle the men. ¡°Is that right?¡± He squinted up through the shadowed canopy of leaves. ¡°You say you¡¯re here to save us from the goblins, and when we see a goblin you want us to run. It was one thing when I thought you were lying Sage, but goblins are here. Within a mile of Horvorr, and your plan is to sneak through their camp at night so that we can flee.¡± ¡°Would you please lower your voice?¡± the Sage asked, his own whisper barely heard over trickling water. ¡°This is no retreat. We are not fleeing. Horvorr will not come under attack for at least three weeks, I am sure of that. Their army is split in two, and one half is still east of Fenkirk.¡± ¡°Then what are we doing?¡± Engli whispered, glancing at each shadowed trunk. ¡°What is your plan?¡± ¡°My plan is to be quiet, and to sneak through the forest. The rest can wait.¡± Hjorvarth turned to the smaller man. ¡°If he wants to wander off into the darkness, let him. I would rather die facing my enemies, with my back to Horvorr, than fall foul of some goblin trap in the night.¡± ¡°There¡¯s no turning back now,¡± the Sage assured. ¡°No turning back,¡± Loffi agreed, causing the man trolls to frown at one another. ¡°No turn back,¡± echoed shrill voices as they joined together in haunting chorus. The Salt Sage sighed. ¡°You see what you¡¯ve done, Hjorvarth?¡± Giggles and chortles carried through the trees. Water splashed with a rustle of long grass and the scrape and clatter of pebbles and stones. Loffi, hunched and half-starved, emerged from the darkness to stand atop a grassy hill on the other side of the stream. He looked studiously down at the three men with his orbish amber eyes. ¡°What are you?¡± he asked. ¡°Look like manlings. Smell like trolls.¡± Hjorvarth scowled. ¡°What are you?¡± ¡°Loffi, a goblin. Smelling like a goblin, as well, I should think.¡± ¡°Not much!¡± Moonkin called. ¡°Not much of a goblin!¡± he joked, though no response came from clan members that shared a name but no sense of humour. Engli offered a shallow bow. ¡°I am Engli.¡± Loffi¡¯s face, dark grey in the blackness, creased in confusion. ¡°Is that a thing? Or a name? Is that who you are or what you are?¡± He shook his head and snarled, baring fangs. ¡°Forget it! Why are you here? Man troll.¡± Hjorvarth gripped his axe. ¡°Why are you here?¡± ¡°Me?¡± Loffi asked. ¡°Loffi is here because he has been told to be here. So those with me, and so those with them, and so all goblins in this forest, and as has every goblin ever stood in one place or the other. Unless¡­ unless he happened to be a Chief. And I am not a Chief. Not much of a Chief, at least.¡± ¡°No, you aren¡¯t!¡± agreed a bellow, slow and low like thunder. ¡°There¡¯s one now!¡± Loffi grinned before scampering onto all fours. He left with a rustle of a bush as nervous laughter pitched through the darkness. ¡°What are the goings on?¡± asked that same cumbersome voice. ¡°And what is that smell?¡± ¡°Should we run?¡± Engli whispered. ¡°Sage. Are you listening?¡± The Salt Sage held up his hand as steps shook the ground around them, with an incessant hiss of leaves and the snap and crunch of roots and branches. Dalpho shouldered through a pair of ancient tree trunks, knocking one loose from its roots. He lumbered out onto the other side of the stream, and stopped with a tired grunt. He dwarfed the humans several times over, though his monstrous fatness made him seem squat at distance. ¡°What is your name?¡± the Sage asked. ¡°Dalpho,¡± he answered with a wet snort. ¡°You smell curious.¡± He peered at the intruders with beady black eyes, deeply set at either side of his hairy trunk of a nose. ¡°I don¡¯t suppose you¡¯re manlings covered in troll filth?¡± Hjorvarth and Engli frowned down at their black lacquered skin. The Salt Sage smiled. ¡°That¡¯s about right.¡± Dalpho sighed, and splashed his foot into the deep stream. ¡°At least I won¡¯t need to go far to wash you off.¡± ¡°I¡¯m afraid we¡¯ve a long way to go yet,¡± the Sage said, ¡°and I¡¯m in no mood for a bath. All things considered, Dalpho, you should leave me well enough alone.¡± ¡°And, who would ¡®me¡¯ be?¡± ¡°I believe,¡± the Sage said, in old goblin tongue, ¡°some of your people call me the Old Enemy.¡± Dalpho began a thoughtful nod, only to lurch for a slender tree and tear it out from the ground. ¡°Kill them!¡± He hurled the trunk, which spun through the air, roots shedding dirt and mud, and thumped into the ground where the men were standing. Smaller goblins scrambled out from the darkness, tossing stones at the uprooted tree, accidentally or otherwise at one another. Dalpho watched the tree bounce off of hard earth and come to a groaning stop, raking up a cloud of debris. ¡°Is he dead? Are they dead?¡± The goblins charged forward screaming and cheering, soon coughing up dust. They scrabbled over the tree¡¯s branches, scratching and bludgeoning one another before they realised they were kin, most choosing to continue fighting even after that. ¡°Stay,¡± Loffi urged, stood on a large branch with his diminutive clan in a line at either side of him. ¡°Stay.¡± Those with him found some humour, a quiet violent urging, seeing throats being ripped with teeth and heads smashed with stones. They watched with delighted murmurs, while Loffi looked away from them, marking leaves and branches that seemed to move of their own accord. Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel. ¡°Stay,¡± Loffi said for a third time. ¡°Run if have to. Don¡¯t follow.¡± The dozen goblins named Moonkin looked to him in concern, but then another goblin¡¯s skull broke loudly open and they turned back to the melee. Loffi snorted snot down himself, and climbed slowly down the tree, making sure that no goblins were waiting and watching to snatch him up as a meal. He got to the forest floor, weaved between two large roots of the tree, and scrambled behind a berry bush. He plucked a few and chewed them, then followed after distant noises that seemed to be made by those manlings. He heard a scuff of a boot, a noise of surprise, and then watched as a large thorn bush folded in on itself. He blinked, now seeing the robed manling and the small manling trying to pull the huge one up from the bush. Loffi wanted to let them go, would have liked to have watched them a while at least, but then remembered he needed to get his own clan back to their cave. There would only be death for them with all these other goblins about, hungry and fighting. ¡°Here!¡± he screamed. ¡°Over here! Manlings over here! Come¡ª¡± A bony hand snatched him up by the back of the throat. Loffi got his claws on the grabber¡¯s wrist, slicing through skin and down to the bone. He was dropped as his grabber roared in agony. Loffi landed in a roll, diving left-ways before a heavy foot smashed down. He scampered forward on all fours, sheltering under a hollow tree. ¡°Coward,¡± Balluk snarled. ¡°Not me!¡± Loffi called from his hiding hole. ¡°You, or else you¡¯d chase them.¡± Goblins drew close, most at a timid approach, though those who had followed Loffi¡¯s path from the stream were now scrambling away from monstrous footfalls. Dalpho crunched roots underfoot and tore them out with his great weight. ¡°Where are the manlings?¡± He smashed branches from trees to get them clear of his eyes until he reached a sunken and circular clearing walled in by earthen mounds. ¡°Dalpho?¡± Balluk snarled. He scowled at the enormous goblin from the high ground, making their eyes level. ¡°What are you doing on my land?¡± Goblins gathered and watched, whispering and laughing amongst the trees. ¡°Problem, Balluk?¡± Dalpho asked, his voice deliberate. ¡°I am chasing enemies. I was, at least, before you interrupted me.¡± ¡°I heard them.¡± Balluk lifted a huge club of mangled iron from his back. ¡°Though I don¡¯t see how you did, with your border being so far away.¡± ¡°My shaman told me they would come.¡± Dalpho noticed the monstrous goblin grow tense. ¡°I¡¯ll be leaving, unless you mean to jump and strike at my head. And if that is your aim, then I wager I¡¯ll hit you before you land. I wager, as well, that one blow will make you dead, and if not then I doubt Lazarus will take joy in my death.¡± Balluk bared his grimy teeth. ¡°Perhaps it is time that all the other western Chiefs were dead? Without Ragadin, is there any¡ª¡± Dalpho lurched, grabbing him with both massive hands. ¡°Listen to me, you worm,¡± Dalpho growled. ¡°I am slow, compared to some, compared to Lazarus. But you are a worm, a slow worm, compared to me.¡± His grip tightened, almost breaking bones. ¡°Ragadin¡¯s Chiefs were weak. Your mastering them is no achievement.¡± Dalpho pushed his huge head closer. ¡°If you ever again ready your weapon against me, I will pull you apart like a spider. I will gobble you up no matter how bad you taste. If you ever again speak Ragadin¡¯s name in my hearing, I will crush you to death. And I will leave your broken body for the runts. Do you understand?¡± Balluk struggled to nod. ¡°Good.¡± Dalpho let him crumple to the floor. ¡°Consider your land my land from now on.¡± He lumbered off into the distance, swatting away more thick branches, stumbling past more ancient trees. ¡°I travel where I please.¡± Most goblins followed after Dalpho, more fearful than entertained. Those that remained watched Balluk with a conflicted disposition of hatred and obedience, none willing to murder him as he recovered. Loffi did not share that problem. He made his way out from under the hollow tree, up to the rise of mud, and grinned down at a monstrous goblin thrice as broad and tall as he was. He might have hesitated had he not had an old and painful grudge to settle with the Great Chief. ¡°Hello.¡± Balluk scowled up with ferine eyes, but claws were already around his neck. ¡°It¡¯s better that you¡¯re dead,¡± Loffi whispered in his ear. ¡°Wait,¡± Balluk pleaded. ¡°I¡ª¡± Loffi tore through his throat. *** Loffi, after having hidden his own clan in a nearby cave, crept into the modern cavern of Lazarus. Lazarus stood watching a small bronze brazier that had uneven legs. Three bent and one broken. He cast a large shadow against the cavern¡¯s back wall, which reflected his litheness and boniness but not his small height.The firelight lent an orange sheen to his green skin, added shadows to his ghoulish face and reflected in his slanted eyes. He flexed his sleek claws as he watched the flames, making a methodical tinkling against the brazier. Loffi searched the small cave with his orbish amber gaze. ¡°Alone?¡± Lazarus nodded to the bat-faced goblin. His shadow stretched now he walked to a small table where stood a large brass hourglass. ¡°Three times I¡¯ve turned this.¡± He stared at the filthy bulbous base, sand sifting down to obscurity. ¡°Sand running while horns blare and screams carry on the wind, while I wait for you, Balluk, or Lazarus, or any other to come and tell me of the goings on. I have to tend my own brazier, toss wood on burning piles and watch the spit and crackle.¡± Loffi was confused. ¡°You always do this.¡± Lazarus met the words with a scowl. ¡°With others there to do it for me, that is a choice. Alone, that is compulsion. Choice removed.¡± ¡°Oh.¡± Loffi flattened his ragged ears. ¡°I know nothing of the goings on. Was busy, captured, distracted.¡± ¡°I am not Dalpho. Not Balluk.¡± Lazarus bared his fanged teeth. ¡°Tell me what you know, sly little worm. Or I will tell Dalpho that you play at simple minded, so as to better undermine him. That you steal goblins too weak to live for your¡ª¡± ¡°Inside!¡± came a choked scream from beyond the cave. A communal grumbling grew close. Loffi stepped back to the right wall as goblins much larger and crueler than him, most of them looking like ugly green boars, stomped in and fell together at the left side of the cave. Balluk entered after them, right forearm a bloody ruin, his misshapen head and bony neck blackened and burnt. ¡°Gods below,¡± Lazarus whispered. ¡°What happened to you?¡± Balluk¡¯s sneer creased his ruined face. He had crouched because of the roof, but lowered himself further to face one of his boar-faced clan. ¡°Give answer.¡± The chubby goblin began to shake, his round eyes darting between diminutive Lazarus and his wrathful Chief. ¡°I don¡¯t¡­ know?¡± ¡°Yes,¡± Balluk agreed. ¡°My throat cut open. Have to burn my face and neck closed on a burning tree because none of you knew. You least of all.¡± He shook his ugly head. ¡°On my own in my own clan land.¡± ¡°Sorry?¡± the goblin ventured. Balluk caught him by the head and slammed him into the floor. He pummelled the corpse, crunching bone and splitting flesh, showering his clan in gore while they watched in terror and huddled against the cavern wall. ¡°Are you done?¡± Lazarus asked. Balluk glared at his clan, then grunted at the broken flesh. ¡°Eat.¡± The porcine goblins hesitated despite their rounded stomachs. One then led and the others stepped forward. ¡°Am I done?¡± Balluk strode forwards, rising higher with the cavern roof. ¡°Am I done? Look at me! Look what you¡¯ve gotten me.¡± He turned his misshapen head to better show the ruined flesh, and caught sight of the small, bat-faced goblin in the corner. ¡°Who is this?¡± ¡°Loffi?¡± Lazarus asked. ¡°He is lent to me by Dalpho. He turns my sand glass.¡± ¡°Turn sand.¡± Loffi held a blank stare. ¡°Do that.¡± Balluk crouched over to the corner, so close that all Loffi could see was a square, ugly head; so all he could smell was rancid breath and burnt flesh. Loffi¡¯s ears rang with the persistent hiss of sand, that then trickled to a stop. He side-stepped towards the hourglass, turned the base, and set it carefully down. ¡°Speaking of Dalpho,¡± Lazarus said, more loudly than was his custom. ¡°Where is he?¡± ¡°Dead when I find him.¡± Balluk spat into the flames. ¡°He did this to me.¡± Lazarus tossed a cut log into the brazier. ¡°Why didn¡¯t he just crush you?¡± ¡°He did.¡± Balluk snarled, turning away from the flames. He stopped where the roof curved highest, rising as tall as his hunched back would allow. ¡°Left me so some little cretin could open my throat.¡± Lazarus looked more to Loffi and the hourglass than Balluk. ¡°Why?¡± Balluk¡¯s ferine eyes widened. ¡°Why?¡± ¡°Why,¡± Lazarus repeated more coldly. ¡°Why did he attack you? What did you do?¡± ¡°What did I do? Look at me!¡± ¡°No less uglier than you were.¡± Lazarus stepped forwards. ¡°Did you threaten him? Did you threaten me?¡± Balluk¡¯s burnt face twitched. ¡°I would do more than threaten if you spoke to me outside this cave! Outside of this low-roofed shelter for worms.¡± ¡°Balluk challenge Lazarus!¡± Loffi declared. ¡°Chief to Chief!¡± Balluk glared over at the bat-faced goblin. He looked to the Chiefs of his clan, but they avoided his gaze and a few had already begun to leave. ¡°Is that what this is, Balluk?¡± Lazarus asked, despite standing at less than half his height. ¡°A challenge? If it is, then I¡¯m happy to fight outside.¡± Balluk waited for a long moment, charred flesh of his neck oozing with each rasping breath. He thought about snatching out, as Dalpho had done to him, but a tremor shook the cavern¡¯s floor, then another, and calls went out to announce Dalpho¡¯s coming. ¡°No.¡± Balluk bared blackened fangs in a hollow smile. ¡°I would never challenge you.¡± ¡°If you¡¯re worried about Dalpho, you needn¡¯t be,¡± Lazarus said. ¡°He wouldn¡¯t taint honourable combat.¡± ¡°I misspoke,¡± Balluk assured. He bowed his misshapen head, and crouched back against the cavern wall. ¡°As you often say, I am not clever with my words.¡± Loffi¡¯s bat-like face lapsed to disappointment. He watched the sand run down from the grimy bulb of the hourglass. *** Loffi turned to face the cave, now jostling and crowded as the ground-shaking approach of Dalpho came slowly to an end. Dalpho¡¯s Chiefs bore likeness to bats, lean-faced and slender, most with large ears like Loffi¡¯s that shifted and twitched. Dalpho himself was enormous and blubbery, with an odd long trunk of a nose. He bore little resemblance to any goblin there. He had sat down at the mouth of the large cave, nearly blocking it off. Bark shards protruded from his pale brown skin. Burnt patches mottled his flesh. Small holes pocked bulging chins. A branch, still leaved, stuck out from one of his enormous legs. He grunted as he tugged it loose. Balluk laughed loudly; and both Great Chiefs of the West glared at one another. The lesser Chiefs at either side of the cave, bat-faced and boar-faced, grew tense and growled at one another as well. Lazarus tossed more wood into his brazier. ¡°Tell me what happened.¡± ¡°An attack,¡± Dalpho answered. ¡°That set discord into our camps and caused over a hundred deaths. I was delayed in my return because I had to bring order to Balluk¡¯s clans while he hid here.¡± Balluk scoffed. ¡°You say that as if you had some right to be on my land to begin with.¡± He grinned, knowing Dalpho couldn¡¯t reach the corner where he crouched. ¡°He deserves to be punished for breaking the borders.¡± Lazarus rasped his claws together. ¡°Is that true, Dalpho?¡± ¡°I would not deny it. I came because my shaman told me there would be an attack, and I crossed the border when I caught scent of the manlings.¡± ¡°Men of Horvorr?¡± ¡°Two.¡± Dalpho nodded, bulging his chin, creasing his burnt belly. ¡°Another in a robe, claiming both to be the Old Enemy and the Small King.¡± Balluk snarled laughter and his clan joined him, snorting, while Dalpho¡¯s clan fell to a wary, flat-eared silence. Lazarus remained stolid behind the brazier flames. ¡°Something to laugh at, Balluk?¡± ¡°This great and useless whale of a goblin has been stomping through the forest, chasing fairy tails on the order of some rag-wearing worm.¡± Lazarus nodded. ¡°You can leave us now, Balluk. Go back and make sure your clan is in order. Dalpho will not cross your border again, and I will have him bring you a worthy gift in compensation.¡± Balluk was uncertain whether this was a favourable or insulting outcome. ¡°You have no need of me here?¡± ¡°I would have you ready in the forest, should we come under attack from real manlings and not fairy tales.¡± ¡°Fine.¡± Balluk swept his elongated arm towards the cavern mouth. ¡°Have the whale move clear.¡± Dalpho sniffed, then obliged and clambered back. Balluk and his Chiefs began to trudge out from the cave. Lazarus walked closer to the hourglass. ¡°Did you see these enemies?¡± he whispered. Loffi frowned. ¡°I would never cross into Balluk¡¯s lands.¡± ¡°Tell the truth, or I will tell Balluk that it was you that carved his throat.¡± He grabbed Loffi¡¯s clawed hands. ¡°Fresh blood and fresh flesh.¡± Loffi shrugged. ¡°As any goblin¡¯s are, as any goblin¡¯s ever have been. I killed a deer¡­ an owl. I misspoke, I meant a goblin. A weak goblin.¡± ¡°I believe you.¡± Lazarus¡¯s smile was unsettling. ¡°I don¡¯t think Balluk will.¡± ¡°I did meet a goblin, who had been to Balluk¡¯s lands,¡± Loffi quietly said. ¡°He told me that he saw three manlings come from Horvorr and into the forest, where they walked until they reached Dalpho, who threw a tree at them. I asked him what happened after that. He told me he had better things to do than follow Dalpho about.¡± ¡°Better things to do? Like rip apart Balluk¡¯s throat? Or fail to, at that.¡± ¡°Lazarus,¡± Dalpho put in with his lumbering tone. ¡°I had not known the goblin I gave you for a talker.¡± ¡°He garbles.¡± Lazarus strode back to his brazier. ¡°I like to listen to his nonsense. What did this robed man do when you threw a tree at him?¡± ¡°Disappeared,¡± Dalpho answered after a moment. ¡°But then a goblin found them and I followed his call.¡± ¡°Then?¡± ¡°I was slowed by trees, but my clan tracked them well enough. I was about to capture all of them when Balluk called out to me, threatened me, told me he imagined himself worthy to be the Chief of Chiefs of the West and that there was little use for you and I. He tried to slay me. So I squeezed the violence from him.¡± Lazarus¡¯s eyes narrowed. ¡°A goblin clawed his throat open after that.¡± Dalpho shrugged his shoulders against the cavern. ¡°The fault is his.¡± ¡°Yes,¡± Lazarus admitted. ¡°But we need him now Ragadin is gone. There are thirteen Great Chiefs of the West. And we are three.¡± Dalpho grumbled his assent. ¡°It was my mistake.¡± ¡°What wounded you?¡± ¡°A tree of apples.¡± Dalpho tugged a shard of bark from his belly. ¡°I gave chase to a glade, where the robed manling waited. I tried to catch him, but he spoke of the tree and disappeared. I studied the trunk.¡± He peered down at his great, burnt legs. ¡°It exploded.¡± ¡°Exploded? As in¡ª¡± ¡°Fire. Force. Noise.¡± Lazarus nodded. ¡°You came here after that?¡± ¡°We gave chase for miles. North and to the stone cliffs. He shed his clothes and killed dozens of goblins on his own, not suffering any wound that I could see.¡± A lanky bat-faced goblin tapped the Great Chief¡¯s knee. ¡°Can we eat?¡± Dalpho studied his Chiefs, nervous and hungry. ¡°Yes. Go.¡± They left quietly, clambering over enormous legs or squeezing between the crook of an elbow. Lazarus snickered. ¡°Did you not catch him?¡± ¡°We surrounded him against the stone cliffs.¡± ¡°Then you killed him?¡± ¡°Then a hundred yetis appeared atop the cliffs.¡± Dalpho rumbled a sigh. ¡°Swore death on us if we did not leave their land, and their guest, alone.¡± ¡°Yetis?¡± Dalpho nodded. ¡°I know how it sounds, but they were well readied, with their own weapons. Some wore clothes.¡± ¡°I believe you.¡± Lazarus paced around his brazier. ¡°But I walked those cliffs for most my years, and made no sighting of a single yeti. They would have to live days away to have escaped our notice, so¡ª¡± He noticed Loffi studying him. ¡°You can leave now.¡± Loffi muttered assent and hurried out of the cave. ¡°He seemed to have magic,¡± Dalpho mentioned. ¡°Perhaps he knew the Old Enemy.¡± Lazarus gazed down into brazier flames. ¡°Or perhaps I¡¯ve misunderstood this situation entirely.¡± ¡°I would not know.¡± Lazarus stared up at him. ¡°But you will act as I wish?¡± ¡°Of course.¡± Dalpho dipped his hugely fat head to meet eyes. ¡°What would you have me do?¡± ¡°Gather tribute and tell Balluk to bring it to Jorund¡¯s Hill. Have Loffi and your shaman go with a Chief you trust to the Chief of Chiefs of the East. Have them offer to remake our alliance, with more favorable terms for them.¡± Dalpho hesitated. ¡°I do not¡ª¡± ¡°It is decided.¡± Lazarus looked over to his hourglass, sand falling from obscurity. ¡°We have waited too long and now the manlings have discovered us. Gudmund the Wolf will be vigilant and prepared, and we will not have the clans needed to win this war on our own. So we do not have a choice. We must make friends of our enemies. And when Horvorr is conquered, when we are settled behind the walls, we can look to claw back whatever lands we sacrifice in making our peace.¡± 26. Lost Men 26. Lost Men ¡°I still remember my days in the Midderlands, living among the goblin tribes, and I cannot help but wonder if I am fighting on the wrong side. Brolli¡¯s melancholy worsens by the day. Grettir seems ever more a haunted man. I even struggle to recognise my own haggard reflection. Amid our camp of murderous heroes, only Gudmund seems immutable. He met with his young wife Hilda just the other day as if he was not a man wading through limbs and blood. I had never envied a man more as she embraced him. I felt a sudden longing for my own wife, and hoped that her and the boy were still safe. I wonder now whether the goblins lament for all the children we have killed.¡± Sam glimpsed black outlines on the night¡¯s horizon. ¡°There it is.¡± An ox spluttered in response, trudging forward with the ox yoked beside it. The shaggy beasts hauled a noisy cart and spluttered to punctuate each dozen of their exhausted breaths. Their hooves rasped against rocks as they rose, then clopped heavily back into the stone-pocked path. Sam walked alongside them, watching the animals struggle with no small amount of guilt. The Salt Sage had told him to carry on through night and day, and not to stop until he reached Fenkirk. He hoped the few crates of mining equipment he had abandoned, miles back, wouldn¡¯t be of any great importance. ¡°You can stop soon,¡± Sam promised the oxen. ¡°We¡¯re almost there.¡± He felt both vulnerable and free on the open road, taking a deal of comfort from the company of the animals. He also felt guilty for all the winters he had wasted waiting for his wife, but quickly reminded himself that if he hadn¡¯t been there then Hjorvarth and Isleif would have been homeless; that he had at least done some good, and he would, hopefully, do a little more good before Muradoon took him. Sam grew closer to the distant settlement and had a hard reconciling Fenkirk with the lumbering town he remembered. There were no buildings sprawling along the open plain, not even any tents, shacks or huts. The wide boundary fence had been replaced by a sturdy wall so tall that only a few rooftops rose above it, encircled in turn by dozens of large stakes. Sam shivered with the chill morning air. He glanced to his accompanying oxen, wondering if he shouldn¡¯t just circumvent the town altogether. Smoke billowed up from behind the tall wall, paling a dark sky that made ready for dawn. Silence seemed to have a hold for miles, so much so that Sam pinched at his cold ears and snapped his fingers to see if he had lost his hearing, too tired and hungry to pay mind to the fact that he could still hear the cart grating beside him. ¡°Odd,¡± Sam murmured. Sam drew close to the tall wall, putting little thought to where he was walking. He noticed the cart had halted, so slowed to a stop one step short of a staked ditch, his toes overhanging the drop. Sam glanced down and his blood froze. He staggered back, grabbing a hold of a shaggy shoulder in case the oxen had less sense than he did. A distant twang preceded an arrow snapping against stony ground. Another hummed past Sam¡¯s ear, so close that the fletching scratched his flesh. ¡°I said,¡± a voice screamed, ¡°stand still!¡± ¡°What?¡± Sam squinted up at the shadowed leather-capped archer. ¡°Don¡¯t loose!¡± ¡°We¡¯ve got something over here!¡± the archer called, lowering his bow a little. ¡°Got a cart!¡± He scowled down at Sam. ¡°Don¡¯t move! You move and you¡¯re dead.¡± ¡°I¡¯m not going to move,¡± Sam assured, loudly enough to be heard across the ditch and up the wall. ¡°But I¡¯m curious to know what it is you think I¡¯ve done¡ªthat you would loose on me without a word!¡± ¡°Without a word? I warned you three times on approach! What do you expect me to do when some man comes out of the darkness on his own!? Doesn¡¯t answer greetings and doesn¡¯t stop when I tell him to stop!¡± ¡°I didn¡¯t hear you! I was distracted!¡± ¡°Distracted?¡± a deep voice asked now a taller man, Thorold, came to stand beside the archer on the wall walk. ¡°I¡¯d say you¡¯re nothing short of mad, or something much, much worse than that, to be walking around out here on your own.¡± ¡°Mad?¡± Sam asked. ¡°From where I¡¯m standing, it¡¯s the pair of you that look cracked.¡± Thorold rubbed at his lean jaw with the head of his axe. ¡°You should leave, heathen. Turn around before we fill you with arrows.¡± ¡°I¡¯m a barkeeper,¡± Sam said, ¡°not a spirit. But I¡¯ll be on my way.¡± ¡°Wait! What¡¯s in your cart?¡± The archer raised his bow. ¡°We shouldn¡¯t let him leave.¡± Thorold nodded. ¡°Throw off the tarp and leave your cart! We¡¯ll let you go in peace, but we need your supplies.¡± ¡°This is my cart.¡± Sam urged his oxen to turn. ¡°Feel free to loose.¡± A bowstring twanged and an arrow thudded into the ground by his foot. The leather-capped man nocked another arrow. ¡°Last chance, barkeeper!¡± ¡°Galdi! Put your bow down!¡± a third voice commanded, strangled with rage. ¡°I said put your bow down!¡± ¡°He¡¯s a heathen!¡± Galdi shouted back. ¡°We let¡ª¡± The short man seemed to grow taller. ¡°Let go!¡± ¡°Hakon,¡± Thorold said. ¡°You don¡¯t¡ª¡± ¡°Shut your mouth,¡± Hakon growled. He hoisted Galdi over the parapet, dangling him above the staked ditch. ¡°When I say something¡ª¡± He shook the man, causing him to whimper. ¡°¡ªyou do it. And if you¡¯re not sure what I¡¯ve said, then stop whatever it is you¡¯re doing and ask me to repeat the words. But don¡¯t ever ignore me. Don¡¯t ever suppose that I¡¯ve misspoken. And all Eleven Elders help you if you¡¯ve come to think that I¡¯m wrong.¡± Galdi nodded as his belt knife dropped to the staked ditch. ¡°I wasn¡¯t thinking, it won¡¯t happen again.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t want you to think,¡± Hakon said. ¡°I just want you to do as you¡¯re told.¡± He hauled him back over the wall, then threw him off the other side, where he landed on a pile of straw and manure. ¡°Any point to that?¡± Thorold matched stares with Hakon, who stood a little shorter and much broader. ¡°Letting him live?¡± Hakon shook his head. ¡°Probably not, given that he meant to loose an arrow with those oxen both facing the ditch.¡± He leaned on the parapet, squinting down at the lean barkeeper. ¡°So who the fuck are you?¡± ¡°Sam.¡± ¡°Well, Sam. We¡¯re going to take everything you own¡­ and in exchange I¡¯m going to invite you into our lovely town.¡± Hakon smiled, his scarred face shrouded by shadows. ¡°How do you like the sound of that?¡± ¡°Honestly?¡± Sam asked and Hakon nodded. ¡°Not at all.¡± Hakon laughed. ¡°Open the gate,¡± he said to Thorold, who bellowed: ¡°Get the gate open!¡± ¡°You can¡¯t just steal from me!¡± Sam shouted, nudging his oxen towards the road. ¡°Where¡¯s The Mayor? I want to speak to the Mayor of Fenkirk.¡± Thunks and groans came muffled through the large wooden gate now Fenkirk¡¯s Militia dug out and lifted braces that held the doors in place. ¡°Do you?¡± Hakon asked. ¡°I doubt The Mayor¡¯s in a mood to listen, given that he died a week ago. Should have died sooner, mind, should have cut his throat and been done with it¡ªdone the man a favour, you know? Instead we let him rot with an arrow in his gut, guzzling wine like a drunk fish, crying, praying, stewing in his own shit, sweat and tears.¡± He regretfully shook his head. ¡°Apparently that was mercy. Apparently it was cruel to suggest we kill him, as if they might knit together his innards.¡± Sam stepped back, ill at ease with the man¡¯s cold delivery. ¡°Who¡ª¡± Both doors of the large gate groaned inward, accompanied by the swears and grunts of men heaving it through piled mud with a scraping of dirt and a rasping of stones. Sam, his oxen no longer amiable, came to an awkward stop beside his cart. He turned to Fenkirk, saw the town through the open gates, wires and barbs of the walls and stakes glinting in the growing dawn light. Tired and hungry as he was, the place seemed surreal to Sam, as if he wasn¡¯t looking on a town that was, rather a town that had been: burnt out houses flanked the haggard men of Fenkirk¡¯s Militia, who stood along the churned up street in their dirty leather armour. Smoke twisted up from several piles in the distance, close enough for Sam to see that the fuel was flesh. He reached for the emerald-hilted dagger at his belt. Fenkirk¡¯s men came forward: a pair with bows and a dozen more with clubs, axes or spears. They surrounded him, swearing and spitting and screaming for him to drop his blade. The clamour startled the oxen, who tried to flee, but got their throats slit for their efforts. Hakon called his men to order, and strode over. ¡°Sam?¡± He snapped his fingers in front of the man¡¯s long and pale face. Sam blinked. ¡°What have you done to Fenkirk?¡± ¡°That sounded almost like an accusation, Sam. Why don¡¯t you drop your dagger and I¡¯ll tell you all about it.¡± ¡°You killed all those people!¡± Sam brandished his dagger at the man, and only then seemed to notice the rest of the armed, angry men surrounding him. ¡°You killed¡ª¡± Hakon caught him under the wrist with one hand, by the throat with the other. ¡°My father taught me not to draw your weapon till you mean to use it.¡± He twisted his arm, pulling both of their faces together. ¡°Open your eyes, Sam.¡± Sam tried to struggle, and got his arm almost wrenched from the socket. He roared his pain, and opened his eyes to a soulless black gaze. ¡°Look at my face,¡± Hakon said. ¡°All the prettiness ruined.¡± Three crinkled lines of flesh were the mainstays of Hakon¡¯s face, making his eyebrows no more than rogue hairs in sickly flesh, leaving his cheeks depressed and his nose ruined, burrowing through his bottom lip so that the lowest scar seemed a gruesome mock smile. Sam glared, furious despite his pallor. ¡°My old face was an illusion.¡± Hakon¡¯s black eyes appeared both wild and restrained, as if the scars imprisoned some darker part of his soul. ¡°How I look now truly captures the man that I am, you understand? A man that will do far worse than kill someone who lies to him.¡± ¡°Let me go.¡± Sam came unanchored. Vision shifting, he thumped into the ground. ¡°If you insist,¡± Hakon said. Laughter sounded around him. ¡°Take the cart in! Have those oxen butchered, but keep them hidden. I¡¯ll see to our new friend.¡± Sam lifted his head to see the leather sole of a boot. *** Gudmund grumbled in his sleep, sniffed at air thick with pungent incense. He woke in earnest to dark and unfamiliar rafters. Smoke stung his tired eyes and set his head to throbbing. He stressed ropes when he tried to rise. He struggled further, causing a table to scrape beneath him. ¡°Calm yourself,¡± said a strained voice from above. The rafters were eclipsed by a purple-hooded head. ¡°You¡¯re tied up.¡± ¡°Oh?¡± Gudmund frowned, his pale face slick with sweat. ¡°Any other insights for me?¡± ¡°Do you remember¡ª¡± ¡°Untie me!¡± Gudmund thrashed, causing the table to jump. Lovrin held a sacrificial dagger in his hand, hidden by his side, glinting with malicious firelight that billowed from a hearth of old stones. ¡°I will untie you.¡± He brandished the blade. ¡°If you swear to do me no harm.¡± ¡°Cut my ropes or cut my throat,¡± Gudmund snapped. ¡°I¡¯ll swear you no oaths.¡± Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site. ¡°Fine.¡± Lovrin cut one of his hands free. ¡°But do you even know why I¡¯ve tied you up?¡± ¡°Mad men do mad things.¡± Gudmund rolled over to untie his other bonds. ¡°You must have taken me from my bed.¡± Lovrin laughed, wryly as an old man would. ¡°Dragged you through the streets with my hunch back, did I?¡± ¡°Had some fool do it for you.¡± Gudmund glanced back at him. ¡°What¡¯s it matter? Think I¡¯ll let this pass? Think I¡¯ll take some mercy on you ¡®cause you had no courage to slit my throat? Had no stomach to sacrifice me to a false deity?¡± Lovrin¡¯s keen eyes glistened under his purple hood. ¡°Courage?¡± he asked, laughter still in his tone. ¡°It¡¯s pity a man would need to put you out of your misery, Gudmund. Separate your fool¡¯s head from your coward¡¯s heart.¡± Gudmund, legs still bound, lurched for him, but Lovrin stepped deftly back. ¡°Quick for an old man, and your voice changed, as well. Is that you, Sage?¡± ¡°I am the same man I have always been,¡± Lovrin replied. ¡°A servant of Muradoon. Poor one, perhaps. Though I doubt it bothers him that I play at frailty. Good that I did, I think. Made it easy to knock you on the head when you came in here, frothing at the mouth for more tincture, screaming for it even when I told you I¡¯d had the measurements wrong and it was near to poison.¡± ¡°Tall tales are for small men,¡± Gudmund answered, even though doubt crept into his blue, red-rimmed eyes. ¡°How else did you get here? If not by your own feet.¡± Gudmund searched the room, looking for the man that carried him, finding only ornate or antiqued altars, covered in dusty wax and stacked with candles, dotted with glass pots of burning incense. He blinked, breathing deep the stifling air, as some segments of memory found place in his mind. He saw glass scattered and broken on the floor, a breadth of candles and pots missing on one altar, then felt anew the dull-and-sharp pains of his burnt-and-cut arm. ¡°I can wrap that,¡± Lovrin offered, nodding to the wounded limb. ¡°Unless you¡¯d prefer it go bad?¡± Gudmund laughed, teasing a shard of glass from his wrist. ¡°That¡¯s your story is it?¡± Lovrin¡¯s scowl creased his hooked nose. ¡°Story?¡± ¡°That I came in here, tried to smash the altars, as if I¡¯m some lapped dog to your tincture. That I came here in the night, but have no memory of it.¡± Gudmund scowled up at him. ¡°That I¡¯m weak?¡± Lovrin shook his hooded head. ¡°Those words are all your own. But you also came here in search of the Sage.¡± He studied Gudmund, who looked lost in a world of his own, then snapped his fingers. ¡°Gudmund? You look close to death.¡± ¡°From a cut on my arm?¡± Gudmund asked. ¡°I¡¯ve walked a mile with two axes in my back. Now, I¡¯ve things¡ª¡± He tried to rise, remembered his tied legs. ¡°Untie my legs and I¡¯ll let you live.¡± ¡°I¡¯ll do that.¡± Lovrin walked over with his knife to hand. ¡°Though I¡¯d rather you stay here and have something to eat. If the Sage¡¯s prediction holds true, then this town will need you to lead a defence.¡± ¡°If, if and if. And if it does, Grettir will do what he can. I¡¯ll stick my neck out if there¡¯s fighting in the walls. Beyond that, I¡¯ve no interest. Men are my enemies. I need to get to Timilir and settle a score.¡± ¡°You¡¯re in no condition to travel.¡± ¡°You¡¯re in no position to speak.¡± ¡°With a knife in my hand, and you half-bound?¡± ¡°As a coward to a man.¡± ¡°I¡¯m no coward¡­ merely practical.¡± ¡°Brolli was a believer in practical cowardice. I hope it ends the same for you.¡± ¡°An odd comment,¡± Lovrin remarked, cutting him fully loose. ¡°Given that Brolli was well known for his savagery, as a man that never bowed to anyone.¡± ¡°He believed in it for weak men.¡± Gudmund pushed up from the gouged table. ¡°Men like you.¡± Lovrin sniffed. ¡°It truly does surprise me that you have any friends at all.¡± Gudmund met the sentiment with a cruel smile, yellowed teeth traced with pink. ¡°I don¡¯t need¡ª¡± ¡°Have you coughed blood?¡± Lovrin asked with genuine concern. ¡°How many times? For how long?¡± ¡°I¡¯ll be fine.¡± Gudmund dropped to his feet, and walked to the low archway that led to the main altars. ¡°Or you¡¯ll be dead,¡± Lovrin warned. ¡°Your daughter left fatherless and brotherless. Alone.¡± ¡°It¡¯s a damn foolish man that speaks of my daughter.¡± ¡°No more foolish than one who puts no stock in his own mortality.¡± Gudmund paused in the archway to the altar hall, where hundreds of candles burned in rows atop stone altars. He watched the dancing flames. ¡°I forgave you for binding me, because perhaps I did come here with some ill intent to mind. But I¡¯d warn you now to stay where you are, with your lips tight-pressed, and leave me to business that is mine and mine alone.¡± ¡°That¡¯s your story is it?¡± Lovrin offered a quiet laugh. The Chief of Horvorr turned, with a slackness to his bearded face and eyes that made him look murderous. ¡°One more word, and¡ª¡± ¡°You¡¯ll kill me? I¡¯ll die either way if this town is overrun, and a bad death for the bargain. If you¡¯re coughing blood then you need a tincture.¡± ¡°Poison like the last one?¡± Lovrin shook his hooded head. ¡°I need to find Grettir and my daughter. I¡¯ve no time for this.¡± ¡°Not even a minute?¡± Lovrin turned, hobbling at first out of habit, then he opened his stride until he came to a large cupboard along the right wall: open tabletop at the middle, where a pestle stood amid strewn herbs and scattered mushrooms. He reached up and opened one of the panelled doors. With a tinkering of glass, he pulled out a fat-bottomed vessel of murky liquid, shades of brown and green, sealed at the top with wax and a stopper. ¡°Oh I like the look of that,¡± Gudmund said, ¡°though I¡¯d sooner swallow fire.¡± ¡°So sell it on to an apothecary in Timilir.¡± Lovrin handed it over. ¡°I only care that you take it, that I gave you a chance.¡± ¡°Why?¡± Gudmund grasped his outstretched hand, smothering glass and fingers. He stared into the man¡¯s shadowed gaze. Glass fissured with a crystalline note that pierced the crackle of tinder. ¡°Why would you care?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡± Lovrin flexed his fingers outward to spare the glass. ¡°It is something of a mystery to me, and yet I care all the same. These are the hands that brought a daughter of yours into the world. These are eyes that have seen you as a better man. Perhaps I hope to see it again. Perhaps I¡¯ve misplaced sympathy. Muradoon knows I wanted to cut your throat when you came in here¡­ when I had you on the table. Or fill your mouth with poison and make you bite down. Would¡¯ve been simpler, I think. Simpler for everyone. So I don¡¯t know, Gudmund,¡± he conceded. ¡°I truly don¡¯t. Perhaps it is, as you say, that I¡¯m a coward.¡± Gudmund smiled. ¡°An honest coward.¡± He let Lovrin¡¯s long fingers free and stole the tincture from grip. ¡°Lucky for you that¡¯s the only kind I can stomach.¡± Old wood creaked in the altar hall then wind whistled in, setting smoke stirring, causing candles to dance. Both men frowned towards the archway. The main door swung to a close that echoed up to the lofty ceilings of the Ritual House. ¡°Hello?¡± asked a wary voice. ¡°Lovrin?¡± ¡°In here,¡± Lovrin answered. ¡°Oh.¡± Ralf stepped past cloth-draped altars and shelved candles. He bowed his leather-capped head. ¡°Gudmund.¡± Gudmund glanced back at Lovrin, pocketed the tincture, then walked towards the door. ¡°I¡¯ll leave you two to your business.¡± Ralf stepped out of his way and onto a long cloth, making a dozen candles teeter. ¡°Actually,¡± he began, noticing his misstep and stepping forward. ¡°I came here looking for you, Chief Gudmund.¡± ¡°Talk as we walk then.¡± Gudmund stopped by the main door. He shivered, more for the cold in his bones. ¡°I need to go to Grettir¡¯s house. And apologize.¡± ¡°That¡¯s why I¡¯m here,¡± Ralf said, his words a little stumbled. ¡°Grettir, well¡­ Grettir left Horvorr.¡± Gudmund¡¯s hand froze on the door¡¯s handle. ¡°Left¡­?¡± ¡°On a horse, that he stole. Well, I don¡¯t know if he stole it. But I have to guess that he did. Or else why would he had have tied up the stable boy?¡± Ralf kept his gaze towards the candle-laden floorboards. ¡°Not for me to decide.¡± ¡°Gone on a horse? Left one, then?¡± ¡°Took them both.¡± Ralf glanced over at Lovrin, who was already busy sweeping with a long-handled broom. ¡°The stable boy said a woman was with him. Grettir, I mean, not the boy. A young woman, and I¡¯m¡ª¡± ¡°My daughter wasn¡¯t home?¡± Gudmund let out a slow breath. He studied the carved visage of Muradoon the Spirit Talker on the main door: one eye wrapped in a rag, the other resolute; a proud set to thick, bearded lips. He thought it to be a small and resolute smile, made by a god judging his lesser. Ralf shook his head. ¡°No. I looked, but no. Could be that¡ª¡± ¡°He took them both,¡± Gudmund muttered, meaning Muradoon, meaning his sons. ¡°The horses?¡± ¡°Your stable boy.¡± Gudmund worked his tongue against bloody teeth, pressed it against aching gums. ¡°He make any mention as to the girl¡¯s mood?¡± ¡°I didn¡¯t think to ask, but I can take you¡ª¡± ¡°No need.¡± Gudmund pushed the door open, momentarily blinded by the light of a clear noon sky. He squinted as he walked forth. ¡°Are we going to chase them?¡± ¡°Do what you want.¡± Gudmund paused in the stony yard of the Ritual House. ¡°I¡¯m going to bed.¡± *** Sam opened his eyes to Hakon¡¯s ruined face, scarred flesh aglow with lantern light. ¡°You fell asleep.¡± Sam tried to move, but rope held his legs in place, scratched his flesh. ¡°I¡ª¡± A brutal ache across his face brought Sam to silence. ¡°What have¡ª¡± He tried to reach for his cheek, but his bone grated against wood instead. ¡°Calm down, Sam,¡± Hakon said. ¡°You¡¯re among friends here.¡± He swept his hands out to encompass the small shed, unfurnished save for the chair and the lantern squeaking overhead. ¡°Friend, rather. Just me and you now, Sam. That is your name, isn¡¯t it? You told it true, did you not? I¡¯d hate to be calling you it over and over and over, thinking us trusting, thinking us friends¡ª¡± ¡°You¡¯re mad, aren¡¯t you?¡± Hakon frowned, creasing his ravaged nose, puckering his ruined lips. He leaned close to Sam, drummed fingers on his head, then let out a long rancid breath. ¡°I¡¯m just tired, Sam. Beyond tired, really. It gets to you, you know.¡± He slapped his palm into Sam¡¯s lips. ¡°Shut your mouth. Please.¡± Sam laughed into Hakon¡¯s hand, eyes watering. He lamented ever trusting the Sage. ¡°Your cheek is a little bruised,¡± Hakon said, softening his ugly face. ¡°I kicked you harder than I¡¯d like and so it drove you into the ground harder than I¡¯d like. I¡¯ve tied you up, because I¡¯m not sure who you are, what you are, or what you¡¯re doing here. I¡¯ve tied you up because you are the first traveler to arrive at Fenkirk in weeks, unless you count the thousands of goblins that are hiding in the forest, eating the corpses of Fenkirk¡¯s fallen¡­ and I don¡¯t count them.¡± He stepped back, pulling his palm away and letting Sam breath. ¡°I don¡¯t¡ª¡± ¡°Maybe you don¡¯t.¡± Hakon nodded, and drummed his fingers on his own shaved head. ¡°Three questions, Sam. Answer them and you¡¯re free. Refuse and I will burn you alive. Hesitate and I throw you over the wall. Lie¡­ well, if you lie, Sam, then I carve out your cock and let you bleed grey, and then I¡¯ll de-limb you, cast each part over the wall for the goblins to eat, in the honest hope that you suffer badly under the Lady¡¯s Shadow.¡± Sam swallowed, and slowly nodded. ¡°What is your name?¡± ¡°Sam.¡± ¡°What is your father¡¯s name.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡± Sam said and Hakon¡¯s eyes stirred. ¡°I never met my father. My¡ª¡± ¡°What is your name?¡± Sam frowned. ¡°I¡ª¡± ¡°What is your name!?¡± Hakon screamed in his face. ¡°Sam.¡± ¡°What is your mother¡¯s name?¡± ¡°Lora.¡± ¡°How long have you lived in Wymount?¡± ¡°I¡¯m from Horvorr.¡± Hakon tutted. ¡°Same question, different place.¡± Sam paused, holding onto figures in his head, trying to bring them together. ¡°Too late.¡± Hakon lifted him and the chair from the ground. ¡°I haven¡¯t kept count!¡± Sam¡¯s lean frame stayed fast to the chair. ¡°I haven¡¯t kept count. Have you?¡± He asked. ¡°Long enough. I¡¯ve lived there long enough for me to think it too long. Long enough to have a wife and a child. To have my child leave me and have my wife leave me. Long enough to have a life and think it misspent. Long enough to be a man of middling age and already think my life far too long lived.¡± Hakon let go and the chair thumped into floorboards, causing Sam¡¯s teeth to snap together, his vision to blur, ears to ring and his head to ache. ¡°What is your profession? How do you make a living?¡± ¡°I own a tavern.¡± ¡°Then why¡ª¡± Hakon grabbed onto both of his wrists, squeezing them, staring into his eyes. ¡°Why is your cart full of mining equipment? Why have you come to Fenkirk during a siege, with that gear in tow. Did you aim to dig a tunnel? Did you mean to let the wretched bastards in? Would you betray your own people, for the sake of those green-skinned scum?¡± ¡°No,¡± Sam answered. ¡°No.¡± ¡°No?¡± Sam shook his head. ¡°No.¡± ¡°I¡¯ll need more than that.¡± Hakon lifted a dagger, slender blade stained with muck and blood. ¡°Quickly, now.¡± ¡°I came here to save my son. I need to get to Timilir.¡± ¡°Save him how?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡± ¡°What are pickaxes for? What did you mean to dig?¡± ¡°Nothing,¡± Sam pleaded. ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡± ¡°Who packed your cart?¡± Hakon asked. ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± Sam answered and Hakon gripped the dagger. ¡°I don¡¯t know! Edgar packed it! But it was the Sage who arranged for the cart.¡± Hakon stared down at him, black eyes dead and vacant behind those scars. ¡°You¡¯re blaming a holy man?¡± ¡°I would only blame him if I thought he had some ill intent in mind. Have you not considered that he might have meant the gear for you. That it might not be for some black purpose. And have you put any thought to how would I dig a tunnel on my own with no man noticing? Why I would come here, on my own, with a cart full of pickaxes, when I would only need the one?¡± Hakon drummed his fingers on his own shaved head, but his face remained unchanged. ¡°You say that thousands of goblins are outside your walls,¡± Sam said. ¡°If that¡¯s true, why would I not just ride my cart into the forest?¡± Hakon stepped forward and lowered his hand onto Sam¡¯s shoulder. ¡°Exactly, Sam.¡± He squeezed and smiled. ¡°That¡¯s exactly what I told them when they warned me you were conspiring with the goblins. It doesn¡¯t make any sense, does it?¡± He shrugged. ¡°I had to check though, you understand? To be safe and all that.¡± He lifted the dagger to Sam¡¯s throat, but then placed it in his lap. ¡°Your dagger.¡± Sam blinked tears from his eyes. ¡°You¡¯re letting me go?¡± ¡°No,¡± Hakon happily answered, as if the notion amused him. He tugged on rope bonds and they came smoothly loose. ¡°I¡¯m taking you to a bigger prison.¡± 27. Trust 27. Trust ¡°I have been a fool. A weak and cowardly fool. My affair with Hilda was almost discovered. Brolli found us moments before Gudmund arrived. I hid outside the tent like a coward as she accused him of rape. I do not know how he could suffer the blame, or play the part so well. I have offered to admit to my sins, but Brolli refuses. He says he has seen enough death, and has no mind to watch Gudmund run me through. I considered this an act of staunch friendship, but at times his eyes linger in a murderous way and I wonder if he only means to kill me himself. I would not blame him. He had earned the respect of Grettir and the love of Gudmund. He was a hero among the camp and now he is a man reviled. The others judge me for keeping his company. Despite my outrage, I lack the courage to proclaim his innocence. I tell myself that I am only respecting his wishes, and yet know it for the worst of lies.¡± Grettir turned to the horses, listening to the crunch of his boots and the whistle of the wind. He felt hot despite the cold, breath steaming, sweat clinging to his wild beard, his heart beating heavy in his chest. They had paused near a small stream to water the horses and he now stood amid the sprawling tundra. He had it in mind that the windswept horses blamed their plight on him, maybe because it was his fault, or because they had a sense for bastards. Maybe that was just the way horses looked at a man who looked like a beast. Maybe Grettir was just losing his mind, and he¡¯d start thinking that the sun and sky were judging him next. Maybe he was just judging himself, at least that¡¯s what his wife would¡¯ve said, and she was usually right. Betrayal didn¡¯t sit well with Grettir, neither did it slip his notice that the last time he had betrayed a man he served was to whisk away a young girl, and here he was doing it again. Though he had been young then too, so maybe he should be out here with an old one-armed woman instead. Either way, betrayal was betrayal. You don¡¯t steal a man¡¯s daughter on the word of some rag-wrapped stranger in a pale robe, even if his words are slick as snow melt. Gudmund had been furious after the trial, more angry than he had ever been, and all the hate and rage had been aimed at Grettir. He''d finally said what Grettir long feared, that he was a one-armed no-eyed fool who held the blame for Agnar and Geirmund''s deaths. Grettir had always loved Gudmund like a brother despite his flaws. But hearing those words, ringing painfully true, robbed him of all reason. Then the Salt Sage had been ready and waiting to send the blind cripple on his merry way. Grettir would have already turned back, but he knew he was being followed. He had been tracked by goblins long enough to pay heed to deep growls and rhythmic squeaks in the night. Gudmund was with him the last time. Brolli too. There was that year when they were bonded men, when they could all stand each other, even liked each other, but then Brolli had to go and get drunk and try to rape Hilda. ¡°Did I ever worry this much when I was young?¡± he grumbled. The wind strengthened into a stronger sweep, shifting dust and snow, nudging along small pebbles. The horses spluttered their distaste at the rising weather, and looked cautiously to Grettir. He noticed he was staring at hoof-hewn earth. ¡°Sybille!¡± He rubbed at his nose, then took turns scratching each side of his beard. ¡°Sybille? Eluna stay your hand if you¡¯re weaving,¡± he invoked, running to the stream, axe to hand, worry in his moss-green eyes. ¡°Sybille!¡± She clambered up from the stream bed, adjusting her dress. ¡°Yes?¡± Grettir belted his worn axe. ¡°Are you ready to go?¡± ¡°I am.¡± Sybille strode towards the horses. ¡°You seem in an odd mood.¡± ¡°I¡¯ll be fine,¡± Grettir assured. He helped his goddaughter onto her horse, then struggled onto his own. A gust swept over them as they rode, a doleful song beneath the clop of hooves. Sybille appeared annoyed by the weather, which made her eyes water and her hair dance in the wind. Grettir himself had to scowl in defense of debris while his brown beard was tugged this way and that. The horse¡¯s manes rippled in the air, a fluid movement that seemed at ends with their thumping stride. Sybille glanced at him. She shivered, hands clutched around the reins. ¡°What¡¯s wrong, Grettir?¡± ¡°Foul weather.¡± ¡°It¡¯s something more than that.¡± ¡°You think Bruma Stormcaller is sending a message?¡± Sybille met his joke with a further narrowing of her eyes. ¡°I¡¯m not pleased with him, either, you know.¡± ¡°Bruma¡¯s a woman¡­ fine. And why not?¡± ¡°Because he tried to exile Engli and Hjorvarth¡­?¡± ¡°He wanted vengeance for his brother.¡± ¡°Hjorvarth saved both his sons,¡± Sybille countered. ¡°Engli saved me. He just wanted to blame somebody¡­ for something, for anything.¡± Grettir nodded. ¡°Doesn¡¯t mean to say that the person holds no blame.¡± ¡°He blamed you, then?¡± Sybille asked. ¡°He voiced the truth.¡± Sybille shook her head. ¡°You¡¯re such a coward, Grettir.¡± Grettir¡¯s stare wavered between discontented and determined. ¡°A coward?¡± Sybille suffered guilt at the hurt in his harsh voice. ¡°I didn¡¯t mean¡ª¡± ¡°I am a coward, Sybille. You want to know what¡¯s wrong with me, well that¡¯s what¡¯s wrong with me. So scared that a ghost¡¯s going to reach out and grab me that I daren¡¯t step foot in Timilir. So scared of some old man¡¯s wrath that I ran home to Horvorr with my cock between my legs. Forced a march. Sent no scouts through the forest, despite Hjorvarth telling me what I already knew. That no goblin attack on the way in, meant an attack on the way out.¡± Grettir chuckled at himself in pure derision. ¡°Do you know what I said to him, Sybille? Maybe all the goblins are dead. Then as if Joyto himself arranged it, horns start blaring and three hundred of them come screaming out from the trees.¡± ¡°You couldn¡¯t have known.¡± ¡°I did know,¡± Grettir assured in a lifeless tone. ¡°I just didn¡¯t care. I was too busy trying to get Hjorvarth to stay in Fenkirk. Too busy plotting like a coward and not living like a man. Too busy being a one-armed, no-eyed idiot.¡± ¡°Grettir,¡± Sybille said. ¡°It isn¡¯t your fault. No more than it is mine, or Engli¡¯s, or Agnar¡¯s, or even Geirmund¡¯s. You only fled because of the trouble we¡¯d caused. And Hjorvarth wasn¡¯t wrong in what he said. If he had been there¡ªif our father had come with us¡ªthen they might both still be alive.¡± She wanted to reach out but the horses rode too far apart. ¡°We don¡¯t need to speak about this, Grettir. I¡¯m sorry that I asked.¡± ¡°No need to be sorry.¡± Grettir blinked and rogue tears trickled down his wild beard. ¡°I just can¡¯t ignore the fact that I swore to protect your brothers. And every day I wake knowing that I survived when they died. Every time I close my eyes I hear Agnar shouting my name¡­ the panic in his voice¡ª¡± He bit down on his words, and cleared his throat. ¡°You don¡¯t need to hear this, Sybille. I¡¯m not even sure that we need to be out here. Let¡¯s turn around, and I¡¯ll take you home.¡± ¡°No.¡± ¡°No?¡± Sybille shrugged and smiled. ¡°You might not trust your instincts, but I still do.¡± *** A single candle illuminated the Chief of Horvorr¡¯s large and over-furnished room. It stood central on a dark, ornate desk, which had been crafted with a three-panel mirror, so that each dusty pane of glass differed slightly in reflection: wavering flame and sphere of luster prominent in each, but beyond that triumvirate glow was the shadowed visage of a pale man, hairy and naked, sitting on his bed¡¯s end. Gudmund had sunken down through layered furs and feathered mattress. His knees were up past his waist. He hadn¡¯t washed, so the air was scented with his own odor and his red beard glistened with grease. He sat close enough to the light to cast a thin shadow, which reached back to the curved headboard, carved in the likeness of two wolves, obscured by a stacked pile of fat cushions. He owned many cupboards, well-made and most dark-varnished. Two wardrobes. Each piece of furniture stood close together, dusty but in good condition. In the far corner, behind Gudmund and to his right, lay a great pile of snapped wood, scattered amongst eleven broken idols that were once carved in the likeness of the gods. Gudmund¡¯s eyes were not to his morose visage, nor to burning candle or broken altar. He gazed down at a large cloak of brown fur, draped across the floorboards by his feet. It was once a gift from Jarl Thrand, who had given it to Grettir. Gudmund had only worn it once, but he knew it for a fine gift, and so gifted Grettir an iron-hafted axe in turn. The axe lay at his feet as well, half-buried in the fur. Gudmund looked at them both, as if them lying together, both rejected by the same man, meant that he was no different to the likes of Jarl Thrand: an old, wrinkled coward with serpentine eyes and a serpentine soul. ¡°Had Grettir not thought Thrand¡¯s family unfit for Sybille as well?¡± Gudmund thought. ¡°Does he think us so alike that he has taken Sybille from me? And for her to go willingly, stolen away, as if she loved him more¡ªas if they all loved him more, as if they never loved me, as if I¡¯m some burden to bear¡ªbear. Bear fur. ¡°¡®I had this made¡ª¡¯ Old man¡¯s voice, snake voice, hollow-cheeked old fool. ¡®¡ªhad this made for you. Went out and killed the greatest bear we could find.¡¯ Killed, as if he had killed it, with his withered corpse hands. By best bet might smile it to death, with his crooked liar¡¯s smile. Kill it dead with falseness. ¡®Quite matches your hair, doesn¡¯t it?¡¯ Laugh. Old man¡¯s laugh. Hollow. Broken. Hollow. Broken.¡± Gudmund¡¯s fists tightened white. ¡°¡®I¡¯ll burn it¡ª¡± Grettir¡¯s voice, rough voice. Voice of judgement. Judging bastard. Why? ¡¯I don¡¯t keep gifts from men I don¡¯t respect.¡¯¡± ¡°Me,¡± Gudmund said aloud. ¡°Don¡¯t keep gifts from¡ª¡± He coughed, cleared his throat. ¡°Me.¡± He coughed again, thumped at his chest. He breathed wet and haggard, pawed at the spiral bedpost and wobbled to his feet. He searched candlelit darkness for a drink, then bile rose up to his mouth and he fell to his knees. The Chief of Horvorr retched on the floor, spattering dusty wood with vomit, which pooled out, coiled with crimson, until it reached his bare, hairy knees. Gudmund grunted loudly to himself, coughing his throat clear, and then rose, putting his feet in the puddle. He turned to his bed and saw the specter of his wife, clothed in ethereal white. ¡°Hilda?¡± He slipped on sick, thumped the floor with his knee and forehead. Gudmund shivered in his sleep, bile wetting his skin and making the cold seep deeper. He woke not long after, candle burned almost to a stub, wick at threat from molten wax. He grumbled for a moment, for his aches and pains and for the confusion. He caught scent of the smell, scrambled and slipped away from the puddle. He rolled onto his back, so that his hairy chest showed slick and wet in faint candlelight. ¡°Am I going to die?¡± he asked, fearful, but then his proud face hardened. ¡°On my terms.¡± He rose from his feet, clawing onto the bed, steadying himself against the spiral bedpost. He brushed tangled hair from his haunted eyes, lifted a fur to wipe the sick from his chest, and then dragged it over to the candle. He lowered a bristling corner to the flame, let it lick and curl around the material until that caught fire in its own right. He made play with the fur, lifting and turning it, before he tossed it onto the bed. Gudmund watched the fire spread, slowly at first onto other furs, and took grim delight when it crawled up the pile of fat, itchy cushions. He would burn, alone, with all these other useless things. Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator. No one but the wind would hurt or harass him once he was ashes. He would finally be free and at peace. *** Like a bridge broken, paired plateaus overlooked the mountainous pass north of Horvorr. They both stretched to ragged edges and a long drop to the road below. A modest fire burned on the leftmost, conjuring a sphere of ruddy light that shifted with wind-whipped flames. Hjorvarth and Engli stood armed and restless on the plateau opposite. Stone shook beneath their feet now shadows swarmed over the rocky slope that lead to the left plateau. The figures leapt into the firelight, growling and screeching, hurling stones into the endless darkness or at the icy rock face. The enormous goblin known as Dalpho lumbered after them, his blubbery bulk mostly in shadow even as he stepped towards the flames. Hjorvarth glimpsed endless scars along rolled flesh before a massive foot stomped through the fire. A wordless bellow rolled out into the closing darkness, shaking the air before it faded into vengeful weather. ¡°Is it just me, or is Gudmund¡¯s Hall burning?¡± Engli asked. Hjorvarth moved to stand beside him on the southern ledge. The treacherous climb that they had followed twisted below them, down towards the northern road that they had reached from the cover of shadowed trees. Beyond the forest, Horvorr stood amid a barren plain, homes hidden behind a shadowed surround of tall log walls. Gudmund¡¯s Hall could not be seen, but silver smoke curled upwards into crimson darkness; and the black expanse of the Great Lake mirrored writhing flames. ¡°I would guess at yes.¡± Engli glanced sidelong. ¡°That doesn¡¯t worry you?¡± ¡°We have concerns closer to hand. Gudmund might have simply burned himself alive.¡± ¡°Should I find that reassuring?¡± ¡°You should,¡± Hjorvarth spoke in a low tone, ¡°other outcomes would be no better.¡± He paused. ¡°I would like you to decide what we should do next.¡± ¡°What?¡± Engli asked. ¡°I thought we were waiting for the Sage?¡± ¡°It would be best to assume he is dead. As to why I would like you to decide, because I trust your judgement better than my own.¡± ¡°Right, well¡­ I don¡¯t want to start talking in circles, but I¡¯d rather you lead us.¡± Hjorvarth moved to speak, then bit down on his teeth. He took a slow breath. ¡°I have only recently caused the death of my foster father. I can say in all honesty that I am not in my right mind. My thoughts flit between ending my own life and murdering the Sage. I am almost certain that I would choose a reckless tact that would most likely lead us both to a bloody end.¡± ¡°Oh.¡± Engli shuffled to the side. ¡°I¡ª¡± ¡°You have no need to fear me, Engli.¡± Hjorvarth sighed. ¡°I have long since mastered making my actions reflect reason and not rage. I am sworn to protect you. I am sworn to accompany the Sage. I will follow you above him though, assuming he still lives. But since he chose not to tell us his plan, and he has not met us here as agreed, we must choose another way forward.¡± ¡°Such as?¡± Hjorvarth upturned his heavy palms. ¡°We could cross this plain at dawn and arrive back at Horvorr. If Gudmund lives, he will reject us at the gates, or he will slay us for abandoning the Sage. If he is dead, along with Sybille and Grettir, then¡­ well, I would have no choice but to enter the place as a butcher in a slaughterhouse. In that vein, we could cover ourselves in goblin innards and prowl through the forests for their leaders. Or, perhaps wisest of all, we could travel to the mining villages and seek out help or survivors. Though we would need to wash our clothes thoroughly for that, as we both smell badly. And if I look as haggard as you do then we would likely inspire thoughts of exiled murderers.¡± Engli studied the distant flames. ¡°Do you really think that Sybille might be dead?¡± ¡°I can think of no lie that would explain my mention. So, yes.¡± ¡°Oh. Perhaps we should go back to Horvorr, then. I don¡¯t want to wander off and die in the mountains if those we know are suffering not a day away.¡± ¡°That suits me well enough.¡± A scrabble of stones forced both men to turn with shields and axes readied. ¡°Ah,¡± a robed man enthused. ¡°My fearless companions. Did I overhear talk of abandoning the holy man?¡± ¡°Sage,¡± both men answered with suspicion. The Salt Sage stepped closer, still shrouded in shadows. ¡°Is something wrong?¡± ¡°Wrong?¡± Hjorvarth asked. ¡°Beyond the fact that I walk with a man who has manipulated me beyond measure? The man that kicked Brolli in the chest when he offered his hand. The man that leads us by the nose to our deaths.¡± ¡°Perhaps I should lead you by the ears if you don¡¯t hear those goblins coming,¡± the Sage chided. ¡°As to your accusations, entertaining and wrong as they may be, I¡¯m afraid death approaches. Even Dalpho can be silent when needed. I do, of course, offer apologies for my plan not working entirely as¡­ planned, thus far. But then you did speak loudly when I asked you to whisper, didn¡¯t you, Hjorvarth? I expect you won¡¯t make the same mistake of bringing ruin upon us in a dire hour? I expect you¡¯re both eager to forge ahead with our quest to save those in need?¡± ¡°Oaths bind me to your service, Sage. Once broken, I will sever your spine and go gladly to the Lady¡¯s Shadow.¡± The Salt Sage laughed. ¡°That gives me a deal of time to change your mind, then.¡± He waved them towards the opposite ledge. ¡°I¡¯ll have to show you our intended destination. I fear that the goblins will catch us if I do not distract them.¡± Hjorvarth and Engli came to stand at either side of the robed man. Beyond the twin plateaus, the northern road wound through the sloping approach to a wintry valley that housed the mining village of Stonefell. Before the final climb, the path forked towards a second path that rounded behind a row of hills and led to the sheltered settlement of Ilmkleif. ¡°Are we going to Ilmkleif or Stonefell?¡± Engli asked. ¡°Neither.¡± The Salt Sage waved towards the cross-roads, beyond that to where a stretch of scree gave way to dense conifer trees. ¡°You need to head northeast at the fork, and then go further until you reach the end of that mountainous wood.¡± ¡°I have been there before.¡± Hjorvarth stood unduly close to the robed man. ¡°It ends in mountain ranges that we would not be able to pass even with proper gear for climbing. And as it stands, we lack supplies for a journey on flat land.¡± ¡°Joyto assures me that there is a cave there¡­ with a hidden passageway that leads to a mountainous basin of stone and snow. Within it, is a hill. Atop that hill, is a home. The holy man we seek, Jorund of the Hill, awaits us there.¡± ¡°The holy man you seek,¡± Hjorvarth amended. ¡°Towards an end we could not even guess at.¡± ¡°Nor I, yet I trust in Joyto. Do you not have faith in the Helmsman, friend?¡± Hjorvarth grabbed him by the neck. He hoisted the robed man over the edge. ¡°Friend,¡± he grated. ¡°You just named Joyto as the Helmsman. What proof do I need beyond that to name you as a false facer? To name you as a man that defiles all honor of the gods?¡± The Salt Sage¡¯s slippered feet dangled. ¡°You are not in your right mind, friend. Since when does a slip of the tongue serve as a sound reason for murder?¡± Hjorvarth stare held no sympathy. ¡°You have caused the death of four men.¡± ¡°Accidents, one and all.¡± The Salt Sage gripped the huge man¡¯s wrists. ¡°What you fail to see is that you have the fate of Horvorr in your hands. What you fail to see is that you waste time and words as goblins¡ª¡± ¡°I hear no goblins!¡± ¡°Because you are deaf and blind to the world around you.¡± The Salt Sage outstretched his arms. ¡°Drop me, then,¡± he snarled. ¡°Clearly it matters not at all that you are both bound to protect and accompany me. It makes no difference that your friends and families are at risk of being broken, slaughtered, and consumed. You do not care that I stand, that I dangle¡ªthat I am soon to fall¡ªas the only man that stands a chance of preventing this madness. You would rather avenge yourself on me for a death that you caused¡­ and what can I really say to that beyond wishing you luck in your cowardice?¡± ¡°For once, you speak plainly.¡± Hjorvarth exhaled through his teeth. ¡°Now tell us of your plan.¡± ¡°I have already told you it. I would only ask that you leave before it is too late.¡± ¡°Too late,¡± Hjorvarth doubtfully echoed. ¡°Engli? What would you have me do?¡± ¡°In honest truth?¡± Engli asked, disappointment weighing his words. ¡°I believe that this murder would be the end of us both. If the path leads nowhere, as you say, then we can always turn straight back to Stonefell. I think I can hear the goblins, as well.¡± Hjorvarth strained his ears beyond the wind, now able to hear distant squeaking and scrabbling rocks. He lifted the robed man back onto solid ground. ¡°I pray that we will meet when this war is done, Sage.¡± He stepped around to face the blond fighter. ¡°As to you, Engli, you have my honest thanks for your wisdom. Lead on.¡± The Salt Sage smiled now the disparate pair departed. ¡°I expect those are words you will live to regret.¡± The wind swept by once more, whistling with mockery. The robed man turned to watch the distant departure of Dalpho and his gathered clan. *** ¡°Chief Gudmund!¡± Ralf called, looking over to the cloaked man further along Horvorr¡¯s wall walk. He had hoped to stay where he stood, because ice sheeted the path ahead and made menacing play with the dawn¡¯s light. He knew one misstep might send him sliding to the edge, where he would fall for sixty feet to the settlement below. Ralf edged forward all the same, keeping close to the wooden parapet. Ice crunched underfoot. Breath misted his vision. ¡°Chief Gudmund?¡± Gudmund stared off at the plain beyond the walls, one hand on his sword hilt, one anchored to the parapet. ¡°I¡¯ve been looking for you for hours. There was a fire in your Hall.¡± Ralf swallowed. ¡°We put it out before it got a hold, but a few other buildings caught light and burned to the ground. Your own room is ruined.¡± He paused. ¡°Gudmund¡­?¡± The Chief of Horvorr wore a thick cloak, bear brown trimmed with speckled grey, which bristled and glistened in the noon light, as if some feral majesty of the animals themselves still resided in the pelts. Gudmund himself, red hair windswept and brittle, appeared more worse for wear than his garment. Ralf thought he looked like a man who had died in the night, frozen over, and only now started to thaw. ¡°So it should be,¡± Gudmund said, his voice hoarse. ¡°I set the fire there, but there was something about the smoke and the heat that I couldn¡¯t stand. So I came here, where it was cold.¡± He chuckled. ¡°I meant to jump. Not sure why, now. But I saw something in the trees that gave me pause.¡± The hand on the parapet moved rigidly with drumming fingers. ¡°Do you see it?¡± Ralf stepped closer. He narrowed his eyes so forcefully that it creased his ruddy face. Trees towered in the distance, close-ranked and imposing. Mountain ranges rose beyond those, peaks powdered by snow. He scanned the barren plain that encircled the town for good measure, then shook his head. ¡°Well?¡± Gudmund asked. ¡°What do you see?¡± ¡°Nothing to cause a man to take his life, or change his mind about it, unless he¡¯s a great lover of trees.¡± ¡°Nothing,¡± Gudmund repeated, smile spreading across his corpse-white face. ¡°Exactly that.¡± He let go of his sword¡¯s hilt, and rubbed hoarfrost from his fiery beard. ¡°No birds. No rabbits. Nothing. No deer. No wolf calls. Nothing.¡± He stared at the snow-clumped forest, then up at the rising sun, bleeding gold into a pink sky. Ralf ventured a nod. ¡°And is that a good or a bad thing?¡± Gudmund laughed quietly, falling into a forceful fit of coughs. He braced both hands against the parapet as he heaved, so that his fur cloak shifted and shimmered on his bent back. ¡°Chief Gudmund?¡± Ralf stepped forward but the Chief of Horvorr raised his pale hand and shook his head, causing the fur hood to fall. ¡°I don¡¯t think you should stay up here. The weather¡¯s cold and you look half frozen.¡± Gudmund let out a final cough, spitting into the snow and over his boots. He frowned down when white turned to crimson. ¡°Blood.¡± Ralf¡¯s tired eyes widened. ¡°You should go to the Ritual House.¡± The Chief of Horvorr smiled with bloody lips. ¡°It is a bad thing.¡± ¡°I¡¯d say it¡¯s no better to be coughing up blood.¡± ¡°In answer to your question,¡± Gudmund said. ¡°It is a bad thing.¡± Ralf frowned, and reached out for Gudmund, whose blue eyes narrowed to such severity and violence that it froze the guard¡¯s heart. Ralf stepped away and his heel skidded on slick ice, sending his foot forwards while the rest of him fell back. Gudmund caught him by the collar. ¡°Careful.¡± He lifted him up, choking his fat neck, and kept a hold until he had his feet. ¡°I¡¯ve just come from the Ritual House. Or I had before I burnt down my home. Or tried to, at least.¡± He sighed, and leaned on the parapet. ¡°Now do you want to know why it is a bad thing?¡± Ralf rubbed his neck. ¡°If it means you¡¯ll come down¡ª¡± ¡°There are no animals,¡± Gudmund said. ¡°So they have fled, or they have been eaten. I have seen forests like this before.¡± He rested a hand on his sword¡¯s pommel. ¡°When I was younger. When I was at war. When those goblins were filled with¡ªI mean forests. Goblin filled forests. You get the point.¡± ¡°So you¡¯ve seen goblins?¡± Gudmund shook his head. ¡°I¡¯ve seen all I needed to see.¡± ¡°Nothing?¡± ¡°Exactly. I¡¯ve seen nothing and now I¡¯m sure there¡¯s war coming.¡± ¡°If I¡¯m honest, I¡¯m not exactly¡ª¡± ¡°You are honest, I¡¯m sure.¡± Gudmund tightened his cloak, and headed towards the long stairs that led down to the town below. ¡°Let¡¯s go.¡± Ralf nodded, worry about his chubby face. He followed at a far slower pace than the Chief of Horvorr set. Gudmund slipped and lurched over the ice, never losing his footing. He sucked in a deep breath, waiting for the cautious murmurs and crunching footsteps to grow close. ¡°You are Ralf, aren¡¯t you?¡± ¡°Of course.¡± Ralf came to stand beside him. ¡°You ever known me by any other name in all the time I¡¯ve served you?¡± ¡°I suppose not.¡± Gudmund carried forward at a slippery amble. They held to silence until they reached the stairs. ¡°Grettir¡¯s gone,¡± Gudmund said as idle mention. ¡°My daughter as well.¡± ¡°Aye.¡± Ralf kept tight to the wall while he descended each step. ¡°I brought you the news that they¡¯d left.¡± ¡°Did you?¡± Gudmund grunted indifference. ¡°I suppose I ought to put you in charge of Horvorr¡¯s Guard, then. For good service.¡± ¡°What?¡± Ralf slipped but caught himself on the wall. ¡°There¡¯s better men than me for that.¡± Gudmund cast his gaze across the huddled buildings that comprised the town of Horvorr. ¡°I see a lot of houses. No men.¡± ¡°They¡¯re at home,¡± Ralf said, words labored by a shortness of breath. ¡°Or in a tavern¡­ or out on the lake, or just walking about. Wherever they are, they¡¯re better fit to lead than I am.¡± ¡°You say that as if it matters.¡± Gudmund¡¯s smile was forced. ¡°I only really need you to gather the guard.¡± 28. Honour Bound 28. Honour Bound ¡°I march from Fenkirk with over ten score men. There are those with us that think we are bound for honour. Both boys of The Mayor of Fenkirk are along. Sam the Storyteller and Hakon the Hero. I gave them no credit for their names, but the boy that had hopes of being a bard reminded me too much of his namesake, and I could not help but feel that I have betrayed my own son by abandoning him. In my desperation, I visited an old crone who reads the future from bones. When I asked what path I should take, she handed me a knife and spoke the word throat. I lost my courage, but I can still feel the grimy blade pressed against my neck.¡± A squall swept down and blasted Hjorvarth and Engli with snow. They trudged forwards through a white haze, their hands kept close to frozen clothing, their faces fixed into scowls. They made their way up a large hill, towards a huge structure silhouetted through the snowfall. ¡°Don¡¯t you think it¡¯s odd?¡± Engli shouted through chattering teeth. ¡°A house near as tall as Gudmund¡¯s Hall. Made of stone, and standing atop a hill.¡± Hjorvarth nodded, not hearing the words. He cared more for the pain of his frozen ears. Engli risked his hands to rub the snow from his aching cheeks. ¡°And do you think this Jorund will just welcome us with open arms?¡± Hjorvarth offered no answer, but he grew wary and paused. He squinted at the distance, seeing little more than dreary, fat flakes. Engli walked on ahead, repeating his question more loudly. A proud warcry rang across the snowy hilltop. Startled, Engli turned to where he thought Hjorvarth stood, and instead saw another man, dark and broad and tall, charging forwards through the snow with an axe raised above his head. Engli reached for his shield, and then remembered the weight of it on his frozen arm, so set his feet instead. He braced himself while the roaring man brought his axe down. Engli realized the blade would arc clean over his shield. He had to wait for it to hew through his neck now the second stretched¡ªa heavy blow to his shield righted time, sending him tumbling back as the axe sliced through his cheek. The dark-haired man stood dumbfounded. ¡°Drop your axe!¡± Hjorvarth shouted so viciously it sounded close to a scream. The mountaineer studied the shield on the floor, bear and wolves fighting upon the face of it. ¡°You threw your shield?¡± He let the wood axe drop to the snow, and turned to face Hjorvarth. Fear flickered across the man¡¯s weathered features. ¡°Step back from your axe, and from him!¡± Hjorvarth brandished his own, shorter axe. ¡°I¡¯ve little practice throwing a shield, but I¡¯ve thrown this countless times.¡± He walked forward to pick up the axe when the mountaineer stepped back. Sunlight shone down from above, golden shafts piercing through the grey as snow gave way. The brightness did the two men of Horvorr¡¯s Guard no favours. They had not slept since leaving the town and the exhaustion weighed their haggard faces, which had been bruised, scratched, and stained black by troll waste. A medley of grim stains darkened the torn fur and tattered leather of once brown trappings to leave them looking more dangerous than desperate. ¡°I meant no harm,¡± the mountaineer spoke in a steady voice. ¡°I rarely get visitors, and I knew that you were not my family.¡± ¡°Not your family?¡± Engli coughed in pain, and pushed up to his knees. ¡°Is that all the reason you need to cut a man down?¡± ¡°No.¡± The mountaineer shook his head. ¡°In truth I had thought your friend to be a yeti, and I had thought you a yeti as well.¡± Engli¡¯s eyes narrowed. ¡°A yeti?¡± ¡°You walked towards my home in the snow, towards my youngest daughter and my wife.¡± The mountaineer brushed cold water from his weathered face. ¡°The gods know the guilt I would have felt had your friend not knocked you clear of my swing. But I stand by the act,¡± he added more firmly. ¡°And I would remind you, as well, that this is my land, and I have clearly marked it as that for miles around.¡± ¡°How should we see your gods-damned signs through the snow?¡± Engli snapped. The mountaineer clenched his teeth. ¡°You are angry. And you have every right to be. But unless you mean to murder me in your wrath there is no use discussing it out here. And if you do¡­ then I only regret handing over my axe.¡± Hjorvarth stood silent, snow melt cooling his wrath and slowing his misty breaths. ¡°We¡¯ve no mind to murder you.¡± He offered the wood axe by the handle. ¡°Nor do we go around snow blind, swinging our axes on gamble. So I expect you¡¯ve nothing to fear.¡± The mountaineer remained cautious. ¡°Your name?¡± ¡°Hjorvarth.¡± He took the axe back. ¡°And why are you here?¡± ¡°I am looking for a man named Jorund,¡± Hjorvarth replied. ¡°And I¡¯ve been told he lives on this hill.¡± ¡°I am Jorund.¡± The mountaineer seemed a decade older at the mention of his name; grey streaks glistened in his beard and cold water trickled through the creases of his skin. ¡°But I won¡¯t treat with you out here. And I won¡¯t let you in my home carrying axes.¡± Engli laughed a baffled laugh. ¡°So you want us to offer our weapons up to the man who just tried to murder us?¡± Jorund nodded, resting the wood axe between his feet. ¡°Or go back the way you came.¡± They each met his gaze, eyes black as obsidian, no doubt resting within. ¡°And you¡¯ll return them when we leave?¡± Hjorvarth asked. ¡°Of course,¡± Jorund spoke solemnly. ¡°And I will vouch safe you for the night. Guests are honoured in my home.¡± Before Engli could counsel waiting for the Sage, Hjorvarth handed over his weapon. *** Engli and Hjorvarth sat cross-legged beside one another in Jorund¡¯s main room. They both faced a low stone table, layered with long and colourful cloths of patterns and animals. All the walls, roof, and furnishing were of a light grey stone, white-veined and smooth, that appeared yellow by the small stone fireplace built opposite the main door. Engli looked at Hjorvarth, who seemed no less at ease than he did at Sam¡¯s tavern. ¡°You¡¯re not the least bit worried?¡± Hjorvarth was rubbing the cloth between thumb and finger. ¡°About what?¡± ¡°About the axe swinging man that lives in a house of stone, on the top of a hill in the middle of the mountains?¡± Hjorvarth kept his focus on the cloth, sharing his companion¡¯s concerns but not voicing them. He had only come inside because Jorund didn¡¯t seem like a man who would brook armed strangers waiting outside his home for an unknown arrival, which left an easy choice between murder or trust. ¡°Look at how low the doors are.¡± Engli gestured towards the doorway. ¡°The table, as well. Everything here is smaller than it should be. How do we know this is his house, and not just one he stole? What if there is a Jorund¡ªwas a Jorund¡ªand what if our friend confused him for a yeti?¡± ¡°Unless he tries to kill us,¡± Hjorvarth said, ¡°it isn¡¯t worth worrying on it. Are you sure your judgement isn¡¯t clouded, given that he almost murdered you?¡± Engli smiled in disbelief. ¡°Oh, do you think so?¡± ¡°I could be wrong.¡± Hjorvarth shrugged. ¡°But I would consider it.¡± ¡°Consider what?¡± a softer, quiet voice asked. Both men frowned at each other, then turned to face the door across the table. A pale young woman stood there, wearing a black dress that looked too long and heavy for her slender frame. Engli thought she looked sickly, while Hjorvarth thought her elfin and fey. She brushed black hair clear of her dark eyes, and smiled as if nervous. ¡°I¡¯m Astrid.¡± Hjorvarth¡¯s brows furrowed. ¡°Is Jorund your father?¡± ¡°He is.¡± Astrid nodded, and smiled again. ¡°Then I was telling Engli he is over-worrying,¡± Hjorvarth said. ¡°And that I think it¡¯s because your father tried to kill him not long ago.¡± ¡°Oh.¡± Astrid knitted her fine brows. ¡°I¡¯m sure he didn¡¯t mean to¡­ I mean, he wouldn¡¯t usually¡ªI¡¯ve never known him to hurt anyone, that¡ª¡± ¡°It¡¯s fine.¡± Engli waved it away. ¡°It was just a misunderstanding.¡± ¡°It was heavy snow,¡± Hjorvarth explained, ¡°and Jorund thought he was a yeti. Or he thought that I was a yeti, and that Engli must have been another monster, as he stood in my company.¡± ¡°Ah,¡± Astrid said. ¡°That makes a little sense¡­ you do look like a yeti¡ªin size I mean, and, well, your face, as well, I suppose¡­¡± She walked closer, and dropped to one knee on the other side of the table. ¡°If you had more hair I mean, and sharper teeth, and if your hair were white, and if you had uglier eyes.¡± Engli looked elsewhere as she gazed at Hjorvarth. He noted a set of small wooden figures stood atop an oak drawer, dark and gleaming, to the left of the stone fireplace. One figure stood alone, an unfinished bear, upon the mantelpiece. He looked back to Hjorvarth, who blinked and turned from the young woman¡¯s stare. Astrid¡¯s gaze grew deeper even though he had edged away. ¡°Are you all right?¡± Engli asked. Hjorvarth and Engli exchanged worried looks. Both men moved to rise when she teetered. Astrid blinked. ¡°Sorry.¡± She offered a small laugh, exhaustion weighing her face. ¡°I do that sometimes.¡± ¡°Fall asleep with your eyes open?¡± Hjorvarth reasoned. She shook her head, looking down at other wooden figures that stood atop the vibrant tablecloth. Those animals wove matched figures that stood atop it, a wolf for a wolf, a bird for a bird, and on like that. There were no hangings along the walls, or from the ceilings, only firelight and those vibrant tablecloths adding any colour to the grey place. ¡°See the future.¡± Astrid looked up at Hjorvarth. ¡°Or so Edda says¡­¡± ¡°Edda?¡± Engli asked. ¡°My father¡¯s mother,¡± Astrid answered. ¡°Oh.¡± ¡°So,¡± Astrid said. ¡°I suppose I should ask what you¡¯re both doing here¡­¡± ¡°Aren¡¯t you going to tell us the future?¡± Hjorvarth asked. Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit. ¡°You don¡¯t believe in prophecies, though¡­ do you?¡± Engli smirked. ¡°Why would you think that?¡± ¡°Edda told me,¡± Astrid explained. ¡°Some other things as well, but that¡¯s how I knew you were here. So I sneaked past my father, and now he¡¯s looking for me outside. Well, he was. Edda said that he would go and find my brothers when he didn¡¯t find me. In case something had happened, or in case you were bad folk after all, and he¡¯d misjudged you.¡± ¡°She told you all that?¡± Engli asked. ¡°She whispered it.¡± Hjorvarth studied the young woman. ¡°Would I be able to speak with her?¡± ¡°No.¡± Astrid smiled sadly. ¡°I think she might like to¡­ but she only speaks to me. Father says he hears her voice at night, but no one else.¡± Hjorvarth matched her smile. ¡°You speak to her ghost, then?¡± ¡°First yetis, now ghosts,¡± Engli murmured. Astrid pretended not to hear him. ¡°Edda speaks to me, mostly, but sometimes I speak to her.¡± Hjorvarth nodded, disquieted as he looked at her unwavering black eyes. He glanced down at snow melt puddling beneath his legs. ¡°Is something wrong, Hjorvarth?¡± Astrid asked. ¡°In a sense.¡± Hjorvarth looked up at her, dissatisfaction about his hard face. ¡°Would you be able to tell me your prophecy?¡± ¡°It isn¡¯t anything like that, just flashes really. A picture here and there, and words, like Edda¡¯s, only an older voice. A voice that sounds tired of speaking¡­ cold.¡± Astrid gave a small shrug. ¡°I saw you, Hjorvarth, only you were old, and I saw Engli, not much older, but crying, and the voice said: ¡®They mourn¡ªor maybe it said they will mourn¡ªeach other¡¯s deaths.¡¯¡± ¡°Isn¡¯t that cheery,¡± Engli remarked. ¡°Not really,¡± Hjorvarth and Astrid answered together. ¡°I find it curious though,¡± Hjorvarth said alone. ¡°You¡¯re a little young to be a charlatan.¡± ¡°Hjorvarth.¡± Astrid feigned seriousness. ¡°I hope you¡¯re not suggesting I would lie to, or attempt to mislead you.¡± ¡°No suggestion.¡± Hjorvarth shook his head. ¡°All prophets are liars. I¡¯ve just no clue what it is you hope to gain.¡± ¡°Hasn¡¯t she already said?¡± Engli asked. ¡°She¡¯s distracting us while Jorund goes to get her brothers. What choice did he have, but to let us in? Weapons or no, he knew he wasn¡¯t a match for you alone.¡± ¡°I see we¡¯ve got a spirited visitor,¡± an older woman then declared, ducking under the leftside doorway now she entered the room. ¡°Hello, mother.¡± Astrid looked back at the brown-haired woman standing behind her. ¡°This is Engli.¡± She gestured to the blond man. ¡°And, this is Hjorvarth.¡± ¡°And I am Brenna.¡± She looked at each of them, her green eyes doubtful. ¡°But what are they are doing in our home?¡± ¡°We¡¯re here to see Jorund,¡± Hjorvarth said. ¡°Do you know when he will return?¡± Brenna shook her head, her hair barely shifting. ¡°What do you wish to speak to him about?¡± Engli and Hjorvarth looked to one another, waiting for the other to answer, only knowing that they had been told to come here. Metal screeched and intricate copper mechanisms that lined the main door began to shift and click together like beetle¡¯s legs. A clunk of stone preceded groaning, then wind began to whistle when light poured in through the opening door. ¡°¡ªgoing to stop speaking just because we have strangers on the other side of the door?¡± a young man said, and a disapproving laugh answered it. ¡°Show some respect, Gunnar,¡± a deeper voice replied. ¡°Ah, see.¡± Gunnar shook his head, though all Hjorvarth and Engli could see were silhouettes amid sunlight. ¡°But that¡¯s what I¡¯m doing, Bjorn,¡± Gunnar went on. ¡°I don¡¯t want to pretend that we weren¡¯t just talking about our visitors before we opened the door. That would be disrespectful.¡± Jorund entered with his youngest son and oldest daughter. Gunnar and the daughter each had the trappings of a hunter, and both shared a likeness to their mother, with their lithe frames, narrow faces, and rough brown hair. ¡°I think you¡¯re right,¡± Hjorvarth said. ¡°It¡¯s better that a man knows the truth.¡± ¡°You.¡± Gunnar pointed at the huge man. ¡°I like you. That¡¯s how you make friends¡­ are you watching, Dagny? Just agree with the first thing someone says.¡± ¡°The truth?¡± Astrid asked icily of Hjorvarth. ¡°You must find life troublesome, then. Given that everyone is lying to you.¡± Dagny smiled slyly at her brother. ¡°Clearly, little sister is not as impressed.¡± ¡°Ah.¡± Bjorn entered to make all those in the crowded room seem smaller. He looked greatly like his father, only broader and younger. ¡°Has he offended you, Astrid? Should we cast him out into the harsh, yet temperate tundra?¡± Astrid answered with a sheepish shake of her head. Gunnar and Dagny exchanged bemused glances. ¡°I do,¡± Hjorvarth answered, quite soberly. ¡°I find life troublesome.¡± Astrid seemed concerned while the rest of her family met the sentiment with indifference or confusion. ¡°Jorund.¡± Hjorvarth looked up at the mountaineer. ¡°Can we speak now?¡± ¡°Later.¡± Jorund held up three strung fowl. ¡°Can either of you cook?¡± Engli shrugged. ¡°My mother says I¡¯m not a bad cook.¡± ¡°His mother,¡± Gunnar and Dagny said together, brows raised and eyes wide. Brenna glared. ¡°And what do you two mean by that, exactly?¡± ¡°Not bad, is good enough,¡± said Bjorn, leading his mother into the left corridor. ¡°Come on, Engli.¡± Engli pushed up from the wet stone and stumbled with the fatigue in his legs. ¡°Impressive,¡± Dagny said, ducking under the doorway. ¡°I bet¡ª¡± Gunnar picked up a wet sack of fish. ¡°You have trouble getting out of bed in the morning.¡± He waited for someone to laugh, then shrugged and followed after his siblings. ¡°Come on, Engli!¡± Engli paused at the corridor to look back at his companion. Hjorvarth appeared worse for wear, his rugged clothing damp with the weather and black with troll waste. He nodded his assent and assurance. ¡°I¡¯ll see you soon.¡± ¡°Twins caught a goat.¡± Jorund waved towards the sunlit snow outside. ¡°I¡¯ll need your help to carry it.¡± **** Hinges squealing overhead, Jorund angled his shoulders to open the cellar¡¯s double door with his back. He threw them open, letting winter light into the small stone space. Hjorvarth shielded his eyes with one bloody hand, and held the skinned goat in the other. Both men carried the fresh meat onto the snowy ground above. Jorund tugged the goat as if to take the weight. ¡°Could you bring me some herbs and honey from the house? We¡¯ll cook over there.¡± He nodded towards the shadowed passage between the square-made, silver-plated home and a squat tower of stone and brass. ¡°I am a guest,¡± Hjorvarth admitted. ¡°But would it not be simpler for you to fetch it?¡± Jorund took the goat. Blood pattered down to the snow. ¡°Right, when you enter,¡± he instructed. ¡°Left down the corridor, until your third right. Then down the stairs. You should be able to follow the noise of cooking from there. Tell Gunnar or Dagny what you need.¡± He kept a level expression, no tiredness showing in his weathered features, his black-and-grey hair glistening in the light. Hjorvarth regarded him for so long that Jorund thought he suspected deception, but then the huge man offered a small nod, hinting to dissatisfaction, and turned to walk towards the copper-worked doors of the masterwork stone home. Hjorvarth had not delayed from suspicion though, he was simply trying to commit the instructions to memory, and had managed to remember none of it. He glanced back at Jorund, thinking to ask him again, but saw that the man had already turned towards the circular tower. Hjorvarth thought it an odd structure, because it had no walkway to look out from. The dome roof appeared fully enclosed, save for a giant looking glass, gleaming golden in the light. Hjorvarth shook his head, dismissing thoughts of giant birds that it might have been made to look for, then stepped into the warmth of the low-roofed meeting hall. The flames of the stone fireplace licked desperately towards the half-carved figure of a bear on the mantel. Thinking to move it, Hjorvarth realized that the bear was not unfinished, but instead partly broken. One of the four paws had been snapped off. Hjorvarth ducked into the corridor. He squeezed his way through, shield scraping against each side of the wall, his shoulders pressed hard into his chest. He grumbled, and turned to the first door he saw. It had been inlaid with silver and small gems, purple and blue, so that it depicted a scene of a short, ugly woman bathing by a lake. He pulled it open, thinking the air smelled like the odd girl he had met. A thick blanket lay on the stone bed, woven colourful with animals like that of the main room. The stone walls, and the wooden desk, had been carved and etched with mad swirls and cruel-eyed animals. Littered all about the room were the broken stubs of chalks and pale pages, drawn over with well-detailed portraits of men and women, all of them seeming solemn or menacing for the blackness or redness of the chalks used. Hjorvarth felt a little guilt for his snooping, so he turned to leave, knocking a stack of drawings from a stone bookshelf. They rasped against one another, coming apart and sailing to the floor. He watched them fall, his gaze following a crisp sheet as it came to land between his damp fur-trimmed boots. A man¡¯s stony visage had been drawn in red chalk: hard lines for his heavy jaw and squared face, softer marks for his handsome beard and combed-back hair; most care had been given for his pale eyes, their hollow gaze shadowed beneath thick brows. Hjorvarth frowned down at his own reflection, then he lifted his gaze to the other drawings, seeing that they were all of his likeness, though those in black painted him as uglier, scarred, with no hair at all. He stepped back into the corridor, and his shield clipped both sides of the doorway. Hjorvarth struggled to settle the worry rising in his chest. He angled his stride so as best to move quickly through the narrow walkway. He passed more doors, marked with scenes of small men and women in forests, until the corridor opened out to a square-wrought stairway at his right. He descended the stairs, hearing the distant sounds of chopping, of water, boiling and steaming, and of quiet conversations being spoken. He crossed onto another landing that gave access to a silver-inlaid door, then followed more steps down, glancing up at those he had just descended. He passed another silver door, but paused at the steps when he saw they ended in darkness. He frowned, realizing then that the whole stairwell should be dark. He found a small brass-and-glass worked box on the wall that housed an odd flame. Hjorvarth pried that from the stone, snapping its fixings, and the light shifted. He carried it to the stair, peering down into gold-bled blackness. ¡°Is someone down there?¡± Hjorvarth asked, but all he heard in reply was the bubble of water and the hiss of steam. Hjorvarth let out a rumbling sigh, and gritted his teeth. He stepped forwards, keeping a careful watch on shadows that melted away under gentle light. The stairs ended just a little below him, so he approached more slowly, until he could see the outlines of stone counters. ¡°Engli?¡± A muffled shout answered, followed by a resounding slap. Engli watched the huge man¡¯s approach with teary eyes. He had been strapped to a chair, gagged, and now cold metal pressed against his neck. ¡°Another word,¡± Dagny hissed. ¡°And you¡¯re dead.¡± Hjorvarth crossed into the kitchen, shifting his golden lantern to his shield hand. Engli tried to scream again as Bjorn stepped out from the shadows behind Hjorvarth, but choked on his gag instead. Bjorn brought down a huge rag-wrapped club, but Hjorvarth twisted clear¡ªhooked the man¡¯s leg, grabbed him by the shoulder¡ªand shoved him onto his back. Gunnar rushed out from the kitchen with a smaller club of his own. He leapt forward to swing at Hjorvarth¡¯s head, but the huge man dipped and the club only struck his shoulder. Gunnar tried to grapple with Hjorvarth, but got elbowed in the gut and staggered backwards instead. Hjorvarth paused now Dagny drew her bow beside Engli. She loosed as he stepped back, bringing the lantern into the arrow¡¯s path. Grass cracked and shattered, followed by an odd whir that left them all in darkness. ¡°Put your weapons down,¡± Hjorvarth ordered. ¡°Find me a light, and¡ª¡± Engli breathed through his gag, struggling to listen as Dagny loosed arrows that splintered against stones, as she cursed beside him. He heard Brenna scream, grunts of effort, people hissing pain, and blows being struck. A knife clattered. A man crumpled to the floor. ¡°Must we fight like rats in the darkness?¡± Hjorvarth roared. ¡°I swear by the gods this does no good for my anger or for my nerves, and if I fear for a second that you might have any advantage, or if I hear Jorund¡¯s steps come down that stairs, then I would have no choice, but to cripple every one of you. Oldest son of Jorund,¡± he declared. ¡°I have my boot on your brother¡¯s head. Bring your family to reason, or I will crush his skull underfoot.¡± ¡°If you kill my brother,¡± Dagny warned, training her bow towards sounds to ill effect for the clatter and whistling of boiling pots. ¡°I will make you suffer.¡± ¡°My suffering will make him no less dead,¡± the huge man assured. ¡°Hjorvarth,¡± Bjorn said. ¡°You must understand, the men that come here are often vagabonds or murderers. We needed to be sure you could be trusted¡ª¡± A heavy fist brought an end to his explanation. ¡°Bjorn?¡± Brenna asked. ¡°Bjorn!¡± ¡°This is not a boast,¡± Hjorvarth said. ¡°Gunnar and Bjorn are down. And given how poorly you fared before, I do not see that you can succeed, whether to trap me or to kill me. So set me a light! Set Engli free! Or this will end very badly for all of us.¡± Brenna screamed past, her knife flashing dully through the blackness. She swung blindly towards the space beside and under the stairs. ¡°Mother?¡± Dagny asked. ¡°He¡¯s gone!¡± Hjorvarth made his way to the rattling pots and pans, puzzled as to how they could be heated with no light, save for a subtle glow. He took a heavy metal top from one, then stumbled back when steam billowed up to half-blind him. An arrow whistled past and cracked into stone. He threw his weight to one side and hurled the pan-top into the darkness. Metal rang out as it struck a wall, then resounded again upon hitting the floor. Dagny fitted another arrow, turning her bow this way and that, still standing behind Engli¡¯s chair. She turned sharply to a sound behind her¡ªsomething touched her shoulder and she jerked away, loosing her arrow into the wall. The grip hardened and a cold line pressed against her neck. ¡°Daughter of Jorund,¡± came a whisper so full of venom that her blood froze. ¡°Cut him loose.¡± 29. Uneasy 29. Uneasy ¡°Gah¡¯rul¡¯s clans have pushed us to the very edge of the Blackwood. Gudmund refuses to retreat, because ceding this ground would mean falling all the way back to behind the Snake Basin Path. Where all this started. All the coin and blood spent would be for nothing. There is open dissent among the camps, and I feared that we would soon be faced with mass desertion or outright rebellion. In an odd twist of fate, Gudmund¡¯s position has been improved not by the men who follow him, but by an emissary from the goblin camps. They have requested a truce. Gudmund was all too eager to agree, instructing our men to fortify the encampment. I cannot tell if it is pity, a desire to avoid bloodshed, or part of some wider plot. But the goblins have forestalled what many now believe will be The Young Wolf¡¯s final defeat.¡± Hjorvarth crossed onto the landing with a new lantern to hand. He shook his head, unable to loosen his teeth or lessen his scowl. Engli stood by the silvered door, appearing a little bewildered, his green eyes lively with his nervous smile. ¡°I¡¯d like to say that was well done, what with you handling that as though you planned the ambush for them¡­ but I think my judgement might be clouded by you saving my life.¡± Hjorvarth shrugged, not understanding the callback. ¡°What happened?¡± ¡°Not a long story,¡± Engli said as calmly as he could. ¡°They were chatting, friendly enough, setting things in order. I had started cutting carrots, causing no harm to anyone, and then I looked up to see an arrow gleaming ahead of me. Dagny with her eyes narrowed behind it as if she means to loose.¡± They crossed onto the other stairs, ambient light brightening with the lantern on the wall. Hjorvarth listened for footfalls, but heard none as he glanced to the darkened walkway below. ¡°I pretend like I¡¯m going to plead,¡± Engli continued, ¡°and then I duck.¡± ¡°Why?¡± ¡°I thought that¡¯s the last thing she would expect, and that she would fumble and loose her arrow above me.¡± ¡°She did, of course, but then Brenna hit me with a pan, which drove my head into the counter.¡± He probed at the swollen flesh of his brow and the lump atop his head. ¡°Might have all been avoided if you¡¯d have listened to me.¡± ¡°What do you mean?¡± Engli shot a dubious glance, then decided it was a genuine question. ¡°Well, I didn¡¯t want to trust them to begin with, and I certainly didn¡¯t want to split up.¡± ¡°Oh.¡± Hjorvarth turned first onto the next walkway, glancing at the silvered door. ¡°Did you not hesitate for my sake?¡± ¡°Why would I do that?¡± ¡°In truth?¡± Hjorvarth looked to Engli, who nodded belatedly. ¡°I thought you had wanted to go with Jorund¡¯s older daughter, and that you felt a little guilty for fear Jorund might kill me¡­ and I had no fear of that.¡± Engli laughed quietly, shaking his head. ¡°I¡¯ll admit, I thought that perhaps¡­ for a second, she seemed a fine woman. But, mainly, I had faith that you¡¯d be able to handle Jorund, and I was more worried for myself. What with being in company of two seasoned hunters and that Bjorn, who stands half a hand taller than you.¡± Hjorvarth raked at his thick beard. ¡°By your own account, you should have paid more mind to Jorund¡¯s wife.¡± ¡°True.¡± Engli paused. ¡°What are we going to do now?¡± ¡°My plan is to get clear of this place. The rest can wait.¡± Engli smirked. ¡°Now you sound like the Sage.¡± ¡°I do not like that thought at all.¡± They stepped onto the uppermost landing, and paused outside the corridor. ¡°I¡¯ll lead.¡± Engli reached for his shield, stayed by a hand on his shoulder. ¡°Take mine. If Jorund is waiting with a bow you¡¯ll be exposed legs-or-head with your own.¡± Engli gripped the shield and his arm sagged with the weight. ¡°Do you want mine?¡± ¡°No,¡± Hjorvarth said. ¡°I¡¯m near useless in that corridor.¡± Engli made his way into the corridor, looking like a boy holding his father¡¯s shield. He glanced back to check Hjorvarth was behind him, then turned the corner, putting a wall at his back and a copper-worked door at his right. Hjorvarth readied his axe. ¡°I¡¯ll watch the doors.¡± Engli set the shield as central as he could have it, nearly grazing both walls and the floor. He settled into a crouch and peeked over the fur-trimmed rim, seeing little more than dull stone and bright copper. The shield hid him as he proceeded, leaving only the tattered edges of wood and the flaking visage of a great bear fighting three wolves in a forest of two trees. Hjorvarth turned to check the first door. It appeared unlike the others, dull copper mangled into an odd scene, which Hjorvarth thought to be a small goblin in the jaw of some greater beast; but he had confused a throne for a tongue, and cavern rocks for four fangs. He pushed and it swung soundlessly inward, sweeping up the air to disturb twigs, bones and leaves that lay littered across the floor. He knew most for the remains of small animals, but he saw glimpses of finger and toe knuckles amongst the gathering of debris and dirt that layered the floor. A wooden idol stood at the back of the room, crudely carved into the shape of a large goblin standing atop a podium. The creature weighed a pair of stone bowls in clawed hands, and wore a blackened skull for a helmet. A young woman, clothed in a dress of an ethereal white, knelt before the altar, her glossy black hair tied back between her shoulders. Thinking the scene might disappear, Hjorvarth closed and reopened the door. ¡°You¡¯re causing a draft, Hjorvarth.¡± Astrid turned around, her pale forehead crossed with blood. Hjorvarth met her annoyed smile with uncertainty. ¡°What is this place?¡± ¡°It¡¯s a place for praying,¡± Astrid explained as a matter of fact. She let out a long yawn, and then noticed his bruised fists. ¡°Oh. They tried to tie you up!¡± ¡°They did,¡± Hjorvarth agreed, with far less levity. Astrid tutted. ¡°I told them not to bother. But no one ever listens to me.¡± ¡°Hjorvarth!¡± Engli called. ¡°Who are you talking to?¡± ¡°Just Ast¡­¡± Hjorvarth trailed off. ¡°Jorund¡¯s younger daughter!¡± Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author''s preferred platform and support their work! ¡°Rude.¡± Astrid smiled before turning back to her altar. ¡°No need to worry, Hjorvarth. Edda says you¡¯re safe now¡­ from us, at least.¡± *** Jorund, still stood by his fire, and turning his goat on the spit, caught sight of movement in the corner of his eye. He turned to the open doors of his home, and saw two men, one too broad for Bjorn and another too short for Gunnar. A weight of dread settled around the heart of that grizzled, weatherbeaten mountaineer; Bjorn had been a fool to try and overpower the huge man, instead of dosing his drink. ¡°Jorund!¡± Hjorvarth shouted, his wroth voice rolling across the snowy hill and playing back off of mountain tops. Jorund sighed now his fears were realised. He turned back to dead and burning animal beside him, carried on turning the spit, listening for crunching snow as both men approached. ¡°You swore us an oath,¡± Engli said, almost sadly, ¡°that we would be safe in your home. That you would treat fairly with us, and then I find myself with a knock on the head. I find myself tied to a chair, gagged and bonded.¡± Jorund swallowed, reflexively reaching for his axe. ¡°If you even touch that handle,¡± Hjorvarth spoke in a lifeless tone. ¡°I will cut off one of your feet, and seal your wounded limb on the fire.¡± Engli shot the huge man a worried glance. ¡°So that you that you¡¯ll forever remember your misstep.¡± Jorund regarded each of them in turn. His weather-beaten face flushed red, and beaded with sweat. ¡°Am I dead then?¡± Hjorvarth did not flinch from scowling. ¡°I treat with men as they treat with me.¡± ¡°Jorund, Jorund, Jorund.¡± Engli shook his head with disappointment. ¡°So what was the plan after you tied us up?¡± ¡°Not my plan,¡± Jorund said. ¡°I would have mixed your drink with herbs that put you to sleep, and then waited for whoever you meant to meet with. Once I was certain that each of you could do no harm to my family, that no others were forthcoming, then I would have questioned your purpose for coming here.¡± Hjorvarth sniffed. ¡°Questions you could have asked us at any meal, that I¡¯ve already answered.¡± ¡°We should go, Hjorvarth.¡± Engli swept a nervous gaze across the open snow. ¡°They won¡¯t stay down there forever.¡± ¡°My family lives?¡± Jorund reasoned, fragile hope taking hold. Hjorvarth laughed in derision. ¡°Do you think us as black as you and yours?¡± ¡°I know not what to say.¡± Jorund glanced down at the fire. ¡°By my own eyes you seem a pair of good men, but there¡¯s no way you crossed the mountains without gear, which means you came through the cave. And though the story you told seemed to be true, you did not mention how it was you knew to cover yourself in troll¡¯s blood, or how you found this place.¡± ¡°Greetings!¡± came the Sage¡¯s excitable call. Hjorvarth gripped his axe. Jorund leapt for his own. Engli fumbled for his moments later, turning to face the Sage, not recognising the deep brown robe he wore. ¡°Who are you?¡± all three men demanded. ¡°Jorund of The Hill!¡± the Sage greeted him in a regal tone. ¡°I am a Sage of Mubarrak, and I have come here¡ª¡± He swept his hand towards Engli and Hjorvarth. ¡°¡ªwith my two companions, in order to pay homage to the Small King.¡± Hjorvarth and Engli lowered their weapons now the Sage came to stand beside them. ¡°Mubarrak?¡± Engli whispered. ¡°There¡¯s no salt here,¡± the Sage answered quietly. ¡°Understand?¡± Jorund stood ready with his axe. ¡°You are a Sage of Mubarrak?¡± ¡°Yes.¡± The Salt Sage bowed slightly, shadowed smile hidden by his brown hood. ¡°My companions are hired help. We were separated on the road, and so I was not able to explain to them the¡ª¡± He took to adding hand gestures to his speech, weighing and juggling air as he spoke. ¡°¡ªspecifics of my¡ªour¡ªbeliefs, nor did I think to warn them that you might not receive them kindly. Not to suggest that what you did was unkind, rather that you might not know they were servants of the Small King¡­ or, at least, that they served one of his servants. Apologies.¡± He offered a few more awkward twists of his hand. ¡°I have never been one for speaking at length.¡± Jorund brandished his weapon. ¡°Lift your hood.¡± ¡°I would¡­ gladly, do so, if it were not for the sun.¡± The Salt Sage bowed in apology. ¡°My eyes, used to the depths as they are, are not made for seeing blue skies.¡± ¡°What is all this nonsense about?¡± Hjorvarth asked. ¡°Well enough for you two,¡± Engli agreed, ¡°when you know something we don¡¯t. But for us it¡¯s just confusing.¡± ¡°We¡¯re leaving,¡± Hjorvarth spoke bluntly. ¡°This feckless bastard tried to trick and murder us. And he¡¯s lucky enough that we¡¯ve not settled the score.¡± The Salt Sage coughed. ¡°Apologies!¡± He bowed lower than before. ¡°Apologies, oh Jorund of The Hill. My companions know little¡ª¡± ¡°Enough pandering!¡± Jorund glared at the robed man. ¡°I am not Jorund of The Hill. That man is long dead, though it shames me to admit I am his son. Which leaves me mantled with whatever dubious responsibilities he held for your order. Now lift your hood¡­ or leave with your companions.¡± ¡°My plan is working perfectly,¡± the Sage whispered. ¡°If I look a little different, try not mention it.¡± Jorund let his axe drop to turn the burning goat. ¡°Well?¡± ¡°Might we be able to go inside, first?¡± the Sage asked. Jorund took up his weapon, and stepped forward. ¡°I will invite no man into my home without seeing his face.¡± ¡°Of course,¡± the Sage said as if in remembrance. He pulled up his hood, eyes closed in defense of the sun. ¡°I had almost forgot about the wards on your doors.¡± Hjorvarth stepped back from the brown-robed man, seeing that his hair, closer to white than brown, had been mangled, and that his skin now appeared pale and sickly like a dead fish. ¡°Gods above,¡± Engli whispered. ¡°No wonder he covers his face.¡± The Salt Sage lifted his jaw, barely covered by a scraggly beard. ¡°Is that good enough?¡± Jorund walked closer. ¡°Open your eyes, and it will be.¡± The Salt Sage moved to protest, but Jorund grabbed him under the chin with one hand and shadowed his brow with the other. ¡°Your eyes.¡± ¡°Of course.¡± Pale lids fluttered open to reveal eyes so clouded they had no colour. Thin lips curled into a weak smile. ¡°I take it that is satisfactory?¡± Jorund grunted. ¡°You can keep your hood down in my home, but I cannot have these man as my guests. There is too much between us.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t worry, Jorund,¡± Engli said. ¡°The last thing we want is to stop for supper.¡± He smiled at the newly hooded Sage. ¡°Sage¡­ I do appreciate that you spared us from being outlawed, but Jorund and his family seem better suited to your company than we ever were.¡± He turned to follow Hjorvarth, who had already begun to leave. ¡°I¡¯d like to say that it was nice knowing you, but it really wasn¡¯t. The opposite, maybe.¡± The Salt Sage replied with a small laugh, even though his smile fell to sadness under his hood. He turned to Jorund, a man at ease with mountains ranges and clear skies around him, and watched as dissatisfaction grew plain across his rugged face. ¡°Wait!¡± Jorund called. He ran after the mismatched pair. ¡°You have no food, and your clothes are not fit for traveling.¡± ¡°Courtesy of the Sage,¡± Engli said over his shoulder. ¡°Besides, I¡¯d sooner eat tree bark than a meal prepared by your hands.¡± ¡°Then you can cook your own meal,¡± Jorund pressed. ¡°Were you to leave here because of an ill that I did you, caused by a misunderstanding that was not your own fault, then it would weigh on me for years to come.¡± ¡°As well you should, Jorund.¡± Hjorvarth rounded on him. ¡°As well any man should that can brew such distrust in men that they would rather forge blindly out into foul weather¡ªwithout supplies¡ªthan sit at your table, by the warmth of a fire.¡± ¡°And yet you don¡¯t fear for the Sage?¡± Jorund asked. ¡°Fear for him?¡± Hjorvarth asked. ¡°I would not kick snow in that man¡¯s face if he was on fire.¡± ¡°It could take us a week to reach Fenkirk,¡± Engli said. Hjorvarth met the sentiment with a hard look of defiance. ¡°Whatever Jorund and his family are about, the Sage seems to know it well enough,¡± Engli continued. ¡°And as much as you might not like the Sage, he got us through that forest, and he made it here. So why would he wrong-foot himself now?¡± ¡°You want to save Horvorr from the goblins that surround it?¡± Jorund asked and they both nodded. ¡°That¡¯s the general idea,¡± Engli said. ¡°And if you leave here now, and you die in the snow. Do you think the people of Horvorr will be better for it?¡± Over by the cookfire, the Salt Sage paid no mind as Hjorvarth and Engli decided in favour of the lesser of two evils. He tossed a rubbery disk of flesh into the fire, and blinked clear his bright blue eyes. He looked down at the flames and the glow made his newly anemic skin seem wet and orange. The Salt Sage buried his right boot into the snow, as if meaning to kick. Instead, he smiled sadly, and turned the spit. 30. Peace Makers 30. Peace Makers ¡°Of all I had heard of Mubrogg the Spirit Weaver, I glimpsed little of interest beyond a pointed nose and a tattered cloak. I was given no opportunity to get a second look, for he accused me of being cursed and barred me from his meeting with Gudmund. Brolli told me that Mubrogg made an offer, not of peace, but of a duel at noon. Gahr¡¯rul wishes to fight Gudmund for the region, and has allowed him the support of both Grettir and Brolli. I had never seen Brolli more enthralled by an idea, and I expected he would sharpen his sword until dawn. Instead, I saw a group of two dozen cloaked men leaving the camp in the dead of night. Gudmund, Grettir, and Brolli were among them, but I could not understand why they had brought along the friendless man known only as The Cook.¡± Loffi had made a cautious approach to the Shaman¡¯s Cave. He would sniff the air every few seconds, and sweep his amber gaze about the unmarked path he followed through the forest. He kept slow, both so that he wouldn¡¯t be caught unawares if this was some grab-and-snack trap, and also so as not to upset Bragg, who was the much bigger and fatter goblin that Dalpho had told him to follow. Bragg himself crept forward, stopping altogether now he drew close to the cavern mouth. He turned back, his chubby face creased in displeasure. ¡°It stinks of magic.¡± He appeared worried for a moment longer, then offered an enormous smile. ¡°You¡­ go. You go. Loffi into cave.¡± Loffi twitched his ratty, conical ears to listen for any goblins that might grab him, but heard nothing but the panting of Bragg. ¡°Loffi go. Loffi into cave.¡± He bared his fangs in a smile. ¡°Yes.¡± Bragg nodded eagerly. ¡°Do that. Bragg be still. You come back to still Bragg.¡± Loffi nodded, and scampered around Bragg¡¯s thick legs. He fell to all fours to make a quicker run to the sticks, skulls and stones, and bits and bones that marked the shaman¡¯s cave. Loffi was glad when he crossed into the darkness of the place, even though it reeked of sour smells, and dead things. He was worried to meet the shaman, as he had met a shaman before when he was in the Eastern Clans, who was named Mulu the Undying. Loffi wondered what they would call Mulu after he had died. He hoped that the day would be soon, because it was better for Mulu to be dead. He was cruel and smiling, and an eater of smaller goblins, even when those goblins had brought him other food. The cavern path grew more narrow, and the air had the faint stink of spiders, so Loffi rose up to his two legs and kept his claws ready ahead of him. He fit easily through the tunnel, hearing nothing but his own claws scratching dirt. He soon saw nothing because it became so dark, and he wondered if there was even a shaman in here. Loffi ran a little further, forgetting his caution, and he could soon see again by a green and eerie light. Loffi edged into the pool room. It had been hand-dug, made circular, with a ring of solid ground around the pool to allow a way into other tunnels. The pool was still, broken by occasional bubbling, and colored luminescent green. It radiated heat that made the air feel too warm and too wet. Loffi peered down at the translucent goblin embryos growing at the bottom of the pool. He dipped the end of his claws into the green water, and the tip started to hiss and smoke. ¡°Careful,¡± warned a strained voice. Loffi leapt back, his hand claws and hind claws ready to fight. The ancient, skinny goblin cocked his head. ¡°Loffi¡­?¡± Loffi snorted black phlegm onto the cavern floor. ¡°Izzig?¡± Izzig reached to his hunched back for a short staff that was little more than a smooth branch. ¡°Has our King sent you?¡± Loffi put his conical ears flat, and shook his head. ¡°Dalpho says, follow Bragg. Bragg says, go here. I am here. None spoke of Izzig, only of bad shaman with bad magic. Why are you standing where you are standing?¡± Izzig¡¯s green lips turned upward. ¡°Do you mean, why am I here?¡± ¡°Yes.¡± Loffi nodded. ¡°I forget words.¡± ¡°Orog disapproved of my experiments, and bid our King send me away. I had no desire to await the outcome, and so I left. Dalpho found me up in the mountains, and extended protection in exchange for my help in making more¡­ more like him.¡± ¡°You make bad magic?¡± Loffi asked. Izzig upturned his emaciated hands. ¡°I exploit the way we are, and can be. Why are you listening to Dalpho? Are you not with Moonkin in the Western Clans. Are you not with Orog?¡± ¡°Moonkin,¡± Loffi spoke the word as if it were unfamiliar. ¡°Many Moonkin¡¯s I have. A clan. My own clan. But that Moonkin I lost to one called Balluk. I ripped out his throat. Better that he dies. He lived though, quite confusing.¡± Izzig offered a sad smile. ¡°You lost your twin?¡± ¡°Speak of it no more. No words for that.¡± ¡°Very well.¡± Izzig conceded with a nod. ¡°As to why he didn¡¯t die, perhaps you didn¡¯t rip out his throat¡­ enough.¡± ¡°Oh.¡± Loffi nodded. ¡°I will do it enough next time. But now we must go with Bragg. I am to make a peace.¡± ¡°Ah.¡± Izzig¡¯s ponderous expression looked all the more wrinkled by the light of the pool. ¡°And you are sure that Dalpho does not suspect you are a King¡¯s goblin?¡± ¡°No wish for that,¡± Loffi answered with anger. ¡°I will be Loffi the Throat Ripper. Again. Enough¡­ this time.¡± ¡°I¡¯m afraid Balluk has left the Western Clans, Loffi.¡± Izzig glanced down at the goblin embryos, then turned away from the pool and towards a tunnel. ¡°Follow me. If we¡¯re leaving then I need to collect some things.¡± ¡°Do that.¡± Loffi scampered after him. ¡°Izzig making more Dalpho?¡± They crossed into another circular chamber, which housed a much larger and more luminescent pool. ¡°At the moment?¡± Izzig asked. ¡°I¡¯m trying to make a goblin that is hard like a beetle shell.¡± ¡°A beetle shell is hard,¡± Loffi agreed. ¡°Who tells you to do this?¡± ¡°I do what I wish,¡± Izzig said simply, coming into a cavern that was lit both by the faint green glow of a dozen adjoining rooms and by the blue light of hundreds of glowworms along the moss-hung roof. ¡°It is easy enough to make what I want¡­ more difficult to make them breathe when I cut them from the egg.¡± Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit. ¡°I should do what I wish?¡± Loffi asked. ¡°Find Balluk and leave Izzig?¡± ¡°Balluk has left,¡± Izzig said for a second time. ¡°I sang the seer song this morning, smoked the smokes. He has no love for Lazarus or Dalpho, so hopes to go on his own. You would be lucky to find him now¡­ as I understood it he was south of Horvorr. Snuffing for two horses, one man and one girl.¡± ¡°I can scent for these things,¡± Loffi argued. ¡°Easy enough for one such as me. Loffi.¡± ¡°The words come more easily, I see.¡± Izzig smiled back at him through the blue gloom. ¡°Let us do what our Chief asks of us. I will see if I can seer Balluk again, but for now its best we get all the clans together, so that the manlings don¡¯t put an end to us before we ever get to the business of ripping out throats.¡± *** Gudmund had opened the huge, ornate doors to his hall to let in the dusky afternoon light. Fire had spread across the now blackened northern walls, so the place stank of smoke, even with the fish-scented wind sweeping in. Ralf¡¯s bulbous nose furrowed as he crossed under the carved arch, with four men following closely, if not eagerly, behind him. A crack of wood met their approach. Then a thud, and a louder crack, followed by a tumble of wood. Ralf stumbled in his stride. ¡°Gudmund?¡± The Chief of Horvorr sat on the floor, hairy and naked, his great fur cloak bundled behind him. Broken wood lay piled and scattered across the hall. One feasting table was missing. Gudmund faced the other, studying a hacked bench. ¡°What is he doing?¡± Eirik asked. He was blond and middling, showing a bruise on one smooth cheek. Gudmund swung his axe down at the bench, heavy crack playing back from the bannered rafters. ¡°He looks out of his mind,¡± Eirik whispered. Ralf and Eirik both had axes at their belts and shields at their backs. They both wore worn leather jackets as well, whereas the three other members of Horvorr¡¯s Guard only had their knifes and wore plain shirts loose over simple trousers. The five men came to stand together, watching warily while Gudmund hacked through the length of the bench, leaving it broken into pieces at his splintered feet. Ralf stepped forwards, mindful not to trip on the tinder. ¡°Gudmund.¡± ¡°I heard you the first time.¡± Gudmund reached over and grabbed his cloak. He rose to his feet, slipping his hands through the sleeves, and pulled the fur tight around his raw-boned stomach. He frowned over at the five men, thinking they all looked too skinny or too fat, too young or too old, too uninspired. ¡°Is this it? Did all of Horvorr¡¯s Guard die while I was cutting wood?¡± The men were no more enthused seeing Gudmund, beyond being grateful that he had covered himself. Ralf shook his head. ¡°The others wouldn¡¯t come.¡± ¡°Did I tell you to present it as a choice?¡± Gudmund tossed Grettir¡¯s iron-hafted axe in the air, catching it as it fell. ¡°Go back, and gather them all.¡± ¡°I can¡¯t.¡± Gudmund¡¯s proud face hardened. ¡°Why not?¡± ¡°They don¡¯t trust you, Gudmund,¡± Eirik said. ¡°Grettir¡¯s gone. Your daughter¡¯s gone. You set your own house on fire, and there¡¯s a few folk saying they even saw you try to smash up the Ritual House.¡± ¡°Who told you I set the fire?¡± Gudmund asked Eirik while still staring at Ralf. ¡°Told me?¡± Eirik frowned. ¡°I was here when it happened. You hit me in the face when I tried to stop you running away. Left me to gather men to put out the fire.¡± He shook his head. ¡°It¡¯s bloody lucky this place isn¡¯t ash.¡± Gudmund shrugged, and turned away. ¡°What does trust matter? I pay them¡ª¡± ¡°You haven¡¯t paid us in over a month,¡± Arfast put in. He stood tallest and oldest of the men, hawk-faced and bald-headed. ¡°Grettir should¡ª¡± ¡°You told him not to, Gudmund.¡± Ralf scratched his bulbous nose. ¡°Because of your sons.¡± ¡°Said we were all failures,¡± Eirik reminded. ¡°That it¡¯s our fault they died.¡± ¡°Did I?¡± Gudmund turned back to them, smiling wry. ¡°Well, maybe I did. Maybe I didn¡¯t. If I did¡ª¡± ¡°You did,¡± four men assured. ¡°If I did,¡± Gudmund repeated, ¡°then Grettir should have overruled me. I clearly wouldn¡¯t have noticed.¡± Eirik rubbed at his smooth jaw. ¡°Is that your apology?¡± ¡°Let me be clear.¡± Gudmund¡¯s smile lapsed. ¡°My sons died. I don¡¯t care that I upset you. Now if it¡¯s a matter of being owed coin, and wanting to be paid, then go out and tell them that I¡¯ll give them what they¡¯re owed.¡± The guards appeared lifeless compared to Gudmund, who paced about and studied each of them with his thoughtful blue eyes. ¡°Well?¡± he pressed. ¡°Why do you all seem so grim?¡± Ralf¡¯s cheeks had turned a darker shade of red. ¡°I think it might be past coin.¡± ¡°Passed or past?¡± Eirik walked to stand beside Ralf. ¡°As in they don¡¯t care about the coin, Gudmund. Horvorr¡¯s Guard served Grettir, a man worthy of respect, which didn¡¯t stop men trying to kill him outside the barracks. Now that he¡¯s gone, they think it¡¯s about time they took their fates into their own hands. There are men talking openly about killing you.¡± ¡°You¡¯re mad.¡± Gudmund laughed. ¡°There¡¯s not a bastard in this town with the courage to raise a hand against me.¡± ¡°Well¡­ as some see it,¡± Eirik said. ¡°You are the biggest, if not the only bastard in this town.¡± ¡°As some see it?¡± Gudmund strode towards him, one hand under his cloak and on Grettir¡¯s axe. ¡°Is that how you see it?¡± ¡°No, Gudmund.¡± Eirik met his scowl without blinking. ¡°I know that you¡¯re not a bad man. Ralf knows it. You just need to know that this isn¡¯t going away. I give it three days before someone tries to kill you.¡± ¡°Is that what you think, old man?¡± Gudmund asked. ¡°No.¡± Arfast shook his head. ¡°I think they¡¯ll come to cut your throat tonight.¡± Gudmund ran a hand through his unruly red hair. ¡°And you, Ralf? What¡¯s your guess at my death?¡± Ralf sighed. ¡°Soon.¡± Gudmund dismissed the warning with a laugh. ¡°Well that¡¯s too vague to be convincing.¡± ¡°Believe us or don¡¯t believe us¡±, Ralf said with desperation. ¡°But I¡¯ll say this. My son died fighting on your guard. My wife died fighting the cold. I¡¯ve served in your household for twenty winters. And, sad as it is to admit, you¡¯re the closest thing I have to family. Men don¡¯t love you, Gudmund. They hate you. But a week ago they were stopped by the fear of your brother, stayed by respect for Grettir, or pity for your daughter. Before that they were hopeful for the day when Geirmund took over.¡± He smiled in sorrow. ¡°What¡¯s stopping them now? Just me, I think. A fat, tired old man that was no good at fighting to begin with.¡± Gudmund stared at Ralf, saw the earnestness in the chubby, ruddy face of him, in his round, brown eyes. ¡°Touching as that was, Ralf. I can take care of my¡­ self.¡± He seemed to grow disconcerted by his own words, memory of that phrase playing back at him in his son¡¯s easy voice; then the Chief of Horvorr, a man who had not shown fear or sorrow since his wife¡¯s death all those winters ago, started to weep. He looked like a man lost at sea, blue eyes tremulous and unfocused as all the grief of his sons death¡¯s filled him up from gut to gullet. ¡°Gudmund?¡± asked Eirik, who had a high voice that Gudmund didn¡¯t care for. ¡°These men.¡± Gudmund swallowed his feelings, held them at bay with gritted teeth. ¡°They don¡¯t think I¡¯m fit to lead?¡± ¡°Something like that.¡± ¡°Do me a favour, then,¡± Gudmund said. ¡°Gather the town. Tell them that it relates to the defense for the coming war.¡± Arfast¡¯s eyes narrowed. ¡°There¡¯s going to be a war?¡± ¡°Of course.¡± Gudmund smiled at the tall, old man. ¡°Didn¡¯t you hear the Sage?¡± ¡°Aye,¡± Arfast said. ¡°And I heard you when you said it was bloody nonsense.¡± Gudmund bowed low, unfurling his majestic fur cloak. ¡°I¡¯ll apologize for that, then. I was wrong.¡± 31. Bonds Broken 31. Bonds Broken ¡°There is a cloaked man with us who only calls himself Soldier. I often see him watching me, and I wonder if he is Lucius, but then I remind myself that that is a bond long broken. I think more and more often of our first meeting, of the people that Lucius dealt with, and how poorly it would go for them. I think of the map that I follow, a map that he gave me, with the warning that I would lose everything. I think of my boy that hates me, and my wife, her body trapped in a rattling cart. I think of all that, and I know with grim certainty that there is nothing left to lose.¡± The Salt Sage sat at ease amongst a table divided, watching the fur-clad family opposite pick and prod at their meals. They had shown more enthusiasm for their food than Hjorvarth and Engli, who had chosen to sit at opposite ends of their row of five stone chairs to avoid being near the Sage. ¡°Pass the salt?¡± the Sage asked, replied by an angry furrowing of Brenna¡¯s brown brows. He shrugged, then leaned over the table to grab the small bowl. ¡°So, Jorund¡ªnot of The Hill¡ªhas it been a good season for hunting?¡± ¡°Worse than some.¡± Jorund gnawed at a scrappy bone. ¡°Better than others.¡± ¡°Fishing?¡± ¡°About the same.¡± ¡°Knitting?¡± The Salt Sage smiled, his face steeped in shadow. ¡°Would you say it¡¯s a good season for knitting, Brenna?¡± She didn¡¯t answer him, so he glanced to each of his companions. ¡°I see you two found your way here, all right. Any trouble on the way?¡± ¡°Not on the way.¡± Hjorvarth sat stone-faced, staring straight at Gunnar, who did his best to avoid meeting eyes and silently lamented the seating arrangements. Engli had gotten into a smiling contest with Dagny, so they sat glaring at one another with hollow grins. ¡°I only wish we¡¯d have come here sooner.¡± ¡°Did you both eat already?¡± the Sage asked. ¡°You¡¯ve not touched your meals.¡± Astrid swept in from the kitchen, her black dress brushing across the stone floors. ¡°I hope you¡¯re not waiting for me.¡± She weighed a wooden plate in her hands as she decided where to sit. She studied her guests, one in his dirty brown robe and the other two looking filthy and haggard. Astrid turned to Gunnar, who offered a smile that matched the resignation in his brown eyes. ¡°You move, Gunnar.¡± She waved him away. ¡°I¡¯ll sit there.¡± ¡°Well¡­¡± Gunnar glanced across at Hjorvarth. ¡°Since you¡¯re twisting my arm.¡± He pushed back from the table and abdicated his emerald-adorned seat. ¡°Astrid.¡± The Salt Sage waited for her sit and straighten her dress. ¡°Is it a good season for knitting?¡± ¡°You can knit in all seasons.¡± Astrid reached for a handful of small potatoes. ¡°Is it good for weaving?¡± She cut herself a sliver of pork as she waited for reply. ¡°The season, I mean.¡± She grabbed a chunk of hard bread. ¡°Edda says you¡¯re good at weaving.¡± He lifted a leg of lamb under his shadowed hood, and tore free some meat. ¡°Does she?¡± ¡°I think she means like a spider.¡± Astrid carefully cut a square from her lamb. She chewed very slowly, her bright eyes fixed upon the Sage. ¡°He is¡ª¡± ¡°I am.¡± The Salt Sage dipped his hooded head. ¡°I can weave with the best of them.¡± He turned to Jorund. ¡°Where is Bjorn?¡± Astrid¡¯s gentle face darkened. ¡°Why do you ask questions that you already know the answer to?¡± her voice had an edge that made all those seated turn to her. ¡°A man as you would better spend his time asking questions of himself. If you could ever really call yourself that. A man¡­ I mean.¡± ¡°I despise the Sage,¡± Hjorvarth put in. ¡°Yet I see no reason for your rudeness.¡± ¡°Eat your food.¡± Astrid leveled an icy glare. ¡°It is rude not to. And, after that, you will get a bath. Because you smell very badly. And so do you, Engli.¡± ¡°Astrid,¡± Jorund rebuked. ¡°What has gotten into you?¡± ¡°What has gotten into me?¡± Astrid snapped. ¡°You are¡ª¡± ¡°You said you had a bath?¡± Hjorvarth asked, taking a tiny bite of meat. Astrid glanced at him, but then turned back to her father. ¡°You¡ª¡± ¡°Astrid,¡± Hjorvarth said. ¡°Since it was at your mention, I expect you¡¯ll lead the way?¡± He pushed back from the table. ¡°Well? I would not want to offend your family any further with my smell. Lest they try to bludgeon us and tie us up all over again.¡± Gunnar smirked. ¡°We certainly wouldn¡¯t want that.¡± He patted his younger sister on the back. ¡°Go on then, Astrid. Before you get yourself into trouble.¡± Astrid sighed. ¡°Our father has already placed us in more trouble than he knows.¡± She walked over to Hjorvarth. ¡°Come on, then.¡± Dagny rose to her feet in alarm. ¡°I¡¯ll come with you Astrid.¡± ¡°Bloody fool.¡± Engli laughed, disgusted. ¡°Or should I just say fool, because, lucky for you, Hjorvarth didn¡¯t bloody you, did he? Because the man happens not to have a cruel bone in his body.¡± ¡°Engli.¡± Dagny¡¯s eyes narrowed. ¡°Are you sure a man a soft as you should use such hard words? You might actually have to defend yourself if he leaves.¡± ¡°You¡¯ve a point. You might shoot me with that bow of yours¡­ you know, the one that he didn¡¯t break because you started crying when he took it from you.¡± Dagny whisked an arrow from her quiver and readied her bow. ¡°Don¡¯t,¡± Gunnar spoke in weary voice that gave her pause. He had his bowstring drawn back to his cheek. ¡°I¡¯m tired Dag¡¯, and my head still aches from the beating I took. So you really need to sit back down and swallow your pride, or I¡¯m letting this arrow fly.¡± Dagny regarded her brother with confusion. ¡°You¡¯re joking?¡± ¡°I¡¯m serious.¡± Gunnar settled his arms and back. ¡°You shouldn¡¯t have loosed any arrows in that kitchen. Not at Engli, and not at Hjorvarth. Even worse that you kept at it when the lantern broke.¡± He shook his head. ¡°You were firing at footsteps. How did you know Bjorn or me hadn¡¯t got back up, or that it wouldn¡¯t hit mother?¡± ¡°Gunnar.¡± Jorund rose from his seat, and glared at his son. ¡°Go to your room.¡± Gunnar paid his father no more than a glance. ¡°No.¡± ¡°Then kill your sister,¡± Jorund growled. ¡°You¡¯ve three heartbeats to do it before I bounce your head off the table.¡± ¡°Apologies for intruding on your familial disagreements,¡± the Sage said. ¡°But I feel that I should mention Hjorvarth left with Astrid some time ago. Also¡­¡± He lifted up his cup. ¡°Would you fetch me a drink, Gunnar?¡± Gunnar sighed his discontent. ¡°You ought to watch her, father. One day she¡¯s going to kill an innocent man.¡± He lowered the bow, and slung it over his shoulder. ¡°Wine or ale?¡± ¡°Ale.¡± The Salt Sage stretched to pass the cup to Gunnar, who took it with a nod and then made his way to the kitchen. Engli smiled now he got to his feet. ¡°I think I¡¯ll get a drink as well.¡± Dagny watched him leave, then frowned at her father. ¡°That was between me and Gunnar. Little need for you to add your own hollow threat.¡± ¡°Gunnar would have loosed,¡± the Sage assured. ¡°He would have missed, but then he would have been aiming to miss you¡­ which means he would have hit you¡ªin the throat, specifically. So had Jorund not intervened, you almost certainly would have died. And as such you should be more grateful.¡± Dagny scowled at the robed stranger. ¡°Why are you even here?¡± *** ¡°Why are you here?¡± Astrid asked. Hjorvarth stood looking at gleaming pipes that ran above his head and through the walls of the small stone room in which they both stood. ¡°To get a bath?¡± He walked forward, and looked down at the large brass basin. ¡°Though by the look of things, I will need to fetch some water.¡± ¡°No. You just need to use this.¡± She stood by the wall, her hand resting on a large brass wheel. ¡°I hadn¡¯t meant here, anyway. I had meant here. Why are you here?¡± ¡°It may be some fault of my ears,¡± Hjorvarth said, walking over, ¡°but you¡¯re saying the same word twice over. And asking a question I¡¯ve already answered.¡± Astrid stepped back now he approached. ¡°Twist it that way.¡± Metal squealing, he turned the wheel rightways. Hollowed by stone walls, clunking metal and rushing water sounded beneath their feet, growing closer, and louder, until Hjorvarth feared that whatever mechanism the room housed was going to destroy itself. He turned back the wheel as quickly as he could, just in time to quell the dribble of water that pattered out from a metal plate above the basin. ¡°Turn it back,¡± Astrid instructed. He did, more slowly than he had before, and the pipes made less complaint. Water hissed down like heavy rain and steam rose up to moisten stone. Hjorvarth watched as if unimpressed, but kept a careful eye on Astrid to see if aught was amiss. Then he saw the basin neared its limits, so twisted back the whining wheel. Astrid smiled up at him. ¡°It¡¯s good, isn¡¯t it?¡± ¡°Unnatural to my mind,¡± Hjorvarth said. ¡°Lazy to any, I would think.¡± ¡°Of course,¡± Astrid said as sarcasm. ¡°Better to haul water up and down the stairs until you fill the thing, and then blacken the bottom with fire.¡± Hjorvarth nodded. ¡°Or wash yourself with a bucket of cold water.¡± He took hold of a fur-trimmed sleeve, and got a hand up and into his jacket. With a groan, and a little shaking, he pulled an arm free, then tore the garment away from his aching shoulders and let it drop to the floor. Hjorvarth squinted at the steam billowing up from the basin. ¡°Is this done, then?¡± ¡°Only if you want to burn your skin,¡± Astrid said. ¡°You look very tired. Why don¡¯t you sit?¡± ¡°I¡¯m not tired.¡± Hjorvarth offered her a look of distrust, but with exhaustion it appeared little more than an attempt to hold open his eyes. ¡°You can leave.¡± ¡°I will¡­ as soon as you tell me why you¡¯re here.¡± ¡°I was told to come here,¡± Hjorvarth said. ¡°To your home, by the Sage. To this room, by you.¡± ¡°You¡¯ve no say in it?¡± ¡°The less I have the better. I put too much stock in my own leanings before and my foster father paid for it.¡± Hjorvarth thought she seemed unsatisfied. ¡°It is my fault Engli is here, so I came to keep him alive¡­ and perhaps murder the Sage.¡± He shrugged under his ragged white shirt. ¡°But now that I¡¯ve seen his talk of goblins was no story, perhaps I should help him. And trust in his claim that he can save Horvorr.¡± Astrid met the words with a careful nod. ¡°But you don¡¯t trust him?¡± ¡°Every word from his mouth rings false in my ear. He claimed his plan involved the Hall of Hrothgar, yet we¡¯ve now headed East instead of West. He claimed we had no time to stock supplies before leaving Horvorr, yet he¡¯s happy to wait here.¡± He managed a sad laugh. ¡°Every man and woman in Horvorr might already be dead.¡± Astrid reached up to place her delicate hand on his bruised shoulder. ¡°Edda says they¡¯re fine.¡± Hjorvarth walked towards the basin, shrugging her off, and she stumbled. He swished his hand through the water. Dirt and blood ebbed from his large palm. ¡°Hot enough to burn.¡± He reached under his shirt and began a pathetic struggle to pull it over his shoulders. The fabric tore badly, and then he got it off, revealing bruises and cuts all across his shoulders and a criss-cross of scars down his back. Astrid¡¯s gaze followed a long scar that ran from shoulder to hip. ¡°I saw some drawings in your room,¡± Hjorvarth said as idle mention. ¡°Of you?¡± ¡°They are of me, then? I thought the face familiar, but¡­¡± He turned, brows furrowed. ¡°I did not see how you would know to draw me, given that we only just met.¡± ¡°I see you in my dreams,¡± Astrid said, easily meeting his tired stare. ¡°I have for years now. Though I didn¡¯t know your name until Edda told me¡­ so I used to call you the sad man, instead.¡± She smiled in concern. ¡°I would often see you by water, by the sea or by the lake, though at times you¡¯re staring at a wall of ice. I don¡¯t really know why, but you seem so¡ªyou seem lost, I think. Alone.¡± Hjorvarth raked muddy fingers down his cheek. ¡°You tell odd lies.¡± He dipped a hand in the basin. ¡°The water is fine. And I know well enough how to wash myself.¡± ¡°Of course.¡± Astrid¡¯s gaze fell as she departed, only to pause in the doorway. ¡°You said the Sage¡¯s words ring false in your ear¡­ do mine?¡± A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation. ¡°They do not,¡± Hjorvarth admitted. ¡°But oft enough the worst folk are those that believe their own lies.¡± *** ¡°Fourth on the left,¡± Engli repeated as he walked through the narrow corridors. He had been eating and drinking with Gunnar and Dagny and both of them now seemed pleasant enough, which gave him a hard time reconciling the amiable company with those same folk who had, had him beaten and bound. He reached the small stone room he was searching for, and dashed forwards, nearly banging his head on a jutting pipe. He recognised the huge man slumped lifelessly in the brass tub¡¯s murky water. Hjorvarth had turned deathly pale, save for muted bruises across his shoulders and chest. Engli thought him dead, then marked the rippling of brown water beneath his broad nose. ¡°Hjorvarth.¡± Engli shook him by the shoulder. ¡°Are you all right?¡± ¡°Hm?¡± Hjorvarth blinked open his eyes. ¡°Is something wrong?¡± ¡°I¡¯m fine,¡± Engli said. ¡°So is the Sage. They just sent me to get a wash.¡± Hjorvarth yawned. He placed his hands on the brass sides, slipping forward and sending water sloshing out from the tub. Engli stepped back from the splash. ¡°Are you sure you¡¯re all right?¡± ¡°Fine,¡± Hjorvarth murmured, his lips barely above the water. ¡°Though we¡¯re wasting time here.¡± Engli met the sentiment with an unconvinced smile. ¡°You look like you need to rest.¡± Hjorvarth set his grip again, and heaved one leg over the basin, sending more water onto the stone. ¡°I¡¯ll rest when I¡¯m dead.¡± He slipped on wet metal when he came over the sides, and thumped into the stone. Engli didn¡¯t see the warrior he knew on the floor, but a sad and wet man made small by the exhaustion in his bearing and in his pale eyes. ¡°You need some sleep, Hjorvarth. And something to eat, as well.¡± ¡°I feel all the worse,¡± Bjorn said, offering a wry smile now he ducked under the doorway. ¡°Seeing you lying there like that, and knowing you had the better of me.¡± He tossed a large fur blanket over the naked man. ¡°You should dry yourself off, and then go to bed.¡± Hjorvarth squinted up. He pulled the blanket over his shoulders, reminded by his own weakness of Isleif. He then pushed up from one knee, and wobbled to his feet. Speckled fur barely made him decent. ¡°Where do I sleep?¡± *** Jorund sat alone on his side of the stone table. He rubbed at his black beard, and stared at the brown-robed man. ¡°Do you think I¡¯m blind?¡± The Salt Sage gazed back at him from the darkness of his own hood, offering no answer. ¡°That I don¡¯t see who you are¡ªwhat you are?¡± The Salt Sage smiled. ¡°A humble servant of Mubarrak?¡± ¡°I thought it a myth. A man that can change his face as easily as his clothes. Yet here you are, sat at my table, eating my food. Jorund of The Hill would be rising from his grave¡­ had I not fed his body to trolls.¡± ¡°Perhaps the fluids in their stomach broil?¡± the Sage ventured. ¡°Though I suppose they¡¯ve secreted him into fresh skin by now.¡± He sipped from his wooden cup of ale. ¡°But I¡¯m not really sure what you mean to begin with. As I never change my face, save for when I shave¡­ and that would be a poor effort by any man¡¯s measure.¡± ¡°Why are you here?¡± Jorund demanded. ¡°Why did you come to the mountains of the Small King?¡± ¡°They¡¯re not really his mountains anymore.¡± The Salt Sage chuckled. ¡°Either way, I¡¯m here because your Small King stole something from me, or rather I gifted it to him under false pretense, and now I need it back.¡± ¡°If the Small King is real¡­ and he finds out that I helped you, then my family will suffer badly. I cannot take the risk. I cannot let you leave¡ª¡± ¡°You don¡¯t really have a choice in the matter.¡± The Salt Sage waved a gnawed lamb bone through the air. ¡°You either decide to risk the wrath of some odd and ugly deity that you¡¯ve never met¡­ or, you try to restrain a man sat in front of you. A man that dearly hates restraints.¡± Silence settled along the vacant seats and cluttered table, broken only by the distant banter of Gunnar and Bjorn. Jorund sat more upright in his seat, gripping the axe at his belt. ¡°I might strike you as a jovial, or even a humorous man.¡± The Salt Sage placed the bone back on his plate. ¡°And you might mistake that for the mark of a man with a good or a soft heart. But if you press me, Jorund,¡± his voice shook with wrathful conviction, ¡°then I will snuff you out like a candle. If you so much as stand with that axe in your hand, then you will condemn your entire family to death. I will leave your whole house in darkness.¡± *** Bjorn, broad figure barely edged by light, stood amid the snow outside of his home. A shrill wind twisted through the blackness, whistling back and forth across surrounding mountains. The huge moon showed only as a muted orb, silvering an otherwise thick shroud of grey clouds. ¡°What are you watching for?¡± asked a deep, weary voice. ¡°I¡¯m not sure.¡± Bjorn cast a glance at Hjorvarth, dressed in dark wool, wrapped in furs, standing not far from the open door. ¡°Though I hadn¡¯t expected to see you.¡± He put his axe in his belt. ¡°You do know you¡¯re leaving at dawn?¡± ¡°I did not. Though I¡¯m glad to hear it.¡± He trudged over, leaving a companionable distance between them, then turned his gaze towards a darkness of stark whites and shaded grey. ¡°I would sleep, if not for odd dreams.¡± ¡°Odd dreams?¡± Bjorn asked, intrigue in his tone. ¡°Of a usual sort, or more peculiar than that?¡± ¡°I¡¯d rather not speak on it.¡± ¡°And yet you already have¡­¡± Hjorvarth grunted. ¡°How do I say it, then¡ª¡± He squinted up at the night sky. ¡°I dreamed that I was small, and that was odd enough. But every other man I saw was small as well, and oddly built.¡± Bjorn offered him a curious smile, but said nothing. ¡°I saw women too, smaller than the men,¡± Hjorvarth continued. ¡°I walked about Jorund¡¯s house¡ªyour home¡ªonly it was better lit and there was more noise and people there. There had been a murder¡­ a woman had been butchered, and they looked to me to find out who had committed the black act.¡± Bjorn¡¯s smile broadened. ¡°I¡¯d have not thought you one to play along with Astrid¡¯s tall tales.¡± Hjorvarth met the words with a frown. Bjorn mirrored his expression. ¡°Did she not ask you to tell that story?¡± ¡°You asked me to tell it,¡± Hjorvarth reminded. ¡°And Astrid did not tell you a similar story?¡± Bjorn asked. ¡°She did not mention dwarves, or dreams, or murder?¡± ¡°She did mention dreams, but none to do with dwarves or murder.¡± ¡°Sorry.¡± Bjorn chuckled with surprise. ¡°I had thought this a trick of some kind. Astrid had the same dream when she stayed in that room, and others like it. She said it was just that room that was haunted, and so I stayed there one night, and other nights, after we had moved her to a different room to stop her complaints, but I never had any dreams of dwarves. Or small men, as you put it. So I decided it was just some consequence of her youth¡­ a childish story.¡± Hjorvarth nodded as if he understood, even though he didn¡¯t. ¡°Why did you try to kill us?¡± ¡°Ah.¡± Bjorn stared at the darkness, his shadowed face growing solemn. ¡°We didn¡¯t, would be the short answer. Why did we try to tie you up? Fear, I suppose.¡± He studied the cloud-shrouded moon. ¡°When we saw you, dirty and haggard as you looked, we thought you were outlaws. Jorund wanted to wait to hear your story, but I had no mind to take the risk. He had your axes, and that was fair enough, but you still had your knifes.¡± ¡°And you call that reason enough to beat and imprison us?¡± Bjorn shrugged. ¡°There was a time when we were more trusting, when four men came to our home, better spoken and better dressed than you or Engli. They stayed the night without causing any trouble, beyond the odd rough word or a hard look, and so we gave no pause when they asked to stay till midday and help us hunt.¡± ¡°And¡­?¡± ¡°Jorund, Logi and I, took a pair of them fishing. Logi being my youngest brother, or he was until one of those men opened his throat with a baiting knife.¡± Bjorn grimaced, shaking his head. ¡°We killed those two easily enough, but it did little good for those here. Gunnar had tried to fight, and got stabbed and beaten for his efforts. They raped all of the women, save Astrid who they meant to keep for last. They murdered my grandmother, Edda, and my aunt Hildi.¡± ¡°You killed them?¡± ¡°Not soon enough.¡± Bjorn spoke with a deep regret that showed in his glazed gaze. ¡°It was I alone that decided to treat with you as we did, as it had been my idea to let those men stay with us. Jorund had been reluctant¡­ but I was of a mind that he was stuck in his ways, at risk of becoming a hermit.¡± He sighed in sorrow. ¡°My aunt and my grandmother. My little brother. All dead because of me. And I thought¡ªwrongly¡ªthat my father meant to make the same mistake.¡± Hjorvarth considered the words. ¡°Those men hold most the blame.¡± ¡°They acted in their nature,¡± Bjorn said. ¡°The blame is mine. As it would have been today, had I pushed you to murder.¡± Hjorvarth watched as grief built in the proud man. ¡°I know what to say, beyond that if you no longer trust your judgement, then you should defer to Jorund.¡± He paused. ¡°And I can only question the worth of worrying over mistakes you cannot unmake.¡± He glanced sidelong at Bjorn. ¡°Unless for you time flows both ways?¡± ¡°It does not.¡± ¡°You could spend some time training with Gunnar.¡± Bjorn looked as if he didn¡¯t understand. ¡°You both seemed badly out of practice today,¡± Hjorvarth explained. Bjorn laughed at what he thought was a joke. ¡°I¡¯ve no clue how you managed to move so well in the dark.¡± ¡°Brolli would lock me in a lightless cellar full of men armed with clubs and sticks.¡± ¡°And you wanted to do that?¡± ¡°I did not,¡± Hjorvarth replied. ¡°Though I don¡¯t think what I wanted ever crossed his mind.¡± Footfalls sounded against stone, more slowly onto snow. Hjorvarth regarded the squat shadow of a man. ¡°Engli?¡± ¡°Hjorvarth.¡± He had his hand around his axe, but loosened his grip and pretended to itch his leg. ¡°Bjorn.¡± ¡°Engli.¡± Bjorn nodded in greeting, then smirked. ¡°Has Dagny kicked you out of bed?¡± Engli answered that with an uneasy laugh. ¡°Would you mind if I spoke to Hjorvarth about a private matter?¡± ¡°That does me no harm.¡± Bjorn bowed before ambling towards the stone observatory. ¡°You went to bed with Jorund¡¯s daughter?¡± Hjorvarth¡¯s regard grew doubtful. ¡°Are you not in love with Sybille?¡± ¡°No to both¡­ yes, to the last one. I mean¡ªI don¡¯t know,¡± Engli decided. ¡°Why would you even ask that?¡± Hjorvarth shrugged. ¡°So what of the private matter?¡± ¡°We should speak inside,¡± Engli said, leading off towards the door. ¡°Come on.¡± Hjorvarth followed, crossing into the firelit stone room. ¡°What is this about?¡± he asked. Engli glanced back at him, but only shook his head, and made his way into the corridor. Hjorvarth had to squeeze through the archway. ¡°Engli!¡± ¡°Jorund fought with the Sage,¡± Engli said, still moving to the stairs. ¡°It went badly for him. And now it¡¯s going to go worse for us if we don¡¯t get out of here.¡± ¡°Bad for who?¡± Hjorvarth asked. ¡°For Jorund.¡± They crossed into the stone stairwell. Heated voices played back off of the ceiling. ¡°We can speak of it afterwards.¡± Engli readied his shield, and descended the stairs two or three steps at a time until he rounded onto the landing where a bruised and bloody Jorund stood with his family. They each had a weapon to hand, whether bow or knife, and were all swearing death on the brown-robed stranger. The Salt Sage held a slender knife against Astrid¡¯s pale neck. Blood trickled down from a shallow cut, staining her white dress. ¡°Hello, Engli.¡± Astrid smiled at him and then at Hjorvarth now he thundered down the stairs. ¡°Hjorvarth.¡± Hjorvarth¡¯s pale eyes turned wild. ¡°Sage!¡± ¡°There you are, Hjorvarth.¡± The Salt Sage pulled his knife clear of her neck, but kept his other arm wrapped around her chest. ¡°I think you might have been right about Jorund¡ªhe tried to kill me! Can you imagine? So, naturally, I explained that I wanted to leave, but¡ª¡± ¡°Lies!¡± Jorund roared. ¡°This man is not your friend, Hjorvarth. He has no friends. He is an¡ª¡± ¡°So naturally!¡± the Sage ran over him, voice rising over an angry chorus of dissent. ¡°I expressed my desire to leave! And then Jorund summoned his family! And tried to arrest! Maim! Or murder me! As evidenced by the weapons in their hands! And the angry looks upon their faces! Thank¡ª¡± Jorund charged forward with his axe. Hjorvarth lurched, catching him by the throat with such force that he dropped his axe. He lifted the bruised mountaineer up, off his feet, and towards the stairwell. Jorund glared down at him, choking and kicking out with his feet, but he saw only his own death reflected in those pale eyes. Dagny trained her bow on Hjorvarth. Gunnar knocked her aside, sending the arrow into stone. Brenna stepped forward with a knife, but Engli blocked her way. ¡°Hjorvarth!¡± Astrid drove her head back and broke free from the Sage¡¯s grip. ¡°Put him down!¡± She drove her fist under the huge man¡¯s ribs, causing him to lash out and swipe her face. Her cry of pain rooted Hjorvarth in reality, and he saw Jorund, bruised and choking in his grip, as a man and not a foe. Hjorvarth stepped back from the stairwell, and let the mountaineer crumple to his knees. A metallic clicking began behind him. The silver-plated door grated open with a gust of stale air. Hjorvarth turned towards the darkness beyond the door, then looked drunkenly at all those around the landing. Engli could see more clearly, and had started a dangerous dance with Brenna, warding away her knife with his shield. He kept a careful watch on Dagny and Gunnar, as well, who now had their bows drawn and aimed at one another. ¡°I think it¡¯s time for us to go!¡± the Salt Sage shouted. ¡°Engli. Hjorvarth. If you would be so kind as to come through here.¡± He gestured towards the dusty, web-strewn corridor. ¡°This is an important path that we must take in order to save Horvorr.¡± Engli met the words with a doubtful look. ¡°Go on, Hjorvarth.¡± ¡°I wouldn¡¯t,¡± Brenna warned. ¡°And my husband would say the same if he could. That door leads to darkness and death.¡± ¡°Oh, I¡¯d certainly listen to her,¡± the Sage said. ¡°I can see a definite preference to being murdered in the light by her sharpened knife, rather than coming clear of this madhouse and embarking on a heroic quest.¡± Hjorvarth looked down at Astrid, her lip swollen and split open. ¡°I didn¡¯t¡ª¡± ¡°Bastard.¡± Astrid offered him a bloody smile. ¡°It¡¯s time for you to go. You¡¯re not safe here anymore.¡± ¡°Hand over the Sage.¡± Brenna lowered her knife. ¡°Hand him over, and you can both leave here in peace.¡± Hjorvarth turned to the gloomy corridor without enthusiasm, but trudged forward into the darkness all the same. ¡°Come on then, Engli.¡± The Salt Sage beckoned him forward. ¡°I¡¯ll close it behind us.¡± ¡°You don¡¯t strike me as a bad man,¡± Brenna told Engli now he backed away. ¡°But if you follow him, then it will be the death of you.¡± Engli smiled. ¡°I¡¯ve not got a single reason to trust anything you say.¡± He reached the wall, then hurried into the corridor. ¡°You¡¯re a heathen,¡± Dagny told her brother. ¡°A damn coward that puts his love of strangers above the safety of his own family.¡± ¡°A man is who he is.¡± Gunnar shrugged. ¡°It¡¯s just a shame that you are who you are, isn¡¯t it, Dag¡¯?¡± ¡°She¡¯s not so bad, Gunnar.¡± The Salt Sage backed under the doorway, and placed his hands on either side of the frame. ¡°Though I must say you¡¯ve made some admirable choices here. If not for your intervention, this could have easily ended in a massacre.¡± Struggling for breath, Jorund glared at the robed man. Brenna and Astrid helped him to his feet. ¡°Unfortunately your father is one of the bigger idiots I¡¯ve met.¡± The Salt Sage sighed. ¡°Still, I¡¯ll offer him thanks for his terrible hospitality, and be on my way.¡± He bowed, narrowly avoiding an arrow that splintered into stone above him, then swept into the corridor. The silvered door closed with a boom that echoed. ¡°Sage?¡± Engli called, not able to see in utter blackness. He turned to Hjorvarth. ¡°I think he¡¯s locked us in here.¡± ¡°That¡¯s an odd thought,¡± the Sage said, startling him. ¡°Why haven¡¯t you turned on your lantern?¡± ¡°Because I don¡¯t have one? I entered before you. You should have had the sense to steal one, or at the least tell one of us that we would need one.¡± ¡°I was in a stressful situation,¡± the Sage explained. ¡°What with trying to stay alive while you went to fetch Hjorvarth.¡± The men couldn¡¯t see each another, but each stood close enough to feel one another¡¯s presence. ¡°Fair enough,¡± Engli conceded. ¡°We still need a light.¡± ¡°Nothing to be done for that, I¡¯m afraid.¡± The Salt Sage turned his head to look about the shadows. ¡°Is Hjorvarth even here?¡± Hjorvarth grunted, too confused and ashamed to bother speaking. ¡°Do you want to lead us off?¡± the Sage asked. ¡°It¡¯s a fairly simple path, even in the dark. Straight the whole way until it isn¡¯t.¡± 32. Marked Men 32. Marked Men ¡°Brolli came into my tent with the pallor of a marked man. They have stolen into the goblin encampment and dismembered Gahr¡¯rul. Of the two dozen men that went, only three returned. Gudmund has been grievously wounded and it is feared that he will never recover. I have tried to speak with Grettir but the man only sits and stares in silence. When I press Brolli for answers, he barks words that make little or no sense. The news has spread through our camp and the mood is not a happy one. They have heard the clamour for vengeance sound out through the trees. I should be thinking of the coming battle, of my wife, my son, and my approaching death. But my mind wanders to The Cook. I am almost certain that he smiled at me as they departed.¡± Atli of Blackwood Carts had bought one of the largest buildings in Fenkirk for his workshop. He had made certain that the floors were sturdy, that there were plenty of shutters to let in light. If his wheelwrights and carpenters needed to work late, then he kept them well provisioned with candle stands along each bench and table, sconces arrayed across the walls, and even a huge brass chandelier hanging down from the ceiling. Atli had known that the mountain paths were treacherous and prone to closure, by snow or by monsters, and so he had stockpiled food, candles, wood, and all other provisions his workers might need. His preparedness had proved helpful for the people of Fenkirk, but offered little avail to the man himself. He had died and now all his carts had been overturned; wood hammered into makeshift seats and benches; provisions used as light, food, and drink for the two hundred people crowded around the workshop. Hakon had designated the premises of The Blackwood Carts as a place for refugees and travellers, for those whose homes had been salvaged or burnt down. Almost every woman and child of the lumbering town now sat amongst the tables. It was standing room for the men too old or cowardly to fight, though some had taken to sitting along the walls. Sam himself sat slumped in the corner opposite the main door. Head throbbing, he looked out at the blurry scene of Atli¡¯s Workshop: all those people sat gathered, blathering and chatting to one another. He tried to scowl away the endless hum, every now and then he winced at the piercing cry of a babe, or the anguished tantrum of a toddler. He could see it plain for what it was. Community. When he had entered the town, Fenkirk appeared as one great war-work: stakes, ditches and layered walls; mass graves freshly dug and pyres clouding the sky. Here, though, old women did their knitting, mothers fed their young ones by the tit, and children played with one another in raucous groups. Sam breathed in air that was thick with smoke and sweat, with the smell of old broth made from stringy meat and plain roots, but each scent was tainted by the memory of burnt flesh that tainted his nose. He laughed sadly, knowing now that he had confused safety for imprisonment, bonfires for death pyres. He had heard the silence of fear, and thought it ease of peace. ¡°¡®scuse me,¡± an old man said, peering down at Sam. ¡°Sorry t¡¯ bother you,¡± he continued. ¡°Names Boe.¡± He scratched at his curly, white hair. Boe looked ready for bed in his black clothes, rough spun and threadbare. Sam nodded. ¡°I¡¯m Sam.¡± He glanced over at the makeshift kitchen ahead and to the left of him, busy with women of all ages and a few old men. ¡°I already got my meal for¡­¡± He squinted across the hall, trying to find the old woman he had given his ration to, but all those seated seemed to blend into a dreary scene of dirty clothes, and tired faces. ¡°I ain¡¯t for food,¡± Boe said. ¡°I hear your from Horvorr?¡± ¡°Oh.¡± Sam nodded. ¡°I am.¡± ¡°¡®nd how fares Gudmund ¡®gainst the goblin horde?¡± Boe¡¯s green eyes lit up. ¡°How fare the men of Horvorr¡¯s Guard?¡± Sam glanced down at sawdusted floorboards, realizing the old man had envisaged this as a joint struggle. He smiled up at Boe. ¡°They¡¯d not lost a man when I¡¯d left¡­ because Horvorr hasn¡¯t come under attack. We¡¯d had no word that Fenkirk was under siege.¡± ¡°But our runners,¡± a taller man cried from behind Boe. ¡°My son! He left for Horvorr not a week ago.¡± Boe shook his head in disbelief. ¡°And others!¡± Sam rose to his feet. He looked back in silent answer to all those now watching him. Flustered women paused amid the smoky kitchen. Grandmothers stilled the knitting in their laps. Even children halted their games while old men shuffled forward like a dark, aged wave. ¡°No runners have reached Horvorr!¡± he declared, his voice driven by a willingness to end it there. ¡°There has been no word of goblins gathering in so large a number, but Horvorr¡¯s Guard has set out on its Autumn Trip!¡± Boe¡¯s aged face turned crestfallen. ¡°We¡¯re doomed.¡± He turned away now complaints erupted, disappearing into a jostling mass of spirited old men and women. Some children decided to join the fun, and began screaming their own anguish, or panic; others didn¡¯t take to the noise, so started crying or backing away. ¡°I know the man that leads the trip!¡± Sam shouted over the hysterics. ¡°He will not be caught unawares. Once he learns of the threat he will come here to help!¡± The fretful folk of Fenkirk seemed not to hear the words. It was a mad gathering of asserted fears and confirmed suspicions. Their hopes dashed, and chaos rising, Sam was gratefully forgotten. He sat back down in the corner, wholly surrounded and truly alone. *** Sam woke to the sound of grumbling and opened his smoke-dried eyes. Sleepless folk busied themselves by the light of scattered candles, while the rest of the walls stood shrouded in shadow. A chorus of muttering, breathing, and snoring reached his ears. Smoke swirled above the heads of those woken and those sleeping. Sam¡¯s head ached with each breath. He squinted into the hazy darkness before familiar panic set in. He was in Fenkirk, trapped, while his son was soon to suffer in Timilir. ¡°The food is for the women and children,¡± a woman explained in harsh whisper. ¡°Food¡¯s food,¡± a gruff voice slurred. ¡°I¡¯m hungry and there ain¡¯t no one else ¡®round here.¡± The mismatched pair stood at either side of the makeshift counter that fenced off the kitchen. Sam recognised the stout woman who had tried to convince him to eat a plate of food. He didn¡¯t know the brawny man she faced, but he wore the blue uniform of the militia and the reddened cheeks of a drunk. ¡°We are all hungry, Karl,¡± Moira stressed. ¡°If you want more food then you will need to ask Hakon.¡± ¡°Hakon?¡± Karl¡¯s grunt shook his swaying frame. ¡°He ain¡¯t here. I am. So hands over a gods-damned bowl.¡± ¡°The food,¡± Moira repeated slowly, ¡°is for the women and children. We do not have any for you.¡± ¡°Lady¡¯s piss,¡± Karl muttered. ¡°You¡¯ve got a bowl in your damn hands.¡± Moira¡¯s eyes narrowed. ¡°And it, as I have said, is for¡ª¡± Karl lurched over the counter, ripping the wooden bowl from her grip. Steaming soup splashed onto Moira¡¯s wrists. Hissing, she plunged her hands into a water bucket. ¡°Should¡¯ve just handed it over,¡± Karl muttered, carrying his bowl towards the door. Sam followed him through the dark workshop, paying no mind to the wary gazes of those who watched in silence. He lifted the dagger from his belt. He rushed forward, leaping as he closed, and slammed the emerald pommel into greasy hair. Karl grunted and staggered forward. He tried to rescue the bowl of soup before he fell to the floor, managing to lift it enough that his face thumped into the rim. ¡°That was foolish,¡± Moira said. ¡°You ought to knock him on the head before he gets back up.¡± Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation. Karl groaned, trying to curse but spluttering instead. He rolled onto his back, soup barely paling his flushed face. He roared wordlessly, pawing at dusty floorboards and getting enough of a hold to heave himself onto to one knee. Sam watched the drunken struggle. He tried to will himself forward in opportunism, but remained rooted. ¡°¡®I see no reason to hit a man when he is down,¡¯¡± Hjorvarth had said. ¡°¡®Unless you mean to kill him, or are fearful you could not handle him standing. And if you¡¯ve no urge to murder, and no fear of that, then where¡¯s the harm in letting him find his feet?¡¯¡± He wasn¡¯t sure that the words held wisdom for a much skinnier man, but he still stood waiting. Those around him waited as well, but they didn¡¯t look to him with warmth. Women of all ages, men from graying to white, had risen to their feet. Children peeked between dresses and trousers, or from under tables. Sam knew they wouldn¡¯t intervene. He couldn¡¯t blame them. He¡¯d heard fear whispered, seen it plainly in their gazes. They had no real power here, beyond to wait and hope under the whim of a mad man¡¯s militia. Sam was a stranger to them, not of Fenkirk, and only a few days stayed in the place. ¡°That was poorly done,¡± Sam admitted now the bulky man turned to face him. ¡°Poorly done?¡± Karl smeared soup across flushed cheeks. ¡°What kind of coward bastard strikes a man in the back!¡± ¡°A man?¡± Sam asked with a little humour. ¡°I¡¯ve not known men to steal food from helpless women.¡± Karl scowled. ¡°You¡ª¡± A pan slammed into his cheek, sounding out with a metal thrum. Moira let the pan drop, her slender hands giving way to vibration. She grabbed at his greasy hair as he buckled to one knee, driving her own into his chin. Teeth clacked together to clip the tip of a tongue. She tried to step back but he grabbed her apron. Karl thumped her in the stomach, driving the air from her lungs, lifting her from her feet. Sam snarled now he charged. He slammed his heel into the man¡¯s reddened nose, crunching bone, forcing him onto the floorboards. Moira landed heavily on her back, and she struggled for breath. Her tired face hardened when Sam approached. ¡°I¡¯m fine.¡± ¡°Behind you, Sam!¡± Boe shouted, standing ahead of the crowded benches. Sam turned to see a knife glinting with candlelight, near level with his eyes. He could see darkness as well. He thought that a mark of his approaching death. Then, with a grunt, and a blur of flesh and leather, the blade was gone. Sam caught up with his surroundings to see a pair of large men, one of them Karl, wrestling on the floor. ¡°Drop the knife!¡± roared the man on top, his scarred visage twisted with rage. ¡°Or I¡¯ll make your face a match for mine!¡± Karl noticed the dagger pressed against his neck. He had his knife poised at Hakon¡¯s side, but let it clatter to the floorboards. ¡°I didn¡¯t mean no harm.¡± Hakon smiled, nodded, then drove a fist into the man¡¯s forehead. Wood crunched. Once then thrice. Karl slumped into sleep. ¡°Idiot.¡± Hakon shook his head. ¡°I¡¯m surrounded by idiots.¡± He glared up at Sam. ¡°You going help me drag this bastard out of here, Sam? Or are you just planning on standing there like¡­ well, like an idiot.¡± Sam¡¯s head spun with a din of children crying, fearful whispers, and frustrated muttering. ¡°Are you drunk, Sam?¡± Hakon pushed off of the fallen fighter, and hauled the lean barkeeper up by his collar. ¡°I hope not. You¡¯ve seen what I do to men who drink when they¡¯re supposed to be standing guard.¡± Sam shook his head, then tried to break free from the man¡¯s grip. ¡°You want to fight, Sam?¡± Hakon laughed, letting him drop to his feet. ¡°Come on, then. We¡¯ll pull this one out and let him sleep on the street.¡± He frowned down at brown hair now dark and matted with blood. ¡°Let¡¯s just leave him here.¡± *** The Finch and Sons Exchange had been bought by a man named Asgaut three years ago. He had heard rumors that one of Finch¡¯s sons owed a substantial debt to a man named Brolli, so¡ªafter the timely death of Finch¡ªAsgaut came and bought the place at discount from Finch¡¯s son. He had thought to change the name, but he had no sons himself and the Asgaut Exchange didn¡¯t sound the same. Hakon had taken the place at a steeper discount. He knew well enough that Asgaut lived in Timilir and wouldn¡¯t have cared if he lived next door. He¡¯d mostly left the place as it was. A building secured for the exchange of goods and coin served well enough for an armoury. He now paced about the place, scowling through the bars of the counter and setting the men behind it ill at ease. Sam watched from a square-made chair, one of a row of six that stood in threes at either side of the door. ¡°Sam.¡± Hakon snapped his fingers. ¡°What weapon?¡± Sam shrugged. ¡°A bow?¡± ¡°You get a bow either way, but that won¡¯t do you much good up close¡­ unless you¡¯re planning on smacking goblins round the head with it, which I¡¯ve seen folk do, and I¡¯ve seen those same folk dying and screaming not long after that.¡± Hakon paused, searching the dusty floorboards and candlelit air. ¡°It just struck me that I¡¯ve seen a lot of people dying lately. Heard a lot of people screaming. Can¡¯t be good for a man, can it?¡± Sam shook his head, finding it hard to look at the scarred fighter. ¡°You¡¯re being quiet, Sam. Don¡¯t be quiet. Never be quiet. It leaves a man too much with his own thoughts.¡± Hakon looked over to a mail-armoured man, who stood by the sturdy door that offered access behind the barred counter. ¡°What do you think?¡± He scratched under his leather cap. ¡°Me?¡± Hakon¡¯s only answer came as a persistent, unhappy stare. ¡°A man should talk, yep. He should. Talk about a lot of things, I¡¯d say you¡¯re¡ª¡± Hakon clapped his hands together. ¡°Well now you¡¯re talking too much! And I don¡¯t like that either!¡± He shook his head, eyes wild. ¡°It¡¯s fine,¡± he quieted his voice. ¡°It¡¯s fine though, mistakes are made. Mistakes are always made.¡± The leather-capped man nodded, keeping his gaze to the floor. Hakon snapped his fingers. ¡°Sam. What¡­ weapon¡­ do you want? If I have to ask this again by the gods I¡¯ll make my own choice and give it to your head blade-first.¡± He glared with a hatred that made the bartender feel cold. And then laughed. ¡°I¡¯m joking. That was a joke, Sam.¡± He bared his teeth. ¡°See, look at me smiling, Sam. Seriously now, tell me what weapon you want before I get angry.¡± Sam swallowed. ¡°A hammer?¡± ¡°A hammer?¡± Hakon dipped his chin into his neck, and made a frown that caused his three scars to appear all the more awful. ¡°Are we building houses? No! We¡¯re tearing them down! We¡¯re digging! If you want to be at bloody labor then I¡¯ll give you a shovel, and you can dig your own gods-damn¡ª¡± He looked confused. ¡°Am I scaring you, Sam? I¡¯m just joking, I¡¯m always joking when I¡¯m angry, and if I¡¯m not then I¡¯m really angry, but if I¡¯m angry you¡¯ll know because¡­ well, trust me, you¡¯ll just know. It doesn¡¯t take a Sage to figure out that¡¯s it raining, does it?¡± Sam forced himself to laugh. ¡°I¡¯ll take an axe.¡± ¡°You¡¯re going to get a spear. Because we¡¯ve only got spears. I told you that. So why are you even talking about axes?¡± The leather-capped man frowned. ¡°We do have¡ª¡± Hakon spun and scowled. ¡°Lots of spears?¡± He nodded. ¡°Only spears.¡± ¡°Good. Now tell whichever bastard is sleeping in there to go and get me a spear. And an axe, if there are any. But mainly a spear. And mainly an axe, as well. By the gods I feel tired, or angry, or both. Sam.¡± He snapped his fingers. ¡°Tell me a story.¡± ¡°What kind?¡± Sam asked. The leather-capped man fumbled with the key and the lock, but got it open and slipped inside. Hakon cocked his head as if Sam were an idiot. ¡°If I knew what kind of story it was I could tell it my gods-damned self¡­ now are you going to start, or what?¡± ¡°I¡­ there was a man called Isleif¡ª¡± ¡°I¡¯ve heard that one. I was part of that one.¡± Hakon jabbed a finger at his ravaged nose. ¡°Got me this. I was young, then. By the gods I was young then¡ªall smiling and happy. All hopeful. All those men. There was nothing that could stop us, nothing that could stop me. Then the first day some rogue yeti jumps off a boulder and makes this mess of my face.¡± He laughed a slow laugh. ¡°That¡¯s what life is, Sam. You go out on an adventure and some bastard claws the skin off your face. Life is thinking you¡¯ve been cheated, and then coming to understand that some big shaggy bastard of a thing saved your life.¡± The leather-capped man crept back through into the waiting room, wood rattling with his footfalls. He had two spears gripped awkwardly in each hand. ¡°Life,¡± Hakon said, still looking at Sam. ¡°You know I think people look at me like I looked at that yeti. Like I¡¯m a monster, and maybe I am. But I think one day they¡¯ll come to understand¡ª¡± He jabbed a finger into his scarred cheek. ¡°That it was this bastard who saved them.¡± He took a sharp breath. ¡°Either way, Sam, am I right in thinking there¡¯s a man standing over there too afraid to tell me he¡¯s got what I asked for?¡± The man paled. ¡°I wasn¡¯t sure¡­ what kind of spear you wanted.¡± Hakon turned with a slow sigh, no patience in his eyes, but then he smiled. ¡°This is good. I want you to know you¡¯ve done a good job, here. What is that, a pair of spears for fighting and a pair for throwing?¡± The man seemed not to know. ¡°Look at that, Sam. You¡¯re going to have all four, and you¡¯re going to hold one and have the other three on your back. And when people look at you they¡¯re going to say ¡®I¡¯ve got no idea who he is, and so I don¡¯t know much about him, but I can tell he knows how to use a fucking spear!¡¯¡± He rounded on Sam with excited eyes. ¡°Now tell me what you think about that!¡± ¡°It¡¯s good!¡± Sam shouted, only sure that he shouldn¡¯t hesitated. ¡°It¡¯s great!¡± Hakon countered. ¡°It¡¯s great.¡± Sam nodded as earnestly as he could. ¡°It is, it really is.¡± Hakon¡¯s enthusiasm waned and tears started to roll down his scarred cheeks. ¡°I¡¯m crying. That¡¯s odd.¡± He shrugged. ¡°Get your spears, Sam. We just need to talk to the bone lady and then I¡¯ll know where to put you.¡± ¡°Put me¡­?¡± ¡°On the wall,¡± Hakon said as a matter of fact. ¡°She¡¯ll tell me when you¡¯re due to die, and then I¡¯ll know where to put you.¡± Sam¡¯s confusion gave way to worry. ¡°Oh.¡± 33. Foresight 33. Foresight ¡°Seers, witches, bone readers and the rest of their ilk are well regarded throughout Tymir. Though most especially outside of the cities of Vendrick and Timilir. Personally, I can hardly see why. Throughout my life I¡¯ve been subjected to all manner of ill sounding and foreboding prophecies, and none have ever occurred. Perhaps these portents are better intended for the weaker minded. Even as a young man, I have always known where I was headed. I did not need some decrepit hermit to tell me where to go next. I once read that greatness is a block of granite that you must break apart and chew one bite at a time. I suspect destiny is much the same. Not to meted out by strange souls who should have otherwise been ostracized and outlawed by their settlements, but to be forged with one¡¯s own feet. Keep walking forward, and you will always find your way. So says Isleif the Bard without want or need for reverence and repayment.¡± ¡°You know, Sam,¡± Hakon said, ¡°yesterday I was worried out of my mind.¡± Both men walked down a shadowed dirt path, towards the dark outline of a hut built beneath Fenkirk¡¯s wall. There were strings hung from the entryway and they were each adorned with bones, which twisted, clattered and rattled in the sighing wind. Sam shivered at the noise, even as the shafts on his back clonked together in time with his stride. He looked over to the light of writhing bonfires, burning fiercely and wildly in the distance, flames rending through blackness as if they hated the night. ¡°But this old woman,¡± Hakon continued, ¡°told me that a dark visitor would come and save me, well not save me, but release me. Set me free.¡± A smile creased his scarred face. ¡°That¡¯s you, Sam. Can¡¯t be no doubt. I¡¯m not sure how. By looking at you, I¡¯m really not sure how, but I¡¯m certain you¡¯ll get us out of this mess. Unless this woman tells me you won¡¯t, and then¡ªI¡¯m being honest now because we¡¯re friends¡ªyou¡¯ll want to reach for a blade quick. Or one of your spears, eh?¡± ¡°Because you¡¯ll murder me?¡± Hakon laughed, clapping the barkeeper on the back. ¡°Don¡¯t think of it like that, Sam. Think of it like me trying to kill the man who turned up out of nowhere at night with a cart full of mining equipment, even though we¡¯re surrounded by goblins and no other traveler has gotten through. Try to think of it like that. Try to look at it from my point of view, how bloody worrying you¡¯d be if you weren¡¯t here to save me.¡± Sam slowed to a stop, gathering his courage. ¡°I¡¯ve had enough of you, Hakon. Pretending some gods-damned woman lives in that shack. Bringing me out here to murder me for whatever mad reasons you¡¯ve cooked up. You want to fight then lets have done with it out here, but I¡¯ve had enough¡ªmore than enough of your games.¡± ¡°That was a little aggressive.¡± Hakon stared in confusion. ¡°There is an old woman in there, Sam. You can trust me on that.¡± He upturned his palms. ¡°I¡¯ll fight you out here if that¡¯s what you want, I¡¯ll oblige you that much. I tell you what, if the Bone Lady says you¡¯re a bad egg, then we¡¯ll come outside and we can do it all by the proper rules. Make a duel of it. That¡¯ll let you use your spears, and I know how fond you are of those.¡± Sam stared at the man, coat of mail and blue shirt both blending into black, scarred face at home in the shadows, glistening eyes catching the distant light of wrathful bonfires. ¡°There¡¯s an old woman in that shack?¡± Hakon smiled. ¡°Yes! If I wanted to kill you Sam I would have cut your throat when you first came in. Let¡¯s not forget that every other man on my militia wanted you dead. If it wasn¡¯t for me you¡¯d have had been murdered a hundred times over.¡± Sam stepped towards the clattering bones. ¡°You¡¯re a funny man, Sam,¡± Hakon happily continued. ¡°A little slow though. I¡¯m worried we¡¯ll get told our past instead of our future.¡± Sam didn¡¯t answer, Hakon grunted, and both men walked on in silence. The rattling strings grew louder now they approached. Sam could see faint light escaping from under the door, but he kept his hand on his dagger all the same. ¡°I¡¯ll go first.¡± Hakon stepped ahead, and smirked back. ¡°Don¡¯t want you to scare her with that face of yours.¡± Sam stopped and waited, listened to the rattle as Hakon pushed through the hanging bones. The door creaked, letting more light bleed out into the dark. Sam listened to a murmured conversation, to silence, and Hakon came back a minute after that. Hakon beckoned him forward. ¡°Come on.¡± Sam walked through the bones, shuddered at the cold touch and the odd smell. He held his breath and kept his head low. The Bone Lady¡¯s hut was no more than a circular room. A large black rug covered most the floor, covered in turn by an eclectic mix of animal skeletons, woven pictures, scraps of paper, tattered books, and a few plates of uneaten food. Dozens of strings of bone dangled and rattled from the roof. The Bone Lady herself lay wrapped over in grey rags and black blankets. Sam couldn¡¯t tell where her face was, or whether she lay on her back. He was half convinced it was just a pile of cloth. Hakon had taken the only seat in the place, an old rocking chair. He sat beside a cabinet, holding his palm over the fat candle that lit the small space. ¡°This is Sam. He¡¯s from Horvorr.¡± The bones rattled and he frowned at Sam. ¡°She says to close the door behind you.¡± Sam glanced back at the open door. He knew no woman spoke. Hakon was a mad man asking advice from an imagined friend. ¡°Leave it open,¡± a rasping voice insisted. ¡°And don¡¯t presuppose to speak for¡ª¡± The Bone Lady hacked wet coughs. ¡°Me.¡± Hakon shrugged in indifference. ¡°I wanted Sam to think that I was hearing voices.¡± ¡°I fear this one has already been tricked, more times than he would like¡­ more times than he knows.¡± Sam thought to ask about his son, stayed by some part of him that recoiled at the notion. He had heard bad news from an amiable stranger in his own tavern. He didn¡¯t want to risk hearing a prophecy in a place that reminded him of death. The Bone Lady¡¯s pile of rags moved. ¡°Come here, Sam.¡± ¡°Hurry it up, Sam,¡± Hakon said. ¡°I need to be on the walls.¡± Sam looked at the rag-covered woman, then to mad-eyed Hakon. ¡°What did I do to deserve this?¡± The Bone Lady rasped a laugh. ¡°What have you done to not deserve it?¡± Sam stepped over a wooden plate of molding bread. He found space to kneel at the foot of the bed, between stacks of books covered in dusty blankets. He tried not to breathe too deeply, because a smell of decay drafted up from gaps in the Bone Lady¡¯s blanket. ¡°I see you now,¡± the Bone Lady purred. ¡°I see you, husband of dark waters. I see you, companion of broken men, old friend of misery¡­ herald of The Interloper.¡± Hakon¡¯s eyes narrowed. ¡°I just need to know when he dies.¡± A sweeping gust made mad play with the shadows and a foreboding song of the bones. ¡°He will die in his wife¡¯s arms.¡± ¡°Good.¡± Hakon nodded. ¡°So our Sam has come to save us?¡± A stillness settled in the air while the strings twisted in the candlelight. ¡°No.¡± The Bone Lady groaned under her blanket. ¡°He is a man that saves only himself. He will be the death of you, Oath Breaker.¡± Hakon gritted his teeth. ¡°Is that right?¡± Sam watched him from the corner of his eye, saw him grow tense and sit forward in his chair. ¡°Yes,¡± the Bone Lady hissed. ¡°Kill him! Kill him now, or he will be the end of you. It must end here! He has been defiled by unnatural forces. He is walking death. Herald of The Interloper!¡± Hakon roared off of the rocking chair and Sam rolled back over the moldy bread. Sam had his dagger up and out, ready to at least try. The Bone Lady let out a weak and haunting scream. ¡°No!¡± Hakon yelled, slashing at the blanket, cutting through cloth and flesh. ¡°No. No. No.¡± He stabbed her with each refusal. ¡°No¡­ No. No. No¡­ No.¡± He hacked down at black blankets, now ruined and soaked with blood. ¡°You¡¯re wrong!¡± he shouted, breath ragged. ¡°You¡¯re wrong. Sam doesn¡¯t die. Not again, not anymore. Tell me the truth!¡± He kicked her ruined body. ¡°Tell me the truth. At least deny you¡¯re lying. At least¡ª¡± Hakon shook his head. ¡°No? Not even that. Well I¡¯ll leave you to think on it, Bone Lady. I¡¯ll leave you to¡­¡± He seemed to notice the blood and the flesh, his own stained blade. ¡°You believe that, Sam?¡± Sam stared in shock. He tried to speak and retched. ¡°She lunged at me,¡± Hakon explained. ¡°Get up, you soft bastard.¡± He hauled the barkeeper off the ground and dragged him out of the hut. ¡°It¡¯s like you¡¯ve never seen a murderous old woman before.¡± Sam started to gag, and dropped to his knees. Hakon paced by, shaking his head. ¡°Hurry up with that, Sam. We need to get to the walls.¡± *** Sam stood atop the wooden walls of Fenkirk. He had view of the shadowed town twelve feet below. The buildings still standing appeared abandoned, huddled behind fresh ditches and makeshift fences, warmed only by the faint glow of dying pyres. Hakon paced back and forth, gripping his bloodied sword. He slowed to a stop, and scowled up at the huge cloud-shrouded moon. ¡°Sam.¡± Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon. Sam held his five-foot spear ahead of him. ¡°Yes?¡± ¡°Do you think it¡¯s true¡­ what they say about women killers. That they end up in the Lady¡¯s Shadow?¡± ¡°I wouldn¡¯t know. Look¡­ I¡¯m not going to tell anyone what happened. I don¡¯t even have anyone to tell. So whatever you¡¯re thinking¡­¡± Hakon frowned. ¡°I¡¯m thinking I¡¯m not going to tell anyone either. Can¡¯t have people knowing an old woman almost got the jump on me¡­ just like that yeti.¡± He sheathed his sword, and sighed. ¡°We¡¯re just guarding a wall, Sam. Nothing more than that happening here. I know I told you I¡¯d kill you. But when it came to it, I couldn¡¯t. I¡¯m not best pleased that the Bone Lady tried to kill me for not going along with her plan, but there it is. That¡¯s life, Sam. Sometimes a yeti tries to rip your face open, sometimes women get old and crazy and someone needs to put them out their misery, like The Mayor, you understand? Only they decided to let him suffer,¡± Hakon mentioned. ¡°Well, you know what I mean, don¡¯t you?¡± Sam stared at the scarred man, feeling sick, almost sorry for him. ¡°I don¡¯t¡ª¡± ¡°All you need to know is that it was us or her, Sam. Be glad I saved you.¡± Hakon¡¯s black eyes trembled with regret. ¡°I won¡¯t not save you again, you understand? Not now I¡¯ve got another chance.¡± He leaned out over the parapet. ¡°We better watch for goblins, Sam. We better watch for the monsters in the night.¡± Sam shifted his spear to one hand. He walked over to the parapet. He made grim study of the goblin bodies, sprawled across the forest floor, skewered and staked in the ditches, some lean and wolfish, others fat and porcine. ¡°They all look different.¡± Hakon chuckled. ¡°You not seen goblins before, Sam? I¡¯ve cut all kinds of them open, some with their bat-faces, others with their snouts. Some of ¡®em howl and snarl and think they¡¯re wolves. I¡¯ve cut the claws off some, fat fingers off others. Hack through em, hack, hack, hack. It¡¯s like wood. I¡¯m a goblin lumberer. Only you can¡¯t sell bits of dead flesh¡­ unless they¡¯re cows, or sheep.¡± Hakon¡¯s gaze turned ponderous. ¡°Maybe you can sell dead flesh¡­ or eat it.¡± He turned to Sam. ¡°Do you think we should go down there and bring some in?¡± ¡°No. No, I don¡¯t.¡± Hakon shrugged. ¡°It was just a thought.¡± He sniffed, appearing a little glum now he watched the shadowed forest. ¡°You know I¡¯ve been thinking about what the bone lady said.¡± He noticed Sam grow tense. ¡°About me, I mean. About setting me free. I just remembered she didn¡¯t say you would set me free, she said that you would set my spirit free.¡± He scratched at his scarred cheek. ¡°Is it just me, or does that sound like she¡¯s saying I¡¯m going to die?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t think it matters,¡± Sam dismissed. ¡°She said I would die in the arms of a wife I haven¡¯t seen for years.¡± ¡°Hm.¡± Hakon nodded. ¡°Maybe you¡¯ll find yourself a second wife?¡± He chuckled. ¡°Just do me a favour and don¡¯t get married to the lass before we¡¯re clear of this.¡± Sam frowned at the scarred man, not understanding him at all. ¡°I¡¯ll try not to.¡± ¡°I¡¯ll get you clear of this, Sam,¡± Hakon¡¯s promise shook with emotion. ¡°It isn¡¯t like the yeti. Not this time.¡± Sam realised the scarred man suffered some sort of delusion. He feared telling him the truth. ¡°I¡¯m not sure who you think I am¡­ but I¡¯m only here by chance. I left my tavern to save my son, and I don¡¯t want to die in this town.¡± ¡°You won¡¯t,¡± Hakon assured, certainty returned. ¡°I¡¯ll hack them off, Sam. The arms. Your whore wife can¡¯t kill you if I cut off her arms.¡± He scowled into the darkness. ¡°Tell me if you see her coming. I don¡¯t like to be caught unawares.¡± A shrill horn pierced through the shadowed forest, drowned by the flutter of a hundred birds taking flight into the darkness. ¡°What was¡ª¡± Hakon raised his hand. ¡°I may have brought this on myself.¡± The same note sounded, rising high and rumbling low, as dozens of horns began to toot and blare in a discordant chorus, then roars rolled above the song, through the forest and up to the walls of Fenkirk. Hakon lifted a bronze horn from his own belt, bringing it to his lips. It sounded out with a deep note that seemed to carry for miles and reverberate through the air long after he had stopped blowing. ¡°Listen, Sam!¡± Hakon shouted. ¡°You keep your head low. Low, you hear me? Loose some arrows if you want, but don¡¯t stand about looking like some gods-damned scarecrow!¡± He placed a hand on the man¡¯s slim shoulder. ¡°Me and you, Sam! We¡¯re in this together!¡± A squeal and chatter started from the forest as if made by a thousand angry bats; more horns punctuated the din; fearsome roars rolled over all. Shadowed figures crawled all over the forest floor, so many stood together that it was hard to see which limbs belonged to which goblin. They were looking up at Sam, most flailing their arms. ¡°Get down!¡± Hakon leapt on him, throwing them both against the wall-walk. Stones sailed overhead or crunched and clattered into nearby wood. ¡°Stay here.¡± He used the parapet to pull himself up, then tossed the brass horn at Sam. ¡°Blow this!¡± Hakon stared down at the goblin host with disinterested eyes. He could hear and feel rocks smashing into the wood below or flying by his face. It didn¡¯t bother him, because he knew he wouldn¡¯t die. He knew that this wasn¡¯t a world where good things happened. Hakon often wondered if he had made himself immortal by turning into such an odd bastard. He sighed amid the hail of projectiles. Here was the place that he finally belonged: madness ahead of him, panic behind him. Men who didn¡¯t deserve to die waking from their beds, scrambling from tables for helmets and shields, pissing their breaches as they ran to the field. They would all pray. Hakon knew people always prayed to the gods in times of panic, and there was one thing that unified every single prayer: they all went unanswered. He glanced down at the lean man blowing the horn on the wall walk. He wasn¡¯t sure if it was Sam or it wasn¡¯t Sam. He wasn¡¯t sure if a stranger had come in the night or if a ghost had come out from the cold. Hakon watched the approach of a hurtling stone, which seemed aimed for his face but veered by his cheek. Hundreds of goblins were running into the wall below. They made a song of wooden thumps, excited squeaks, grunts of efforts, and screams of pain. They were skewering themselves in the pits, scratching each other, biting each other, trampling each other. ¡°These logs cut themselves,¡± Hakon mused aloud, barely heard over the blaring horns, over the shouting and cursing of men. Hakon raised his gaze further afield. He had overseen the felling of most the trees north of Fenkirk. He had watched the huts and shacks made there burn. He had ordered the gates closed despite the men and women fleeing for safety and calling for help. He had seen their scratch marks on the wood in the morning. Bloodied nails buried into the grain. He had seen the broken bodies as well. Hakon was not at all concerned about the horde spilling forth to surround his town. He wasn¡¯t worried by what was, but what wasn¡¯t. He had saved his people by deciding which people were no longer his. He had no more land to cede or people to spare. The goblins had settled into a happy rhythm of squabbling and throwing stones. They piled about the base of the wall, clawing and leaping at the wood to no avail. Hakon¡¯s gaze shifted to a gargantuan goblin approaching from between two trees. ¡°Great Chief.¡± The Great Chief towered over the other goblins, standing twice as wide and four times as tall. It looked almost like an ugly man, a man uglier than Hakon, a man with ungainly limbs and long bones that pressed against green flesh. A man that stood twice as tall as any other man. Hakon smiled now the gargantuan goblin hoisted and hurled a spear. He drew his sword, and watched a fast flight that seemed slow to him, purposeful. He swung his blade down when the urge took him. Metal clanged against wood and the spear buried by his foot. Hakon frowned down at the shaft, caressed it as if in disbelief. Sam¡¯s eyes widened on the spear. ¡°What are you doing?¡± Hakon pulled a throwing spear from Sam¡¯s back, then raised the weapon aloft. ¡°I¡¯m proving I¡¯m the better Chief!¡± The Great Chief stared up at him, then let out a thunderous roar that stopped stone hail and quieted blaring horns. Silence descended outside of Fenkirk¡¯s wall, while the men inside had finally gathered and were making their ascent up the ladders. A pair of young boys scurried past Sam, placing a bunch of arrows into the bucket beside him. ¡°Sam,¡± Hakon said, breathing deep the still air. ¡°If you had to choose, stars or the moon?¡± Sam hesitated. ¡°Moon?¡± Hakon shrugged as he took a step back. He readied the spear, lining it with the gargantuan goblin, then launched it at the moon. The men of Fenkirk¡¯s Militia fell to silence, all eyes watching the flight of the spear towards the Great Chief. The gargantuan goblin stood steadfast, snatched out for the shaft, fingers closing as the spear burst through its skull. The creature toppled. Hakon laughed, but his mirth lapsed at the militia¡¯s loud cheer. He worried he had made himself a hero. He knew that heroes died all the time. A goblin horn blared out a shrill note, others followed, and the horde below hurled more stones. Hakon almost considered diving to the wall-walk. He almost flinched at a pair of stones that came close, while the rest went elsewhere, or crunched into the heads of better men. He sighed. ¡°I still can¡¯t be killed.¡± Sam scowled up at him. ¡°What did you say?¡± ¡°Loose some arrows, Sam! You lazy bastard.¡± Hakon unslung his own bow, bending down beside the bucket of arrows. Sam crouched on the opposite side, brows still furrowed. ¡°Aren¡¯t you going to tell the others what to do?¡± ¡°I hadn¡¯t considered it.¡± Hakon shrugged. ¡°You should all fight until you die!¡± He glanced at the dark figures of men, hunched by the walls, peeking and loosing arrows when they could. ¡°They can¡¯t hear me. What¡¯s your excuse?¡± Sam shook his head. He leaned over the parapet, loosing his arrow into a mound of goblins, uncertain which he hit. ¡°They give up after a while!¡± Hakon assured. Goblins writhed at the bottom of the walls, clambering atop one another, growing close enough to see the bewildered smiles on their gaunt faces. Dozens more of their sturdier kin flooded out from the shadowed trees carrying crude ladders. A trio of massive goblins, twice as wide as the gargantuan goblin, lumbered out from forest as well. The Great Chiefs paused at a distance from the main host, standing as spectators amid the blackened ruins of farmsteads. Hakon narrowed his dark eyes. ¡°No, wait. We¡¯re dead.¡± ¡°Ladders!¡± sounded out along the wall, words half-drowned by clambering goblins that screeched and scrabbled in an endless cacophony. Hakon crouched back down. ¡°If you see a ladder, kick it back.¡± Sam nodded, drawing his bow. ¡°I¡¯m not an idiot, you know.¡± ¡°No. No, I don¡¯t.¡± Sam leaned over the parapet to loose another arrow. Excited screeching erupted now a ladder thudded into the wood beside his head. ¡°Look at that, Sam!¡± Hakon excitedly declared. ¡°New plan, though! Grab the end, and we¡¯ll use it to climb down below! There¡¯ll be goblins digging through by now!¡± They took one end of the ladder each, then they hauled it up and across the wall-walk. A pair of surprised goblins still clung to the other end of it, and they hurtled towards Sam and Hakon now the ladder dropped to the town below. Hakon cut through one¡¯s head then reached over and split the back of the other. ¡°Where¡¯s your spear, Sam?¡± He shook his head, and ran over to grab the shaft and horn. ¡°Get down the ladder!¡± Sam started down the rungs while Hakon blew three sharp notes in short succession. Hakon hewed through a scrawny goblin as it clambered over the wall. He repeated the horn sequence, then followed after Sam. Fenkirk¡¯s Militia began their descent of the wall-walk, some as quickly as they could, others tossing dead friends before they fled. The men pulled their own ladders down afterwards, leaving the goblins that clambered onto the walls to stand at the top and squeak in confusion. Sam¡¯s vision shifted as he was dragged to the side. ¡°Careful,¡± Hakon warned. A goblin thumped into the mud beside them both. ¡°They like to shove each other off.¡± He handed him the spear, then lifted the horn again, blowing four notes. Groups of men along the churned ground went to work lifting ropes that were tied to the wooden supports of the wall-walk. Hakon waited until dozens of goblins crowded the wall, then blew four sharp notes. Fenkirk¡¯s Militia heaved in unison to tear the supports from the wall. Wood crunched and goblins screamed. The dozens above tumbled down in a rain of debris and flesh, crashing into the mud with a great thud and clatter. Hakon blew a single long note and Fenkirk¡¯s Militia charged forward. They roared with shared anger while they hacked through jumbled limbs and misshapen faces. Sam stumbled after them, disconcerted by the wet crack of bone and flesh. He looked down at a trapped goblin, whining and writhing, and drove his spear between the frightened eyes. Sam let go of the shaft, bile rising to his throat while goblins thumped into the ground around him, while shadowed men stabbed and slashed at the reaches of his blurry vision. He knew he wouldn¡¯t live out the night. He had to hope that the prophecy had all been a lie, that he had been sent here to die on the sick whim of a charlatan. He prayed to Muradoon, offering up his soul to safeguard his son¡¯s own. Sam looked to the night sky in pleading, barely glimpsing the leaping goblin overhead. 34. Silence 34. Silence ¡°It is the day of Kata¡¯s funeral. The whole town of Horvorr appears to have been put under a spell of silence. The widow himself, a man I had once confused for my elder, looked so very young while he watched his wife burn. Grettir did not opt for a traditional pyre, and instead burned his own boat, which he had once procured at great expense in the hopes that he might fish the Great Lake and put the awful war behind him. So strange to see fear in the eyes of a fighter hitherto fearless. So disquieting to see pain in a warrior who had never worn his wounds before. I realized then that I had always hated Grettir. For being the hero I have long pretended to be.¡± Grettir¡¯s hirsute face had been weighed by a hopeless sort of exhaustion. His wary gaze wandered between the mossy trunks of a gloomy forest. He had only been here once before, after Gudmund took Horvorr and he had been tasked with running down any goblins that managed an escape. He hoped his nightmares were reminders of the slaughter passed, and not some warning of blood to come. He and Sybille had crossed from the plains of Horvorr into the valley forest that led up through the mountains towards Wymount. They had camped in a clearing among the trees. Sybille slept on a bedroll beside the horses, contented in their own rest after having eaten of the greenery. They hadn¡¯t rode in two days because the ground of the forest was uneven, skewered by great roots that would only end up breaking the horse¡¯s legs. Grettir¡¯s heart thumped in his chest for no real reason. He had nothing to fear. But then he did have everything to regret. His life had been a long, long stretch of those. Though it had started fine enough. He¡¯d been a known man in Vendrick. He¡¯d been a guard to a Jarl¡¯s daughter. Like Engli. Only Grettir fought a lot worse and a lot more often. They¡¯d loved him in Vendrick. She¡¯d loved him. He¡¯d stolen Kata from her home, with her blessing, after failing to secure her father¡¯s. And that was all Grettir ever really wanted or needed. Or so he thought. He¡¯d had coin, enough to live by, but his reputation was blackened. And enough to live by didn¡¯t make for a good life, or anywhere near the life of old. Kata had become unhappy. Grettir lost all purpose. If he was honest with himself, he might have even joined up with the deposed Jarl of Weskin because Gudmund was trying to conquer a region where Grettir might find an honorable death. Grettir didn¡¯t. He found a lot of that but not his own. He caused a lot of that but not his own. And those men that came to know him came to love him as well. And, somewhere along the way, Grettir was himself again and Kata was herself again. He had found himself and he had found the woman he loved. And then she said that she was pregnant and all seemed well with the world. He watched her belly swell. He helped her through the long nights. And then, in the final hour, she died. Not like Hilda had. No. Grettir¡¯s happiest day became the beginning of a funeral. And so he was alone. Lost again. But he found some solace in raising his best friend¡¯s children. He had, had a family of sorts. He still had his place among Horvorr¡¯s Guard. He would never love again, not in that way, but that was fine by him. He didn¡¯t want to suffer the false hopes and crippling losses any more than once. But he had suffered them all the same. Not in quick succession as that would have been a mercy. This went the same as his marriage. He got to watch the boys grow into men and then watch the men get torn into corpses. Grettir was shaking. He wanted to vomit or weep but he did neither. He made a mistake betraying Gudmund. He knew that. But he would not watch as another person he loved died. He refused to be a survivor. He couldn¡¯t suffer any more grief or any more guilt. He¡¯d suffered far too much. Grettir tried to cover his face with both hands, which left him half blind. Sybille, still laid on her bedroll, was squinting up at him. ¡°Grettir?¡± ¡°We need to go to, Sybille,¡± he replied without inflection. ¡°Get ready to leave.¡± Grettir struggled up and walked to wake the horses. He hadn¡¯t hobbled them, because they seemed hungry and amiable enough. He thought they might even share some affinity with him, having spent years trapped in Horvorr, to now finally be set free, to feel the earth beneath their feet, smell the forest, and listen to the trees creak in the breeze. But then he wasn¡¯t really free, so he might have just been too tired to tie their legs. ¡°Sybille,¡± Grettir urged, seeing she had closed her eyes. ¡°Sybille¡­? Sybille!¡± Grettir¡¯s harsh voice carried along the forest floor, between trunks, branches and sighing leaves, until it reached the misshapen ears of a monstrous goblin with a burnt and blackened face. Balluk¡¯s strangled roar ripped through the silence of the valley forest. Sybille started awake. ¡°What was that?¡± ¡°Nothing good.¡± Grettir stared into the darkness, hearing the savage echo of that distant call. ¡°Grab your horse.¡± *** Sybille ran out from under the shadows of the valley forest at an unsteady pace. They had crossed onto the flat plain that served as a corridor for the winding mountain routes that led up to Wymount, or offered descent to the villages that fished from icy shores. There were three settlements along the plain itself, nestled into the mountains, protected by low stone walls. Grettir could only hope that Sybille would be able to reach them. He followed behind her, leading a maddened horse. He wanted to calm it, but needed to keep his hand on the reins. He felt sick with the memory of cutting the other horse¡¯s throat, but it had tripped and broken a leg. He couldn¡¯t leave the animal to suffer the scratches and bites of jeering goblins. ¡°Sybille!¡± Grettir shouted after her, urging his horse to a stop. ¡°Come here!¡± ¡°You said¡ª¡± Sybille turned back, wolfing breaths, her face flushed near as red as her hair. ¡°We need to keep running. Not stop.¡± ¡°Good that you remembered, Sybille,¡± Grettir joked, his eyes humorless. ¡°I¡¯m going to tell you to do something now. And I want you to do it.¡± He glanced back to the shadowed trees. ¡°All right?¡± ¡°I can keep running. Let¡¯s keep running. There¡¯s a village not far away.¡± ¡°Too far away,¡± Grettir said. ¡°Even a cripple of a goblin will be on us before we get there. I need you to take this horse, and I need you to go and get help. It can¡¯t carry us both, Sybille, and you¡¯re lighter than I am.¡± The horse rapped hooves against hard ground, struggling against Grettir¡¯s grip. ¡°I¡¯m not leaving you,¡± Sybille answered, ¡°and I¡¯m not riding a mad horse.¡± ¡°It just wants to run, Sybille. It doesn¡¯t care if you¡¯re on its back. And you are leaving me, because you¡¯ll do what I gods-damned tell you to do!¡± He scowled at her. ¡°Now climb on this horse, or I¡¯ll hit you on the head and tie you on!¡± ¡°I¡¯m not going to leave you to die.¡± If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement. ¡°Sybille,¡± Grettir growled. ¡°We¡¯re both going to die if you don¡¯t get on this horse! If you¡¯re worried about me, don¡¯t be. I can survive on foot. I¡¯ve done it before, and I¡¯ll do it again. But I can¡¯t do it if you¡¯re slowing me down!¡± He appeared no calmer than the horse. ¡°Now climb on!¡± ¡°I can¡¯t¡ª¡± ¡°I thought you said you trusted me.¡± Grettir stared at her in desperation. ¡°So trust me.¡± Sybille thought for a short moment before nodding. The horse made a slight struggle as she pulled herself up and onto its back, but it grew calmer when turned to face the sunlit plain of pinks, whites and greys. ¡°I¡¯ll wait at the village north of here.¡± ¡°When you make it to the village,¡± Grettir said, ¡°tell them they need to flee to Wymount. Tell anyone you meet that. Do you understand? This isn¡¯t a joke, Sybille. These people are all going to die if you don¡¯t warn them.¡± Sybille¡¯s fair face grew resolute. ¡°You¡¯ll meet me in Wymount?¡± ¡°Goodbye, Sybille.¡± Grettir smiled in parting, let the reins loose, and slapped the horse¡¯s flank. He wanted to say more. How much he loved her. How glad he was to have watched over her and what pride he¡¯d felt in seeing what a fine young woman she¡¯d become. But the words caught in his throat, and he betrayed himself with a feeble silence. Sybille though, tears in her eyes, turned back to him. She opened her mouth to speak, but a thrown stone struck her square in the head, knocking her down and into the horse¡¯s mane. She teetered, and her sagging arms fell at either side of the neck, anchoring her even as the horse cantered away in panic. A shrill horn sounded from the trees behind Grettir, sending birds flying and small animals skittering across the forest floor. He barely heard more horns blare out, felt no anger like he had when Agnar or Geirmund had fallen. He watched in silence as she grew more distant, as the horse and his goddaughter disappeared into the dawn horizon. *** Balluk kept his mangled iron club at his back as he approached his clan. The porcine goblins had encircled a one-armed man, who seemed to be doing not much at all. ¡°Is he dead?¡± Balluk asked, burnt flesh of his neck still causing him pain. He stepped through the goblins as they scrambled clear. ¡°Are you dead?¡± He poked the manling¡¯s stub arm with a long finger. ¡°Better to answer now before I rip off your head.¡± Grettir snarled, sweeping out his axe, missing entirely because Balluk jumped back. Balluk landed on bony heels and laughed strangled laughter. ¡°I know you, don¡¯t I?¡± He narrowed his ferine eyes. ¡°I saw you at the battle, carving through my clans, carving through cowards. What is your name, one-armed man? Tell me and I will speak of it to others. I will speak of how you died an honourable death.¡± Grettir spat onto the snow. ¡°You¡¯ve no honor to give me.¡± He glared up at a goblin almost twice his height; a misshapen creature of elongated bones and corded muscles, covered by grimy green flesh, shaded with pale scars, dark bruises, and unhealed wounds. Balluk bared yellowed fangs. ¡°He speaks!¡± ¡°Mistook yourself for meat?¡± Grettir nodded to the blackened neck and face. ¡°Overcooked by the look of you.¡± Balluk leaned closer. He smelled of old meat, burnt flesh, and decay. He buffeted Grettir with a long and rancid breath. ¡°Clever. But too much time sharpening the tongue leaves little time for your axe.¡± ¡°You¡¯d know.¡± Grettir shrugged a shoulder. ¡°Stood watching me fight while Ragadin died. Stood watching me fight while I carved through your clan, while the biggest coward was out¡ª¡± He dropped to the floor to avoid a sweeping claw, then rolled off to the side to come clear of a stomping foot. Balluk barked laughter. ¡°Quick. Good that you¡¯re quick.¡± Ferine eyes went wide now he roared at his clan. ¡°Get clear!¡± The porcine goblins stepped back, leaving a large ring of barren ground between Grettir and Balluk. ¡°You knew Ragadin?¡± Balluk reached for his iron club, mangled metal still flecked with scraps of flesh. Grettir nodded, back on his feet with an axe to hand. ¡°He was worth knowing. Not sure I¡¯ve ever heard of you.¡± Balluk grinned. ¡°The name Balluk will be spoken in whispers and screams before this war is done. I¡¯ll put an end to the Fire Giant that slew Ragadin, to Gudmund the Wolf, his brother, the Black, and even Grettir the One Swing.¡± Grettir¡¯s smile was wry. ¡°Brolli is already dead.¡± ¡°Must have gotten old.¡± Balluk grunted. ¡°Who slew him?¡± Balluk¡¯s clan watched the posturing with confused faces, scratching at their flat noses and muttering to one another. ¡°The Fire Giant.¡± Balluk licked at his fangs. ¡°Did Gudmund the Wolf not clamour for revenge?¡± ¡°In a way he did, but the Fire Giant has left Horvorr.¡± Grettir wondered at the goblin¡¯s delay. ¡°Are we going to fight?¡± ¡°I hadn¡¯t thought you¡¯d be in such a hurry to die.¡± Balluk shrugged his bony shoulders. ¡°I sit in company with babbling idiots, and I grew hearing the names of these warriors. Is it so surprising that I would have an interest?¡± ¡°I suppose not,¡± Grettir admitted in his harsh voice, ¡°but I think you¡¯ll be disappointed. Your Fire Giant isn¡¯t much bigger than me, and all the names you¡¯ve mentioned are just the names of men. Men that are getting old. Men who are no longer a match for a monstrous thing like you.¡± ¡°What would you know?¡± Balluk shook his misshapen head. ¡°These are manlings that brought an end to Gahr¡¯rul, that slaughtered thousands of my kind. You mean to tell me they¡¯re no different from you? Some nameless one-armed wretch without honor or clan¡­ beyond that woman, who had her skull broken open by a stone.¡± Grettir stared up as if sorrowed. ¡°My name is Grettir.¡± ¡°Do you think me a fool?¡± Balluk snapped. ¡°Grettir isn¡¯t named One Swing because he has one arm. He is named it because he killed a troll in a single blow, or it was a tree, or a yeti. Either way, whatever it was he hacked or cut, he had both arms about him when he did.¡± Grettir gripped his worn axe. ¡°Balluk the Burnt, I challenge you.¡± Balluk¡¯s eyes widened. ¡°You can¡¯t name me! If you don¡¯t have¡ª¡± He stepped back now Grettir charged him, clear of an axe swing. Grettir twisted away from Balluk¡¯s swipe, hacked at his wrist before he pulled back. He ducked low under the goblin¡¯s other arm, and drove his head up into an open cut. Balluk snarled and tried to grab hold of Grettir¡¯s back, but the man ducked down between the goblin¡¯s bowed legs. Grettir hacked at an ankle, then got sent stumbling by a heel to the jaw. Balluk roared around, sweeping his long club. Grettir leapt back and mangled iron gouged his leather armour. ¡°Stop fighting like a rabbit!¡± Balluk made another wide swing and Grettir leapt further back. He swung down and Grettir stepped clear, then Balluk twisted his great frame, sweeping Grettir¡¯s feet out with the club. ¡°Hah.¡± Balluk brought down the club but the man rolled out of the way. Grettir got to his feet and rushed towards a wall of frightened goblins. They flinched, but then held their ground and grunted. He kicked one out of the way, stepping over the goblin now Balluk¡¯s club ripped through his own clan. ¡°Coward!¡± Balluk screamed. ¡°Stand and fight!¡± Grettir turned, his whole weight behind a desperate throw. He hurled his axe true, but the blade snapped free from the wooden handle, clunking to the ground. Balluk had flinched for the blow, and now scowled in confusion. He laughed at the man¡¯s misfortune, lowering his club so that he had no chance to swing now Grettir charged him. Balluk thought he looked more than the man he had seen earlier, wild brown beard glistening with sweat, scarred skin red, his green eyes wild. He entertained the belief that this was indeed the One Swing. Grettir bulled into Balluk with one arm wide, hoping to drag the goblin from his feet. His head thumped into Balluk¡¯s groin and he stopped dead between the goblin¡¯s legs. Grettir dropped fully to the floor, clear of a clawed grip, and started to saw through Balluk¡¯s heel with his knife. Balluk staggered back, snarling, trying to hop and kick at Grettir. He remembered his iron club, and lifted it up so he could swing it between his ankles. Grettir dived clear when he did, meaning the goblin only ripped bone from his own ankles. Balluk twisted into a circular swing but Grettir ducked under the club. He carried weight on his heels for a lower sweep that Grettir barely leapt over. Grettir tried to straighten from the ground¡ªagony surged through his spasming back. He staggered over to the gargantuan goblin. He only had the strength to grapple at the green and muscular belly. He drove a knife in, replied by a bony fist to the jaw. Balluk watched the hairy manling stagger back and collapse. He swept a disgusted gaze across his clan, then his ferine eyes softened as he looked back to his foe. ¡°Good fight, Grettir.¡± Grettir struggled for breath. He tried to rise but fell forward. Balluk the Burnt dipped his misshapen head in respect. ¡°I will keep the name you gave me.¡± Grettir barely saw the crowd of goblins around him, but knew he was part of a show that he didn¡¯t want to be in. He waited for the blackness to consume him, knew he was headed for the Lady¡¯s Shadow, that there was nowhere else to go when her creatures ate your flesh. And he almost thought that he deserved that fate. He¡¯d been the death of all those he loved. He¡¯d failed to trust his truest friend. So he didn¡¯t move or complain because he had no wish to delay his fate. Balluk the Burnt took a deep breath and stretched his blackened neck. He brought down his club, listened to the thump and crunch. He watched blood pool from the manling¡¯s broken skull, then looked again to his clan, who licked their lips in anticipation. ¡°Gather wood!¡± Balluk commanded. ¡°Build me a pyre!¡± A few argued. Those that did fed those that didn¡¯t. 35. Blood 35. Blood ¡°I have never seen a forest so black or so red. There are so many dead. I slid my way across the forest floor, stumbling on loose limbs, until I found Brolli, colored as the forest was, his chin in his hand as he sat atop a pile of corpses. He said no words at all but I have never seen a man so broken. To this day, I am not sure if it was simply a bad dream. I do know that Brolli refused to fight in any battle after. Gudmund, for his part, has only grown more vicious in his determitation to bring this war to an end.¡± The air in Gudmund¡¯s Hall lay stifling, thick with the scent of smoke and humanity, lit with sparse ruddy light. Five loyal guardsmen stood around Gudmund with torches to hand, making something of a ritualistic scene in the lofty hall. They stood ahead of the sacrificial altar, at either side of the Chief of Horvorr. The gathered people didn¡¯t much comment, most thinking it some odd effort to try to awe or scare people. They stood huddled in tired-eyed groups, with more space than they had at the trial because of the lack of benches and the worse turnout. On the lips of most men and women was talk of fishing, seasons, and simple gossip. They spoke of those things to avoid what they were truly thinking of, what their curious glances and knowing looks spoke to: that Gudmund had gone fully mad and that Hallstein, Aksel, and a dozen other men meant to kill him. Anna stood watching them all from the darkness outside. She had come without her husband, without his blessing. Gudmund didn¡¯t notice her. He didn¡¯t notice much at all. He was still clothed in his bear-fur cloak, almost imposing, but within he felt like breaking. Sorrow had become a part of him like an old tree putting down roots. He was alone now, even with these people beside him. He was alone and ready to die. ¡°Good evening!¡± A communal grumble brought a belated end to conversations. Gudmund squinted out at the crowd of wrinkled, flame-painted faces. He saw over a hundred eyes, all of them glistening, dancing with the flames of five torches. All of them with no hope at all. It reminded him of when he had gone with Brolli to bet on a baited bear. ¡°You¡¯re probably wondering what happened to my benches.¡± ¡°We¡¯re wondering what all this is about!¡± someone shouted in arrogance. ¡°We¡¯re wondering what you¡¯re going to do about the goblins!¡± ¡°Not one of us cares that you decided to move your furniture!¡± an older man put in. ¡°We¡¯re wondering why you don¡¯t just step down!¡± added the first. ¡°Why you don¡¯t let a better man do the job!¡± ¡°Why don¡¯t you just leave,¡± came a third voice, a woman¡¯s. ¡°Go on your way, and leave the men that ain¡¯t mad to leading Horvorr.¡± Gudmund could only smirk. ¡°I¡¯m not mad.¡± ¡°No?¡± The first man laughed, somewhat echoed by the crowd around him. ¡°You look bloody mad to me.¡± ¡°I¡¯m not sure what you look like. Hard to see a man when he hides in the crowd. A little like seeing a mouse when he¡¯s gnawing at your boot.¡± ¡°Believe me,¡± the old man said. ¡°You don¡¯t want us to step forward. What you want to do is leave. Not one man, woman, or child wants you for their Chief.¡± The air grew heavy with unease and tension. Women with children made their way through the open doors. Men who had no cause or leanings stepped back to either wall, whether bare and wooden or blackened and burnt. A few old women were too tired or lazy to move, had seen too many years to bother fearing whether one bastard they didn¡¯t like died, or whether another did. A sorrowful wind swept in through the open doors and set torch flames dancing. ¡°Go on, then!¡± shouted the first man, Aksel. ¡°Any of you cowards not wanting to stand against this mad man get out of the way.¡± Those around him parted, leaving the tall, handsome man standing in the torchlight with a broken-toothed smile. Three groups formed in the poorly lit hall, one at either wall, and a sparsely spaced group of a dozen at the middle. Those armed men faced the six standing in a line ahead of them, blocking the way to Gudmund¡¯s empty chair. ¡°You five should leave as well!¡± shouted the old man. ¡°No sense risking your lives for the likes of him.¡± Eirik barked laughter. ¡°You¡¯re not exactly standing high yourself, Hallstein. You ancient, ox-raping cunt.¡± Aksel scowled. ¡°Hard words are for soft men.¡± Gudmund rested a hand on Eirik¡¯s armoured shoulder. ¡°Why don¡¯t we all settle this in a duel?¡± ¡°Oh, aye.¡± Hallstein¡¯s aged face crinkled with a black-toothed smile. ¡°You¡¯d like that wouldn¡¯t you? Sorry to say, I¡¯m going to pass on that.¡± ¡°It¡¯s me that¡¯s sorry,¡± Gudmund replied. ¡°I don¡¯t want innocent men to die for my crimes, that¡¯s all.¡± He held his fur cloak closed as he strode forward. ¡°I tell you what. A duel, not between me and you, but¡ª¡± Aksel shook his head. ¡°We ain¡¯t fighting pairs.¡± Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. ¡°In honour of Ouro,¡± Gudmund explained, torches wavering behind him, his cloak shimmering with firelight. ¡°Me, alone. Against any and all men that want to face me.¡± Hallstein spat onto the floor. ¡°This a trick? You¡¯re telling me your boys over there¡ª¡± He waved a hand towards the five grim-faced torch-bearers. ¡°Are just gonna stand by while we hack you to pieces?¡± ¡°Haven¡¯t you heard?¡± Gudmund¡¯s smile was sorrowed. ¡°I haven¡¯t got any boys.¡± He took a deep breath. ¡°Now do you want to fight the man you¡¯ve a grievance with? Or do half a dozen other men have to die for the sake of¡­ well, for no sake at all?¡± Ralf stepped forward. ¡°Gudmund.¡± Gudmund glared back at him. ¡°That¡¯s Chief Gudmund, you fat fool. Go mourn your son and wife, and leave me to my business.¡± He heard a boot scuff and an abrupt grunt, so made great effort to twist his body. ¡°I accept!¡± Hallstein¡¯s sword came down near Gudmund¡¯s shoulder, shearing strands from his fur cloak. Gudmund¡¯s vision shifted from burning torches to Aksel¡¯s mad eyes and an axe¡¯s glistening blade. He brought his sword up from under the folds of his cloak, at angle to cleave metal head from wooden shaft. Gudmund slammed his boot into the falling hunk of metal, driving it into Aksel¡¯s boot. Hallstein¡¯s second sword slash was weak but still sent Gudmund staggering forwards. He slammed his head into Aksel¡¯s mouth. A fat man then lunged to drive a spear at Gudmund¡¯s left hip, but the point didn¡¯t puncture the mail rings under his cloak. Gudmund grabbed Aksel by the chest, using the hold to throw him back into Hallstein¡¯s sword thrust. Aksel screamed now metal ripped through flesh. He tripped over, nearly bringing Hallstein down but the old man slipped free from the fall. Gudmund stilled the fat man¡¯s wrath with a glare. A bowstring thrummed and an arrow thudded into his shoulder. He dropped his sword, staggering forward, but managed to grab the wrist of a skinny man, stopping his axe. Gudmund then bulled the man towards the distant wall, grasping his greasy head, sliding his grip to the man¡¯s hand and twisting the axe back on him. The skinny man screeched when the blade sliced into his eye. Gudmund drove him towards a spectator crowd that then parted ways. He shoved the skinny man into the wall, with enough force that the axe crunched through his cheek bone. An arrow buried into the nearby neck of a hunched man. Gudmund turned to throw the skinny man, at Hallstein, who dived clear. He gritted his teeth, watching folk flee in the corners of his vision, watching three armed men marching towards him with sword, spear and dagger. Worse than all that, Gudmund thought, was the chubby woman across the hall who had drawn her bow and was about to stick him dead with an arrow. ¡°Shouldn¡¯t have said that shit about Ouro.¡± Hallstein laughed. ¡°Now any man helps you and they¡¯re cursed by the gods.¡± The chubby woman narrowed her eyes, making sure of her aim in the distant light. So intense was her focus that she didn¡¯t notice Anna standing hollow-eyed beside her, didn¡¯t flinch when the sword swing came. The woman¡¯s throat tightened as if to breath, but the blade was stuck in her neck. Her fingers fumbled and an arrow flew loose into charred walls. ¡°I am sorry,¡± Anna whispered, placing a hand on the woman¡¯s shoulder, using it as leverage to wrench the sword from her neck. Gudmund had been backed into a corner. He smiled in relief seeing the chubby woman crumple to her knees. ¡°Bloody woman.¡± ¡°Call her what you want,¡± the fat man snapped. ¡°My wife still stuck you good.¡± Gudmund frowned at the arrow in his shoulder. ¡°I meant that she¡¯s covered in blood.¡± The fat man turned to see his wife lying in a pool of her own blood. ¡°No,¡± his voice trembled with denial. He shook his head, chubby face twisting with rage, then charged at Anna with his spear gripped for a thrust. Gudmund hurled his axe into the man¡¯s shoulder; he staggered onward, keeping at his charge until his legs collapsed. ¡°That was foolish,¡± Hallstein muttered. Gudmund upturned his palms. ¡°Didn¡¯t want her to risk her life for the likes of me.¡± Hallstein¡¯s lip curled. ¡°She¡¯ll get worse than hurt when we¡¯re done here.¡± He dashed towards Gudmund, made a wide swing to set the fur-cloaked man off-balance. Gudmund backed far enough that the arrow shaft protruding from his back touched charred wood, catching a hold on the uneven surface. He bit down on his tongue. Pain blurred his vision. He swept his arm up and out from the folds of his cloak. Hallstein lurched forward, hearing a crunch now he brought down his sword. He stared at Gudmund, proud face, cold eyes, and unruly hair all in shadows. Hallstein felt frozen, so much numbness between his teeth, an odd fogginess to his thoughts. He stared at his sword, wondering why it wasn¡¯t going down, why it was slipping from grip, why his mouth felt so cold. He wondered why he felt so afraid. Gudmund let go of Grettir¡¯s axe, wedged into Hallstein¡¯s chin, and the old man toppled to the floor. He matched scowls with the ginger youth who had just been meaning to kill him, and could see a rough pair further back that looked ready for violence. ¡°Duel¡¯s over!¡± Anna declared. ¡°Whatever this grievance was it¡¯s settled!¡± The five torch-bearers, who had all shifted for a better view, closed in on Gudmund. Their presence warded off any further attempt and left the ginger man trapped between their naked axes and Gudmund¡¯s bloody hands. ¡°I don¡¯t know what you look like,¡± he muttered. ¡°Don¡¯t care what you look like. So go on and leave and I¡¯ll have forgotten you by tomorrow.¡± The ginger man bowed, and made his flight from the place. Gudmund stood unsteady, pale-faced, his fur-cloaked shoulder soaked with blood. Eirik¡¯s eyes were wide with concern. ¡°I¡¯ll empty the hall.¡± ¡°No.¡± Gudmund shook his head. ¡°Drag the bodies out. I have a meeting I need to finish.¡± He turned to Ralf, who seemed a little angry and a little confused. Gudmund stared for a few seconds, then blinked. ¡°Wanted to fight alone.¡± Eirik and Arfast walked over to take the dead woman, knowing her body was closest to the door. They struggled with the weight and cursed the decision. Gudmund sniffed, his eyes a little drunk and meandering. He noticed people were leaving. ¡°This isn¡¯t over!¡± He glanced back at skinny man behind him, face broken open by an axe. ¡°This isn¡¯t over¡­¡± He took a long breath, and shivered. ¡°Do stay!¡± ¡°Gudmund.¡± Anna placed a hand on his shoulder. ¡°You¡¯re bleeding.¡± Gudmund noticed her standing ahead of him, cold beauty buried under shadows. ¡°We¡¯re all bleeding.¡± ¡°No.¡± She shook her head. ¡°It¡¯s just you.¡± 36. Underground 36. Underground ¡°Though I rarely speak of those years, there was once a time when I was condemned to a life in the mines of Timilir. I remember the boy of those days, how he had ventured out in so brave and fearless a fashion. Then I see my own reflection, the damage dealt by a weak hunger and a strong thirst, and I wonder where that boy has gone. Would he sit idly by, sending expedition after expedition only to have no news? Or would he charge blindly forward into the unknown and discover that which he is looking for? I tell myself that I stay only for Hjorvarth¡¯s sake. I know what it is to live as an orphan, and if I get lost in the snow he will have no mother or father to guide him. Perhaps my true fear is that he will be better off without me.¡± Hjorvarth walked with rope around his waist, tied tight, looped around the Sage, and again onto Engli. He could not see, but he could feel the cold walls brush his shoulders, and had to stoop because of the low roof. He walked slow, so that he didn¡¯t overstep into some hole or chasm. He had to keep his shield ever ready ahead of him, as well, so a creature didn¡¯t leap out from the blackness and skewer him through the heart, which he thought an odd warning given the Sage¡¯s assurance that they were alone. That hadn¡¯t stopped the hissing though, or the clacking, or what sounded like a distant beat of wings. They had heard songs and screeching, mad noises washing over them as they crossed from one black place to the other, from stonework corridors and structures to uneven tunnels until they reached a cavern that offered echoes which spoke to lofty height and endless width. Hjorvarth paused at a rocky ledge, scuffed stones falling in silence until they landed with a distant rattle as if a league below. ¡°Are we standing next to a bloody great chasm?¡± Engli asked. The Salt Sage chuckled. ¡°That¡¯s why we have the rope, Engli.¡± Hjorvarth began pressing his feet around him, in search of a continuation of the rocky bridge they had followed. A cacophony of unearthly noises began above, around, and below them, as if hundreds of predators had been wakened by the conversation. ¡°There is no way forward,¡± Hjorvarth¡¯s deep voice cut through the growing din. ¡°Unless you mean for us jump.¡± He smiled in disgust, scowling into the darkness now hidden creatures began to growl and screech. Each man had to hold his footing against drafts of air. The ground beneath them shook as great-weighted creatures clambered across the cavern walls. ¡°Say your prayers, Engli,¡± Hjorvarth suggested. ¡°To no man¡¯s surprise, the Sage has led us to our death.¡± Engli closed his eyes, whispering. He prayed for his parents, for Sybille, and for Horvorr. ¡°Check again,¡± the Sage shouted. ¡°I am sure it carries on!¡± He snapped his fingers: golden luminescence erupted into the cavern, revealing walls crawled or perched upon by hundreds of creatures ranging in size from a hand to a house. Hjorvarth saw much before the light faded, but discounted the sights as tricks of his mind, unable to reconcile the monstrous variety of life on momentary show. Despite his disbelief, he hurled his axe into the darkness, where he had seen a winged beast poised to strike at Engli. Metal ripped into flesh. A hateful wailing shook the air around them. Engli¡¯s blood froze, but opening his eyes to the darkness did little to avail his fears. ¡°It really does end!¡± the Salt Sage shouted in genuine astonishment. Engli held his shield to his chest, which was then struck. He was forced back from the ledge and into the chasm. ¡°We should¡ª¡± The Salt Sage began, ripped away by the weight. Hjorvarth was dragged forward, but he kept his footing. He couldn¡¯t hold the weight of both men swinging below for long. He gripped his knife, brought it to the rope, but had no heart to cut Engli loose. Stone cracked underfoot. The precarious path collapsed. *** Hjorvarth smashed into icy water, desperate and senseless while the cold pressed in on his lungs. He thought that he had died, gone to the Lady¡¯s Shadow, where he would forever relive his struggle in the lake with Brolli. Hard ground pressed against his heels and his sloshing arms thumped into a wet robe. ¡°Swim!¡± came the Sage¡¯s garbled advice. Hjorvarth¡¯s boot brushed into a fallen man. He reached down despite his failing breath, hauling the body with him now he struggled up. A gloved hand gripped him by the collar, pulling until he broke into the open air above. The Salt Sage and Hjorvarth pushed Engli out of a stone-walled pool and onto the paved ground below. Hjorvarth frowned in confusion and tried to rub the icy water from his aching face. He had sight of a neatly-walled city of stone, which reminded him of Timilir. It had been built within an enormous cavern, the approach illuminated by hanging brass-made lanterns and standing silver-wrought torches. ¡°I don¡¯t,¡± he began, pausing at how close the place had come to silence. He clambered out of the fountain and water splashed onto the paved road. The Salt Sage lay over Engli, switching between pushing his chest and, by all accounts, kissing the man. ¡°Sage?¡± Hjorvarth asked, his tone disconcerted. ¡°What¡ª¡± Engli choked, shuddered, and spluttered. He tried to breathe, gagged, and rolled over with help of the Sage. Hjorvarth watched with a mix of confusion and relief as the blond man retched water. ¡°Sage,¡± he repeated more forcefully. ¡°I want answers.¡± The Salt Sage pushed up to his feet, brushed off his wet robes, and paced as if to stretch his legs. ¡°To what?¡± ¡°We are not where we were.¡± Stolen story; please report. ¡°Yes¡­ we fell.¡± ¡°We fell into the largest chasm I have ever seen,¡± Hjorvarth countered, ¡°and landed in a pool of water little deeper than I am tall.¡± ¡°When you put it that way, I¡¯m as confused as you are.¡± The Sage upturned his gloved palms. ¡°Perhaps we did fall into a chasm¡­ and then we landed on a slope, which ferried us down to the safety of this¡­ place.¡± He swept a hand out to encompass the torch-lit city of stone. ¡°Your guess is as good as mine. Do you have a guess?¡± Hjorvarth stood in silence, his stony face edged by red light. ¡°Who are you?¡± ¡°Who am I?¡± The Salt Sage laughed in good humour, bending on one knee to slap the recovering blond man on his back. ¡°Who are you?¡± ¡°I am the son of a loving mother who died young,¡± Hjorvarth answered in all severity. ¡°Of a disgraced hero, who I knew more as a man that favored his own drinking above the happiness of his son or wife; who risked all and lost all, but survived all the same. I am at times, like my father once was, an angry and petulant bastard of a man. At others, as my mother was, quiet and thoughtful. But what I am, above all else, is a man who has no love of liars. So tell me who you are, Sage, and what you are about, or I will break your neck and have an end to this.¡± The Salt Sage murmured as if in deliberation. ¡°I am a servant of the gods.¡± ¡°Which?¡± Hjorvarth asked. ¡°The Helmsman or a heathen deity? There is nothing godly about you, Sage. You say no prayers, you do not reflect. You walk and talk and act with little concern for anyone. As if to worship Tomlok is to rely on haphazard foresight and make decisions without thinking. And I have never heard of any Salt Sage who could click his fingers for a source of a light or to move us from one place to the other, as you did in the forest, and as you did just then.¡± ¡°I serve all the gods, save for Death.¡± The Salt Sage let out a slow sigh. ¡°As to who I am, would you have me mimic your own answer? My mother died giving birth to me and my father was a gambler. A very bad one. I had some talent for making bets though, which began to even out his losses. I suppose he was glad of my talent¡­ and also jealous, because despite all the wealth I had made him, he felt compelled to bet on his own instincts, which ran contrary to my own. That was the debt and death of him, the orphaning of me¡­ and, I suppose, the beginning of my life. Now would you have me go on, or can we be on our way?¡± ¡°To where?¡± Hjorvarth asked as accusation. ¡°Is the Hall of Hrothgar buried beneath our feet? Or is it in that settlement of stone?¡± ¡°This city is simply another way through, as was the path I meant to take before I found it broken.¡± ¡°And how is it you have a place as dark and twisting as this so well mapped?¡± ¡°I suppose the answer,¡± the Sage said lightly, ¡°given our predicament, would be that I don¡¯t.¡± ¡°No?¡± Engli asked, his voice hoarse. He struggled up from the floor. ¡°You¡¯ve led us for days, Sage. To the place with the rope. To a stream of clean drinking water in absolute darkness. You even gathered food. So either you know this place better than I know my own home, or you¡¯re doing things that no ordinary man should be able to do. Which makes me want nothing more than to echo the question of who you are.¡± ¡°Well¡ª¡± The Salt Sage stretched his arms behind his back. ¡°Since you¡¯ve so caught me, I suppose I might as well own up to being Joyto the Trickster.¡± ¡°So says the robed man,¡± Hjorvarth growled. ¡°So says the servant of Tomlok. So says the servant of Mubarrak. So says the man who has no name. Who has magic and sees things before they happen¡­ though never enough to have us go happily on our way.¡± He shook his head. ¡°You are either a very clever man, Sage, or the world¡¯s luckiest fool. Who, or what, guides you? Why this path? Why Jorund¡¯s Hill? And what is it you are of a mind to find?¡± ¡°I follow the path that the gods set for me. As I always have, as I always will. As to this path, I didn¡¯t want to use it. Despite what happened, the other way was safer. Jorund¡¯s Hill houses the only sound tunnel into this place, and I¡¯m of a mind to find¡­ a hall. And as I have often said, I¡¯ve come to save Horvorr, and I¡¯ll be sorely disappointed with any outcome other than that.¡± Engli shook out his sodden clothes. ¡°If you had no mind to come here, how would you even know the way?¡± Hjorvarth scowled at the silent city. ¡°And in what way is this place not safe?¡± ¡°At a guess?¡± The Salt Sage upturned his gloved palms. ¡°A war was fought here some years ago. Not an honest one, more of an effort at collapsing tunnels that served to channel air. He laughed a sad laugh, and ambled towards the torchlight. ¡°A quiet night was that, of soundless sleeping.¡± *** The paved road led to three curved archways, where the gates lay open to darkness. Each structure of stone rising above the wall appeared close to untouched, banded with gleaming metals for adornment, wrought with narrow windows that allowed a view of the three disparate companions as they approached. The Salt Sage paused at the main gate, which had been plated with gold, etched with a scene of combat between tall goblins and small men. ¡°First rule of a haunting,¡± he mentioned to the men at either side of him. ¡°Don¡¯t get separated. Once you¡¯re on your own, you¡¯re on your own.¡± Hjorvarth and Engli shared irritated glances and followed the robed man into the silent city. ¡°Do you really think that this talk of spirits¡ª¡± Hjorvarth found himself abandoned on the shadowed road. ¡°Engli¡­?¡± He had the cavern wall at his left and a row of stone homes on his right. Two tall torches burned at either side of the gate behind him, which was now barred by a banded door. ¡°Engli?¡± he yelled, his voice echoing back at him. ¡°Hjorvarth?¡± asked a distant shout. ¡°Where are you both?¡± ¡°I may have gravely misjudged our situation!¡± the Salt Sage¡¯s melodic voice sounded at a distance between both men. ¡°Keep forward! And remember that this is all a matter of¡ª¡± A shrill scream pierced through the darkness. ¡°Perception! There appear to be creatures here, as well! So some of it is more a matter of physicality! Try not to die, is¡ª¡± An explosion rocked the air, shaking the foundations of the city. Stone cracked and collapsed with a slow groan and an upward plume of chalky dust. ¡°Stay where you are, Engli!¡± Hjorvarth reasoned that each man had arrived at one of the three entryways, but he needed to understand his surroundings, so he strode towards one of the sturdy homes. He used all his weight to try and kick the stone door open. And bounced back onto the hard ground. Hjorvarth groaned, struggling back to his feet. He had done little more than mark the stone with a muddy boot print. He ran over to the gate, trying to pull a torch from the ground, but gave up after it proved no less resilient than the door. He readied his knife and shield, then marched forward into the darkness. *** Engli gripped a silver torch near the banded gate; mechanisms clicked, then the tall shaft lifted free. He thanked Joyto for the luck, and made his way to the stone home on his left. He hoped to look out the window to search for his companions, but could see no handle on the metal-adorned door. He pressed one palm into the stone and it swept soundlessly inward. He strode towards the stairs, stumbling at the sight of four desiccated corpses, each seated at a low stone table. Engli reached for his axe, holding his breath despite the lack of a smell. He searched each of the downstairs rooms, but found only bare furnishings, gleaming adornments, and metal plates etched with scenes of family or battle. He wished that Hjorvarth were with him, or even the Sage, or Linden. He struggled to think of any others that might be happy to help him. Grettir, perhaps, and Sybille, but the fact that he only had one man his age willing to support him gnawed at his heart and pride. He thought it yet another mark of him being a poor man, though he was in some ways proud of himself, to have ventured out here, to be exploring this mysterious place as any true hero might. He crept up the stairs, trying not to look at the dead family, shivering all the same. He could only hope he would live to return to his own home and they would all be living and happy to see him. Engli stepped into a low bedroom that seemed suited for two short folk. There were no shutters, only clear glass that reflected the blurry flame of a silver torch. He set that aside, then peered out the window. He had view of a wide street below and what might have been the main archway, though now it was a pile of crumbled stone, warped metal and shattered wood. A triangular plaza began where the street forked, and ended at the columned entryway of a towering building. It had been adorned with many monuments, of men and weapons, made of metal, minerals or stone; stalls were arrayed in two neat rows; and it housed the foundations of a robust cannon which faced the gate as if in defense of the place. Engli saw neither of his companions amongst the shadowed plaza. He worried that he was being watched from the row of homes opposite, but each time he checked he found only the mirrored luminescence of his own window. Engli felt glad of that, despite the chill crawling up his back. 37. Interloper 37. Interloper ¡°Despite my legend reaching heights not heard of since the likes of Ragni the Red, I can¡¯t help but feel, in some small way, something of a false facer. I walk through crowds who smile and cheer, and I brush shoulders with the rich and powerful. I speak with the brave leaders of fighting brotherhoods who treat me with respect and as if we are equals. Yet I suspect it all for show and that I never really left the stage. But rather have gone from being a bard on odd evenings to performing at every hour of every day. Perhaps the truest test of all will come soon. I have met a woman. Sibbe. She is the daughter of the Jarl of Timilir. Thrand has always treated me with kindness and hospitality, but I have long suspected hatred shining behind his eyes. We will soon see how he truly feels when I ask for Sibbe¡¯s hand in marriage.¡± Hjorvarth strode through a gloomy plaza that reeked of smoke. He walked down the row of statues and sculptures, wondering why anyone would put in such effort to make oddly proportioned men, or to so faithfully create weaponry that was too huge to be of any use. He had no love for this cavern city. And in truth hoped more than anything that he would wake, but he drew the bitter conclusion that this had been too long to be a dream. He would not return to a simple life that he was glad for. He would not wake to see Sam or Isleif. He would never live a day without the weight of knowing he had caused the death of Brolli. He knew it as weakness to have such a fierce desire, to want so badly, to go back to the way things used to be. He had prayed a dozen times to wake the day of the duel on Jarl Thrand¡¯s Estate. He prayed to have stayed, to have forgone the offers of Geirmund and Agnar to ferry him away. He knew he had killed a man who deserved to die, so he should have kept to honour and waited to accept the coming judgement. Hjorvarth hoped to live through his journey, and if the gods did not will that, then he would make best effort to safeguard Engli instead. He would not allow another man he had sworn to protect to die a bad death. He noticed something behind a stall. A lovely black-haired woman in a white dress. ¡°Greetings, my¡ª¡± Hjorvarth ran as she did, then chased her out of the plaza and into the paved streets. ¡°Wait, I mean you no harm! I have been separated from my friend!¡± She moved faster than he thought possible, despite her short stride. He lost sight of her now she turned behind one sturdy building and then another. Hjorvarth slowed to a stop at the middle of an abandoned crossroads: fronted by a set of four stone buildings, each diamond shaped with sheltered porches. A brass lantern hung under each archway, suffusing a smoky golden glow that made the haggard visitor a man of four shadows. Hjorvarth felt eyes on his back, so searched the overlooking windows. A shadowed man stared down at him, eyes lambent behind the gleaming pane of glass. Hjorvarth blinked and the visage disappeared. He frowned as if more annoyed then disconcerted only to see the white-dressed woman stood ahead in the darkness. ¡°I¡ª¡± Hjorvarth began but she vanished. He shook his head, then turned away. A standing corpse blocked his path, grimy teeth spread into a grin. Hjorvarth swung his fist through the air, but it met with nothing. He kicked out and span around, his eyes wild as he searched the silent crossroads. ¡°Show yourself!¡± The door ahead of him swung inward. ¡°Engli?¡± he shouted, waiting for the echo to fade. ¡°Sage?¡± Hjorvarth decided to leave the place, only to realise that all four paths looked the same. Endless rows of stone homes adorned by metal. He noticed that all four doors had opened to the crossroads, but he could see no discernible difference between the darknesses within. ¡°Walk through no doors that are opened for you,¡± Hjorvarth invoked. He ran the way he was heading, to a crossroad made the same, with four doors open to darkness. Hjorvarth ran to another crossroad, then another, and another. He changed directions and came to another crossroads. He doubled back, and tried a third direction, meaning to run to the cavern wall, but only ended up at more crossroads, each time seeing the ceiling in the same place and the structures at all sides of him the same. Hjorvarth bent to his knees to catch his breath. The three doors he could see swung closed. He sucked in air as he straightened. He felt hungry and exhausted, cold despite overwhelming heat. ¡°Eleven Elders watch over me in this unholy place. I will brook no trickery of the spirit or the mind. I am a man of the gods. There are no ghosts in this world, only memories that haunt our minds,¡± he assured himself. ¡°Muradoon rend the divide, and free me of disillusion.¡± ¡°Odd words from a spirited man,¡± came an ancient voice in a language that he did not understand. Hjorvarth turned. ¡°You are not real.¡± A man both broad and short stood in the doorway, armoured in shining steel, gauntleted hand clasped on a masterwork silver axe. ¡°Why do you speak as a goblin?¡± ¡°Goblin?¡± Hjorvarth asked, knowing that one word. ¡°I need to find my companion.¡± He left the armoured man behind only to find him standing in the doorway at the next crossroads. ¡°Keep going,¡± the stranger suggested. ¡°You¡¯ll surely not succumb to insanity.¡± *** Engli crept through the shadowed streets, keeping his tall torch high and ahead of him. Stone walls took to a dull sheen and decorative metal gleamed as darkness melted under the firelight. Engli felt he was being watched, or followed, no matter how many recesses he searched. He would check behind him often enough, seeing no one, and still feel a presence at his back. He knew, as well, that he had walked long enough to find the plaza, but had seen nothing beyond endless rows of silent houses. There were no doubt dead families in each. A whole city under their feet that everyone had forgotten in Tymir. He considered going in and taking something with him, as proof, but didn¡¯t want to disrespect the fallen by stealing. He wondered if all those he cared about would soon suffer this same fate. Silence reigned on all sides, broken only by his shallow breaths and timid tread. He felt nervous, but more than that he worried he had turned mad, or that this was all an illusion, so he slowed to a stop, shifted his weight, and hurled the torch off into the darkness. Silver clanged against stone and the shaft rolled until it stopped amid an abandoned crossroads. Engli laughed in relief. He would have charged forward were it not for the blue-dressed woman ahead of him. Her hair had been darkened by blood and plastered to her pallid face. Her nose appeared twisted and broken, her cheek scabbed and bruised. ¡°Sybille¡­?¡± ¡°Engli?¡± Sybille swayed where she stood. ¡°Where¡¯s Grettir?¡± Engli could only shake his head. ¡°I¡¯ve gone mad,¡± he muttered. ¡°But I¡¯m not going to fall for a trick so simple as this!¡± This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings. ¡°The gods are watching,¡± intoned a gruff voice from behind. Engli¡¯s blood froze even though he recognised the speaker. He gripped his axe as he turned, expecting to see the hirsute man who had taught him how to fight. Grettir¡¯s skull had caved inward. Reddened flesh curled with smoke, blackening, as if burnt by unseen flames. He reached out. ¡°They watched me fall.¡± *** The Salt Sage had been forced to his knees, hands behind his back bonded by bone manacles. He had been placed in a cage, also wrought of bone, which stood amid the raised platform of an octagonal amphitheater, wrought from grey stone, with seven tiered benches beginning on the floor above. Darkness wreathed the ground floor¡¯s tall walls. Dozens of well-dressed corpses watched from the public benches. The Salt Sage only had view of the royal balcony ahead of him, where a regal man in blue-and-red dress stared down at him, his decayed elbows leaning heavy on the stone balustrade. ¡°This all seems quite unneeded!¡± ¡°I would agree,¡± the King replied with disinterest, shifting his elbows and straightening. He stood squat and short, as did all his people. ¡°Yet I¡¯ve no time nor desire question the sense or actions of a man who forces his way into the realms of death only to then wish to take his leave.¡± ¡°I wish to speak with your master,¡± the Sage said. ¡°This is not a thing you would understand.¡± ¡°He has heard you. All said here has reached his ears. And I have given you your judgement. A thousand years you will sit in that cage for violating this place, and then your punishment will be revisited.¡± ¡°What of my companions?¡± ¡°What of them?¡± He turned away from the balcony, tattered cloak draping behind him as he made his way to an blood-stained throne of gold and gemstones. ¡°They should have died from the fall, and now they will stay here until the want of thirst remedies this incongruity.¡± He regarded a diminutive black-clad man beside his throne. The scribe sat on crossed legs and all around him lay a scattered sea of tattered paper. ¡°Scribe.¡± The King raked finger bones against a flaking cheek. ¡°Record¡ª¡± ¡°I would speak with your master!¡± the Sage demanded. ¡°I will not allow this!¡± ¡°Allow?¡± he shouted. ¡°This is my domain! And if you believe that the master is afraid of you¡ª¡± He paused, then strode towards the end of the balcony. ¡°He has given an answer. He says, I am not who you think I am.¡± ¡°Who else would you be?¡± the Sage snapped. ¡°He says, existence does not revolve around your family. He asks, why are you in the Quiet Isles? He asks, why do you wish to begin a new war with the Small King? He asks, how did you allow yourself to be so easily tricked? He adds, I took great pleasure in the horror on your face when you stepped through the gate.¡± ¡°I am here to save Tymir.¡± A chorus of chuckling began from the watchers of the tiered benches. ¡°By my own guess,¡± said all of those gathered in an eerie and reverberative unison, ¡°you are late. The prospected dead rise ever higher.¡± ¡°I was delay¡ª¡± ¡°Yes,¡± the gathered dead agreed. ¡°Dominic of the Karlish Empire caught you on the open sea. All hands lost. It would appear you are making a habit of being caught unawares. Gone from a long swim to a long fall.¡± ¡°You destroyed the path?¡± ¡°No,¡± came the emphatic refusal. ¡°Otherworld wizards meddling in my affairs.¡± The spectators shared a sigh. ¡°There are too many conflicts. Conflicts within conflicts. Shadow wars, webs woven over webs. I thought I drove them away before they achieved their goals¡­ how was I supposed to know they came only to break a path that is never even used.¡± ¡°So set me free, and I¡¯ll be on my way!¡± ¡°To what end?¡± asked the crowd. ¡°Events precede more clearly without your meddling.¡± ¡°Because I wish nothing more than to leave this world. So if you want to be rid of me, then let me out of this cage. I am soon to return home. I swear that to you, and I swear, as well, that if you do not set me free then I will¡ª¡± ¡°What?¡± asked the King alone. ¡°I shudder to think, and so your sentence must be extended to eternity.¡± ¡°My threat was ill-judged,¡± the Sage assured lightly. ¡°Let me make a bargain!¡± ¡°I am afraid a bargain has already been made,¡± came the collective answer. ¡°The Otherworld wizards are here for you. I know not where you came from, Interloper, but you have made for yourself very powerful enemies.¡± ¡°If Tymir falls the Karlish Empire will conquer this world. They will advance, they will cure death! And without me, Dominic will remain here. He will find you, and he will kill you. He will not rest until he has found me.¡± Humour less laughter sounded out in response. ¡°And now you make threats on behalf of other men.¡± ¡°Surely you of all people should want war?¡± the Sage shouted. ¡°War is bad for business. The more men die the less men are born. My game is the longest of all.¡± ¡°So you would cast aside the last region that truly worships you?¡± ¡°Those barbarians worship a false name and their own likeness. In the end all men must kneel at the altar of death.¡± Ahead of the Sage, a small stone door shuddered as if struck, then swung soundlessly inward. The flame of a silver-wrought torch bayed back the darkness now a huge man strode forward with a masterwork axe in his hand. The Salt Sage grabbed at bone bars. ¡°Break the cage, Hjorvarth!¡± A golden chandelier, hung with lanterns, flickered to life at the top of the eight-sided hall. Golden luminescence flooded into the darkness, revealing the healthy faces of fanciful spectators. ¡°Halt!¡± ordered the well-garbed King in a regal tone. He had a full black beard and bright blue eyes. He waved towards the ceiling. ¡°If you step further, your companion will die.¡± Engli slept above, dangling from a rope wrapped around his feet and the chandelier. ¡°That is an illusion, Hjorvarth!¡± the Sage shouted. ¡°Set me loose and we will find Engli. Hack through the bone!¡± ¡°You have broken into our realm!¡± the King decried. The spectators murmured and gasped in shock or horror. ¡°You have attacked one of our guardians, and violated a place most sacred.¡± He smiled a benevolent smile. ¡°Yet I believe you have been led here by mistake. By this man, here, whom we have rightly imprisoned for his trickery. So if you agree to leave him in our care, then I will allow you and your friend to leave in peace.¡± ¡°You are a ghost,¡± Hjorvarth shouted as accusation. ¡°Your promises have no worth.¡± ¡°Would that not put us on equal footing with the robed man, then?¡± The King chuckled. ¡°In this realm it is you who is the ghost, Hjorvarth, son of Isleif. By happenstance alone did you force your way in here. You will never escape without my blessing. This is my realm, and I rule here. Do you truly wish to die for this man? Do you truly wish for your friend to die for his sake, as well?¡± ¡°Hjorvarth,¡± voiced the spectators in somber unison. ¡°You are in one of the spirit realms. You should have died from your fall, but the man with you has manipulated your arrival so that you are still living. This is a defilement beyond measure, and so I cannot let him go. But if you so wish it, I will send you from here. You will wake the day you visited Timilir, before the duels at Jarl Thrand¡¯s estate. The sons of Gudmund will live again. You can take more caution on the Snake Basin Path. All the wrongs you have committed will be righted.¡± ¡°And who would make such lofty promises?¡± Hjorvarth asked. ¡°Do you¡ª¡± ¡°I am known to your people as Muradoon the Spirit Talker. It is not a small thing to usher your spirit back in time, but it can be done. And it would be no less difficult to have you wake before you entered the caverns, or on any other day. So I would leave the timing of your return up to you.¡± ¡°And what of Engli? What memories would he have of this?¡± ¡°None at all,¡± the voices answered. ¡°As Brolli would have none of his drowning.¡± ¡°And does the Sage suffer in your custody?¡± Hjorvarth pressed, not truly caring of the answer. ¡°He will not¡­ but the man is a danger to himself and those around him. He will stay here for eternity, for the betterment of all. And that is a thing that cannot be changed, or bent, or broken.¡± Hjorvarth swept a hateful gaze across the elevated spectators. ¡°If that is true why would you fear my intervention?¡± ¡°I do not fear you,¡± they answered in chorus. ¡°I only wish to offer you a chance to live the life you deserve.¡± Hjorvarth smiled in wry disappointment. ¡°I stand here living the life I deserve. And I may have no doubts at all that you would happily place me in a dream eternal where all wrong in the world is righted¡ªwhere I am not a fool or a murderer¡ªbut I know for fact that that is not my world, or a lie that I can stomach. And I will not allow those in the waking life to suffer atrocities for the sake of my own happy delusions. I trust no ghosts, and I open my own doors.¡± The Salt Sage laughed a joyous laugh as the spectators screamed in anguish. Hjorvarth charged forth with the masterwork axe, passing through dozens of illusory soldiers, paying no heed to the ethereal image of his own white-dressed mother, who watched her son, shaking her head in muted and tearful sorrow. Silver split bone with a crack. Hjorvarth woke to find himself falling towards darkness. 38. Seeking Counsel 38. Seeking Counsel ¡°I have packed my things. I am giving up. I almost lost my wife today. I had only just discussed funding a larger expedition with Brolli, when she came to tell me she was leaving. To tell me that she was taking the boy and heading back to Timilir. I had to beg her just to take me along, to allow me even a chance at redemption. I have promised her that I will stop my search for the Hall. But I cannot stop. I cannot watch her decline when there may be a secret in those mountains that will save her. I will return to Timilir, make my peace with Jarl Thrand, and have Brolli seek out the Hall of Hrothgar in my stead. Once Sibbe returns from the lake with Hjorvarth, we will leave Horvorr and be a family again.¡± Isleif sat wrapped in a long pale blanket, nestled amid nets and baskets that lay huddled in the corner of Linden¡¯s home. He had narrowed his owly brows, watching while husband and wife went through the preamble of a meal. Isleif thought there was something different about the ritual today. Linden wore the same sweat-stained shirt as the days before, but he now sat hunched at the table with a tenseness to his muscular shoulders. Anna wore a clean dress, pale blue with a plain tunic, but Isleif dismissed the change of clothes, thinking her choice to stand apart by the oven was odder, thinking it odd, as well, that she kept such a tight grip on her wine cup. He suspected a tacit agreement between husband and wife, where they had decided to only look at one another with a frown or scowl. ¡°Secret,¡± Isleif murmured, staring down at a woven basket as if in deep trust. Anna walked over to an open fire, fitted with a frame for a cooking pot, which simmered with the smell of onions and fish stew, joined by the wholesome scent of fresh-baked, if not slightly burnt, bread. She drank from her wine, and used her free hand to pick at her fingernails. Linden sighed. ¡°I just¡­¡± Anna watched the blackened cooking pot. ¡°Just?¡± ¡°That you would murder a woman, Anna.¡± Linden¡¯s shook his head in frustration. ¡°How could you¡ªwhy would you do that?¡± ¡°How many times are you going to ask?¡± ¡°You haven¡¯t answered it. Not once.¡± Linden stared at his wife. ¡°I understand that Gudmund was going to die. That none of his guards could help him. What I don¡¯t understand is why that meant you had to help him? Why you thought it would be a good or reasonable idea to cut a woman¡¯s throat in his defense?¡± Anna¡¯s cheeks were flushed, her blond hair slick with sweat. ¡°It wasn¡¯t her place to use a bow in a duel.¡± ¡°Is that it¡­?¡± ¡°She killed a man that wasn¡¯t even fighting.¡± ¡°And that man was a close friend of yours, was he?¡± ¡°She,¡± Anna said, slowly, ¡°had no right. None of them did. They didn¡¯t even wait to hear Gudmund out. Didn¡¯t want to. They came there to murder a man and take what was his, without even the courage to fight fair. They weren¡¯t even going to finish him, just pin him in and have the woman stick him with another arrow.¡± ¡°Gudmund chose his odds,¡± Linden reminded. ¡°And is it really your place to enforce rules of a duel in a town like this? What do you think happens when Gudmund dies at someone else¡¯s hand? Someone who is friends with the men and woman you helped kill?¡± Anna scowled. ¡°Hard as it might be for you to fathom, husband, there are people in this world who would hold to honour, rather than grapple for a few more meager years.¡± ¡°I¡¯ve lived quite long,¡± Isleif mentioned, his eerie voice throwing them both. ¡°Meager years. Maybe I should have held to honour instead.¡± He sighed. ¡°The bread is burning, I think. And you both seem very odd today, very off, if you don¡¯t mind me saying.¡± Anna turned to the smoking oven. She scrambled for a cloth and a flat-ended iron tool, and then scooped up the burnt mound of bread. Isleif craned his wrinkled neck to look over the table. ¡°It is burnt,¡± he confirmed. ¡°You¡¯re not wrong, Isleif,¡± Linden said. ¡°Do you want to come sit up here for something to eat?¡± Isleif narrowed his milky eyes in suspicion. He stared at Linden for a long time, while Anna set the bread on the table, cut it and let the steam rise out, while she moved over to the cooking pot to spoon bowls of fish stew. ¡°Do I have something on my face?¡± Linden asked. Isleif offered his broadest smile. ¡°Knock at the door.¡± ¡°What?¡± A wooden thud sounded from the door. Isleif struggled up. ¡°I¡¯ll answer.¡± Twin knocks, louder than the first, rattled a pair of cloth- and bone-adorned strings that hung near the door. ¡°No need,¡± Linden said, rising, stopped when his wife rested a hand on his shoulder. ¡°Anna?¡± ¡°Eat your food.¡± She set a wooden bowl ahead of him, floating with strips of pale flesh, billowing with steam. She walked by the oven, reached up to the rafters for her sword, and waited for the old man to dodder over to the door. Isleif carried forward as quickly as he could, struggling not to trip himself on his pale blanket. ¡°I¡¯m almost there!¡± He glanced nervously back at Linden and Anna, worried they might steal his duty, relieved now he entered the doorway¡¯s short corridor. He struggled with a length of wood that sealed the door, but eventually lifted it free and let it clonk to the ground. He pulled the door inward, squinting now his eyes adjusted from hazy light to the cleaner noon day. He wasn¡¯t sure what he saw when his vision had settled, a thing made of metal perhaps, made of plates that shined red, with a monstrous metal face, with great horns, and an iron-hafted axe at its gilded belt. ¡°This Linden¡¯s house?¡± Gudmund asked, sweating beneath heavy armour. ¡°By the gods I bet I look a fool in this. Last time I listen to that mouthy prick,¡± he muttered. ¡°Well, old man? Do you think this makes me look¡­ imposing?¡± ¡°Shiny, is the word.¡± ¡°Shiny?¡± Gudmund¡¯s eyes narrowed. ¡°Well you look like a pale old ghost. Who are you?¡± The frail man offered his hand. ¡°Isleif.¡± ¡°Isleif the Bard?¡± Gudmund leaned closer. ¡°Aren¡¯t you supposed to be dead?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t think so. My son looks after me¡­ I haven¡¯t seen him in a while. Have you?¡± Gudmund met the question with a pause. ¡°He¡¯s not called Ottar, is he?¡± Isleif shook his head, wispy hair floating in the air. ¡°Hjorvarth.¡± ¡°Really?¡± Gudmund asked, laughter in his voice. ¡°Maybe Grettir was right when he said I don¡¯t know enough about the folk who live here.¡± He shrugged under his armour. ¡°I¡¯m surprised a man as rail thin as you had a son as big as that. Though that¡¯d explain why Brolli took him under his wing.¡± Isleif frowned. ¡°Hjorvarth¡¯s only a small lad.¡± ¡°What? Well, maybe I¡¯m thinking of someone else.¡± ¡°Maybe you are.¡± ¡°Maybe you¡¯re a distracting old fool.¡± Isleif beamed. ¡°Where¡¯s Linden¡¯s house?¡± ¡°If you don¡¯t know just tell me, and I¡¯ll be on my way.¡± ¡°Is that blood on your armour?¡± ¡°No, you old fool, it¡¯s been¡­ painted? Stained. I don¡¯t know. It¡¯s the metal plates.¡± Gudmund shook his helmeted head. ¡°If you really are Isleif the Bard, then the gods are a lot crueler than I thought.¡± Isleif furrowed his owly brows. ¡°I thought you didn¡¯t believe in the gods, Gudmund?¡± ¡°What?¡± ¡°This is Linden¡¯s house.¡± Isleif bowed and stepped back. ¡°Would you like to come in?¡± ¡°Fine¡­ but if you¡¯ve some foul trick in mind, then you might want to wait for a man that isn¡¯t armed and armoured.¡± ¡°Come and sit at the table, Isleif,¡± called Anna, placing her sword back on the rafters Isleif ambled over, holding his blanket above his ankles. He sat down opposite Linden, where a plate, mug and bread had been set. Gudmund stood outside the door, looking into the hazy entryway. He kept a grip on his axe as he entered, letting it go when the three seated turned to look at him. He jangled with metal, ready for war. ¡°Gudmund.¡± Linden stare had no warmth. ¡°Odd clothes for autumn. Any season, really.¡± Gudmund grunted. ¡°I¡¯m dressed for the weather where strangers try to kill you.¡± Anna sipped from her wine. ¡°Here I was hoping you were going to tell us you were dressed for swimming.¡± ¡°He would drown,¡± Isleif cautioned. ¡°I think that was the point, old man,¡± Gudmund said. ¡°Bit of an odd one given the other night.¡± ¡°Oh.¡± Isleif nodded. ¡°Did you two sleep together?¡± Linden raised an eyebrow. ¡°She killed a woman for him.¡± He frowned at Gudmund¡¯s shoulder. ¡°You¡¯re bleeding.¡± He sighed. ¡°The armour is red.¡± ¡°A little.¡± Linden nodded. ¡°Not as red as that. Just take off that fool helmet and look at your shoulder.¡± ¡°It¡¯s a good helmet.¡± Gudmund lifted it up with both hands, revealing pale cheeks and sweat-slick red hair. ¡°Because who wouldn¡¯t want horns that get caught when you try to duck? Or used as handholds by whoever tries to kill you next.¡± ¡°If you¡¯re so damn good at making helmets, why are you pissing your days away making horse shoes?¡± ¡°Aye.¡± Linden rolled his eyes. ¡°All that time I¡¯ve wasted making shoes for the two horses in this town that just got stolen.¡± ¡°Well I¡¯m sorry for not knowing every detail of your life,¡± Gudmund muttered. ¡°I swear, everyone in this town has turned into a rude bastard overnight.¡± He frowned at Isleif, who stared and smiled. ¡°Except for him. And I don¡¯t much like the way he¡¯s acting, either.¡± Anna laughed with false sympathy. ¡°Have they hurt your feelings, Gudmund?¡± ¡°Aye, as it happens, they have. I came here to ask you whether you wanted to help me save this town, and you and your husband only want to insult me. This old man seems bent on making me feel uneasy, and that cook fire is making me sweat.¡± Gudmund shook his head, hair plastered to his creased brow. ¡°Whys it so gods-damned hot in here, when it¡¯s always freezing in my hall?¡± Isleif shrugged under his blanket. ¡°It could be a sign of a haunting.¡± He noticed the stew before him, and then his spoon. ¡°The only ghosts in this world are men like you,¡± Gudmund replied. ¡°Is this bastard really supposed to be Isleif the Bard?¡± ¡°That depends.¡± Linden scowled. ¡°Is the rude cunt bleeding on my floor Gudmund the Wolf?¡± This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings. Gudmund met the sentiment with baffled laughter. ¡°Fair point. Now are you going to help me or not?¡± ¡°You haven¡¯t even told us what you want.¡± ¡°I need someone to make horse shoes.¡± Gudmund smiled. ¡°Or helmets, or nails or whatever I happen to need for the battle. It turns out the old bastard that tried to kill me was Horvorr¡¯s blacksmith. What kind of luck is that?¡± ¡°So you¡¯ve come to me because I¡¯m better than a dead man?¡± Linden asked. ¡°Don¡¯t go making boasts just yet,¡± said Gudmund. ¡°And, no, I came to see Anna, but then you started mouthing off about my helmet and I remembered you can work a forge.¡± He shrugged and armoured plates scraped. ¡°So I thought since I¡¯m here, I better ask. Thought you¡¯d have nothing better to do since there¡¯s no work coming in. And you¡¯ve a bit of a vested interest, as well, given that if I don¡¯t have a horseshoe maker we¡¯ll probably both end up dead.¡± Linden raised his blond brows. ¡°To think I used to wonder how you made all your neighbours hate you.¡± ¡°If you¡¯re working for me you¡¯ll need to be less cryptic than that.¡± ¡°And what is it you came here to see me for, Gudmund?¡± Anna asked. ¡°Other than to ruin our meal, and give us all a headache?¡± ¡°It¡¯s this damn heat giving you headaches.¡± ¡°No.¡± Isleif looked up from his meal. ¡°It¡¯s good to be warm.¡± ¡°What?¡± Gudmund scowled at the old man. ¡°Wait¡­ I remember what happened to you. And now I feel like a fool for not just sending you off to Jarl Thrand. If I¡¯d have known you¡¯d turned this cracked, I¡¯d have took the coin with a smile.¡± He chuckled. ¡°Must be in your family¡¯s blood, old man. Pissing in Jarl Thrand¡¯s porridge, I mean. Your boy Hjorvarth killed his son.¡± He laughed again, but one memory followed another and he was soon dwelling on the deaths of his own children. ¡°Gudmund.¡± Anna snapped her fingers. ¡°Much as I think you¡¯d make good company for Isleif, what is it you want?¡± ¡°Ralf wouldn¡¯t lead Horvorr¡¯s Guard,¡± Gudmund said. ¡°I want you to.¡± Linden coughed as he drank his ale. Anna¡¯s eyes narrowed. ¡°You want me to lead Horvorr¡¯s Guard?¡± ¡°Did I stutter, or are you hard of hearing? Because I don¡¯t want you leading if you¡¯re deaf.¡± ¡°I heard you. It¡¯s just a terrible idea. If we¡¯re about to be attacked then I don¡¯t have time to deal with restless men that don¡¯t know or respect me.¡± She fixed him with a cold look. ¡°So how¡¯s about you stop being a lazy prick and just do it yourself?¡± ¡°No need to act like I stabbed your sheep,¡± Gudmund chided. ¡°Is that a joke, Gudmund?¡± Linden growled, rising from his chair. ¡°Are you a complete idiot, or did it slip your mad man¡¯s mind that you sent our son off to die?¡± He reached for the knife at his belt. ¡°My wife might think this town needs you, but I don¡¯t.¡± ¡°Where¡¯s your faith?¡± Gudmund asked, taking a step back. ¡°They¡¯re on a quest for Tomlok. He wouldn¡¯t have been any better off in Horvorr. There won¡¯t even be a town for him to come back to if you¡¯re not making¡ª¡± ¡°Say horseshoes, and I will stab you in the throat.¡± ¡°Enough, husband,¡± Anna urged, but Linden walked forward. Isleif stepped up from his chair and blocked the way. ¡°Finish your food, Linden.¡± Linden glared. ¡°This man sent my son to his death.¡± Isleif held Linden¡¯s hateful gaze. ¡°And mine as well, I think.¡± Anna paid the two men no mind. ¡°If you want my help you can have it,¡± she said to Gudmund. ¡°But I won¡¯t lead this town for you. You lost your children, and that¡¯s sad, but it doesn¡¯t give you the right to be a useless bastard for the rest of your life.¡± ¡°Fine.¡± Gudmund smirked. ¡°But I was a bastard before I lost my sons, you know.¡± He put his horned helmet back on. ¡°Everyone seems to have forgotten that.¡± ¡°I haven¡¯t,¡± Linden assured, before returning to his seat. Gudmund suffered sudden desperation now he departed. ¡°Horseshoes.¡± Straining old wounds trying to close the door, he growled in agony. ¡®Bleeding,¡¯ he thought. ¡®Had to be bleeding. What the hells am I even doing? Lost too much blood. Too much of my damn mind. Even got corpses telling me I look a fool. Too damn simple to remember sons and fathers. So simple, so hated that I go to the parents of Engli the Coward asking for help. Should have let that old blacksmith kill me. Should have just stood there and let him stab me in the back. Get it over with a clean cut. Instead of feeling so feeble, bleeding grey and shivering to death.¡¯ ¡°Gudmund.¡± Isleif stood ahead of the open door. He offered a warm bowl of fish stew. ¡°You forgot this.¡± ¡°That¡¯s your dinner, old man,¡± Gudmund assured. ¡°I don¡¯t even like fish. So go back inside and swallow it down.¡± ¡°I poured and brought this bowl for you.¡± Isleif bent down and placed it on the dirt road. ¡°Take it or leave it.¡± ¡°Old man, you¡¯re¡ª¡± Isleif ambled back into the house, his blankets lifted above bony ankles. Gudmund sighed. He had to bend down on one knee and cause more pain in his shoulder to scoop up the bowl. ¡°I don¡¯t like fish.¡± He walked back towards his hall, then turned back to Linden¡¯s house, not noticing the ginger youth in pursuit. That man slid back behind a storage shed. He listened to heavy metal footfalls and risked a glance around the corner when they paused. Gudmund had taken off his helmet and stood looking down at his hands. Frodi shifted his aim from chest to head. ¡°Laykia hold my aim.¡± He bit down on his tongue, and watched the arrow hum loose. ¡°Muradoon take his soul.¡± A wooden crack startled Gudmund, ripped the bowl from his lips and showered his cheeks with splinters and stew. He frowned at empty hands, then noticed the ginger man by the storage shed, aiming another arrow. Gudmund sighed with wry disappointment. He closed his eyes. He remembered a day in his father¡¯s hall, near Weskin. He could feel Brolli standing at his left, Grim standing at his right. They wore fine clothes in those days, and they were young, and didn¡¯t know enough about life to care. He saw the stone walls at night, saw Brolli crying, saw the girl bloodied, saw the hate in his eyes. He had tried to stop his little brother, had meant to, had helped him take revenge in the end. Gudmund wondered whether the dead would be glad to see him. He wondered what was taking so long. ¡°Told you not to walk about on your own,¡± chided Eirik¡¯s high voice from behind. Gudmund opened his eyes to see Arfast near the storage shed, standing over a decapitated corpse. *** A snowflake floated down to land on a young woman¡¯s broken nose. Sybille opened her eyes to a world blurrier than she remembered. Her breaths sounded louder and stony ground now seemed to grow in doubles and fold back in on itself. She winced at the sudden aching in her face. ¡°Gressir?¡± Sybille¡¯s swollen lips marred her words. She probed with her tongue and tasted blood. The horse beneath her spluttered, brown fur glistening with sweat and powdered with snow. Sybille tried to turn. She slipped, fell, and landed on her elbow. Her teeth clacked together in abrupt agony. She crumpled to the floor and sucked in harsh breaths, trying to remember what had happened, seeing Grettir¡¯s determined gaze before¡­ nothing. She could hear him shouting words in his harsh voice, unclear and unintelligible. ¡°Syb¡¯,¡± Agnar¡¯s voice said from above. She looked up and saw her roguish brother, clad in a green shirt and fine dark trousers. ¡°You need to get up, little sister. You¡¯re not safe here.¡± ¡°He¡¯s not wrong, Sybille.¡± Geirmund stood beside him, taller and broader. Sybille¡¯s oldest brother reminded her of Grettir and Gudmund both. ¡°You need to have someone see to your wounds. It looks like you took a hard hit, and you¡¯re still bleeding.¡± Sybille frowned at her brothers. ¡°You¡¯re both dead.¡± ¡°Exactly.¡± Agnar offered his wolfish grin. ¡°And we don¡¯t want you to end up like us.¡± ¡°Get up off the floor, Sybille,¡± Geirmund commanded, his voice like iron. ¡°Your horse is done, you¡¯ll need to walk.¡± Sybille struggled up, her brothers seeming more real than the barren ground around them. ¡°Where¡¯s Grettir?¡± ¡°We don¡¯t know,¡± both answered. Agnar reassured her with a smile. ¡°I do know you need to get away from here, Syb¡¯.¡± ¡°Check the saddlebags,¡± Geirmund said. ¡°Grettir wouldn¡¯t leave without some supplies.¡± Sybille stumbled over to the saddlebags and the horse huffed at her approach. ¡°Careful,¡± Agnar said, walking over. The animal dipped its head under his palm. ¡°I used to love this horse. Fed it every day. I even named it Marlo.¡± ¡°Ignore him, Sybille,¡± Geirmund suggested. ¡°What¡¯s in the bag?¡± ¡°Rope.¡± Sybille pulled it out from the open bag, coiling in a pile by her feet. ¡°Just rope.¡± ¡°Did Grettir leave in a hurry?¡± Geirmund asked. He looked to Agnar. ¡°There might not be any water.¡± ¡°Snow¡¯s falling, anyway,¡± Agnar said. ¡°Just stick your tongue out, Syb¡¯.¡± Sybille pawed at the horse¡¯s flank to get over to the other side, grabbing its tail as she passed. ¡°Easy, Marlo.¡± Agnar brought his head close to the horse¡¯s own. ¡°It¡¯s just Syb¡¯.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t understand,¡± Sybille¡¯s voice shook with grief, tears welled in her eyes. ¡°Are you two really here?¡± ¡°No.¡± Geirmund shook his head. ¡°Agnar is just saying things that you already know.¡± ¡°Maybe.¡± Agnar smiled. ¡°Maybe we made a deal with a one-eyed god, and he told us not to give the game away. Saddlebags either way, Syb¡¯. You don¡¯t want to test Geirmund¡¯s patience. He hasn¡¯t had the stomach for that ever since the troll swallowed half his torso.¡± He squinted up at the snowy sky. ¡°I just had a thought, you know, Geir¡¯. I sent Hjorvarth away, and then I died. He ran to you, and you sent him away, and then you died.¡± ¡°What?¡± Sybille asked. ¡°How would I know that? I didn¡¯t know that. I was in the¡ª¡± ¡°People hear and see things they don¡¯t understand when they¡¯re waking,¡± Geirmund said. ¡°But now you¡¯re hurting, Sybille, and your mind is playing tricks on you.¡± ¡°Moral of the story, Syb¡¯, if you¡¯re in a fight, stand next to Hjorvarth.¡± Agnar laughed to himself. ¡°Really though, saddlebag.¡± Sybille blinked at the leather saddlebag ahead of her. She untied it, and reached inside. ¡°Careful,¡± Geirmund said. ¡°If it hasn¡¯t been packed by Grettir, then there¡¯s a knife in there.¡± Sybille matched stares with her brother over the horse. She thought that he seemed sad, despite the stillness of his proud face. She probed into the saddlebag, feeling the long hilt of a knife, and the softer fabric of a pouch. ¡°The suspense is killing me, Syb¡¯. What have we got?¡± Sybille reached in with her other hand and took both items out. Geirmund¡¯s eyes narrowed on the knife. ¡°Father must have really annoyed Grettir to have him leave without thinking.¡± ¡°Yeah.¡± Agnar shrugged. ¡°Also, father? Gudmund is a cunt. Call Grettir uncle by all means, but I won¡¯t have you giving credit where credit isn¡¯t due.¡± ¡°If he is¡­¡± Geirmund gritted his teeth. ¡°A cunt. Then like father like son.¡± ¡°That¡¯s awfully honest of you. Good that you know yourself.¡± ¡°Enough,¡± Sybille pleaded. ¡°Are you just here to upset me? To fight like you always did?¡± ¡°Boot your knife, Syb,¡± Agnar suggested. ¡°Scoop up some snow and put it in your mouth.¡± ¡°Open the pouch, Sybille.¡± Sybille sighed and fumbled with the string that sealed the pouch. She took her knife and cut it open, hearing the rasp of glass amongst the tearing. She saw a scrap of paper, not paying attention to her brothers. Agnar and Geirmund exchanged serious glances. ¡°What¡¯s in there, Syb¡¯?¡± ¡°I can¡¯t read it.¡± Sybille pulled out a short letter and a glass vial, murky liquid sealed with wax and blocked by a stopper. She started to scrape the wax away with the knife, breaking the seal. ¡°I¡¯m thirsty.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t drink that, Sybille. Go and find some snow, like Agnar said.¡± ¡°I say go for it, Syb¡¯. It looks nice and¡­ green.¡± Agnar watched her struggle with the stopper. ¡°Use the¡ª¡± It popped free. ¡°Good work.¡± Geirmund stepped forward. ¡°Sybille, you don¡¯t even know¡­¡± She swallowed the liquid. ¡°¡­what that is.¡± Sybille¡¯s throat burnt as it went down, but it made her feel stronger, made her vision straighten. She blinked and Geirmund was gone. ¡°He had to go, Syb¡¯.¡± Sybille looked over to Agnar, her panic fading now she saw her younger brother¡¯s familiar grin. ¡°Time for you to ride your horse.¡± ¡°But Geirmund said¡ª¡± ¡°Can you just trust me this once? It hurt me you know, every time you took his advice instead of mine.¡± Sybille thought he was trying to tell the truth as a joke. ¡°I¡­¡± ¡°I trust this horse with my life.¡± Agnar stroked the mane of Marlo. ¡°That¡¯s probably not much of a marker. I trust him with your life, Syb¡¯. So get on.¡± Sybille took a few long breaths to steady herself, sour taste still clinging to her throat. She walked over to the horse, thought it odd that Marlo stood so calm. She clambered up and over, seeing where her blood had stained the fur. ¡°Good work.¡± Sybille looked down at her melancholic brother. ¡°I miss you, Agnar. I miss you both.¡± ¡°I know you do.¡± Agnar smiled sadly. ¡°That¡¯s why we came.¡± He waved his hand to the grey and white horizon. ¡°Ride that way. There¡¯s a village up there. You¡¯ll see it when you reach it. You¡¯ll know it by the smoke.¡± ¡°All right.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t ride too hard.¡± Agnar watched as she began at a slow trot. ¡°And, Syb¡¯¡ª¡± Sybille turned to him. ¡°Look for my journal when you get back home.¡± Sybille frowned, but her brother was gone. She shivered with the cold. The wind swept a cloud of dust past where Agnar once stood. Marlo carried his rider for nearly an hour, as the snow fall grew thicker, at times close to blinding. Sybille sagged forward against his neck, tired and exhausted, her red hair and broken cheek flecked by fat flakes of snow. Then they came clear of the weather all together, and Sybille¡¯s clothes clung to her aching skin, trickling with cold water. Marlo¡¯s powerful strides sent spray flying from his own coat, and helped to dry her. Sybille saw smoke in the distance, at least a dozen dark columns. She worried she might be seeing double again, but carried on towards it. She thought that Grettir might be there, remembered that he had said he would meet her somewhere, or she had told him to meet her. Dizzy and nauseous as she was, she paid no mind to the burnt walls or the remnants of fire. She didn¡¯t worry that some of the men appeared to have misshapen bodies, darker skin, and stood twice as tall as the others. She didn¡¯t question why the villagers were walking in an orderly line, away from their village despite the cold weather. Marlo reared up amid dozens of imprisoned villagers and a savage goblin clan. An old man raised his chains. ¡°Run, girl! Run!¡± Sybille barely heard the horse¡¯s horrific squeal. Her world tumbled around her. She saw her brothers as she fell. 39. Fallen Brother 39. Fallen Brother ¡°Two days in, and we have met with disaster. The well-loved sons of The Mayor of Fenkirk have been savaged by a rogue yeti. I have never seen an animal attack a man with such blind purpose. Sam the Storyteller is dead. Hakon the Hero lived up to his name by butchering the beast, even after it had clawed through his face. He has not long to live, so I have sent a party to bring both brothers back home. Despite their assurances, I do not expect those who go to take the boys will ever return. I could see in their eyes the fear that this expedition is cursed. I can see that fear in every man with us. I wonder if they see it in me.¡± ¡°Sam?¡± Hakon asked. ¡°Sam!¡± Sam murmured on the ground, opening his eyes to a blinding blue sky. He squinted, and gagged at the smell of spilled filth and rotting meat. He reached out for a handhold, but caught hold of slippery flesh instead. Hakon frowned down in distaste, making his scars appear all the worse. ¡°You¡¯ve just put your hands in a man¡¯s innards, Sam.¡± He offered his hand. ¡°Here, I¡¯ll help¡ª¡± He jerked it back. ¡°The other hand, Sam. I¡¯ll help you up by your clean hand.¡± Sam groaned on the floor. He managed a drunken effort at holding out his other hand. ¡°Careful now,¡± Hakon said, pulling him up. ¡°You fell down in the thick of it. There you were one second poking goblins with your spear, and then the next you were gone. And then the wall was gone¡­ and well, I wanted to save you, Sam, I did, but then I decided it was better to save myself and come back for you later. Spare you the Lady¡¯s Shadow at the least.¡± Sam swayed where he stood. ¡°Where am I?¡± Hakon scrutinised Sam, paying no mind to the wreckage of the wall behind him, broken open to the corpse-littered forest beyond. Goblins still squirmed and screeched around them, broken in the ditches or skewered on stakes. The sun baked the churned ground, heating up festering flesh and lending a new stink of death to Fenkirk. ¡°You¡¯re not wounded, Sam,¡± Hakon said, almost as a warning. He jabbed a finger between Sam¡¯s eyebrows. ¡°Look at me, Sam. I don¡¯t abide weakness in my militia. Not even in you. So¡ª¡± He slapped him hard across the cheek. ¡°Snap yourself out of it. And follow me.¡± Sam blinked down at the ground, his head lolling. He only kept standing by Hakon¡¯s grip on his shoulder. He started to notice the mutilated man by his feet, ripped open at the belly, his innards chewed. He looked farther afield, but he could see no mud, only a layer of dead goblins, misshapen and broken, missing limbs. ¡°There¡¯s so many dead.¡± Hakon barked laughter. ¡°I lost thirty men, Sam. And we killed what? A few hundred? That¡¯s not many. That¡¯s nowhere close to what we need. I lost my gods-damned wall, Sam. I made another, sure, but it¡¯s not so good as the old one, is it? And now I¡¯ve had to give half my town away.¡± He grumbled quietly to himself. ¡°It doesn¡¯t matter, Sam. Come on.¡± He dragged him along, glaring back whenever the lanky man slipped or tripped on a corpse. Ahead of them was the rest of Fenkirk, most of it hidden behind a makeshift wall of hammered boards and upturned carts. The barrier stretched from one end of the log wall to the other, bolstered by lines of ditches, fences, and stakes. The dirt gleamed in places as if swords and spears had been buried into the earth. Sam saw how few buildings the town had left. A sprawl of obstacles, a few tall buildings, and a scattering of homes. ¡°It¡¯s all gone.¡± ¡°What did you expect, Sam?¡± Hakon snapped. ¡°That I¡¯ll leave homes standing for goblins when their owners are long dead?¡± He shook his head. ¡°I don¡¯t accommodate ghosts. It wasn¡¯t even my idea, you know. The Mayor wanted it done after what happened to Horvorr¡¯s Guard on the Snake Basin Path. He¡¯d been talking to the Bone Lady you see, and she¡¯d made him awful frightened. The uproar, Sam. The uproar of it when we started forcing people out their houses.¡± ¡°Hakon!¡± a blond lad called. He stood waiting in the wide gap at the middle of the makeshift wall. He looked no older than fourteen years, but had a grimy sword at his belt, and a battered shield on his back. ¡°The villagers are getting restless. They want to talk, or see what¡¯s happened, or leave the workshop.¡± ¡°Boy.¡± Hakon dipped his head in greeting. ¡°Tell them that I¡¯ll¡ª¡± A shrill horn sounded in the distance. Hakon let him Sam go, but he caught his balance. ¡°Did you hear that?¡± The sound rang out again, soon joined by other horns. Sam thought it a much quieter chorus now they were away from the old wall. Hakon let out a long sigh, his scarred face lax, his dark eyes truly miserable. ¡°Boy,¡± he said to the blond lad. ¡°Tell them I¡¯ll talk to them this evening. But keep a guard and let no one out¡­ and do pass word we need to mount another defense.¡± The boy ran off down the churned road towards Atli¡¯s workshop, which was the widest structure of those left standing. ¡°Sam.¡± Hakon placed a hand on his shoulder, and smiled. ¡°I need to sort some things. Run along that side of the wall, and look for the old man that looks like a Trapper. Tell him I want flames if a demon comes in. You understand?¡± Sam nodded. ¡°Then why aren¡¯t you running?¡± Sam ran along the makeshift wall, noticing then that it had been comprised of any houses that stood along the intended line. Those houses were missing a back wall, which gave view of the men that kept watch on the battleground from open shutters. Young men and old men. Men with different cuts of hair and beard, men who had shaved all clear to avoid being dragged or grappled. The remnant militia sharpened weapons, spoke nervously, or prayed, not to Brikorhaan for glory in battle or an honourable victory, but to Muradoon instead, begging that the One-eyed God would spare them the Lady¡¯s Shadow. Sam slowed to a stop at the end of Fenkirk¡¯s log wall, not having seen any man that stood out as a trapper. They all wore the same stained blue shirts, muddied coats of mail, and padded wool. Most appeared filthy and exhausted. ¡°You,¡± said a wary voice from above. ¡°You got a reason to be standing about?¡± Sam looked up to the remnant wall-walk, seeing a pair of fur boots. He stepped back, getting view of the old man above him. The man wore a tight-fitting jerkin, brown-colored and trimmed with fur. He had a bow on his back, five small blades at his belt, and a knotted string around his neck, adorned with teeth and a bone-carved idol of Laykia the Huntress. ¡°Are you the trapper?¡± Sam asked. ¡°Did Hakon send you?¡± the old man asked and Sam nodded. ¡°Then I¡¯m the man you¡¯re looking for. What did he say?¡± ¡°He said he wants flames¡­ if a demon comes in.¡± ¡°Speak up!¡± the Trapper shouted, his own strained voice struggling with the growing din of squeals and horns. ¡°He wants flames!¡± Sam repeated. ¡°If a demon comes in!¡± The Trapper barked laughter. ¡°I know that! Tell him I ain¡¯t stupid!¡± He lifted the bone-carved idol to his lips. ¡°Wish me luck, Goddess of The Hunt.¡± ¡°What?¡± Sam asked, but the man had turned, so he ran back the way he had come while boys hurried past him handing out arrows as they had before, though there seemed to be a lot fewer to go around. ¡°Weapons!¡± Hakon¡¯s harsh voice roared in the distance. ¡°If you want something to throw!¡± He stood at the head of a cart, piled with axes, spears, swords, and daggers. The leather-capped man from the armoury stood beside him. Hakon started shouting at the man, who gathered up weapons in his arms and ran over to hand them out to the broken houses. ¡°Sam!¡± Hakon smiled now he approached. ¡°What did the Trapper say?¡± Sam watched the gap in the mismatched fence as goblins poured in through the old, broken wall. ¡°He said he already knew.¡± ¡°He knew?¡± Hakon¡¯s frown made his scarred face ugly and vicious. ¡°Then why did you bother running down there to tell him?¡± Sam glanced at him but remained silent. ¡°Never mind,¡± Hakon dismissed. ¡°You¡¯re with me, Sam.¡± He drummed his fingers on his own shaved head. ¡°We¡¯re all dead, I think. All dead. Ah well, what can you do about that? Nothing, really. But I think we should fight all the same. If something¡¯s going to hack you to pieces you might as well join in on the fun.¡± He smirked in good humour. ¡°Agreed?¡± ¡°Agreed,¡± Sam found himself saying, his lips curling into a fatalistic smile. *** Sam clutched at a spear, treading purposely forward. Smoke choked the maddened night and the air stank of cooked flesh. He had fought alone in a town lit by distant fires, spared not even the kindness of silence. Horns had been blown for all the hours passed, ringing in his aching ears, rising with each wave of goblins that charged through the broken walls of Fenkirk. Sam had witnessed an enthusiasm that he could he only describe as childlike. The goblins would be happy, excited, until someone hacked off a limb, until they broke a bone, or stepped onto the jutting blade of a buried sword. Then they became like scared children, wanting nothing more than for the stakes to change, wanting nothing more than to flee and be healed. He had seen that in the light of day though, when the makeshift wall still held unbroken. Goblins had since clogged the ditches, brought down the stakes with mass alone. They had clambered over the crates and carts in such a number that Hakon sent half the men to guard the workshop. Sam wasn¡¯t sure that the goblins would even go there. He morbidly wondered if the night now hid a town full of goblins cowering in corners, whimpering and wounded. Sam slowed to a stop now he drew in sight of the weapon cart. Goblins covered the ground around it, bodies stretching back towards the gap in the makeshift wall as if a wave ran out of water. A goblin clambered onto the cart beside him. Sam lurched forward and skewered it as it landed. He tried to kick the body off but the shaft snapped. He opened his mouth to curse, but he was thrown back. His head thumped into the mud. He glimpsed a rounded face before claws raked at his cheeks. He lashed out and stabbed the broken shaft into flesh. The porcine goblin choked, groping at a bleeding neck. Sam forced the weight off. He struggled to his feet. He reached for the knife at his belt, only to find it wasn¡¯t there, then made an effort to sprint to the weapons cart, which made a slung spear slap his back. He slowed to a stop near a small goblin chewing on a dead man. Sam kicked it in the head, feeling a weak skull crack underfoot. He considered the discordance of his compassion in thought and cruelty in practice. ¡°Get in here!¡± a gruff shout broke his disturbed reverie. Sam turned to see a handful of haggard men guarding a broken home. Three with battered shields, two with bloodied spears. They looked at him if they thought he was as mad as they seemed hopeless. ¡°Come on,¡± the oldest urged. ¡°You¡¯re going to die out there.¡± Sam glanced at the surrounding roads, where goblins scrambled forward into the abandoned town. ¡°I need to fight.¡± ¡°Longer you live, longer you can fight.¡± ¡°I¡¯m supposed to find Hakon.¡± This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there. ¡°Come on in, then.¡± The youngest laughed, his tired face caked with blood. ¡°You can see him through the shutters.¡± The arrayed militia men parted when the barkeeper stepped forward. He crossed into the broken home to find two more men sat within: one that beaded with sweat, his arm so twisted and chewed that it would need to be hacked off; another that slumped in stillness, a bloodied shirt stuck to his gut, both arms slack at his sides. The floorboards were coated with dark blood that hadn¡¯t spared the walls. Fires raged beyond the square frame of the window. They writhed in straight lines that divided the battlefield where ditches had once done the same. Sam realised that the smell of burnt meat was rising from goblin corpses. Dozens of living figures scampered and ran along dirt that was layered in their dead kin. ¡°I don¡¯t see him,¡± Sam¡¯s didn¡¯t hear his own voice. ¡°I don¡¯t see Hakon!¡± The old man turned him by the shoulder. ¡°He¡¯s there.¡± Sam squinted and realised that one of the figures was a man covered in black blood. ¡°How do you know it¡¯s him?¡± ¡°How do I know?¡± the old man asked in disbelief. ¡°Who else would it be?¡± ¡°He¡¯s been shouting his brother¡¯s name,¡± a calmer voice offered. ¡°I saw him lead a mad charge with some other men,¡± the old man muttered. ¡°He just happens to be the only one still standing.¡± Sam pressed his palms onto the sticky window frame. ¡°We need to go and help him.¡± ¡°We don¡¯t need to do anything.¡± ¡°We go out there,¡± the young man said, ¡°then we¡¯ll just end up dead. He¡¯s fine because all of the goblins that pass by are too terrified to fight him.¡± Sam watched in silence. He wasn¡¯t afraid, but he didn¡¯t want to get in the scarred man¡¯s way. Hakon stalked like a dark monster amid the raging flames. He kept a brisk step with two glistening daggers in grip, carving into necks and thighs as smaller figures struggled to get away from him. A larger goblin tried to stand and fight, but the man weaved and slashed until the goblin crumpled under the blades. Hakon went on like that, on and on, until he was sliding and stumbling on uneven footing. Sam was mesmerized by the play of light and the senseless slaughter. He startled when a goblin clambered through the window. The old man skewered its skull. ¡°I knew that was going to happen,¡± he snapped. ¡°If you want to stay here, then guard the window. Or go back and wander the town. But I won¡¯t have you taking up space like a gormless fool. Do you¡ª¡± A strangled roar ripped through the night air, bringing the horns to silence. Hakon paused amid the killing field now a gargantuan creature approached, stride made odd by bowed legs. Sam struggled to reconcile the size of the goblin. He wasn¡¯t sure if he could even name it that. It wasn¡¯t broad or bulky, only green flesh and thick muscle stretched over a hunched frame that would tower over any man. Hakon appeared as a child in its shadow. He laughed, and clashed his daggers. ¡°I am Magaruk, Great Chief of the East!¡± the gargantuan goblin declared in a primal voice that Sam was surprised to understand. ¡°You ended my brother the night before last, and I have come to revenge him. Do you accept my challenge?¡± Hakon searched the burning fields around him, where goblins of all appearance watched in silence. ¡°Of course!¡± Sam was both fearful for the scarred man, and supremely glad the ravaged town had turned quiet. He let out a slow sigh and clambered through the window. ¡°They¡¯re in a duel, you can¡¯t¡ª¡± A furious roar cut through the old man¡¯s voice. Sam glimpsed blades gleaming amid piled corpses and blood-soaked footing. He had to slow his stride while Hakon and Magaruk closed in the distance. Hakon dived under a twin sweep of elongated arms. He crossed under the goblin¡¯s bowed legs, dived clear before heels snapped together. Despite the firelight, Sam struggled to keep track of the scarred man as he weaved around and sliced at the goblin¡¯s long legs. Magaruk kicked and thumped at the ground. He snarled in pain, lashing out, then tried to crouch. Hakon appeared behind and started to shred into green thighs with both daggers. He was slower to move when the goblin lurched. Sam thought that he had managed to side-step the blow but he was dragged up with the goblin¡¯s huge fist instead. Magaruk paused mid-swing, leaving the scarred man hanging from both daggers. Hakon wrenched a blade free, falling now the goblin tried for a grab. The goblin was still crouched when Hakon rolled between its bony legs. Magaruk staggered back, and started to run in earnest. Hakon gave chase, drawing another dagger from his belt, brandishing both blades while he sprinted without caution across the corpses. The goblin turned to face the scarred man, and roared as ruined legs collapsed. It now seemed to watch his approach with resignation. Hakon¡¯s eyes were wide, dancing with fire, teeth gleaming. He leapt towards the green chest. Magaruk snatched the scarred man out of the air, gripping him from hip to shoulder. ¡°You fight like a coward.¡± Hakon smiled in silence before the goblin squeezed. Magaruk watched the manling writhe with delight. Sam charged forth with abandon, shoving his spear into a green armpit. He felt the blade tear through soft flesh then catch on bone. A horrid grating shook the shaft as he forced it higher, until it burst through a muscular shoulder. He shoved the spear further and it punctured the neck. He tried to twist and the shaft snapped. The gargantuan goblin knelt frozen for a moment, then toppled back with ground shaking impact. ¡°Hakon?¡± Sam shouted. ¡°Are¡ª¡± Shrill horns sounded out with a baleful tune amid a din of sorrowed screeching. Dozens of goblins scattered into a flight across dying ditch fires. A deeper horn resounded from behind the makeshift wall and the men of Fenkirk, those that had life left to fight, marched forward to slay stragglers and search for survivors. ¡°Sam.¡± Hakon¡¯s laugh was pained. ¡°Sam?¡± ¡°I¡¯m here,¡± Sam barely recognised his own hoarse voice. ¡°Can you stand?¡± ¡°I¡¯m dead,¡± Hakon spoke the words without hesitation. ¡°Are you¡­ dead?¡± Sam knelt beside the fallen man. ¡°Not yet.¡± Hakon¡¯s scars were sheathed in goblin blood. He was a man made black by the slaughter. He managed a strained smile that seemed at odd contrast with his grim appearance. ¡°I¡¯m glad.¡± Sam tried not to notice how the man¡¯s broken arms had been crushed into his chest. ¡°I¡¯ll find someone who can help.¡± ¡°No.¡± Hakon struggled to shake his head. ¡°I don¡¯t¡ª¡± He winced. ¡°I won¡¯t die like a fish¡­ won¡¯t die like The Mayor. I can live too long through this.¡± He wheezed laughter. ¡°Saved me too soon and too late, that¡¯s what you did. So now you need to set me free.¡± Tears welled in his troubled eyes. ¡°Set me free and then that means you¡¯ll find a new wife. Happy endings for us both.¡± Sam shook his head. Grief welled up inside. ¡°I can¡¯t.¡± ¡°You were always the soft one.¡± Hakon pawed for his wrist. ¡°Please¡­ Sam. Put it my hand, then to my neck. I¡¯m suffering. I didn¡¯t think I¡¯d suffer like this.¡± Sam placed the dagger into the man¡¯s bloodied palm, then tightened the grip. He helped him bring the blade to his neck. He watched with muted horror as Hakon tried to cut into his own throat with failing strength. Sam gripped the shaking hand. He forced the knife in. He dragged the blade across. Hakon grinned. ¡°I s¡ª¡± He coughed blood. ¡°Saved.¡± He frowned, gaze drifting skyward, where black smoke swirled with carmine light. ¡°Sam?¡± *** The Blackwood Bardcircle had been commissioned and built at request of The Mayor. He had asked, or demanded, the help of the lumbering and woodworking companies of Fenkirk. The Mayor had oft been quoted in a belief that the structure would elevate the prosperous lumbering town. Though few are clear on whether he did so for reasons of pride, as a favour to Jarl Thrand, or simply to slight Chief Gudmund of Horvorr. A less likely, but more common story, was that the theater had been meant as a great trap for the ill-fortuned Isleif the Disgraced. Performers rarely visited the place, so it was vacant more often than not. Now though, a dozen torches burned in sconces along the curved walls. The remnants of Fenkirk¡¯s Militia had taken up seats among the half-ring of tiered benches that faced the stage, which remained unfurnished save for a shadowed throne at the back. There was no man in the place that looked in good spirits; moods ranged from melancholy to madness. Sam sat almost on his own, far back on the left benches of the theater, with one spear slung on his back. He was one of several men scattered in a sea of empty seats. All the others were in two groups, one of over two dozen guards near the stage, another of ten archers that had gathered around the old man who Hakon named the Trapper. Sam seemed a part of the Trapper¡¯s group, by accident, because he had taken his seat before they arrived. ¡°And so we¡¯ll take a vote,¡± Thorold¡¯s rough voice echoed. He stood atop the stage with Galdi beside him. Sam didn¡¯t recognise the two men he had met him at Fenkirk¡¯s gate. He did see the leather-capped man sat on his own between the Trapper¡¯s group and those at the front. Sam was, in his own way, more waiting to wake than living. ¡°I will stand, with Galdi to back me,¡± Thorold declared, his cheeks grimy, his hair stiffened with blood. ¡°For my part, I swear to be a better man than Hakon was. To have his courage without his madness. To treat you all like men instead of dogs.¡± ¡°You got something against dogs?¡± the Trapper snapped. Those at the front and on the stage seemed wary of the question. They glanced back at the gloomy corner, which was the only part of the theater not touched by torchlight or the sun shafts stealing through walls, roof, and shutters. ¡°As I was saying,¡± Thorold continued. ¡°If any man wants to stand, then he can stand. But he will need another to back him.¡± He made a slow search the hall, replied by sniffling and coughing, by one man snoring loudly in the back. ¡°So would it be fair to say that I¡¯m the only man standing?¡± ¡°What do you plan to do?¡± Sam shouted, realizing he had risen. ¡°Why are we wasting our time when our walls are unguarded?¡± ¡°What what would we do instead?¡± Thorold asked. ¡°Stand waiting for another attack?¡± ¡°The goblins have fled,¡± Galdi added. He brushed ginger hair from his eyes and squinted into the darkness. ¡°Who is it that speaks?¡± ¡°What do you plan to do?¡± the Trapper echoed. ¡°Answer the man if you so wish to stand.¡± ¡°We will take what gear we can,¡± Thorold answered. ¡°Any man that has family should bring them. We will start a march while the goblins are in disarray. We will move while they¡¯re distracted¡­ and leave those who can¡¯t keep up behind. Gods willing, they¡¯ll serve their purpose when the goblins descend.¡± ¡°As food?¡± the Trapper asked. ¡°Is that their purpose?¡± Thorold¡¯s tired gaze hardened. ¡°They will make it look like Fenkirk still has life left, and that none of us have fled. At the least, they will seem like easier prey than a group of fighting men on foot.¡± ¡°You¡¯re all idiots.¡± Sam laughed in sadness. ¡°Hakon was right.¡± ¡°Hakon is dead,¡± Thorold declared. ¡°He was a murderer, and a mad man. And he is dead.¡± ¡°Better to be mad than cowardly,¡± the Trapper muttered. Thorold scowled up at the shadowed benches. ¡°What was that, you old hermit?¡± ¡°I said,¡± the Trapper pitched his hoarse voice for storytelling, ¡°that I watched this man here, Sam, kill a Great Chief with his own two hands. I said I saw this man make himself a hero, and I¡¯ll tell you all now that Hakon made me swear to him that I would put Sam in charge should he fall on the field. And now here you all are, and here I am with my loyal men. And I¡¯ve told you what I¡¯ve been told¡­ and now I¡¯m asking you to vote for the only man that has any right to stand. And that man is Sam.¡± ¡°Sam?¡± Thorold snarled. ¡°The coward that came¡ª¡± ¡°You¡¯re calling me a coward?¡± Sam shouted, nauseous with his nerves. He strode down the steps between benches and crossed into the candlelight. ¡°When you¡¯re the one wanting to run? Wanting to feed old men, children, and women to goblins? If it¡¯s a matter of courage then why do we need to bother standing? Why don¡¯t you and me just fight to see who leads?¡± The Trapper sat silent in the darkness, taken aback by the stranger¡¯s eagerness. He pushed up from his seat, lifted his bow from his back, and his men did the same as they followed after him. Sam stepped onto the stage, taking the thrusting spear from his back. ¡°Well?¡± ¡°A fight?¡± Thorold heard the ease with which the lanky man made the challenge, and he could see the deadened look in his eyes. He was either facing a man who had no hopes for his life, or a man that was sure of his victory. ¡°You want to stand, we¡¯ll take it to a vote. If you want a slaughter, I¡¯ll give you a slaughter.¡± Sam bared his teeth. ¡°I¡¯ll stand.¡± ¡°Then you need someone to back you,¡± Thorold said, turning to face the benches. ¡°Any man here want to stand behind a man that looks as mad as this? Any man here wants another Hakon? Wants to stay in this town until we¡¯re all starved, or we¡¯re all dead. Until the madness takes every last one of us?¡± The Trapper crossed into the torchlight with his archers behind him. ¡°I¡¯ll back him, as will all my men.¡± Sam realised what he had started when men drew bows and reached for swords. He charged. Thorold tried to leap forward but the spear skewered the militia man mid-flight, sending him and the barkeep tumbling off of the stage as the shaft snapped. Sam pushed to his feet, brandishing the ragged length of wood. He swept his wild gaze to each filthy face of the wary militia. ¡°Weapons away!¡± the Trapper ordered. ¡°We¡¯ll take the vote, and we¡¯ll all abide it. If you all want to run then you can all run. But there¡¯s nothing waiting for you outside these walls beyond a cold winter full of death.¡± ¡°Weapons away?¡± Galdi shouted from the stage. ¡°He murdered Thorold!¡± ¡°He did,¡± the Trapper agreed. ¡°And I¡¯m sure whoever wins can decide what we¡¯ll be doing about that.¡± Sam could only watch as the votes were called and his fate was decided. Though the truth was, whether life or death waited, he no longer cared. 40. Dead Flesh 40. Dead Flesh ¡°Of the two traits that are commonly attributed to trolls, I know only one of them to be true. They do have a fondness for eating dead flesh, perhaps because it is easier to digest, but the notion that they can only speak with the voice of something they have ate seems to have no grounding at all. I suspect this rumour spread to give credence to folk who hunted otherwise docile creatures of wax. It both angers and perplexes me that even if this were true, trolls sound far more like goblins than young children.¡± Fragor hummed to himself, a ponderous hum as far as those came to him, of high and sharp notes. He carried around the tall torch that he had found on the floor, silver-wrought and burning eternal. It would slide down his grimy grip, so he often had to strike it against the ground, making a metallic and reverberative sound. He lived in a cavern, his cavern, with three ways in for visitors, and no ways out for Fragor, unless he meant to crush himself into the stone and become very thin, so that he could go and see what other things resided in the darkness. Or else he could walk out the cavern mouth, which seemed to go nowhere when he looked, beyond a large frozen river below, and he was unsure whether he would survive the fall. Fragor often considered the merits of either escape, but he decided in the end that it was better to live in a cave, with a silver-wrought torch, to be safe, then it was to risk his life outside, and perhaps accidentally venture to a place that didn¡¯t like trolls. Fragor made an angry hum, abrupt, shrill and resonant. He felt hungry, so he walked over to his pile of food, which lay stacked on the cavern lip that overlooked the glacial valley. Dozens of goblins were frozen in the tangle of limbs and flesh, each coated in snow and hoarfrost. He often paid his food little notice, beyond to drag some out and swallow it, but he saw something different about a pair of bodies off to the side, how large they seemed, and how fresh, how one had hair that reminded him of his torch. ¡°Izz Mao?¡± Fragor asked, his voice high and childish. ¡°Words? Words. Man words.¡± Hjorvarth murmured when the troll gripped his legs, but didn¡¯t stir as he got lifted over a waxy shoulder. Engli woke when it came to his turn, but he kept his mouth closed and only peeked at the dark green skin of his captor. Fragor walked over to his stone pen, and sat both men against the cavern wall. He placed his silver-wrought torch into a fissure near them, so that they would have light to see by when they woke. Fragor then went back to gather up some goblins for his visitors to eat. He hummed happily, piping and stochastic, as he tore limbs from frozen torsos and gathered them up in his dark and waxy arms. Engli sucked in nervous breaths while he searched his torch-lit surroundings. The cavern clearing ended in two plateaus that seemed to serve as walls, leaving only one way in and out. A boulder sat atop the entryway, as if poised to roll down and seal them off in a stone prison. ¡°Hjorvarth,¡± Engli whispered. Hjorvarth had slumped over, his propped elbow stopping his head from hitting the floor. ¡°Hjorvarth.¡± Engli pushed on the huge man¡¯s shoulder. ¡°Hjorvarth.¡± Hjorvarth murmured, and raked at his beard. He appeared a man half-dead, clothes torn to reveal pale flesh, blackened and bruised, scratched and bleeding. ¡°Hjorvarth.¡± Engli slapped him across the face, then tried a second time but Hjorvarth caught his wrist. Hjorvarth worked his tongue against his cheek. ¡°What?¡± ¡°There¡¯s a troll in here, caught us and dragged us here. It keeps making this noise, or maybe there¡¯s more than one.¡± Hjorvarth spat blood onto the cavern floor. ¡°I can¡¯t really hear you. I can¡¯t see much either.¡± He rubbed at his eyes. ¡°Where¡¯s the Sage?¡± ¡°Gone to the Lady¡¯s Shadow for all I know.¡± Engli pushed up from the ground, and lifted the knife from his belt. ¡°We need to¡ª¡± Fragor¡¯s stomping footfalls preceded him. He stepped into the stone pen, having to squeeze through the entryway. ¡°Words. Man words. I have words and food for you.¡± He tossed the gathered limbs, and they knocked against each other and rolled across the cavern floor. ¡°Eat it. Eat it up. It good. Food for you.¡± Hjorvarth blinked up at the troll, seeing one or three of them, featureless faces of dark green skin, marked only by the crease of a wide and toothy maw; overlarge torsos all fat and lumpy, wax surface cracking and seeping liquid with each unneeded movement. Engli smiled up at the giant troll. ¡°Could we cook it?¡± ¡°Cook?¡± Fragor¡¯s shapeless face creased into confusion, seeping a sheet of dark ooze that soon hardened. ¡°Not known word. Eat. Eat. Eat!¡± ¡°My thanks,¡± Hjorvarth said, his voice haggard. He reached over on hands and knees for a frozen arm. He sat back with a groan, then brought it to his lips and pretended to chew. ¡°Do you have any more?¡± ¡°More?¡± Fragor¡¯s mouth drew up into a huge smile, almost splitting his head. ¡°Man greedy. More!¡± He hummed in humour. ¡°Done. I do it.¡± Fragor hurried back the way he had come, crossing through his cavern, back to the open mouth of the cave and to the goblins he had dragged from the pile. Frost had begun to melt, pooling around the bodies, so they glistened with the distant light of the tall silver torch. Fragor grabbed four whole ones, a pair for each shapeless hand, and made his way back to his new friends. ¡°Troll!¡± came a shout from the darkness. He paused in the stone entryway, and turned to the sound. ¡°Man? What doing you out in dark? Stay near light!¡± Stones scrabbled above Fragor, and a few clattered down onto the troll¡¯s dark wax head. He looked up to see Hjorvarth pushing on the boulder. ¡°Man¡­ more than one? What doing you up there? Stay away from stopper rock!¡± Hjorvarth set his feet, getting enough of a hold on the great ball of stone to urge it forward. It rolled off with a noisy grinding, crunching against the wall, and then smashed into the cavern floor beside Fragor. Fragor¡¯s violent hum resounded through the dark cavern. ¡°Man bad! Bad man!¡± Hjorvarth clambered down to the other side of the pen, hoping that the boulder would hold the troll. Fragor bulled into the great stone and it rolled easily away, nearly crushing Engli before he dived clear. ¡°Men bad! No words for men. No foods for men. Dead for men!¡± He stomped forward, ahead of a fissure in the cavern wall that offered chance of escape. Hjorvarth took up his stolen silver axe. ¡°Run for the wall, Engli!¡± He charged forward as the troll tried to chase the blond man. He lashed out with his axe, slashing into a thick leg, hewing so far through waxy flesh that he severed the limb. Fragor slumped onto half a leg, rising again now dark liquid flooded out from the wound. Wax hardened to form a new foot, propping the troll up as the old limb melted into a smoking and corrosive puddle. Hjorvarth hacked through the new limb. Splashed wax clung to his clothes and burnt through fur and flesh. He gritted his teeth and tried to step clear of a sweeping limb, but the troll knocked him off-balance and stole his senses. Fragor grabbed the huge man by the arm, and lifted him up like a child¡¯s rag doll. ¡°Hjorvarth!¡± Engli ran up and dragged a knife through its wax back, leaping clear as a gout of dark liquid splashed out from the wound. He stabbed once more with his knife, but molten liquid ate into iron and burned his gloves. He tried to rip those off, only to suffer a heavy punch. Engli¡¯s teeth snapped together, air crushed from his lungs, now he slammed into the pen¡¯s stone wall. Fragor turned his faceless gaze to Hjorvarth. He grabbed the huge man with both hands. The troll¡¯s large mouth creaked open to a maw full of hundreds of broken and dirty teeth, to a stomach broiling with dark, putrid wax. Hjorvarth squinted down, and laughed, entertained by some wry and tired thought in his mind that he was about to suffer the same fate he hadn¡¯t managed to spare Geirmund. Hjorvarth recognised the blond man crumpled on the floor though and the sight made him maddened. He remembered the silver axe in his limp grip, and shifted his weight, swinging his legs back to kick the troll¡¯s chin, lodging his boots into the waxy flesh. Hjorvarth brought down the axe, splitting clean through the black wax head. The silver blade buried into the troll¡¯s mouth. Letting go the shaft, Hjorvarth stomped on the weapon to drive it deeper, forcing it through the troll¡¯s teeth and into the wax belly. Fragor screamed, dropping the man now he tried to wrench the weapon free. He let wax slough from his hands to get a better shape, but still couldn¡¯t manage a grip. He roared in agony and fear. He smashed his face into the stone walls of the pen, finally managing to push the silver weapon free through his wax skin. Molten wax pooled all over the cavern floor, sizzling before it hardened. ¡°Engli!¡± Hjorvarth stumbled over to blond man and hauled him upright. ¡°Get up!¡± Fragor had to change his shape, had to be smaller, to make up for his lack of wax. He solidified in the same featureless shape, though now stood only as tall as Hjorvarth. Fragor considered running over to the goblin pile to eat himself bigger, but decided instead to attack the man that had caused the troll such pain. Hjorvarth faced Fragor as he charged. They traded blows while the troll tried to beat the huge man to death, while Hjorvarth made effort to shield his body and force his way towards the silver axe. Hjorvarth took a blow to the jaw, forcing his head back against the wall. Knees buckled and he lost sight of the cavern around him. He managed to bring his hands up in time to block a waxy foot. Hjorvarth held his arms up against more blows, softened by merit of the malleable wax, but he had no strength to stand or to counter them. He struggled not to collapse. Firelight swept over the shadowed cavern and lent an orange glow to his bruised and bleeding face. The light grew brighter now Engli charged towards the troll with the silver-wrought torch. Fragor turned in time to be skewered through the middle, forced further back until the torch¡¯s silver shaft smashed into stone and pinned him against the cavern wall. Engli grabbed the silver axe from the floor, and closed before the troll could work his way to the torch¡¯s burning end. ¡°Wait!¡± Fragor shook his featureless wax head. ¡°Man stop!¡± He shuffled back onto the torch, back to the cavern wall. ¡°Leave me! I up. I up give. Give up!¡± ¡°What?¡± Engli tightening his grip on the axe. ¡°You tried to kill us! To eat us!¡± ¡°You tried to kill us¡ªme!¡± Hjorvarth heaved breaths on the floor, watching the two blurry figures shout at one another. ¡°Kill it, Engli. A troll can only use a voice that it¡¯s taken.¡± ¡°Leave me!¡± Fragor pleaded, voice high and childish. ¡°I be good now. I now good!¡± Engli raised his axe and the troll melted into a puddle of wax. He leapt back from the spreading black pool. ¡°Look!¡± Fragor exclaimed, his words now meager and screeching. ¡°I so small now. I hurt not!¡± A tiny wax figure walked out from the glossy pool with small splashes. ¡°I be good, so good. Please no death for me.¡± Engli¡¯s spent adrenaline turned to nauseating poison in his veins. He couldn¡¯t look down at the thing, couldn¡¯t stand to hear the desperation in its voice. ¡°Do you know the way out of here?¡± ¡°Hole in wall,¡± Fragor said. ¡°It goes not I ¡®member. I think¡­ to¡­ Agak? Ogog? Gob Gob Gobins?¡± He upturned tiny palms. ¡°Maybe spidy spidy spidies?¡± He shook his head. ¡°No, no way.¡± Hjorvarth staggered over to the pair. He glared down at the troll with exhausted eyes that reflected the torch¡¯s light. ¡°Troll.¡± Fragor looked up at him. ¡°Me?¡± Hjorvarth stomped down. He sighed, trudging towards the fissure in the cavern wall. ¡°Let¡¯s go.¡± Engli stared down at the crushed wax for a long moment. He tried to prise the silver torch from the wall, then gave up and followed the huge man into the darkness. *** Sybille trudged forward, her face throbbing with pain, her ankles aching with the weight of a fetter. ¡°Dead flesh?¡± The old man ahead frowned at the plump man he was bound to. ¡°You cracked, lad? Put that thing to the snow.¡± This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it. The plump man¡¯s chin creased now he smiled back at Sybille. ¡°Look.¡± He proffered a desiccated hand. ¡°Dead flesh, for the trolls. They love dead flesh. As long as I have this the trolls will come, and they¡¯ll¡ª¡± ¡°Eat us?¡± Sybille asked. ¡°That¡¯s what happened to my brother.¡± The old man barked laughter. ¡°Exactly that, you simple fool. Your plan could be a sure thing and it wouldn¡¯t make it no better.¡± The plump man¡¯s rounded features lapsed to sadness, and he hid the hand under his tattered brown cloak. They carried on in a silence of rattling shackles, haggard breaths and murmured conversations. There had been an old man that sang a dirge for his fallen son, but one of the goblins had hacked his head off. Sybille thought the old woman she could hear wailing would go the same way. ¡°Stop!¡± came a harsh order, and the line of villagers staggered to a halt. Raguk Trolleater strode down from the head of the column, appearing as an adult among children. He and his clan shared the same fanged teeth, ferine eyes, and bony frames, but he dwarfed them times over. He had long fingers like an old man while they had short, clawed hands. Sybille thought the goblin a terrifying oddity, not because of his unnatural height, but because he had garbed himself in the bones of humans and animals, in tendon necklaces, threaded through ears, bones, thumbs and desiccated penises. She felt no better about the hunched goblin hobbling behind him. Mulu the Undying had already scooped out one man¡¯s eyes for looking at everyone and everything. The man had screamed himself to death after that, but the shaman had scooped out the second for the sake of symmetry. Sybille averted her gaze with the rest of the villagers as the unalike pair moved past. She could smell rotting flesh. Her stomach seized when she realised that Raguk and the goblin scouts would meet not far from where she stood. She tried to slow her breathing now they stopped beside her and grunted greetings. ¡°What is it?¡± Raguk snarled. He dropped to one knee to better see them. ¡°What word of the fire?¡± ¡°Balluk.¡± The goblin closest bowed low, nearly nosing the stony ground. ¡°Balluk set the fire.¡± ¡°Balluk?¡± Raguk asked with indignation. ¡°He wishes war with me?¡± ¡°I¡­¡± ¡°No,¡± the standing scout said. ¡°Balluk gone. Balluk gone with all clan.¡± Raguk bared fanged teeth, then scrutinised Mulu. ¡°What do your spirits say, shaman?¡± Mulu the Undying murmured to himself, fondling the breastbone pendant that hung from his neck. Scars ran all over the goblin¡¯s pale flesh in mad swirls and patterns. A newly-cut wolf skin covered his hunched shoulders. ¡°They¡­ are frightened.¡± ¡°Frightened?¡± Raguk cocked his head. ¡°Of what?¡± ¡°Spirits roam the hills,¡± Mulu intoned. ¡°Burn dead men to stop them rising, or eat them up if you despise them.¡± Raguk hauled the shaman into the air and the bloody pelt slid free. ¡°Listen to me,¡± he grated, ¡°you misshapen worm. I am not some fool to be taken at ease with fire rhymes. I am not the simpleton that Lazuk was. Tell me what you know, if you know anything at all, or I will break your back and leave you for the wolves.¡± Mulu the Undying met the wild red eyes with an icy gaze. ¡°Balluk sends a message.¡± Raguk Trolleater let the shaman drop. ¡°And what message is that?¡± ¡°He is warning you¡­ that Dalpho is coming.¡± Sybille saw sudden fear, and a question slipped from her lips. ¡°Dalpho?¡± Raguk glared at both of the scouts, who looked at each other in fear and desperation. He then turned towards Sybille, and leaned closer until his bony nose pressed into her swollen cheek. ¡°Need your tongue cut out, girl?¡± Sybille managed to shake her head. Her eyes watered and her stomach turned at the smell of fetid flesh. She could see one of his eyes, burning with rage. Raguk¡¯s laugh laced her cheek with spittle. ¡°Dalpho is an enormity much like a whale. More grey than green. He is likely not even a goblin. He is likely an abomination of a creature dreamed up by¡ª¡± He stalked back to Mulu, grasped the goblin by his bony shoulders. ¡°Dreamed up by some meddling shaman.¡± Mulu¡¯s gaze froze in terror. ¡°Raguk, I¡ª¡± ¡°We must march if Dalpho follows.¡± Raguk grinned, releasing his grip. ¡°But if I do not witness that monstrosity, waddling across this plain when Sun rises, then we will soon see how true your name proves.¡± Mulu the Undying bowed. ¡°You will see him.¡± He lifted the wolf skin from the floor, wrapping it about his wrinkled neck. Raguk stared at Sybille for a long moment before stalking back to the front of the column. ¡°Move!¡± The group of tired-eyed and broken-souled villagers marched faster than they had before. They were pushed and scratched and whipped for slowing or tripping. An old woman collapsed ahead of Sybille and the scouts, at Raguk¡¯s approval, broke her chains and pulled her aside for a meal. Sybille scratched at her neck, remembering that old man wailing beside her, singing about his fallen son, blood splashing when Raguk held the man down and hacked through his neck. The villagers then journeyed to the end of the wintry corridor and up through the Troll Mountains, a snowy region of uneven ground, dipping and rising, flanked on either side by tiered plateaus and mountainous stretches that housed dozens of cavern mouths. All of them seemingly abandoned. ¡°So much for your trolls,¡± the old man said quietly. ¡°Wait till it¡¯s dark,¡± the plump man replied, ¡°and then I can leave the hand out.¡± ¡°Be quiet,¡± Sybille hissed. ¡°Please be quiet.¡± The old man frowned. ¡°You should take your own advice, girl. You almost got yourself pulled to pieces asking questions about things you don¡¯t need to know.¡± Sybille looked to the stony ground at her feet. She worked her tongue against her cheek, not painful anymore, too cold for it to hurt her. ¡°I still don¡¯t believe you.¡± The old man scratched at tangled hair. ¡°But say these trolls do appear, what do we do then?¡± ¡°We would just¡ª¡± The plump man seemed to disappear from view. Raguk hoisted the screaming man over his head, bending him. Sybille watched as bone crunched and a broken spine jutted out from the man¡¯s back. She turned to the old man but he got ripped away as well. She closed her eyes and had to listen to the screams of the victim and the witnesses. Flesh tore. Goblins jeered and howled. Joints popped and thin bones snapped amid sucking and chewing. ¡°Move!¡± Raguk roared. Sybille opened her eyes, almost tripping on the dead hand lying on the floor. She picked it up, flesh wet and spongy, and hid it inside her dress before stumbling forward. She glanced back at the ragged line of desperate villagers, boots worn, toes bleeding, fingers blackened by the cold. She knew there used to be so many more of them, and wondered without much regret if they would eat her next. They trudged onward into a darkening night, even as they were battered by a rising wind and chilled by falling snow. The weather added to the drudgery of their desperate march, made flesh as cold and hopeless as the soul. Sybille clutched at the dead hand all the while, as if unwilling to relinquish an old friend. ¡°Stop!¡± Raguk commanded. ¡°Make a fire! Make a camp!¡± The prisoners stood like statues in the wind, turning their lifeless gazes towards the darkness. Goblins growled and screeched, taunting the manlings and their own kin alike. The lupine clan began their fire making and, after a deal of smashing stones and rubbing sticks, the villagers saw the weak flames of fledgling fires. Sybille stared instead at a small wooden post, carved with swirling lines and a single open eye. It served as a Marker to Muradoon, to keep the Troll Mountains free of malicious spirits. She found herself stumbling over to it, not really hearing the goblin screaming behind her. She smashed the desiccated hand into the post, both breaking and staking the severed appendage. ¡°Need to die, girl?¡± Raguk Trolleater growled in her ear. Sybille craned her neck to gaze up at the flesh-adorned goblin. She curled her bloodied lips into a smile. ¡°Not yet.¡± He loomed over her, red eyes wide with anger. ¡°Go.¡± He swept a huge arm towards the villagers, who now shivered around a tiny fire. ¡°Go back to your herd.¡± *** Hjorvarth and Engli had fled into a narrow tunnel that wasn¡¯t getting any wider. ¡°He might have helped us,¡± Engli said, more out of guilt than sense. Hjorvarth only grunted in answer. He¡¯d turned sideways to make progress on their path, but stones still pressed in on his hips, thighs and shoulders, steadily abrading flesh. He was genuinely afeared that he might find himself stuck or have to travel back. ¡°We could have asked him which way to go.¡± ¡°It meant to keep us as pets,¡± Hjorvarth assured, stopping. ¡°Or eat us at a later day.¡± ¡°He seemed harmless enough.¡± ¡°People used to say the same about me.¡± Hjorvarth forced himself forward despite the growing pain. ¡°Does the tunnel soon widen? I am beyond tired.¡± ¡°Er¡­ no. Oh, wait, yes. For a little while at least.¡± ¡°That would be good. Were I not now stuck between one jagged wall and another.¡± ¡°Oh,¡± Engli said, stepping closer. ¡°Do you want me to pull you?¡± ¡°No,¡± he answered. ¡°Go on ahead and see if the path is worth following. I don¡¯t want to be forced through only to have to repeat the task on the way back.¡± Engli didn¡¯t like the idea of going on his own, but he obliged all the same, forging forward into the blackness. ¡°I¡¯ll be back soon.¡± He followed the path for a while longer, arms out so he could feel for width, and the tunnel opened out into a long cavern. Distant flames lent light to three ways ahead: a curving slope led up to a wide plateau on the left, which overlooked the narrow middle path; on the right, a steeper slope gave access to a high ledge that rose above the rest. Engli began his ascent of that, needing to use the wall to keep from slipping. He furrowed his nose at the smells of rotting meat and goblin filth. He clambered nearer to the top, and heard the soft hissing of breaths. He managed to reach the ledge, where a small goblin slept. He crept forward while the goblin¡¯s slow breathing shifted to sniffs. He drove his boot into its mouth, crushing the jaw. Engli stomped once more for good measure, then filched a crude dagger of stone from the goblin¡¯s tendon belt. He had sight of the fire below, which lent a warm glow to crude tents made from animal skins stretched over bones or sticks. Engli saw that the ledge jutted over the plateau, so he decided to try climb down. He kept a hold of the edge, finding footing on the stone below, scattering debris with a scrabble and clatter. Engli winced at the sound, but managed to drop down. He staggered when he landed, nearly falling back to the middle path below. He managed to steady himself. Engli crept forward into the encampment, and made his way under the flap of the largest tent, seeing a scrawny goblin sleeping beside two smaller ones. He stifled his breathing as he walked over, knelt down on top of the largest goblin while they all started to sniff and squeak in sleep. He drove the dagger into the goblin¡¯s head, then did the same to the one beside it and caught the third one by the throat as it woke. He smashed his fist into its skull until it stopped struggling. He stole a stone club from there, and went into the other tents to bludgeon the rest to death. He then walked out towards the fire, startling at the sound of movement. Engli lashed out with a mad growl, but a firm hand caught his wrist. ¡°I squeezed through,¡± Hjorvarth said with a deadened stare. He swayed slightly where he stood, his chest and back smeared with fresh blood. ¡°They¡¯re all dead?¡± ¡°They are.¡± Engli let the club drop from his shaking hand. ¡°Should we keep moving?¡± ¡°I can¡¯t. I¡¯m going to rest.¡± Hjorvarth had the pallor of a corpse, spared by his thick and filthy beard, by the mottled red and purple staining his flesh. ¡°You can go on if you want. Or you could sleep for a while too,¡± he suggested. ¡°But if I don¡¯t wake then you have my blessing to leave me.¡± Engli met the words with confusion. ¡°I¡¯m not just going to abandon you.¡± ¡°I know.¡± Hjorvarth placed a heavy hand on his shoulder. ¡°Try to wake me before you go.¡± *** Sybille watched the embers of the fire. She listened to people whisper. They thought Gudmund of Horvorr would come and save them, or that a band of men from Wymount would storm forward and skewer Raguk and his clan with spears and harpoons. Sybille thought the fisher folk might be better served fighting Dalpho, if he really was a whale of a thing. She turned her gaze to the broken Marker of Muradoon, ripped from the ground after she had skewered the dead hand. She blinked to clear her blurry vision, seeing false shadows looming in the darkness, lumbering forth through the sifting snow and fluttering winds. Sybille shivered, rubbing her eyes only to find that the shadows appeared larger, more substantial. A scrawny goblin studied the shadows as well. He opened his mouth to scream only for a waxy black hand to grab him by the head. The troll tossed the goblin into a toothy maw, grinding him to pieces, trudging forward with five other black and waxy kin. They crossed from the wintry darkness and into the wind-whipped firelight. ¡°Trolls!¡± Sybille found she was standing. She glanced back at the horrified villagers shackled behind her. ¡°Don¡¯t run. Stay back from them, but don¡¯t run.¡± More trolls crossed into the panicked encampment. Goblins screeching pierced through the shrill song of the weather. Raguk Trolleater¡¯s red eyes snapped open. He rose up from his sitting, and witnessed his clan scrambling away, throwing ineffectual stones at slow-moving lumps of black wax flesh. ¡°Gather on me! Stand and fight!¡± He strode over to the fat goblin that carried his giant axe, having to kick him into the snow to rip it off his back. ¡°Cut them off at the legs! Destroy them all!¡± A dozen goblins had gathered around him. They dipped their heads and readied their weapons. Raguk led the way towards his herd of manlings. He came up behind a troll, and swung an overhead swing that split it in half, spilling black liquid onto a few manlings that started to smoke and scream. The troll almost came apart, but black wax pooled between its middle and knitted it back together. Raguk leveled the same blow and the troll ran short of wax. The creature hardened into two useless husks. He rounded on another troll that his clan held at bay. They tried to club and poke it as it grabbed them up and gobbled them down. Raguk hacked off a wax arm, sparing a grabbed goblin. He then swung low, killing the same goblin, hewing through both of the troll¡¯s legs. He felt a waxy hand on his shoulder, so spun round with all his might and cleaved a troll through the middle. Molten wax belched out onto Raguk¡¯s chest. He growled and leapt back, bringing his axe down on the troll¡¯s head to split it into four useless pieces. Raguk wrenched his arm free when another troll grasped at him. His red eyes widened now he saw all the trolls around him: dozens of the black wax creatures lumbering through and rolling over the goblins of his clan, picking them up, crushing them to pieces with hundreds of teeth. He turned to flee, but stumbled into a wax torso. Raguk Trolleater stepped back, raising his axe for a downward swing. A troll ripped one of his hands from the grip, and forced the limb into its closing mouth. He snarled, and ripped the limb free from the grinding teeth. He glimpsed his fingers, ragged and bloody, shredded to the bone, before another troll pulled out his feet. Raguk roared on the floor, scrabbling and kicking, making a desperate scramble to escape between two trolls. One stomped down on Raguk¡¯s back, then another kicked him in the head. They started to eat the fearsome goblin in shared effort. They ripped the necklaces of desiccated flesh from his neck. Sybille watched him struggle. She listened to the grinding and crunching after he had stopped screaming. When the trolls were finished, there was no trace left of Raguk, or of his clan, beyond smeared blood and broken bones. Only Mulu the Undying remained, hunched over a modest fire, whispering rhythmically into the flames. Sybille had come to stand behind the wolf-cloaked shaman. She drove a knife into his wrinkled throat. Mulu grappled with her, so she pulled the blade out and stabbed him in the nose. She stabbed until all the life was bled from him, until he had no eyes or throat, until the flimsy grip of the knife broke. The wind died abruptly, leaving a wide and open silence. Her fellow prisoners regarded her with mute horror. ¡°No one is coming,¡± she declared. ¡°We must march to Wymount!¡± 41. Trespassers 41. Trespassers ¡°The ownership of Southwestern Tymir has long been in question. In part, because none wanted the land badly enough to answer. Not unlike the Northerly Wastes, the land is cold and inhospitable. Though Southwestern Tymir can, at least, sustain settlements large enough to warrant taxation. It was always thought that The Landing took place in Southwestern Tymir, not far off from Wymount. Or some say they emerged by means of magical portal. That Tymir and his remnant clan landed in Horvorr¡¯s Great Lake itself. Eventually moving on to Timilir, where the last Dwarves still lived, and soon going farther afield to the richly soiled lands of the Midderlands, the Eastland Plains, and Southeastern Tymir, better known now as the contentious High Lands and Low Lands. Thus, the question was forgotten. None wanted to go back, and it became almost a safe haven for the goblins who had been driven out of the Midderlands, and other lands where now stand manling settlements. Gudmund, of course, has chosen an answer. Invoking the law that states that any unclaimed land can be claimed by any Jarl of good standing. The goblins, however, do not seem to pay this particular rule much heed. Given that they are fast running out of lands to survive in, I almost feel sympathetic. Still, I¡¯ve chosen my side in this war.¡± Engli sat beside the fire as the flames burned low. He had killed a goblin that came back with wood, and thrown the tinder on the fire. He watched Hjorvarth sleeping, wasn¡¯t even sure whether his huge chest was rising. Before his breaths had been loud, snoring even, but now he seemed so still, pale despite his bruised cheeks being painted red and orange by the firelight. Engli studied the bloodied club in his lap. He wondered, not for the first time, whether a man could bludgeon himself to death, because maybe that was the best way to end things. He gripped the handle, lined it with his skull, and tested the motion. He tapped his forehead with the rough and grimy stone. He didn¡¯t want to outlive Hjorvarth. He had this thought in his head that if he survived, he wouldn¡¯t have earned it. If by some trick of Joyto he ended up back at Horvorr, no one would even believe him, or if they did believe him then they would think less of him. He would have gone into the wild, saved by Hjorvarth all the while, only to sneak off into the darkness and leave him to rot. Hjorvarth who had saved Horvorr¡¯s Guard on the Snake Basin Path. Hjorvarth who had killed the son of Jarl Thrand in a single punch. Hjorvarth who had saved Engli and Agnar and Geirmund, only for both brothers to die because Hjorvarth was wasting his time saving Engli once more. Engli laughed at himself, bitter with the thought of how much easier this all would have been if Hjorvarth had been accompanied by Geirmund. Gudmund¡¯s son had been a hero in the making, unbreakable like the huge warrior across from the fire. Even Agnar was twice the fighter that Engli was. Engli couldn¡¯t understand why the gods would take so many good men only to leave him in their place. He sighed, and stared at the pallid man across from him. He knew that Hjorvarth was dead. He should have left hours ago, but he was scared. Engli couldn¡¯t wander off into the darkness, because anything could grab him, could find him, and there would be no Hjorvarth¡ªnot even the Salt Sage¡ªto slay whatever attacked him so that he could scramble away. He didn¡¯t have the courage to accept that he was alone. He couldn¡¯t stomach the thought that there was no one to help him. More than that, he didn¡¯t want to live a life where he was free and living in the world above, knowing all the while that he had left his only friend in a lightless cavern full of monsters and death. Engli¡¯s thoughts came back to the club in his lap. He grew obsessed with the notion of hitting himself dead. That way no man would survive the other, or be left beneath ground to rot alone. The stone shaft tingled in his grip, that feeling needling through his blood and flesh, through to his coward¡¯s heart. He gripped the weapon, stared down at the dark blood still staining the stone. He took a deep breath and seized the club with all the strength he had left. He forced it towards his head¡ªtwisting clear with a desperate veering of the swing. He lost grip on the shaft and the club sailed over his shoulder, clattering off into the darkness. ¡°Have you lost your mind?¡± asked a deep voice that shook with anger. Engli frowned at his furious companion. ¡°Hjorvarth¡­?¡± Hjorvarth met his surprise without sympathy. He had appearance of an angry and unwashed brute, colour showing in his cheeks by his anger, amongst the rest of his battered frame by cuts and bruising. ¡°I¡¯ve never been confused for any other man.¡± Engli looked down at the waning flames. ¡°I thought that you were dead.¡± ¡°Then you should have left, or tried a little harder to wake me.¡± Hjorvarth sighed after a time, and pushed up to his feet. ¡°Go and fetch your club.¡± Engli grabbed a burning stick from the fire, bringing it along as he searched. He found the club not long after. It had landed in a corner of thick webs and burst into a giant spider¡¯s egg. The club smelled sour and dripped green when he pulled it free. Hjorvarth trudged up from behind. ¡°You did good work on those goblins, but I found these lying about the tents.¡± Engli squinted at the mushrooms piled in his large palms. ¡°I didn¡¯t want to risk eating ones that were poison.¡± ¡°I left those behind.¡± Hjorvarth handed him half a dozen round-topped mushrooms and a few thin ones. He kept four shrivelled mushrooms to himself. Engli smiled. ¡°You prefer those?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t like mushrooms.¡± Hjorvarth shoved them all into his mouth and started to chew. ¡°These¡ª¡± He chewed some more, frustrated for a while before he swallowed. ¡°They cause waking dreams. I thought it would help with the pain.¡± He waved his hand in urging. ¡°Eat.¡± Engli popped the mushrooms into his mouth. He struggled to grind them up, tasting mould and mud as bits of grit grated against his teeth. Despite the bitter taste, he smiled in relief at his huge and haggard companion, and prayed to Brikorhaan the Shield Brother that Hjorvarth would ever stand at his side. *** Hjorvarth and Engli had, had to walk in darkness through a low tunnel before they found another goblin camp. They¡¯d marked it by the fire, but hadn¡¯t noticed the small ledge that overlooked the crude tents. The disparate pair crept forward as quietly as they could, sweeping out into the firelight when they grew close, hacking and clubbing the three goblins who slept by the warmth of flames. Engli crept in and killed those in the largest tent while Hjorvarth tore into and cleared out the others. A goblin sentry above them had woke though, and witnessed the murderous savages killing his sleeping kin. He scrambled for a small bone horn, then blew as forcibly as he could. The shrill note tooted across the cavern and resounded through narrow tunnels. Other horns began to blare, washing over Hjorvarth and Engli in a dizzying cacophony now they fled forward through the darkness. They ran until they came across a woken clan, who had formed up in a disorganised line to stop them. Hjorvarth and Engli charged forward all the same, and carved through the few goblins that held ground, then ran away from the rest while stones were thrown after them and goblins screeched in pursuit. Hjorvarth and Engli soon rounded a corner, and came into a crossroads where one tunnel appeared lit by the faint light of an open day. ¡°This way.¡± Hjorvarth led the way forwards. ¡°Do you hear singing?¡± Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road. ¡°No, do¡ª¡± Engli ducked under an overhanging rock, then both men turned towards the light. ¡°What singing? I can hear horns. Do you mean the horns?¡± ¡°Singing,¡± Hjorvarth muttered, his lids heavy as they crossed into a domed cavern. A night-black creature waited ahead of them, standing so tall its head touched the curved ceiling, with a long and twisted spine that bore likeness to a snake. The thing had draped itself in a patchwork of goblin skins. ¡°You trespass,¡± Sebelum sibilated, ¡°in the realm of The Small King.¡± The black creature shook its large gnarled staff, wrapped with bones that rattled together in a dread hiss. Hjorvarth was unsure whether this was some consequence of him eating mushrooms. ¡°Do you see a big¡­ a big¡ª¡± ¡°I see it!¡± Hjorvarth hoisted his silver axe and hurled at Sebelum¡¯s small, large-eyed head. With a crunch of bone and a short-lived hiss, Sebelum crumpled and snaked onto the ground, tearing patches out of the goblin skin cloak. ¡°Did I¡ª¡± Engli ran forward with his club, leaping on top of the dark-skinned creature. He smashed at the small skull until dark blood spattered his blond hair. Neither man had noticed Sebelum¡¯s clan, those lean black goblins that watched in horror from plateaus in the domed cavern¡¯s four shadowed corners. Hjorvarth staggered under a thrown net, but managed to throw it clear. Engli had less luck, getting pinned against the stone, but Hjorvarth soon freed him. They both then turned to run, only to find themselves surrounded by the spear-wielding goblins. Hjorvarth hacked clean through one¡¯s torso with his silver axe, and smashed his head into another goblin¡¯s mouth. He grabbed that one by shoulder and head, snapping the spine. A spear pierced his shoulder, shaft snapping now he turned. He then hewed through the wielder¡¯s neck. Hjorvarth saw his freedom ahead, could breathe the clean air sweeping in from the sunlit tundra. He glanced back to see the blond man trapped under another net, separated by a dozen black goblins. ¡°Run, Hjorvarth!¡± Engli struggled to lift his head from the cavern floor. ¡°Leave me! I¡ª¡± A spear butt ended his protest. The black goblins gathered closer together, readying their weapons. They watched Hjorvarth, tense and wary of his approach. A roar then rumbled through the air like thunder, and a titanic goblin squeezed his way out of a large tunnel and into the domed cavern. Orog had soft eyes that were almost human, but a head too large and rounded to be a man¡¯s. He seemed sculpted from muscle, tall and broad, so that the huge man opposite appeared as a toy-maker¡¯s poor imitation of the goblin. ¡°Move aside!¡± Sebelum¡¯s clan hissed, and clambered back onto the stone plateaus, hiding behind rock columns or fleeing altogether. Hjorvarth paused for a deep breath before charging forward. ¡°For Brikorhaan!¡± ¡°Stop!¡± Orog boomed. ¡°I am not yet your enemy!¡± Hjorvarth hurled his silver axe. Orog caught the weapon, shook his head, and threw it back. Hjorvarth lost a sliver of hair when he ducked. He stayed low, outstretching his arms, and tried to bull the goblin over. Orog held his footing though, barely rocking on his heels. He drove a fist into the fool¡¯s head. *** Hjorvarth woke with a tired groan. He rubbed both hands all across his aching skin and greasy beard. ¡°Sam?¡± He looked down at the table and the six three-pronged bronze candle-stands set along it. He was of a mind that the tavern looked a little odd. ¡°Where did you get these torches?¡± He looked up at the arrayed tapestries ahead of him: black banners, bordered in red, and woven with the new moon of the now-fallen Grorgin empire. Hjorvarth could smell something wrong with the air and there was an oddness to his seat. He felt a little odd himself, tired or drunk, or still sleeping. He looked to his left to see twelve empty seats, six at either side of the table, facing great silver platters, each empty and threaded with web. ¡°Sam?¡± Hjorvarth raked a hand through his beard. ¡°I think you need to clean the tables. And I don¡¯t think Gudmund will be happy about you hanging banners.¡± He turned to a murmur at his right, saw Engli sleeping with his face pressed against a silver plate. Hjorvarth licked at his dry lips. ¡°Engli?¡± He looked about the expansive black-walled cavern once more, enormous crystal chandelier tinkling above him. A once-opulent banquet hall with no food or drink set at the table, coated with dust and woven with webs, no sound save Hjorvarth¡¯s own heavy breaths. ¡°Engli.¡± Hjorvarth grabbed his shoulder. ¡°You need to wake up.¡± Orog, standing behind them, leaned forward to squeeze Hjorvarth¡¯s back. ¡°You both need to sit, and eat. If you try to rise, I will crush your friend.¡± Hjorvarth clenched his teeth, probing his belt with his hand. ¡°You have no weapon,¡± Orog explained. ¡°I would have offered you cutlery, but I feared you fool enough to try and use it to fight with.¡± Orog let go of Hjorvarth¡¯s shoulder, and stepped back to the wall, towering over the seated men. ¡°If you are truly eager to bring death to yourself and your companion, go ahead and rise,¡± he suggested. ¡°But I have beaten bigger men than you, outnumbered, when they were armed and armoured.¡± He let out a rumbling sigh. ¡°But if you wish to live¡ªto have a chance at going home¡ªthen keep your hands above the table.¡± Hjorvarth rested bruised hands on a silver platter. ¡°What do you want?¡± ¡°A peaceable dinner service would suffice.¡± Orog poked Engli in the back. ¡°You can stop pretending to sleep, golden hair. I¡¯ll snap your spine if pressed.¡± Engli¡¯s grimace was reflected in his silver plate. He cleared his throat, straightening. ¡°Engli,¡± Hjorvarth greeted. ¡°Hjorvarth,¡± he replied. ¡°You should have left me.¡± Hjorvarth shrugged his huge shoulders. ¡°I don¡¯t like running in fear.¡± Engli turned in his seat to look up at the titanic goblin. ¡°What¡¯s to eat?¡± ¡°I think one of our clan caught a goat,¡± Orog answered. ¡°Other than that, diced spider or beetle marrow. I think another cut slabs from giant mushrooms.¡± Engli met the words with a confused smile. ¡°You¡¯re an oddity.¡± Orog grunted. ¡°By what measure?¡± ¡°You talk better than I do,¡± Engli answered. ¡°You¡¯re not screaming or trying to kill us. You¡¯ve got this fancy table, and you¡¯re running a¡­ what did you call it? A dinner service.¡± ¡°Comfort breeds civility.¡± Orog glowered down at the blond man. ¡°You made the goblins savages when you drove them from their homes.¡± ¡°Wrong,¡± Hjorvarth replied. ¡°Goblins are born monsters, creatures of the Lady.¡± Orog laughed a sad laugh. ¡°So says the youngling murderer.¡± Iron grated and wood clunked now the distant doors to the banquet cavern swept open. Nervous squeaks preceded dozens of goblins that came in bearing stone bowls and plates, stacked with mushrooms or bristly spider legs; or the stubby limbs and ornate horns of giant beetles. Each severed limb billowed steam and hissed with heat. Those were followed by a fat goblin carrying a big simmering goat, fur coat crisped away or sloughed off. The goblin struggled to carry it, wincing at the pain of the heat, having to readjust his grip as it slipped down with the bouncing of slack hooves. A few more goblins followed those until the paths at both sides of the tables were bustling with nervous conversation. Those goblins carried ornate bronze mugs, and a large sturdy barrel that had been tapped and now leaked stale ale onto the cavern floor. Hjorvarth reached out for a three-pronged candle-stand, while Engli gripped his plate. ¡°I so swear,¡± Orog warned, ¡°if any harm comes to my servers, I will annihilate you both.¡± Both men sat back in their chairs, still wary of the approach of disorganised goblins. Orog stepped forwards, taking bowls and plates and reaching over the men to set the table. The goblins saw him do that, and decided to set what they carried wherever they pleased. Goblins screamed and garbled at one another while they bustled around the table, eventually getting all of the bowls and plates down around empty seats. The fat goblin struggled past with his goat and handed it to Orog. ¡°Goat. I did fire it. Did do that.¡± Orog took the goat, and bowed. ¡°Thank you, Timbi.¡± He climbed over the table to help a smaller goblin who struggled with the weight of the barrel. Orog set it on the table. ¡°Thank you. You can all go.¡± He grabbed the mugs and filled them with the leaking ale. ¡°Hjorvarth,¡± Engli began in a worried voice. ¡°Do you think that we¡¯re dead? And that this is what happens in the Lady¡¯s Shadow? That giant goblins play tricks on you, and serve you odd food, and then after that they torture you and pull you apart limb by limb, and then the next day it happens all over again.¡± Orog clopped two mugs ahead of them. He dropped the sizzling goat onto the table. ¡°Drink this and eat that. As to your idea, golden hair, does it really matter?¡± he mocked. ¡°Better to get tortured on a full stomach, I would think. I¡¯ll return in an hour¡¯s quarter.¡± Both men watched the titanic goblin stride away, ushering meandering kin ahead of him. The door swept to an echoing close. ¡°Should we run?¡± Engli asked. ¡°No.¡± Hjorvarth pulled the goat close to him, and started to cut at the meat with his plate. ¡°I¡¯m just going to eat this, and whatever else I can.¡± ¡°I¡¯ve got my knife,¡± Engli offered. ¡°I¡¯m surprised he didn¡¯t take it.¡± Hjorvarth took the blade and nodded his thanks. ¡°It likely doesn¡¯t care.¡± ¡°True.¡± Engli sat there for a while in silence. He took a small sip from his bitter flagon of ale.¡°Do you think we¡¯ll ever get back to Horvorr?¡± ¡°Honest truth?¡± Hjorvarth¡¯s visage turned stern despite the scabs and swelling. ¡°You should come to terms with your death. I am sure we will not survive this night.¡± 42. The Small King 42. The Small King ¡°Of the myths most common among the goblins, The Small King is omnipresent. It strikes me as odd that most goblins I have met have understood the name, yet seem to have no knowledge of his appearance. I received the most detailed story of the myth from Lucius, who seemed to think that The Small King was an immortal goblin youth with a temperament both mad and morbid. By my own understanding he is a living deity, whereas the other goblin gods, Mubarrak, Lovrig, and Kragor, are the eternal spirits of their most revered ancestors.¡± Orog glanced down at his King, and then continued to pace around the gloomy cavern. A wet slap sounded with each of his footsteps, echoing from high ceilings amongst the skitter of creatures in the dark, clack of a marauding crab, squeal of a rogue bat, and the perpetual dripping of water gathered on lancing stalactites. Those sounds were joined by an intermittent scrape whenever Agrak rasped his long claws against the stone throne: a roughly hewn seat only as tall as Orog¡¯s knee. The goblin sat upon it appeared weak and half-starved, with large round eyes set in an ungainly skull; and a misshapen nose that seemed better fit for an old crone than a young and smooth-skinned goblin. Orog slowed to a stop, crushing a fat-backed spider underfoot. ¡°Well?¡± Agrak flexed his clawed hands. ¡°Tell me again.¡± ¡°I aimed to leave after speaking with you, then I heard fighting near the main entrance. That abomination Sebelum was there, already lying dead, and his clan had netted one barbarian and aimed to capture and kill the other. I intervened, tried to bring the man to reason, but he was set on violence, then I¡ª¡± ¡°I mean,¡± Agrak interjected, his voice soft and piping, ¡°why do you want to keep them alive? What are they to me? What are they even to you?¡± ¡°Where did they come from?¡± Agrak¡¯s thin lips drew up over large fangs. ¡°Is that not a question for you, my friend?¡± ¡°I mean to say,¡± Orog began, thunderous voice slow and serious, ¡°they did not come through the main entrance. So they must have come from deeper under the ground, or by some working of Chance fell from one of the mountains above onto the lip of a cavern.¡± Agrak offered a slow nod. ¡°So you want them to tell you that they have been sent by my old friend?¡± He shrugged his bony shoulders. ¡°Go ahead. I don¡¯t know why you even bothered asking permission.¡± ¡°I¡¯ve already put it in motion. But I would like you to question them.¡± Agrak¡¯s answering laugh was breathy and childish. ¡°You mean you want some excuse to bring some torches in and get this place fit for audience?¡± ¡°If Chance is back¡ª¡± Agrak raised a long-clawed hand. ¡°He is, Orog. I just don¡¯t care. I¡¯m done, and the sooner you understand that the better.¡± He half-smiled. ¡°If you want to save our people, you go and save our people. But I don¡¯t consider them kin. How can we be when we range from you, bold and magnificent, to a creature like Sebelum? And I am, by my own account, no less an abomination than him.¡± Orog knelt close to the throne, looking his King in the eye. ¡°You are the best of us.¡± ¡°Leave me be, Orog,¡± Agrak replied. ¡°Bring some goblins in to clean this place up and bring me coal and braziers. Oh, and hunt down Sebelum¡¯s clan if you haven¡¯t already given the order. They seem like the type to go savage and mad.¡± Orog straightened, and sucked air into his huge chest. ¡°Already done, my King. I will have the prisoners readied.¡± *** Orog ushered Hjorvarth and Engli forward through a stone tunnel. Torches were arrayed along the walls in rusting sconces, making the air hazy with bronze light. ¡°Where are you taking us?¡± Engli asked, his hands bound at the wrist. ¡°My King wishes to speak with you,¡± Orog answered. They soon reached a massive cavern, lit by four iron braziers that stood at each corner. It was a dank place of uneven walls that glistened in the firelight, with shelves of stones that once served as three-tiered benches, and a higher plateau for pronouncements. Beetles skittered across each tier of the benches, and centipedes wormed their way up the walls. Webs traced the smoky stalactites above like ethereal lace, while fat-backed spiders recoiled further into recesses, fissures or rock alcoves. Agrak had not moved from his stone throne, which served as the smallest and most central furnishing. He took no notice now Orog set Hjorvarth and Engli ahead of him, forcing them to their knees. Orog bowed to his diminutive monarch. ¡°My King. These are the intruders.¡± ¡°We had no mind to intrude,¡± Hjorvarth assured. Engli nodded. ¡°There¡¯s no man alive comes knowingly to a dark, abandoned place like this.¡± Hjorvarth frowned at the small goblin on the small stone seat. ¡°Where is your King?¡± ¡°You are looking at him,¡± Orog snapped, indignation in his thunderous voice. ¡°Before you is Agrak, The Small King. Chief of Grorgin, Emperor of the Grorginites. Before you is a goblin more ancient and heroic than any man in your histories. Or before them.¡± ¡°Sorry?¡± Agrak blinked. ¡°I thought one of the library seals had been broken. Are these the humans?¡± ¡°This has to be a joke.¡± Engli craned his neck to look up at Orog. ¡°Shouldn¡¯t you be the King?¡± Orog¡¯s great frame tightened with rage. ¡°This is no joke.¡± ¡°Leave us, Orog.¡± Agrak dismissed him with a wave of the hand. ¡°I need you to go and check on Fragor.¡± Orog stared down in defiance. ¡°But¡ª¡± ¡°If I am your King, Orog, then I am by the second. Not by the day, or whenever it please you.¡± Agrak leaned forward. ¡°If I tell you to do something, you do it.¡± Orog bowed. ¡°Of course, my King. I¡¯ll be back soon.¡± He strode out of the cavern, slapping steps fading as he left. Hjorvarth and Engli exchanged thoughtful glances. ¡°Don¡¯t,¡± Agrak said, with a threatening edge that made his piping voice seem eerie. ¡°I¡¯ll rip your throats open.¡± Hjorvarth settled onto his knees. ¡°The big goblin said you had questions for us?¡± ¡°I didn¡¯t.¡± Agrak bobbed his head. ¡°But now I¡¯ve just learned that someone has broken into my domain and stolen something from me. So I would like you to tell me exactly how you came to be here, and who, if anyone, accompanied you.¡± ¡°Why would we do that just to get our throats cut at the end of it?¡± Engli asked. Agrak smirk made his fangs more prominent. ¡°There are worse deaths than a cut throat. And I¡¯ve yet to decide whether you¡¯re going to die at all. So I would think, with that in mind, that you would do as I ask to avoid gruesome torture and a terrible death. If you answer me, I¡¯ll swear you a quick death and a burning afterwards.¡± He upturned clawed hands. ¡°How does that sound?¡± ¡°Reasonable,¡± Hjorvarth admitted. ¡°But I would have you answer a question first.¡± ¡°A question of me?¡± Agrak asked. ¡°Now I feel like we¡¯re becoming friends. Go on and ask you red-haired¡­ giant.¡± He snickered. ¡°Did you kill Ragadin?¡± ¡°No more than any other man,¡± Hjorvarth answered. ¡°Are you leading the goblins? Those outside of Horvorr?¡± ¡°I am not.¡± Agrak raked his throne with his long claws. ¡°Were you hoping that I would call them all down? To leave you and your people to live in the shelter of walls that I erected?¡± He bared his fangs, lips trembling with rage. ¡°Tell me why you came here.¡± *** Agrak paced ahead of his throne, flexing his claws. ¡°If you don¡¯t know him,¡± he piped, ¡°why accompany him?¡± ¡°Judgement of the gods,¡± Engli said. ¡°We were on trial for murder.¡± Agrak¡¯s eyes narrowed. ¡°And who gave this judgement that you would go off into the mountains with some robed stranger?¡± ¡°He did,¡± Hjorvarth answered. ¡°He interrupted our trial with some big show about a quest for the gods, for Tomlok. Get as angry as you want, goblin. I didn¡¯t know the Sage before he turned up at Sam¡¯s tavern¡ª¡± ¡°And who is Sam?¡± Agrak asked. Engli upturned his palms. ¡°A man that owns a tavern?¡± ¡°Oh.¡± Agrak returned to his throne, perching on the seat¡¯s edge. ¡°And you were both on trial for the murder of the same men?¡± ¡°For four men,¡± Engli said. ¡°Brolli¡ª¡± ¡°The brother of Gudmund?¡± Agrak asked with surprise. ¡°Are those two still alive?¡± He shook his head. ¡°I should keep better track of time. So the Sage arrives, ruins your lives, and you decide to be faithful companions? Explain that.¡± ¡°Faithful?¡± Engli scowled. ¡°We had no choice. It was that or be outlawed. By the time we had cause to distrust him, there were already hundreds of goblins between us and Horvorr. He told us he had a plan to save us¡­ which I guess was to murder you?¡± If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. ¡°I have nothing to do with either of those clans,¡± Agrak dismissed. ¡°They are savages and barbarians. Enacting bastardized tribal practices and howling at the moon. Eating each other. Eating men.¡± His lips curled in disgust. ¡°Abusing dark magic and on a whole defiling everything that they are and everything that they should be. Ragadin was the only one I was willing to support as an ally, and your friend here cut his head off.¡° ¡°I did not¡ª¡± Hjorvarth began. ¡°Your Sage doesn¡¯t have plans to kill me,¡± Agrak cut in. He¡¯s brought you here to distract me so that he could steal something important. So on one hand, I believe you,¡± he happily added, ¡°but on the other hand, that means that you¡¯re worthless to him. Worthless to me,¡± Agrak concluded, his voice turning shrill and cold. ¡°So now you¡¯ll have your clean deaths, and I¡¯ll toss you in these braziers so that you can float away to your afterlife¡­ or whatever it is your people do.¡± ¡°Ouro¡¯s belly,¡± a melodic voice suggested. ¡°Ah.¡± Agrak¡¯s face trembled with his smile, now he suffered an anger that drove him close to insanity. ¡°If ever there was a man with impeccable timing.¡± The Salt Sage strode out from a shadowed corner, his robe red near the brazier. ¡°I have to admit, I¡¯ve actually been hiding there for a good while. I wanted to see how my dear companions saw the latest events¡­ though now I wish I hadn¡¯t stopped to listen. In any case, old friend, I¡¯ll be needing my new friends.¡± Agrak stepped behind the haggard prisoners, resting his claws around both men¡¯s throats. ¡°Why?¡± ¡°Why, what?¡± the Sage quipped. ¡°Why do those around me have a habit of asking vague yet complicated questions?¡± ¡°Why shouldn¡¯t I just open their throats?¡± The Salt Sage came to stand between the stone throne and The Small King. ¡°That¡¯s more a question that you should ask yourself, old friend.¡± ¡°We,¡± Agrak stressed the words, ¡°are not friends.¡± The Salt Sage heartily laughed. ¡°I guessed at that when you left me for an eternity under the earth.¡± ¡°So says the man that buried me in ice!¡± Agrak screeched. ¡°Why are you here!?¡± ¡°Hjorvarth is the son of the man that freed me,¡± the Sage answered. ¡°Or, if you meant Southwestern Tymir, I¡¯m here to save Horvorr.¡± ¡°You came to steal something from me!¡± ¡°I took back a gift, which is really quite different. I came here for The Lodge, as well.¡± ¡°Oh.¡± Agrak¡¯s ferine eyes narrowed. ¡°So these two are just sacks of blood?¡± The Salt Sage shrugged. ¡°Aren¡¯t most men?¡± ¡°I¡¯m afraid I¡¯ve no mind to help you reactivate whatever wards are dormant in that place.¡± Agrak scowled down at the haggard prisoners. ¡°And, as much I don¡¯t want to cut short the lives of these two barbarians, I think in the end it¡¯s much better that they die here rather than live a cursed life in your service.¡± ¡°Indeed.¡± The Salt Sage laughed a soft laugh. ¡°But aren¡¯t you the least bit curious why they¡¯re so quiet?¡± Agrak tried to rip out their throats and his claws instead rent smoky air. ¡°I suppose you were waiting for more of a forceful approach?¡± the Sage asked. ¡°They ran off when I first spoke¡­ so much for loyalty. For all they know I could have had my own throat ripped out while they fled like cowards.¡± Agrak snarled. ¡°Snap your fingers and be gone, you insufferable braggart.¡± The Salt Sage sat down on the arms of the stone throne. ¡°I know that you think I am infallible,¡± he began in an unusually earnest tone, ¡°and all I do, misstep or no, is simply an endless sequence of intended events to lead towards my desired destination¡­ but this I did not mean to do.¡± Agrak¡¯s predatory posture shifted to a more thoughtful repose. ¡°What did you do?¡± The Salt Sage snapped his fingers, leaving no one seated on the stone throne. ¡°Agrak!¡± Orog¡¯s voice thundered through the silence. ¡°Fragor is dead.¡± Agrak smiled confusedly at the approaching goblin. ¡°What was that?¡± ¡°Black wax is everywhere,¡± Orog explained in horror. ¡°I searched the caverns, and I found his seed in a boot print.¡± ¡°You are wrong.¡± Agrak shook his head in refusal. ¡°Go back, and look again.¡± Orog knelt and held out a small black bauble in his huge palm. The cracked gem glistened with firelight. ¡°This is my fault.¡± ¡°No,¡± Agrak whispered. He bit down, fangs burying into flesh. Dark blood trickled down his chin. ¡°You were right, Orog. Chance visited after you left. He must have set those barbarians to task. They are on the way to The Lodge right now.¡± Orog rose. ¡°Then we must get the clans out of here,¡± he urged. ¡°If he activates the wardings this place will be unlivable. The sickness and confusion will be the death of us.¡± ¡°Yes.¡± Agrak stared at nothing. ¡°Please¡­ do that. And I would also have you remember the names of those two men.¡± ¡°Hjorvarth and Engli?¡± ¡°Yes. Hjorvarth and Engli,¡± Agrak repeated bitterly. ¡°Once we find a new home, I would dearly like to see them suffer.¡± *** Hjorvarth and Engli kept at a steady pace now they followed a gloomy tunnel. They had spoken few words for fear that goblins would hear them. The distant whistling of wind heralded cold air. Light bled into the darkness, until they turned a curve to see an escape to the open world, mired grey by the snowfall of a blizzard. They slowed to stop at a crossroads of tunnels, all four wide enough to run through with ease. ¡°That weather will kill us,¡± Engli worriedly said. Hjorvarth grunted. ¡°I would rather die in the open air, but the choice is yours.¡± ¡°Why do I have to choose?¡± Engli asked. ¡°That¡¯s simple, Engli!¡± a third speaker announced. Engli startled at the declaration. Hjorvarth had turned with readied fists. ¡°Easy, now.¡± The Salt Sage held up his gloved palms. ¡°I was only going to say that it was your choice to abandon me, Hjorvarth, and so you¡¯re trying to make things even. Speaking of, I do feel quite upset. I came to save you, and then you left me to die.¡± ¡°Save us?¡± Hjorvarth asked. ¡°The last I saw you, we were in the realm of the dead, speaking to a spirit that laid claim to being Muradoon. And if you wish to talk of making things even, then you should remember well enough that I freed you from that cage.¡± ¡°Muradoon?¡± the Sage asked as if in absolute confusion. ¡°The realms of the dead?¡± he added laughter to his voice. ¡°The last I saw you two was not long after we left Jorund¡¯s Hill. You were both complaining of hunger, so I searched for food, and you ate the moss and mushrooms we found, despite my warning of poison.¡± He shrugged. ¡°After that, the two of you started to go quite mad. I had to tie us all together so that you wouldn¡¯t run off into the darkness. And then you both broke the rope despite further warnings. Hjorvarth tried to cut me in half with an axe, screaming about waking dreams or the waking life, or about the suffering of those he knew. All considered,¡± he added lightly, ¡°if anyone here has a grievance then it must be me.¡± Hjorvarth stepped forward, his bruised face flushed red. ¡°Do you think me so easily fooled?¡± The Salt Sage raised his palms once more. ¡°I did not mean to question your honesty, Hjorvarth.¡± He sighed as if in frustration. ¡°We are very near the hall. You both look in poor health, but there is a fire there that is rumored to cure small ailments. Why don¡¯t we make the quick trek through the snow and then we can talk this over once we¡¯re there?¡± ¡°The Hall of Hrothgar?¡± Hjorvarth asked in a careful tone. ¡°How quick a trek?¡± ¡°The place has a few names.¡± The Salt Sage waved towards the blizzard. ¡°It¡¯s right that way. Do you want me to lead¡ª¡± Hjorvarth spun on his heel, marching forward without further word. ¡°Keep a straight path, and you¡¯ll reach it!¡± Engli stood confused. ¡°Isleif couldn¡¯t reach the place with hundreds of men, and the three of us manage to find it after little more than a week?¡± The Salt Sage turned to the shorter man. ¡°Oh¡­ do you think he was asking whether we were at the Hall of Hrothgar?¡± ¡°What else would he mean?¡± ¡°I just thought he meant a hall¡­ as in a building¡­ as in a hall.¡± Engli glared. ¡°Then where are we?¡± ¡°Exactly where we needed to be,¡± the Sage assured. ¡°I¡¯m certain everything will become clear when we reach the¡­ well, let¡¯s call it The Lodge.¡± He ran towards the blizzard. Engli stood reluctant, and eventually sprinted after the Sage. He tried to ask him to wait, but a squall slapped his face and stole the words away. A bitter cold soon enveloped him. His chest tightened and he felt every tear and loose seam in what was once warm clothing. Sharp pain grew keener in his ears, numbness took a hold on his fingers, and the burden of effort that had seemed unshakable on their last march through a snowstorm returned heavier than ever. Engli¡¯s heart shrank with fear as the Salt Sage strode further and further away, until he was little more than a smudge on the blurry horizon of whites and greys. Engli tried to run, stumbled and almost fell into the thick snow. He told himself he needed to step more carefully, slower, but just to keep forward. The Salt Sage drew out of view altogether and Engli prayed to Bruma Stormcaller that she would see him through this weather, prayed that he was still following straight, and that he wouldn¡¯t end up against some mountain wall. He was so consumed by his fears that he didn¡¯t notice when the blizzard gave way to rugged stone. Engli¡¯s head struck the rock and he staggered back onto his knees. Warm blood trickled down his forehead. He struggled up to his feet. Engli searched the hazy grey around him in a dazed panic. Nothing at all gave him a clue of which way to go. ¡°Help!¡± he shouted, barely hearing his own voice over the shrill wind. He kept turning on the spot, his heart racing with panic. The ache of his bleeding head worsened with the rest of his frozen flesh. The rock face stretched in both directions, fading into the haze of the blizzard. He decided that right was right, heading that way, but then turned a moment later and struggled on in the opposite direction. Engli marched forward, lamenting what a fool he was, how he had he wanted to die in that cave, only to now realise that he wanted nothing more than to survive. He wanted to be sitting in his home, that was so small that the fire made it stifling. He wanted to sleep in his own bed, and be the insignificant fool that he was. He wished he could turn back the seasons and be a boy again. He wanted to listen when Linden offered to make him an apprentice, instead of begging Grettir to train him in a vain attempt to be a fighter like his blood father was; as if a man that he had never met had some claim to importance for simply taking part in Engli¡¯s making. Engli felt so desperate that he wanted to cry, but he had to put all his mind towards trudging forward. He had never known that he could ever be so cold, and in the back of his mind he wished for the immense heat of Linden¡¯s forge. His foot slipped and the snow embraced him, robbed him of his breath and his sight. He forced his arms down to drag, fingernails scraping against stone, and managed to stumbled his way up and out of the white. Ice water trickled under his clothes, so cold that it only numbed his burning skin. Engli sucked in trembling breaths, expecting to collapse with each step forward. He almost wanted to stop, having no sight of any hope or respite, feeling so alone and so cold. He grew so fearful he considered driving a knife into his own head instead of letting the weather take him, only to remember that he had lost his weapon, his friends, and now he was soon to lose all else. He would never again see his mother or father. He would never see Sybille. Hjorvarth, if he made it back, would no doubt carry the burden of the loss, would no doubt give a good account of the man that had been his companion. And no one, no one at all, would believe a word of the praise. Engli leaned on the rock face for balance, barely edging forward, when the dark outline of a large building loomed ahead. He mouthed relief into the screeching blizzard. He staggered forward until he reached a wall, desperate not to fall as he worked his way around, guided by touch until he reached the corner. He then stumbled over to an imposing archway, searching for a handle or some way to open the door. He scraped his fingernails against the wood, but could only feel the grooves of decorative carvings. He groaned, and smashed his fist into the door, which seemed to make no sound at all. Engli collapsed to his knees, struggling for breath, too exhausted to shout. He let his bloody forehead hit the door, regretting ever arguing with the Sage, not running fast enough, that he hadn¡¯t just fled Horvorr, and that he had never told Sybille how he felt. He could only content himself with the thought that at least he wasn¡¯t going to outlive another man who more deserved his life. Engli glimpsed firelight. He fell forward, thumping into the floorboards. ¡°See,¡± the Salt Sage said. ¡°I told you I heard knocking.¡± 43. Sheltered 43. Sheltered ¡°I once travelled with Lucius to a place he named The Lodge. Much like Timilir, the structure appeared to be preserved from an ancient civilisation. He strode through the place as if he had been there a dozen times before. I had a sudden urging to ask him how old he was, to which he answered he had lived long enough to want to die. I pressed him no further, but he later told me that he would have taken his own life were it not for those that counted on him. This I took to mean his family who he had mentioned once or twice before. I asked him if I would ever meet them. And he laughed a laugh that made my blood turn cold.¡± ¡°He¡¯s near the fire,¡± the Sage said. ¡°He¡¯ll be fine.¡± Engli lay on a colourful rug near the ornate brass fireplace, which burned with a steady flame of purple. His tattered clothes had been sodden with snow melt, but now patches had started to dry with the stifling heat. ¡°Fine?¡± Hjorvarth had more colour in his bruised cheeks than he¡¯d had in days. ¡°Where are we, Sage?¡± ¡°I believe this was a diplomatic lodge, used by an alliance between Dwarves¡ª¡± ¡°This is no time for jokes!¡± Hjorvarth loomed over the robed man. ¡°Look at me, Sage. I am not long from snapping your neck. What is your plan? Why did you bring us here? And in what way does this help Horvorr?¡± The Salt Sage took a step back. ¡°You haven¡¯t even had a chance to look around.¡± ¡°Around?¡± Hjorvarth walked over to a cupboard by the door, picked it up and shook it out. He swept ornaments off of a glass table, walked by the fire, and rooted through the draws of a huge cupboard along the other wall. ¡°Plates! Pipes! Cups and glasses!¡± Hjorvarth stomped along the floorboards. ¡°An ornamental sword. Some kind of board game?¡± He kicked the checkered table over. ¡°Stool.¡± He kicked that over, then scowled at a tall and ornate clock. ¡°A lettered circle and some metal swinging. Does that help me Sage? Does that help anyone?¡± ¡°This is just the reception.¡± Hjorvarth rounded on him. ¡°This is the only room! You mean to stand there telling me that my father wasted my life chasing this place?¡± The Salt Sage smiled under the shadow of his brown hood. ¡°Don¡¯t you mean his life?¡± Hjorvarth pushed him against the wall. ¡°Why are we here?¡± The Salt Sage laughed a nervous laugh. ¡°Perhaps I should open the other doors.¡± ¡°Go ahead.¡± Hjorvarth shoved him across the pristine floors. He glanced at the open draws of the cupboard, at the trinkets scattered on the floor. ¡°If there is nothing more to this place, Sage. I swear by all the gods¡­¡± The Salt Sage peered inside the tall clock. He pulled on the pendulum and mechanisms began to click into place. ¡°There we are. Did you want to wake Engli?¡± Hjorvarth scowled. ¡°He looks half dead.¡± ¡°All right. Though you¡¯re not exactly a picture of health.¡± ¡°I would think less on my well being, and more on your own.¡± The Salt Sage dipped his hooded head. ¡°Of course.¡± He waved a hand towards an opening in the log wall, which led to a large square chamber, made all of natural stone, veined in places with gold, coal or silver, as if the place had been hewn straight from the mountain itself. There were three tiers to the space, two wooden landings that gave access to rooms with doors, carved with simple scenes of people or places; and a bottom stone floor, covered by a main table, weapon racks, and wooden figures meant for training. Hjorvarth scowled down at the equipment, at the weapon and armour racks stood along the walls. He thought the weapons too ornate and fanciful-wrought to be useful, and thought less of the gleaming armour. ¡°Even if I could carry all of that crap with me, a few sets of armour doesn¡¯t win a war, when all it takes for a man to die is for some rock to hit him in the face.¡± The Salt Sage chuckled. ¡°Patience, Hjorvarth.¡± Hjorvarth opened each door as he passed, stone washrooms, storage rooms with chests and crates, bedrooms with bunks, others with large beds and ornate furnishings. One door opened to a large room with a curtained theater, and another led to a huge, brass communal bath. ¡°Who lives here? Who needs these useless things?¡± ¡°I was actually hoping you and Engli would live here.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t want a new home. I want to save the one I already have. The one with my family and friends.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t worry, Hjorvarth,¡± the Salt Sage said. ¡°Horvorr is as safe as can be, all things considered.¡± ¡°What¡¯s that supposed to mean? Is it safe or isn¡¯t it?¡± ¡°It¡¯s¡­ safe. Trust me, by now Gudmund has a hold on things. Or he¡¯s dead. Either way, Horvorr will be ready.¡± Hjorvarth glared. ¡°Are you trying to make me angry?¡± ¡°No, not at all. I¡¯m trying to reassure you.¡± ¡°You¡¯re failing,¡± Hjorvarth replied now they crossed onto the second landing. He opened the doors, to a kitchen, another bunked bedroom, an expansive library, and a different level of the same theater. ¡°What is all this for?¡± ¡°Someone performs a song, and people watch.¡± ¡°So why is no one here?¡± ¡°They¡¯re all dead.¡± ¡°Like the last city?¡± Hjorvarth asked. ¡°Or would you have me believe I imagined that? Why is it that you only know of places where everyone has died, Sage? Should I not be worried that one day you¡¯ll lead some fools through the walls of Horvorr and tell them of more folk long dead?¡± ¡°I¡¯ve truly no idea what you mean, Hjorvarth.¡± The Salt Sage shrugged. ¡°I do apologize about assuring you of the wholesomeness of those mosses. Or it might have even been the underground stream, but all that you saw¡­ I didn¡¯t. Do you want to tell me what you think happened? Then I might be able to clear things up for you.¡± ¡°Sage¡­ the less we speak, the less we deal with one another, the better. Simply tell me or show me how this place saves Horvorr.¡± The Salt Sage looked up at a glass frame embedded in the wall. There were empty straps that hung over a depression in the wood that seemed shaped for a heavy, two-handed axe. A golden plate was fixed into the wall under the frame, engraved with runic symbols. ¡°Brolli would be happy with that,¡± Hjorvarth muttered, reminded of his own guilt. ¡°Stole the axe and left the glass and straps.¡± ¡°It¡¯s more for using than viewing,¡± the Sage explained. ¡°They call it The World Splitter. Legend says the axe can only be wielded by the worthiest of fighters.¡± ¡°No doubt a tale spoken loudest by those that crafted or wielded the weapon.¡± The Salt Sage sighed. ¡°You¡¯re too young to be a cynic, Hjorvarth.¡± ¡°I¡¯ve no clue what the word means,¡± he dismissed. ¡°But either way I put no faith in the judgements of others.¡± The Salt Sage gestured towards the final stairs. ¡°Why¡¯s that?¡± There were more doors on the bottom floor, and a shadowed stair that led further into the earth. A map of the region stood central. Wooden figures, made for training, watched the visitors from two orderly rows of three. Behind them, racks of ornate weapons and polished armour were arrayed along each of the walls. Hjorvarth did not offer an answer. ¡°There is nothing here, Sage. I could have asked Gudmund for weapons or a map of the region.¡± ¡°Ignore all that.¡± The Salt Sage led him through the training room and to a stone wall. ¡°There¡¯s something I want to show you.¡± ¡°A wall?¡± Hjorvarth asked, coming up behind him. The Salt Sage licked his finger and wiped it on Hjorvarth¡¯s cut cheek. The huge man frowned, and stepped back. ¡°I just needed your blood.¡± The Salt Sage turned back to the wall and pressed the bloody finger against the stone. It faded away to reveal a small corridor of black marble, tiled floor patterned with white. Gemstones and gold glimmered and gleamed in the distance, stacked in a untidy pile of weapons, ornaments, and wealth. ¡°What now, Sage?¡± Hjorvarth asked in anger. ¡°Do you expect me to pay Muradoon to give me my father back? Are we going back to your stone city? Or should I purchase an army so that they can use their weapons to shift around the bones and ash?¡± ¡°You¡¯ll need Engli to get the gold,¡± the Sage¡¯s voice was distant. He now stood near the middle of the training room, leaning over the large octagonal map table. ¡°Remember that, Hjorvarth. You can open the door, and he can take things out. Try and take anything out of there yourself and it will go badly for you.¡± ¡°What are you talking about?¡± Hjorvarth roared, his voice echoing back. ¡°You said that coming here would save Horvorr, but I don¡¯t see how this¡ª¡± He swept out his great arms. ¡°How any of this is going to save anyone!¡± ¡°Say again?¡± The Salt Sage backed away from the map table, towards a small wooden altar that stood in the leftmost corner formed by the stairs. ¡°I said that we needed to come here, and I said that Horvorr would be saved. I don¡¯t recall ever suggesting that one had ought to do with the other.¡± Hjorvarth strode forward to take a mace from a weapon rack. ¡°Then why are we here?¡± ¡°We?¡± he asked. ¡°As in you and Engli? I needed you to open the door, and I thought you might enjoy the trip.¡± The Salt Sage pushed a crystalline sphere, orange-veined blue, into a depression on the wooden altar, then lifted a battered bronze coin from where the sphere had been standing. Metal clunked. Twin glass channels in the altar¡¯s base started to glow orange and blue. ¡°If you meant, why am I here?¡± He held up the coin. ¡°I left this the last time I visited, and it¡¯s very important to me. Mostly because I need it to get where I¡¯m going, but also because it¡¯s the first coin my father ever let me keep. The gambler, remember? I already told you¡ª¡± He leapt backwards. Stone screeched when Hjorvarth¡¯s mace struck the wall. His wrist suffered the impact and he stepped forward to corner the brown-robed man. The Salt Sage proffered gloved palms. ¡°Let¡¯s not let this get of hand.¡± ¡°Out of hand?¡± Hjorvarth shouted. ¡°You have been the death of four men, Sage. You have led two others out into the mountains to die for a coin that looks too worn for custom. You have pushed and twisted the people of Horvorr, instead of simply warning them that a goblin horde is camped outside their walls. All those that claim to know you¡ªman, monster and spirits alike¡ªthink you a harbinger of calamity, and I now have no reason to doubt them. So pick a weapon if you wish, but by all the gods you are a man made of falseness and cruelty, and I will not let you leave here living,¡± he grimly assured. ¡°If only for the sake of all those who have yet to meet you.¡± Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. The Salt Sage stood unmoving in the corner, his brown hood showing only shadows. ¡°Calamity?¡± He laughed in anger. ¡°Had I not shown up when I did, you would have led those men on the Autumn Trip. You would have been ambushed moments after you crossed through the gates. What do you think those goblins were waiting for, Hjorvarth? They were looking forward to the trip as much as you were. And as to warnings, Gudmund of Horvorr didn¡¯t exactly pay my words much mind. He was, in fact, as you are¡­ mostly set on killing me.¡± Reaching into his robe, the Sage stepped forward. ¡°So I wish you both the best of luck in saving Horvorr, but I really must be on my way.¡± Hjorvarth tightened his grip on the mace. ¡°To ruin some other fool¡¯s life? Or to think up some more excuses for your black actions?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t need excuses, Hjorvarth. I have an imperative.¡± The Salt Sage bounded forward, sword flashing out from under his robe. He lunged for a thrust, batted away by the mace. He stabbed and slashed, pushing the haggard fighter further back, then clambered onto the third step of the stairs. He rolled clear of a crunching mace. ¡°One day, Hjorvarth.¡± He glanced back as he made his flight across the landing. ¡°You¡¯re going to look back on all this and see that I¡¯ve done you a great favour!¡± Hjorvarth hurled his weapon, but it clanked down to the stone below. ¡°What is wrong with you?¡± ¡°With me?¡± The Salt Sage paused at the top of the stairs. ¡°You¡¯re the one trying to bludgeon me to death without provocation!¡± ¡°You brought us here for nothing!¡± Hjorvarth chased him into the reception. ¡°I could have died trying to protect Horvorr!¡± ¡°And now you can live succeeding to protect it! Probably.¡± The Salt Sage swiped Hjorvarth¡¯s blood against the ornate door and it opened to sunshine and silence. He dipped his hooded head and fled. ¡°You¡¯re definitely welcome!¡± Hjorvarth charged out into a mountainous basin. In all directions, untouched snow sparkled in the sunlight. He ran back and forth to each side of the wooden lodge and, with great effort, managed to clamber onto the roof. He had clear sight for a mile, but saw no man in a brown robe, or any life at all, only a bright sky and a glacial horizon of endless mountains. *** Isleif sat on Engli¡¯s bed, worrying at the loose thread of the rough blanket across his lap. He appeared as a ghost of a man, his plain shirt ethereal and baggy, his milky eyes so distant that he seemed to see straight through to the spirit realm and witness his own death. Anna watched from the main room. She sat at the table, but had turned in her seat. She wanted nothing more than to see Isleif for who he was: an arrogant fool with a hawkish face and hawkish sensibilities, with a proud stride and striking ginger hair. But all she saw was a lost old man, staring down at his lap as if the brown thread of a blanket was all that mattered in the world. He did study his frail hands on occasion, turning them slowly over as if they were oddities. ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± said a strained voice. Anna had been so swept up in her momentary pity that she hadn¡¯t noticed him turn. He stared straight at her, owly brows tight above his eyes. ¡°For what happened, with Brolli. I didn¡¯t think that¡­ I didn¡¯t think that he would attack the Ritual House,¡± he feebly explained. ¡°That he would attack you¡­ in the way that he did. I didn¡¯t think at all, is the truth. Of the consequence¡­ of anything.¡± He smiled a weak smile that spoke to self-loathing. ¡°I am a fool.¡± Anna only looked back at him and he thought her the same young woman. He could not see the wrinkles at the corners of her green eyes, or at the edges of her soft lips, nor was his vision clear enough to notice grey strands amongst her pale blond hair. She held her head just as proudly as she had, making the hard lines of her face seemed ever more refined. ¡°Do you want forgiveness?¡± ¡°No.¡± Isleif shook his head with vehemence. ¡°Never would I ask that. Never would I want it. I only want you to know that Brolli went there of his own¡ª¡± ¡°I know,¡± Anna said simply. ¡°I always knew. A fool you were, and a fool you are, Isleif. But you are not a man who would send the likes of Brolli and his men to the Ritual House.¡± She shrugged. ¡°I have never blamed you for what he did or didn¡¯t do. But I do blame you for everything else, before Sibbe¡¯s death and after it.¡± She watched the old man with disappointment. ¡°There are days when I honestly think that Linden should have just let you cut your throat.¡± Isleif offered a slow nod. He squinted down at his blanket. ¡°Why did you even come back?¡± Anna asked. ¡°Hundreds of men went with you, and of all those that could return it had to be you. Why, Isleif? Why? Do you even understand all the misery you¡¯ve caused your boy?¡± Isleif tugged at the loose thread, murmuring a song to himself. ¡°Pretend not to hear me then.¡± Anna smiled in anger. ¡°You¡¯re just the same coward that you¡¯ve always been. The same coward who forced your wife out here for your own sake, so that you could lay claim to saving her. The same coward that came back to torment his son as the living dead. The same coward that sings songs about the snow so he can avoid answering questions he doesn¡¯t want to answer.¡± She sighed. ¡°You are a selfish mouse of a man, Isleif. You deserved no love from Sibbe. And you deserved no love from her son. The gods may have cursed you with your life, but there was no need for you to curse Hjorvarth as well. And now where is he? On a quest to right your wrong, with my son following. Both of them dead or soon to be because of you.¡± Anna realised she was stood over him. Isleif kept pulling at the thread, his hand shaking as he sniffled his breaths. ¡°I didn¡¯t want to come back,¡± he whispered, his voice quavering. ¡°I was lost in the snow, and it was cold¡­ so cold. But he took my hand, and he pulled me back. He pulled me out from the bath. Splash. Attacked. So much blood. Is it mine? No, if it were yours you¡¯d be dead. Keep walking, keep going. I¡¯ll try again later. This didn¡¯t go as I¡¯d hoped. You planned this? No. I try not to plan. I can¡¯t see! I can¡¯t feel my legs! You don¡¯t need to feel your legs¡ªjust trust that they¡¯re there. Where are you taking me? Home. I¡¯m taking you home. Back to the boy, back to Horvorr. We¡¯re done. Debt settled. But Sibbe? Where is she? Lost. We need to go back! You can¡¯t, Isleif. You don¡¯t know which way to go. Follow me. She¡¯s gone. They¡¯re all gone. You saw what happened. There¡¯s no way anyone else made it back alive. We need to go while the blizzard¡¯s high or else they¡¯re going to catch us too. Isleif! Where are you! Raise your hand, Isleif! I can¡¯t see you! Isleif!¡± The shrill tone rang out with desperation. Isleif blinked, trying to steady himself with frail arms now his knees knocked together. He stared up like a lost child, milky eyes wide with fear. ¡°I didn¡¯t know, Anna. I didn¡¯t know which way to go. I tripped, and I laughed. Snow bath. I was buried. I tried to stay buried but he found me. And he pulled me up from the snow and he made me living again, but he said I¡¯d frozen over too hard, and I might not be so much as myself as I was. But I trusted him because he owed me. He owed me a debt, and I trusted him¡ªbut he took Sibbe from me!¡± he snarled, anger fading as suddenly as it manifested. ¡°And why would he do that when we were supposed to be friends?¡± Anna blinked tears from her eyes. She had no answer. Isleif shook his head, rubbing his aged face with trembling hands. ¡°Why did he do that, Anna?¡± ¡°Who?¡± Isleif gazed up at her queerly. ¡°Lucius, of course.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t know anyone by that name, Isleif.¡± ¡°But I saw you speaking to him.¡± ¡°Where?¡± Anna asked. ¡°When?¡± ¡°The tavern. He brought a girl, a pretty girl, with a blue dress and red hair.¡± ¡°Sybille?¡± ¡°Sibbe?¡± Isleif asked. ¡°Sybille is Gudmund¡¯s daughter. She came here with the Sage¡ª¡± Isleif recoiled. ¡°Was the Sage with you, Isleif? Did he go on your expedition?¡± Isleif gazed up at her, his owly brows knitted. He lifted his head as if to nod, then smiled and frowned. ¡°Have you seen Hjorvarth?¡± *** Engli pushed up from the floorboards near the purplish fire, feeling dryer, warmer, and more contented than he had ever been. He faced the winter breeze sweeping in through the open doors, and squinted at the sunlight reflecting off sparkling snow. ¡°Hjorvarth?¡± The door swung soundlessly closed now he approached, leaving him in an odd silence of his own breaths and the mechanisms of the grandfather clock. He walked towards the ticking and noticed the entrance to the stone chamber below. Casting off his tattered fur jacket, Engli walked to the precipice. He unfastened his leather armour while he descended the stairs, feeling stifled by the heat despite the cold stone around him. The place reminded him of Jorund¡¯s home. Engli made his way across the landings, having a look at each of the rooms as he passed. He paused to study the decorative axe case, which now held The World Splitter. Engli thought the weapon was wrought too big to be used by most men, other than Hjorvarth or Grettir when he still had both his arms. ¡°Hjorvarth!¡± He looked down to the training area below, listening to his own voice echo back at him. ¡°Is anyone here? Sage¡­?¡± He began to check each room thoroughly, trekking the three floors of the theater to look down each row of seats. Engli came out of the theater and into the bottom floor. He looked the place over, searching and calling for his companions to no avail. Engli took a metal-shafted axe from the weapon rack, and made his way back up the stairs. The door wouldn¡¯t open for him, despite many attempts and much swearing, so he scoured cupboards and the floor for a key, then made a brisk effort of searching chests and drawers in the other rooms. He found a green shirt, and a pair of white leggings that were tight-fitting, but pleasant enough to wear. He found other clothes as well, and they all seemed fit for men that were either short and broad, or overly tall and lean. Engli grabbed a second single-bladed axe. They were both wrought of a silvery green metal, engraved with floral patterns down the shaft, made with a pick at the top, which had a gleaming sapphire socketed beneath. The weaponry arrayed along the racks near the stair was of a similar make to the axes, offering a selection of every weapon that Engli knew, and others that he had never seen. More racks stood near the stone walls opposite, arrayed with weapons wrought from a dark metal, etched with runes and finished with hard lines instead of curved edges. He weighed one of those, but found them too heavy to handle, so set it back in the rack. Engli then made his way towards the stairs, but stopped to look at the map on the octagonal table. He pulled out one of the low-backed wooden seats, and leaned forward to study the drawing. The map was as wide as the table, weighted with golden figures of goblins, men, dwarves and elves. The soft canvas was pale brown and the region had been richly painted in full colour. Engli recognised the lay of the land, but the towns and cities were named wrong, or showed where only trees stood. There was no mention of Fenkirk or most of the mountain villages either, but Jorund¡¯s Hill was clearly marked. ¡°Engli?¡± Hjorvarth¡¯s deep voice rolled down from the entry hall. ¡°Engli!¡± ¡°I¡¯m down here!¡± ¡°Are you all right?¡± ¡°I¡¯m fine!¡± Engli lifted up his green shirt. He was leaner, more scratched and bruised than he remembered, but he could see no deep wounds, or any cuts that looked to be going bad. ¡°I¡¯m better than fine!¡± ¡°Good,¡± Hjorvarth said, trudging down the stairs. ¡°I feel like death.¡± ¡°You should sit by that fire.¡± ¡°No.¡± Hjorvarth shook his head. ¡°It looks fey.¡± He let out a long sigh. ¡°You should know I tried to kill the Sage, and he¡¯s ran away. He said that he was leaving before I tried to kill him, that he had got what he wanted, and that he had led us out here for some mad man¡¯s jest, or else he wanted some coin, or he came to put that bauble in that altar.¡± He shrugged, and yawned. ¡°I don¡¯t suppose you found any food?¡± Engli glanced up at the landing. ¡°Go into the next room, and turn right. There¡¯s a room with bronze barrels and taps. If you pick up one of the mugs, and pull one of the handles, then a drink will come out. It tastes a little like ale.¡± ¡°You¡¯re joking?¡± Hjorvarth asked. Engli shook his head. Hjorvarth grumbled to himself, and wandered off into the suggested room. He came down a while later, his thick arms wrapped around huddled mugs. He moved to set them on the map table, but saw the quality and set them on a pair of chairs instead. Engli took the offered mug. ¡°Have you seen this map?¡± ¡°What of it?¡± ¡°We¡¯re right next to Fenkirk. This is us¡ª¡± He pointed to a small star amid a mountainous basin. He ran his finger down a path to the south, which sloped into the forests of Fenkirk. ¡°If we follow this, then we could reach the town in a few days.¡± Hjorvarth paused his drinking. ¡°Fenkirk is likely surrounded by goblins,¡± he said, wiping his mouth with a sleeve. ¡°If it is then we¡¯d be running to our deaths.¡± ¡°What about the hunting villages?¡± Engli asked. ¡°If we head more westerly first, then we could see if anyone was there, ask if anyone wants to come with us. To fight for Horvorr or for Fenkirk.¡± Hjorvarth studied the forested land that ran between two mountains and connected Southwestern Tymir with the Midderlands. ¡°If the goblins came from the Midderlands Pass, then there might be some villages left untouched.¡± ¡°We¡¯ll do that then?¡± Engli asked. ¡°Rally the villagers, and move on Fenkirk. Rally Fenkirk, then move on Horvorr.¡± ¡°And if Fenkirk is ash?¡± ¡°We could travel as far as Timilir. Ask¡ª¡± ¡°Jarl Thrand?¡± Hjorvarth smiled broadly. ¡°Speak our apologies for murdering his youngest son, and then ask if he wants to help his good friend, Gudmund?¡± His mirth faded. ¡°The Sage sent Grettir to Wymount, which would be a call to most the men in the west. If we went to Fenkirk perhaps there would be some men to help, but if not then we¡¯re two men, likely two dead men, on our own.¡± ¡°We could trek all the way to the Midderlands,¡± Engli suggested. ¡°Or go back across the mountains to the mining villages.¡± Hjorvarth offered a slight nod. ¡°I¡¯ll do that. The mining villages. You¡¯ll have to go to Fenkirk, and see if you can find any folk willing to fight.¡± He regarded Engli with a solemn gaze. ¡°If that¡¯s all right with you?¡± ¡°Go on my own?¡± he asked. ¡°I don¡¯t think the Sage is coming back. Even if he did I would murder him or send him to the Midderlands, which is as good as death.¡± ¡°Fair enough. But how am I supposed to convince people to follow me?¡± ¡°Tell them the truth, I would guess,¡± Hjorvarth said. ¡°They¡¯re as good as dead. Better that they die fighting with you than die cowards.¡± Engli met the words with a doubtful look. ¡°You think that will work?¡± ¡°Work?¡± Hjorvarth asked. ¡°That¡¯s just the truth.¡± ¡°They might think they can survive on their own,¡± Engli mentioned. Hjorvarth picked up a mug of ale, quaffed the rest down. ¡°Why bother living if you don¡¯t deserve your life?¡± 44. Fenkirks Foe
Part Four - War
44. Fenkirk''s Foe ¡°I had an odd dream where a man stood over my bed, speaking of The Mayor¡¯s courtesies. He had his hands around my neck, which I didn¡¯t quite like, so I tried to wake. Instead another man arrived, quite young, with tailed black hair. He stabbed the courteous man in the head, and then he asked me of his father¡¯s health, to which I replied in bafflement at his oddity and his questions of a man that I had never met. Hjorvarth must have had bad dreams, as well. I have never seen the boy look so troubled as he was this morning.¡± A giant beetle clicked and popped and hummed as it crawled along the forest floor, ramming through thorny bushes with no mind to the goblin riders upon its back. Izzig held the ineffectual reins. He had garbed himself in a gold-threaded spider-silk robe, which appeared tattered, pocked by many holes. Loffi rode behind him, wearing his own green skin, his conical ears twitching this way and that to hear sounds more distant than those made by the giant beetle. Bragg stomped after them on foot. He spoke not at all, because he had grown tired of complaining that he had not gotten to ride the beetle. And had started to accept, as well, that he might be too big for the saddle atop the glossy red shell. As it was, both the wiry goblins had appearance of children riding an animal far too big for them, while Bragg seemed of a size with the beetle because its length, not counting powerful mandibles, matched his height. Rain began to hiss down onto leaves, trickling down mossy trunks, and splashed against frozen mud or wilting grass. The coldness of it seeped into the air, and the noise muffled the industrious popping and clicking of the giant beetle. ¡°Rain,¡± Bragg grumbled. He squinted through the darkness at the silk-draped goblin. ¡°You make it stop, shaman?¡± Izzig met the sentiment with a benevolent smile. ¡°I don¡¯t think I can.¡± ¡°Oh.¡± Bragg creased his big green face together. ¡°Can try?¡± ¡°I¡¯ll do that.¡± Izzig let go of the reins, curling and sweeping his slender hands through the air, adding a low hum as the great beetle made a reverberative echo. He then looked about through the darkness, as if checking for rain, and grimaced in disappointment. ¡°It did not work.¡± ¡°Oh.¡± Bragg nodded, absolutely glum. ¡°Maybe magic waits to work. We wait to work.¡± Izzig reassured him with a smile, and they rode in silence along rooted and treacherous earth, through a grassy clearing that shone with faint moonlight, and then almost got lost in a thicket of berry bushes. They emerged, and had to ford a deep river that made all three goblins wetter, and caused the great beetle to pop and click erratically. It was no happier when it ascended the sloping banks, and stopped dead at the shadowed figure of a large, soaked bear. ¡°No rain,¡± Bragg declared with wonder, clambering up behind the saddled beetle. ¡°Magic works!¡± His deep laughter faded when he noticed the shining eyes of the hairy beast. Bragg mastered his fear, and turned to Izzig. ¡°Your bear, shaman? I ride it?¡± ¡°No¡­¡± The giant beetle flexed huge mandibles, and offered a loud pop. The bear answered with a growl, pawed at the ground, and started to rise up onto hind legs. ¡°Be gone, bear!¡± Loffi shouted. ¡°Do that! Back to cave!¡± The bear bared sharp teeth, spraying spittle and shaking the air with a fearsome roar. It lunged forward but the beetle snapped out with huge mandibles. The bear thumped back onto all fours, then moved to circle around the beetle, swiping out, growling, forcing it back towards the sloping ledge of dirt. Izzig tried to turn the beetle into flight with the reins, but it only hummed loudly, popping and clicking at the soaked bear. ¡°Get big stick,¡± Loffi told Bragg. ¡°Do that.¡± ¡°Do that.¡± Bragg nodded, then shook his head. ¡°I Chief. You do that.¡± He then leapt back from the lunging bear, and tumbled down to the stony riverbed below. The giant beetle crawled backward, teetered, but managed to steady itself on the slope, angling its mandibles towards the animal. A prodigious shadow reared up behind the bear, looming in the darkness, making the large foe seem small. The bear grew cautious, snuffing loudly, fur bristling up amongst patches of wet. The prodigious figure lifted a huge tree-trunk staff, then brought it down onto the bear¡¯s back, crunching bone with a muffled thump. The giant beetle hummed violently, throwing both riders when it opened its wings. It took flight and flew backward across the water, leaving both goblins lying in the grass while Bragg made his way back up the slope with a small stick in grip. ¡°One of you has magic,¡± rumbled the prodigious shadow. He strode silently forward, skewering the bear with the tree trunk staff, hoisting it over hulking shoulders. He then leaned close, and snorted derision. ¡°Izzig the Worm.¡± Izzig squinted up at the figure, and shrank back. ¡°Braguk¡­?¡± ¡°Yes,¡± Braguk Moonbear grumbled, pulling a chain of iron plates out from a cloak sewn together from the hides of bears. He rubbed at the claw-clasped emerald globe that hung from the chain, and it suffused the dense forest around them with a vibrant green. The eldritch light illuminated the wear, tear, and stitching of the hooded fur cloak, which shrouded the prodigious goblin, showing only a long hooked nose, large green eyes, and a set of sharp teeth bared into a grimy smile. Loffi stared up with orbish eyes that appeared green and gold in the light. ¡°Are you Chief of Chiefs of the East?¡± Braguk Moonbear held Izzig¡¯s feeble gaze for a moment longer, then chuckled down at Loffi. ¡°And what are you supposed to be? Another worm who suckles at dirt?¡± ¡°I make peace,¡± Loffi said. ¡°I bring peace. From the West and to the East. And so I must speak, with the Chief of Chiefs of the East.¡± ¡°Stop rhyming,¡± Braguk grumbled. ¡°There are three who hold that title. I am none of them. They are brothers all. Brugg, Trugg, and Grugg.¡± He glanced back to Izzig, who appeared all the weaker in his tattered silk robe. ¡°You bring peace? On your own? The two of you, come all these miles on the back of a beetle?¡± ¡°I with them,¡± Bragg ventured, still holding his water-worn branch. ¡°We bring peace. Do that.¡± ¡°Do¡­ that.¡± Braguk chuckled. He bent down to one knee, his thigh bigger than Izzig. ¡°I came here for a bear, and now I¡¯ve caught some worms. I wonder what the Moon would say to that.¡± He looked up at the clouded skies and grumbled. ¡°Come along then, Izzig. Come on then¡­?¡± ¡°Loffi.¡± ¡°Come along then¡­?¡± Bragg stared. He dropped his stick. ¡°Big Chief Bragg,¡± Loffi explained. ¡°And Izzig the Shaman.¡± ¡°Izzig the Worm,¡± Braguk corrected in his slow tone. ¡°As to the bigness of your Chief. Perhaps you should ask the Moon, when it shines, whether you have been sent to make peace. Or whether you have simply been sent¡­ to die, to be eaten. Still, no Moon to ask, and no answers of my own. Come along, worms. Come along, Chief.¡± This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience. Braguk Moonbear shoved his chain of iron into his bear fur cloak, then turned towards the shadowed forest. He made no sound while he walked despite his size and weight, and could be heard only by his labored breaths and the hiss of his long cloak. The broken bear sagged atop his huge, shouldered staff with each silent stride. Loffi walked beneath, sticking out his tongue to catch the drops of blood. Izzig kept step like a goblin who had lost all hope. Bragg followed further back than that, made afraid by the shadows and silence. He missed the noisy beetle and the hissing rain. *** Brugg, Trugg, and Grugg sat with their fat backs to three ancient trees. They faced one another, each with the same beady eyes, though Brugg had sealed one of his with fire. They were unearthly fat, possessing hunched postures that spoke to languor; yet they moved, when they chose to, with a weight of precision that spoke to buried muscularity and enormous strength. Brugg sat untended, unembellished save for the blackened mess that was once an eye. Grugg was the heavier brother, and added to his weight with chains of gold that had been smashed together from smaller lengths of jewelry. He had dark green skin that appeared odd and rotten against his gleaming adornment. Trugg stroked a frail old woman in his lap. He knew only that she was a seamstress. She had sewn together the patchwork of fabric that the goblin wore for clothes. The dissimilar cuts that covered him were discordant and garish, no more sensible a choice than the red-and-gold woven rug he had pinned at two ends to fit his head. Goblins of all shapes and sizes were gathered around the trees, chattering and squeaking at the limits of the firelight. Dozens splashed around the reedy pond that all three brothers had view of, that lay opposite Trugg. Close enough to the fire to be seen, Ragrak the Strong stood proud and immutable. He had no love for the three brothers and despised Grugg most of all, for dressing like a manling and keeping one as a pet, which of itself was a manling habit. He stood beside his brother, Ragalak Snakesinger. Both shared the same muscular frame, evenly proportioned despite great height. Krakann Bonesipper was taller and leaner than Ragrak or Ragalak, and had a hunched back like the three fat triplets. He sat cross-legged by the fire near a pile of bones, smashing them with a stone to get at the marrow. They all waited in a lull of three brothers grumbling, of the crack of stone against rock, and of the squeak and chatter of the lesser goblins of the gathered clans. Every now and then a cold wind would sweep down, set the fire to dancing, and make wrinkles amongst the pond¡¯s reedy water. Lazoor the Black was thought absent, which gladdened all those gathered. He did watch though, from atop the tree above Trugg, smiling down with his wide, sharp-toothed maw. The old seamstress saw his dark shining eyes and glistening fangs, but no goblin cared enough to pay notice to her terror. ¡°All gathered, I see,¡± Braguk Moonbear observed in his rumbling voice. He swept soundlessly towards the firelight before making a noisy effort of pulling the broken bear off of his bloodied staff. ¡°I claim that!¡± Grugg bellowed. ¡°I claim that!¡± Trugg shouted. Brugg sat silent, prodding his burnt eye with a fat finger. Ragrak shook his misshapen head, then leaned close to his brother¡¯s pointed ear. ¡°We dishonour ourselves by following these fat fools.¡± ¡°A snake strikes last,¡± Ragalak whispered. ¡°As does Lazoor up in the trees.¡± Ragrak followed his brother¡¯s gaze. Lazoor grinned back at them both. Grugg and Trugg had grown tired of shouting, so looked to Braguk Moonbear to decide whose bear it was. ¡°Well?¡± Grugg asked. ¡°It is mine,¡± Braguk replied. ¡°And I didn¡¯t call a gathering so that you could lay claim to my food.¡± He swept a bony arm out from his enormous fur cloak. ¡°Come then, my worms. Come then, Chief.¡± ¡°I eat bears!¡± Grugg argued. ¡°Not worms!¡± Loffi and Izzig stepped into the firelit clearing, appearing as boys to giants with all the Great Chiefs staring down at them. Even Krakann Bonesipper towered over them both, sat on the floor, watching them intently as he sucked on a bone. Lazoor the Black leapt down from the trees, startling all the other huge goblins. He bared a toothy grin at the skinny, silk-robed shaman. ¡°Izzig the Worm¡­ did we not find your body half-eaten by a bear?¡± ¡°So you thought,¡± Izzig whispered. Lazoor scraped a claw down the shaman¡¯s wrinkled forehead. ¡°Mulu the Undying will be glad to hear of your return.¡± Izzig met the predatory eyes of Lazoor. ¡°Mulu the Dead.¡± ¡°Why were you in my tree?¡± Trugg bellowed, startling them both. ¡°Who is this worm?¡± Lazoor bowed and scraped apologetically, then slunk away until his sleek black frame faded into the shadows. ¡°It is Izzig the Worm,¡± Braguk explained. ¡°Once a leech suckling on the blood of Gahr¡¯rul. Once weakest of those chosen for the shaman clan of Mubrogg the Spirit Weaver. Izzig fled when the One Swing, the Young Wolf, and the Black Heart swore to cowardice and murdered both those great goblins while they slept.¡± Grugg grunted in outrage. ¡°And now you come to suckle on my blood?¡± ¡°I have been sent here,¡± Loffi raised his shrill voice to overcome the deep echo of Grugg. ¡°I have been sent here by Laz¡ª¡± Braguk slammed his huge staff into the ground, bringing them all to attention. He knew Loffi would be ripped apart should he even mention the name of that long-clawed weakling. ¡°Dalpho sent him,¡± Moonbear explained. ¡°He brings an offer of peace. I have heard him out as he walked.¡± ¡°Then we have no need for them?¡± Lazoor sibilated from the darkness. Izzig reached for his own small staff. ¡°Loffi is under my protection!¡± ¡°And mine,¡± Braguk Moonbear said simply. ¡°He entertains me. The Worm, too, may prove of some use.¡± ¡°You can have them both,¡± Grugg bellowed tentatively. ¡°If I can have the bear.¡± ¡°My¡ª¡± Trugg began. Braguk struck the earth with his staff. ¡°Deal done.¡± ¡°What about him?¡± Lazoor sidled out from the shadows. The black, larger and leaner, goblin made Bragg seem more squat than big and fat. ¡°Does anyone claim him?¡± Bragg clenched his empty fist, wishing he still had his branch. ¡°I will fight you!¡± ¡°He is mine!¡± Brugg shouted. ¡°He¡ª¡± Lazoor snapped forward, clamping his toothy maw around the big goblin¡¯s neck. Bragg shuddered and struggled, even after his head had been ripped away. Loffi stared with horrified amber eyes. He flexed his claws and stepped towards Lazoor. Braguk Moonbear swept forward to block his way. ¡°Grugg, Trugg, and Brugg. Are you ready to hear the terms?¡± Grugg and Trugg both watched Lazoor with petulant gazes now he dragged his meal away into the darkness. ¡°Yes!¡± Brugg bellowed, staring with his one good eye at the prodigious fur-cloaked shaman. ¡°Speak, Moonbear!¡± Braguk Moonbear slammed his staff into the earth; and all the trees surrounding the vaunted gathering became wreathed in shadows and silence. ¡°The Western Clans will offer all the lands,¡± he explained, ¡°save for Horvorr and the land around and north of it. They will give you the true west, and the mountains that offer good caves and good fishing.¡± Grugg and Trugg rushed into shouting about who would get those mountains once the deal was made. The Great Chiefs of the Eastern Clans argued until night gave way to dawn. Trugg made a rattle with his golden jewelry throughout, waving his arms and making demands in his great loud voice; Grugg bellowed back at him, wanting what he had, wanting more than he would have, stroking his seamstress all the while. Brugg remained silent, keeping his good eye towards the dying fire while Braguk made best effort to reconcile the two louder brothers. Ragrak the Strong and Ragalak Snakesinger muttered to each other and whispered in disgust at the greed and fatness of the triplets. Krakann Bonesipper ran short of bones and marrow not long before the final agreement was reached. Izzig held to silence, absolute silence, unseeing and unhearing, as if his thoughts were forced towards himself, trapped beneath his skinny frame and silk robe. Loffi watched the darkness as Brugg, Grugg, and Trugg decided that they would go with Braguk to meet with the Western Clans, that Ragrak and Ragalak would make sure no manlings fled Fenkirk, but not rush in like those other fools Mabaruk and Muburak. Krakann had his own idea to make peace with the manling hunters camped to the north, hidden behind tricks and traps, which the triplets agreed to, after Grugg had been told it would mean more jewelry, after Trugg had been told it would mean more clothes. They all decided that Lazoor could go where he pleased, if he were still even here, but Loffi had his own ideas about that. He had it in mind the whole time that it would be much, much better if Lazoor was dead. 45. Conquer Divided 45. Conquer Divided ¡°A man named the Trapper arrived in our camp, offering his help in finding Braguk Moonbear. Gudmund charged Brolli with leading a token force in a search of the Midderlands Pass. I accompanied him, and we followed the Trapper through bog lands infested with insects, goblins, and swamp monsters. I asked the Trapper how it was he expected to find one goblin in a pass so treacherous and mired. I had my answer when we came across what appeared to be a large house draped in a mismatched tapestry of furs. I would like to say we slew the monstrosity, but Braguk Moonbear crushed most of us underfoot as he fled. I fear all we truly achieved that day was aligning all of the Great Chiefs under Gahr¡¯rul¡¯s banner. The Trapper seemed no less possessed in his quest to kill the monstrous goblin, but I never did have the courage to ask what so drove him to pursue an enemy he had no chance of defeating. I can only hope that I will not grow to his age and still be searching for the Hall.¡± Wymount had been built atop a flat patch of land amongst the southwestern mountain ranges of Southwestern Tymir. It could be reached one way on land, four ways by boat, and dozens of ways using the old goblin tunnels. Either option took miles of walking up steep climbs, often through foul weather. The Sea Gate of Wymount, so named for the broken coral and sea stones set on the parapets and amongst the brickwork, stood to greet travellers of the main mountain path, those that would have come from Horvorr, Fenkirk, or further afield. It had been built to fifteen feet, so as Sybille and her ragged band of broken folk trudged up the rocky climb, all they could see of Wymount was that nautically adorned wall, and the mountains at either side of it, which imparted an impression of a majestic and ancient city awaiting beyond the gate. Wymount lacked majesty though, and mostly held to qualities of robust bleakness. The air was thin and cold, and reeked of salt, fish, and offal, scented with the damp wood of sturdy shacks that had long been blasted by winter winds. Beyond the creaking wood and the numbed chatter of the folk who lived there, there could be heard the calls of fishmongers, the crack and snap of workers cutting and sizing ice, the sawing and hacking of those making meals of whales or seals, and the low and ominous chants of those that served The Helmsman in Tomlok¡¯s Driftwood Temple. ¡°Travellers at the gate!¡± a man¡¯s voice rang out. ¡°Travellers at the gate!¡± Sybille and her band paid no mind as the white-liveried guards atop the wall argued amongst themselves about whether they should let these desperate folk in, seeing that they were no threat and there was no sign of goblins on the horizon; or whether they should wait for Roaldr, son of the self-styled Jarl Fromund, to come and decide. Roaldr was the only son of Fromund. He stood some distance from the wall on his family¡¯s estate, guiding his young cousin in the proper use of a harpoon, which he held onto now he followed the runner who had brought him news of the folk at the gate. When he reached the wall, Sybille and her ragged band had done little more then take seats on the hard stone. Roaldr scowled at an old, white-liveried guard. ¡°Why haven¡¯t you opened the gate?¡± Sybille rose from her feet amid the groaning of stone and metal, and watched while the gates swept slowly out and open, allowing a view of a wide street bordered at both sides by rustic structures of salt-stained wood. Roaldr strode out with a dozen of his fur-clad guard, each of them with spears on their backs. He wore a white shirt that seemed too short and loose for a man so tall and wiry. ¡°Apologies for the delay,¡± he greeted. ¡°It looks like you people have come a long and hard way. Would any of you be so kind as to tell me what happened?¡± Sybille brushed her hands down her blue dress, which now appeared closer to purple or black from filth and blood. ¡°These people are wounded, and haven¡¯t eaten for days. I would ask that you take them into your care.¡± ¡°Of course.¡± Roaldr dipped his head. ¡°You seem grievous hurt yourself, woman. Why don¡¯t you all come with me, and I¡¯ll ask my questions later.¡± He gestured towards the open gate. ¡°Jarl Fromund would be glad to have you in his city.¡± ¡°Jarl Fromund?¡± Sybille¡¯s eyes narrowed. ¡°There are no Jarls in Southwestern Tymir.¡± ¡°And what would you know of that, girl?¡± the old guard snapped. ¡°More than enough.¡± Sybille scowled. ¡°I am the daughter of Gudmund of Horvorr. And I would dearly like to speak to this man that calls himself Jarl in open defiance of Timilir¡¯s stewardship of these lands, or anyone else of import¡­ perhaps you¡¯re sheltering a few Kings, or one of the Eleven Elders?¡± Roaldr frowned at her rudeness then laughed. He glanced at the old man. ¡°Heming, would you take these people to the town hall? See that their wounds are tended, and that they are well fed. As to you, Sybille.¡± He bowed low. ¡°I hope you will forgive me for not recognising you. It humbles us to be visited by the daughter of Chief Gudmund. Though I do regret we were not made aware of your coming¡­ even so we will accommodate you as best we can. Come with me, and I will have a room made up where you can stay until I arrange an audience with my father.¡± Sybille stood still as her fellow survivors were herded towards Wymount. ¡°I must speak with him today.¡± ¡°Tomorrow, perhaps,¡± Roaldr offered. ¡°You may not think it, but you have suffered injury, Sybille. You have to bathe, and be seen to by a healer. And you should eat, and drink. My father is a busy man, dreaming up titles for himself and all else.¡± He smiled. ¡°I will stay with you, if you wish, and you can tell me what has happened¡­ why you have come here alone without escort, so that I can set any needed preparations into motion.¡± Sybille blinked, and nodded. She could see her brothers standing at either side of Roaldr, both regal in their fine clothes, with their groomed hair and beards, while the son of Fromund looked little different to a hard-lived fisherman, one weathered hand still wrapped around a harpoon. ¡°Roaldr is a good man,¡± Geirmund assured in his proud voice. ¡°But Fromund is a snake.¡± ¡°Can¡¯t trust the father, can¡¯t trust the son,¡± countered a smirking Agnar. Sybille strode proudly forward, pretending not to see or hear her dead brothers. *** Gudmund sat at a two-benched booth with Anna and Arfast. It had been Arfast¡¯s idea to secure Horvorr¡¯s Barracks, which had been simple enough, but then they realised most of the weapons weren¡¯t actually in storage. It had then been Anna¡¯s idea to go through houses at night with the dozen members of their group and relieve men of any weapons they had out on loan. And it had been Gudmund¡¯s idea to sit at this booth, because he liked to look out at the herd of oxen through the open shutters. Gudmund could also see the lanky blond bartender from where he sat, which he thought good, because there was something off about how friendly that bastard seemed. He could see Arfast, and Anna, opposite him, backs to the booth¡¯s wooden divider, but he tended to look at the hairy, weathered old man. He wasn¡¯t sure why, exactly, but he had a hard time meeting the blond woman¡¯s gaze. ¡°Gudmund.¡± Anna frowned. ¡°Are you even listening?¡± She snapped her fingers. ¡°Stop looking at the oxen.¡± The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. Gudmund glared, but he was pale and exhausted, his red hair and beard both unruly and tangled, so Anna felt pity more than she felt rebuked. ¡°I¡¯m listening.¡± ¡°What did she say then?¡± Arfast raised his pipe to his lips, and sucked. Gudmund hated the hissing sound, and thought it odd, as well, that the old man already sounded like he was dead. ¡°Are you sure you¡¯re not a draugr?¡± Arfast shook his head. ¡°As I¡¯ve already said, I¡¯m just an old man.¡± He blew out a ring of smoke. ¡°Now what did she say?¡± Anna drummed her fingers against the tabletop, watching as the proud man stalled by drinking from his mug. ¡°I said that people are stealing from the storehouses, and that we should move what we can downstairs, or into the nearby buildings.¡± Gudmund set his mug down. ¡°And didn¡¯t you both hear me when I said that¡¯s a good idea?¡± He raised his brows. ¡°Arfast has an excuse, what with him being the risen dead. What¡¯s yours?¡± Arfast thought it odd that Gudmund always looked at him when he was taunting Anna. ¡°Would be good if you could stop acting like a child, Gudmund. In the meanwhile, I¡¯ll sort the storehouses.¡± He sighed with resignation. ¡°Anything else that needs to be said, Anna? Or can we leave this fool to his own company?¡± Anna laughed quietly. ¡°I do have a request, in fact. I want to teach any women that are willing how to use a bow.¡± Gudmund¡¯s brows furrowed. ¡°Why?¡± ¡°So that they can do something when this attack happens?¡± Arfast smiled. ¡°I¡¯m not sure bows will be of much use when goblins start hauling stones at heads¡­ I¡¯m not against it, but I¡¯m guessing Gudmund will be.¡± He took another puff of his pipe. ¡°He¡¯s not had much luck with bows lately.¡± ¡°What would you need for it?¡± Gudmund asked. ¡°The bows, and¡ª¡± ¡°I mean do you need any help to get it done, or is this something you can do on your own?¡± ¡°It would be helpful to have two¡­ or three guards to help.¡± ¡°Three is a quarter of my army.¡± Gudmund scratched at his beard, struggling with a tangle. ¡°You can have Ralf.¡± ¡°Fine.¡± Anna finished her cup of wine. ¡°Are we done here?¡± ¡°I have an idea,¡± Gudmund said. ¡°I want two men to guard the Ritual House.¡± Arfast sucked on his pipe, but it burnt out. ¡°Seems needless.¡± He coughed, and set it down. ¡°There aren¡¯t any men in the town looking to get themselves cursed by despoiling the Ritual House.¡± ¡°It¡¯s happened before.¡± ¡°Gudmund,¡± Anna said. ¡°There¡¯s no man in this town as black as your brother was. But it wouldn¡¯t surprise me if someone attacked my home, so I¡¯ll sleep in the Ritual House until things settle down. Isleif and Linden can come with me.¡± Gudmund nodded. ¡°Or you could sleep here, with the rest of us.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t think Linden could stand hearing you talk. I struggle enough.¡± ¡°Aye,¡± Arfast said, ¡°so do I.¡± Gudmund regarded them both without humour. ¡°I miss Grettir.¡± ¡°Lighten up,¡± Arfast said, as Anna got up from the booth. ¡°I¡¯m prettier than Grettir, and Anna¡¯s wiser.¡± They made their way out of the tavern and Gudmund was left on his own with that lanky bartender watching him, with only the sight of those shaggy oxen to keep him entertained. Edgar watched the Chief of Horvorr from behind the bar, drying a cup with a rag. ¡°Are you well, Gudmund?¡± Gudmund met the words with suspicion. ¡°I¡¯m sure you¡¯d like to know.¡± ¡°I was mostly just being polite¡­ but I was thinking maybe you should take whatever is left in Sam¡¯s tavern.¡± Edgar upturned his palms. ¡°If folk really are stealing supplies from the storehouses, I mean.¡± Gudmund turned back to stare at the oxen. He had already done more than enough harm to Sam, whether the man knew of it or not, but then there was one other tavern in the town and Gudmund doubted that his brother would begrudge the loss of things that he no longer needed. *** Hjorvarth had found three large shirts that were close to comfortable. He had put them all on, tearing two. He had also wrapped himself in a pair of hardy grey cloaks, and had fastened on a weapon belt that only just fit him. He had found no armour large enough to wear, but still had his fur-trimmed shield, faintly painted with the battered scene of a bear fighting against three wolves. He paused on the landing as he made his way up the stairs to the wood-furnished reception, and frowned at the glass case that now held The World Splitter, runes glimmering amongst the dull grey of large twin blades. ¡°The axe is back.¡± Engli glanced, but was too preoccupied to pay the comment much mind. Hjorvarth caught up with him on the landing and they walked to the entrance room in silence. Hjorvarth lifted his pack from his shoulders and placed it beside the tall clock. ¡°I¡¯m going to leave this.¡± Engli smiled in concern, appearing almost happy and healthy ahead of the purple flames. ¡°Are you sure?¡± He had equipped himself with a set of green floral-wrought armour. He wore a matching conical helm with a nose-guard, held a curved shield, and had a pack on his back laden with an assortment of smaller weapons. Hjorvarth nodded. ¡°I¡¯m fine with what I have.¡± He still had a pair of grey throwing axes, a rune-etched hand-axe, and a floral-wrought dagger. Though those remained hidden within his grey cloak, so he looked more like a huge and tired wanderer, rather than a well-armed warrior. Engli lifted his own pack to check the weight. ¡°Maybe I should leave mine behind.¡± ¡°The decision is yours.¡± Both men strode out into the mountainous basin, squinting at the sunlit snow. ¡°I¡¯ll keep it,¡± Engli decided. He stood a quiet a while, listening to the lonely whistle of the wind. ¡°Hjorvarth¡­ if¡­ if I don¡¯t¡ª¡± ¡°I don¡¯t like to interrupt people,¡± Hjorvarth said, ¡°but it seemed needed. As to our parting, what is there really to say? Things happen as they happen, so whether I die or you die, there was nothing to be done. The Sage set us on this path, and he left us to our fate.¡± He shrugged. ¡°If I make it back to Horvorr, and you don¡¯t, would you want me to deliver a message?¡± Engli glanced up at him, worried at first, then recovered his confidence. ¡°Could you tell Linden that he was right¡­ and I was glad to have him as my father,¡± he said, regret and sorrow coloring his words. ¡°And tell Anna that I¡¯m sorry, but I was mostly just trying to do what was right. That¡¯s what she always said was best.¡± Hjorvarth nodded, repeating it over in his mind. ¡°And Sybille?¡± Engli thought for a while, then sighed. ¡°I can think of no words that would comfort her. She might not even care, and I don¡¯t want to burden her further. Would you do me a favour though? If I die, could you make sure that she is safe?¡± ¡°Safe¡­?¡± ¡°Happy.¡± ¡°I suppose I¡¯ll try,¡± Hjorvarth said. ¡°As I told Geirmund and Agnar I would when they asked the very same thing.¡± Engli solemnly nodded. ¡°Why did you save me instead of Geirmund?¡± Hjorvarth raked at his thick beard, then studied his fur-trimmed boots. ¡°Forget I asked,¡± Engli said. ¡°Is there anything you want me to tell Isleif?¡± ¡°Would that he could remember it,¡± Hjorvarth whispered. ¡°As to why I saved you¡­ I swore to protect you, did I not? When we were younger, I mean. When we were boys. I swore to protect Geirmund too, of course, and Agnar as well.¡± He shook his head. ¡°But I thought that Geirmund was safe, at least I looked at the numbers around him and guessed that there would be enough men. He had a chance, at the least. Netted as you were, dragged across the field¡­ you were headed to the Lady¡¯s Shadow.¡± Engli frowned. ¡°When did you¡­¡± He trailed off now he remembered mixing blood and swearing oaths with the small and smiling red-haired boy that Hjorvarth had been. The memory sorrowed him, knowing too well that Hjorvarth had stopped smiling when his mother had died; that she had fallen into Horvorr¡¯s Great Lake in full winter, trying to save her son; who had only made his way onto the weak ice because Engli had challenged him to a race. ¡°Never mind.¡± ¡°Tell Isleif, if he asks, that I have joined the Stone Sons of Timilir,¡± Hjorvarth said without inflection. ¡°Tell him I have a wife, children, and I will visit him soon.¡± Engli looked away, strangely upset by the simple life denied his friend. He turned back, only to see that the grey-cloaked man was well along the sunlit snow. He wanted to give chase, but knew he lacked a reason. ¡°Safe travels, Hjorvarth! Gods watch over you!¡± Hjorvarth waved without looking back. ¡°Joyto¡¯s Luck, Engli!¡± Engli, newly brave and newly terrified, took a deep breath, tightened the straps of his pack, and started this next trek alone. 46. Gaining Ground 46. Gaining Ground ¡°Gahr¡¯rul¡¯s hordes have pushed us so far back that we can now visit Timilir. I did not have the heart to leave Brolli alone in that camp, or risk him getting lost in a city of taverns and brothels. I will admit that I was worried to introduce him to Sibbe, but he was as well-mannered and well-spoken as I had ever seen him. Hjorvarth had pressed him and pressed him with questions of the war. I was not sure whether it saddened or humoured me to watch Brolli¡¯s vain efforts at convincing a young boy that not all goblins are monsters. To Hjorvarth¡¯s credit, he took no issue with believing that we kept company with terrible men.¡± Hjorvarth ran through the snow, legs heavy, lungs raw, face aching. He had ran to exhaustion hours ago, when the snow first started to fall, but carried forward all the same. He was both freezing and sweltering and could barely see within the enveloping snowstorm. He slowed to a trudging stride, bending down to scoop up knee-high snow. He chewed the cold crystals now he carried forward through the grey haze. Hjorvarth could hear his own breathing through the screeching wind and was reminded of bellows. He was trying not to think though, not on the forges he had visited, because that reminded him of Linden and Anna, and of an old life before his mother had died. It made him think of the offer that Anna had made after his mother had passed, how she had wanted to adopt him for fear that Sam was too busy with his own family. But Sam had already been sworn to the duty, had been given a tavern, and had not the heart to betray a man that he thought was dead. Sam had held to his oath, for a while at least, before he kicked out Hjorvarth and Isleif both. Hjorvarth would never break an oath, not willingly. He had sworn to protect his father, and this journey was just a part of that. Distance of no consequence. Risk of no consequence. Pain of no consequence. All that mattered was that he kept his word, that he kept forward, that he didn¡¯t stop until he had reached the place or until he was dead. ¡®Run until your dead,¡¯ Hjorvarth thought to himself, swallowing the last remnants of snow, running forward even as he came onto a sloping mountainside and the footing beneath him began to slide. ¡®Run until your dead.¡¯ This was no difficult than any other promise. No difficult than recalling every drunken outburst of Isleif, despite his wife¡¯s ailing health. No difficult than watching the man becoming obsessed and bringing his family to ruin, only for Hjorvarth to have to swear an oath to his mother to look after his father. How easy that promise had seemed to keep when Isleif disappeared on his expedition. But then he had come back, a shadow of the man that he was, but no less an angry drunk. ¡°Run,¡± Hjorvarth muttered to himself, his beard frozen with the cold, his lips shaking and aching with it, along with the chatter of his teeth. He pulled his grey cloaks tighter. He would run forever if he had to, until the end of the world or until the world ended him. He would keep the promise to his mother, protect the father that had gone from inspiring so much hatred in him, to inspiring only sorrow and desperation. It would have been easier to keep on hating him, to do it purely for his word, but you can only see a man suffer so much before you to began to worry for him. Hjorvarth had been tempted when Brolli made that offer to kill him in his sleep, but remembered then the promise he had made his mother, and kept to his word, because Hjorvarth had often been a man with nothing at all save for his size and his word. Odd how that had changed, to go from willing a man dead to wanting nothing more than to save him, wanting nothing more than to see him safely to the end of a life riddled with misery and despair. He could never accept letting Isleif fall to the goblins, to a death of fear and pain, smelling smoke and hearing screams. And that would be the way for every person in Horvorr as well, women and children who had never wronged Hjorvarth. An end for the men who had took issue with his quick temper, who had judged him for keeping company with a man like Brolli, as if Hjorvarth had ever really had a choice. That was a deal signed and sealed before he ever had reason to question what kind of man Brolli was. And it was Isleif that had agreed to have Brolli shelter him, so what else could Hjorvarth do but work for him. And how could he have known that it would go from sweeping floors to smuggling goods. Or that a man as foolish and meek as Ivar would take to stabbing a man in the throat. Hjorvarth gritted his teeth, and charged forward through the snow now the ground grew more level. He clenched his fists both for heat and in anger. He had told Ivar that he would take the blame, that they were caught. And then worst was that Ivar smiled as if he had done Hjorvarth a favour, as if he had wanted or hoped that a man would bleed out into the snow just so that Hjorvarth could avoid a life in the mines. ¡®That would be warm,¡¯ Hjorvarth thought. ¡®Warmer than this.¡¯ He pictured hard stones at his aching back and heard the metallic ring of pick axes, but there was something odd to the thought, a realness to it that didn¡¯t fit. He had never been in a mine, didn¡¯t know the mix of stone, sweat and coal. He didn¡¯t know the tang of burning metal as it struck off the rocks. He did recognise the man across from him, was almost sure that it was Sam¡¯s son, but he looked years older, smeared in brown and black, gaunt and desperate. Hjorvarth wolfed a breath, and stumbled forward. He had to squint for the brightness of the sun, ice and snow. ¡°Run until you¡¯re dead,¡± Hjorvarth muttered, despite thinking the sudden change in weather odd. He carried on as he had, making a greater effort not to think. He ran to an exhaustion that made him shorten his mantra. ¡°Run.¡± He trudged until there were no words to urge him, only a half-focused stare and the drudging swing of aching limbs. He strode driven by an unspoken thought of refusal to stop, to give in, to break his word. Hjorvarth barely had any wits about him when he finally slowed. He had caught sight of something both distinct and indistinct. A guttural roar shook the air, showering him in spittle. Hjorvarth turned to see huge jaws snap closed ahead of his nose. The white bear growled, swiping forward with large paws, only to stagger and whimper when iron rattled. It reared back into a snowy recess of small hills, where a pair of rusted teeth trapped a bleeding hind-leg. A dozen goblins scrambled up and down those hills, filthy green stark against pristine white, closing on the heaving beast with crude spears. Hjorvarth watched like a drunken man. He had managed to get a grip on an axe. The goblins jeered and the animal roared in pain, swiping out at those that got too close, nearly tearing a wiry body in half. The bear staggered back and more blood ran from the trapped leg. It tried to savage the attackers, by turning and swiping and biting, but the goblins would only leap back, while their green kin were thrusting and slashing with their crude spears. Hjorvarth forced himself forward despite the weight of exhaustion. He hacked down a goblin that paid him no mind, then cleaved through another when it turned to run. A pair fought back, but they had no heart for the fight. One ran and one died. Hjorvarth then hurled an axe at a hunched goblin that stood atop a hill, causing those surviving to screech and flee. He made his way past the bewildered bear to retrieve the axe. When he came back down the hill, the animal appeared a little calmer, but still snarled in pain and struggled against the metal teeth. The white bear¡¯s dark eyes found him. A low growl was offered in warning. Hjorvarth searched the snowy hills for any remaining goblins. He saw none, so stepped forward, but the bear reared up as if to attack. ¡°Do you want me to free you?¡± he croaked. The bear seemed to relax, moving not at all now he approached. Hjorvarth knelt behind it, wary of the beast¡¯s muscle and weight. He thought the trap had been set under the snow and nailed into the stone, so slipped his runic axe from his belt, and tried to smash the hinges that bound the metal teeth. The bear lurched towards him, forcing out a vehement roar. ¡°Apologies,¡± Hjorvarth murmured, uneasy with the rancid smell of its warm breath. He covered his fingers in the folds of his cloak, placed his hands at each set of metal teeth, then pulled it apart while the bear snarled in his ear, poised to bite off his head. Iron creaked and the teeth pulled free with a wet tear of flesh. The bear took a furtive step, bounded forward, then sat down to lick at bloodied fur. It thundered towards Hjorvarth, stopped short to snatch up a goblin, then bounded away again until it drew fully out of view. ¡°Well,¡± mentioned a sharp voice, ¡°I really wasn¡¯t expecting to see you again.¡± Dagny stood on the hill to his left, clad in furs and leather. She nocked an arrow, and drew her bowstring to her cheek. Hjorvarth had reached for a throwing axe. ¡°I want no trouble.¡± ¡°No?¡± Dagny¡¯s smile made her lean face seem predatory. ¡°Then what would you call trying to hug a snow bear?¡± ¡°Dagny? Who are you talking to?¡± Bjorn crested the rise beside her. He wore a loose black shirt that matched the colour of his short hair and beard. ¡°Hjorvarth¡­?¡± ¡°I want no trouble,¡± Hjorvarth repeated. ¡°I have to rally the mining villages. Leave me be, and I¡¯ll be on my way.¡± ¡°After what you did?¡± Dagny asked. ¡°You think we¡¯ll just let you walk on by?¡± Hjorvarth met the words with a dark stare. ¡°I would be the one letting you walk by.¡± ¡°Hjorvarth.¡± Bjorn had lifted his bow from his shoulder. ¡°Perhaps you could fight your way clear of this, killing one of us or both of us. But I have to question whether it would be worth it. To suffer the wounds you would suffer, both to your flesh and honour. What good is a man that would butcher two people to get where he is going? What right does he have to the life that so he clings to?¡± ¡°What right do you have to delay me?¡± Hjorvarth rebuked. ¡°You are on our land,¡± Dagny snapped. ¡°Truly?¡± Hjorvarth smiled, flooded with relief that weakened him. ¡°I had thought myself lost in the snow.¡± A chill crept up his back now he had spoken his father¡¯s words. The axe slipped from grip and his view of white hills shifted to puddled blood. *** Engli considered leaving his pack for the fifth time as he made his way down the mountainous slope and onto the sparse greenery of the winter forest ahead. It was an odd mismatch of grouped spruces with snow on their leaves and firs towering above the naked and mismatched array of deciduous trees. Moss covered most the forest floor, sparing hoarfrost patches of earth. Broken trunks and protruding roots made for hazardous footing, along with the natural unevenness of the earth itself. He tossed the sack into the closest thicket of bushes, and slung his floral-wrought shield over his back. No sooner than that did a stone strike him, sounding out with a metal din now the blond man staggered forward. Engli turned, but his boot had dipped under a root. He twisted his foot and collapsed back into the leafy bushes. He scrabbled to pull his leg free, losing his boot, then rolled up off his back, while the squealing and jeering of goblins grew closer. A fat goblin wound up for another throw in the distance. Engli made a desperate attempt to guard his face with the flat of his floral-wrought axe. The stone struck him square in the nose, bouncing off the metal guard of his helm, sending him reeling all the same. Engli managed to catch himself on a mossy tree trunk, then pushed off and lashed out with his axe, carving through the shoulder of a rushing goblin. Stones struck him in the chest but his armour softened the impact. Engli stepped forward now a dozen goblins grew close, most with faces like wolves, some only skin and bone, others grown plump and fat. He managed to get his shield off his back before the lot of them began a growling charge. He swept out with weak blows, missing each swing. He got pushed back towards the tree trunk, but dived through the thicket of bushes instead, almost tripping up on his own sack of weapons. He stumbled out from the greenery and into another clearing. He caught the swing of a heavy branch with his shield, then shifted his weight to cleave off the chubby arm of the wielder. The goblin hissed, and staggered back. Engli charged forward, and cleaved through its skull. Engli hacked another through the throat when it gave chase around the tree, then he ran back for a third that blundered out of the bush. Engli offered contest to a lean goblin with a wooden spear, but the goblin ran when he cut through the wooden shaft. Engli laughed his relief. He groaned with the ache of pulled muscles and bruised flesh. ¡°I challenge you,¡± declared a snarling voice from above. Engli froze. Spittle splashed against his neck. ¡°Do you hear me, shining one?¡± Engli turned slowly, his eyes level with hugely muscular hips. He looked up to see the ugly, wolfish head of a sharp-toothed goblin. ¡°Well?¡± Ragalak Snakesinger asked. ¡°Do you accept?¡± Engli clenched his teeth, and swung his axe at the goblin¡¯s knee. Ragalak leapt clear of the swing. He glared down in wide-eyed disgust. ¡°Coward!¡± This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience. He stepped forward and smashed his heel into Engli¡¯s shield, sending him sprawling onto his back with a reverberation of metal. A bow thrummed distantly and an arrow sunk into Ragalak¡¯s shoulder. He snarled at the loosing of another arrow, which ended in a snap of wood. ¡°Cowards!¡± ¡°Get up off your back, Engli!¡± a young man called, almost as if amused. Ragalak charged forward before Engli got to his knees, stomping down on the blond man¡¯s green shield. Engli held his footing but sank into the mossy earth. Stuck fast, he hurled his axe into the goblin¡¯s chest instead. Ragalak smashed his heel once more into the shield, forcing the man onto his back. The Great Chief staggered now an arrow struck him in the neck. He turned to the sound of nervous laughter, and strode forwards. Engli made a desperate swing with his spare axe, hacking at the goblin¡¯s legs. Ragalak snarled, and kicked the man in his conical helm. A fourth arrow whistled from the trees, grazing the goblin¡¯s shoulder, followed by the whispered cursing of a man. Ragalak ran towards the sound, but a thrown axe hit his hips, so he staggered. He turned back to see the armoured man standing, removing his shield. He roared his fury and charged back to kill the coward, who then tried to throw his shiny shield. Ragalak laughed when the shield buried into the earth, and he leapt forward¡ªonly for his heel to slide on the surface of the sunken shield. Engli smiled in disbelief when the goblin¡¯s head crashed onto a mossy log and a jagged rock. He rushed forward and stomped down, causing bone to crunch into stone. Ragalak drove the manling from his feet with a desperate swipe. He wanted to snarl in outrage but there was too much pain in his swollen face. He scowled down at the ruin of his own jaw, and staggered over to the manling that had broken it. Ragalak faltered as something struck his head. He groped at his skull, cutting himself on sharpness. He tried to turn to the trees, but night had grown suddenly close. He spat blood into the darkness, and collapsed atop the manling. ¡°Are you still alive, Engli?¡± asked a curious voice. Engli struggled for breath under the corpse, but managed to shuffle free from under a heavy arm. ¡°Who are you?¡± Gunnar sauntered up to him, his bow now slung over a shoulder. He wore clothes made of fur, making him seem a tawny man, save for a black feather that topped his cap. Engli recognised the man¡¯s easy grace. ¡°Agnar?¡± Gunnar shook his head, smiling in skepticism. ¡°No, Engli.¡± ¡°Gunnar¡¯s son.¡± Engli crawled backwards, and struggled to his feet. ¡°Don¡¯t you mean Jorund¡¯s son? Or just Gunnar?¡± Gunnar chuckled. ¡°It¡¯s a wonder that goblin crept up on you if you¡¯re as skittish as this. What did I ever do to you to make you so afraid? Other than save you from being eaten, I mean.¡± Engli¡¯s eyes widened in horror. ¡°Your family meant to eat us?¡± ¡°What?¡± Gunnar laughed in bemusement. ¡°Oh¡­ no. The goblin would have eaten you. My family are just¡­ odd.¡± He raised a hand to shadow his roguish face, then studied the mismatched surround of moss, grass, bushes and trees. ¡°I don¡¯t know about you,¡± he said, ¡°but there seem to be a lot more goblins about than usual. And that¡¯s the first time I¡¯ve seen a Great Chief walking about on his own in the forest¡­ or anywhere, really.¡± He frowned. ¡°Are you going to say something? Or did that kick to the head addle your wits?¡± Engli narrowed his eyes. ¡°Why are you here?¡± ¡°Now there¡¯s a question.¡± Gunnar sighed, rubbing at his smooth jaw. ¡°I suppose I was just tired of it, Engli. And that business we had back at the Hill, well¡ª¡± He shrugged. ¡°I was tired of Dagny and tired of Jorund taking her side. More than anything, I was tired of just living with a bunch of odd bastards. It¡¯s not that I don¡¯t like them. I love them¡­ except for Dagny. It¡¯s more that I thought I¡¯d strike out and become one of the regular folk. Make my own home and live in a place with those who believe in gods that actually share their likeness, rather than live in a stone house praying to an odd goblin.¡± He took a sharp breath. ¡°I like the forest air¡­ other than the smell of this corpse.¡± He kicked the dead goblin. ¡°Ragalak Snakesinger, I think. So¡­ does that suit?¡± Engli decided to nod. ¡°I have to go the hunting villages, and gather men to break the siege at Fenkirk.¡± ¡°Fenkirk is under siege?¡± ¡°Yes. Unless they¡¯re all already dead.¡± ¡°Hm.¡± Gunnar scratched under his cap. ¡°I know a village a few miles back that had people living in it where I passed. Do you want me to take you there, and see¡ª¡± ¡°Is this another trick?¡± ¡°No tricks, Engli.¡± Gunnar clapped him on the shoulder. ¡°I swear it by the Triumvirate Ancients. By Lozrig, and Kragor, and Mubarrak. I swear it by the Eleven Elders as well, if that suits you¡­ though I¡¯m not sure on all the names.¡± He glanced up at bare branches. ¡°Hreath the Plowhand. Brikorhaan the Shield Brother.¡± He raised his hand to halt an interruption. ¡°Give me a chance, won¡¯t you? Muradoon Spirit Talker. Eluna the Seamstress. The Fisherman, no¡­ The Helmsman! Tomok, Tomlok! Hah.¡± He frowned. ¡°How many is that?¡± ¡°It¡¯s enough,¡± Engli said. ¡°Good.¡± Gunnar grinned. He swept his hands towards the forest. ¡°Right this way, Engli.¡± ¡°I have to fetch my weapons,¡± Engli said. ¡°Oh, right. Bruma Stormcaller¡­ for another name, I mean. I really should know these. Jorund had us learn all of your gods by rote, in case anyone ever called us out for being goblin worshipers. What¡¯s the one for the Midwife?¡± ¡°Ilma,¡± Engli said, wrenching an axe from the goblin. ¡°Are you going to help me?¡± ¡°Ilma.¡± Gunnar nodded. ¡°Are you planning on carrying more than two axes?¡± ¡°No. But there¡¯s a sack of weapons in those bushes over there.¡± ¡°And now you¡¯re lying like Joyto the Trickster, even though I saved you with my arrows like Laykia the Huntress.¡± ¡°It¡¯s no lie.¡± Engli brandished the floral-wrought axe. ¡°It¡¯s full of weapons like these.¡± Gunnar raised his brows in suspicion, and ambled over to the thicket of bushes. ¡°Did I get to eleven?¡± ¡°Does it matter?¡± Engli levered his shield up from the mud. ¡°Have you found it?¡± ¡°Yes!¡± answered a shout from the bushes. ¡°It¡¯s quite heavy.¡± Gunnar wandered out from the greenery, making a jangle of metal as he dragged the sack. ¡°I think I¡¯m only at ten¡­ if only Broknar the Elder could bring me wisdom and¡ª¡± ¡°Can you carry that?¡± Engli asked. ¡°I don¡¯t really want to,¡± Gunnar said. ¡°I could have a look through and carry whatever weapons take my fancy?¡± Engli nodded his assent. ¡°Do you really worship goblins?¡± Gunnar untied the sack before shaking his head. ¡°I don¡¯t, but Jorund does¡­ in his own way. Astrid is quite committed. Does it bother you?¡± he asked. ¡°Jorund thought it would get us killed if we mentioned it, but then you look like a harmless sort.¡± Engli glared. ¡°Is that why you tied me up?¡± Gunnar laughed. ¡°If you recall, I wasn¡¯t actually present for that. I went to change my clothes, and when I got back you were already bound. Let¡¯s not forget I drew my bow on Dagny when she aimed hers at you.¡± ¡°True,¡± Engli admitted. ¡°And you¡¯re really going to take me to a village full of people?¡± ¡°Full of people?¡± Gunnar shook his head. ¡°By Mubarrak, no!¡± he cursed with false severity, then smiled. ¡°It¡¯s a hunting village, Engli. But there might be a couple dozen people¡­ if you¡¯re lucky, and if you¡¯re counting children.¡± ¡°And you¡¯re going to help me save Fenkirk?¡± Gunnar picked out a curved sword, and a long serrated knife. ¡°Risk my life for people I don¡¯t know?¡± He belted the weapons, and refastened the pack. ¡°I¡¯m not too enthused with that idea.¡± ¡°You¡¯d rather live a coward?¡± ¡°Live a coward?¡± He smirked. ¡°I thought I left Bjorn behind with the rest of them, but here you are speaking his words for him.¡± He sighed. ¡°What do I get for dying in battle¡­ other than pain, I mean, and a misplaced sense of honour. What does your Brikorhaan give me, exactly? And what¡¯s this business with the Lady¡¯s Shadow?¡± Engli waited for the man to laugh. ¡°Well¡­ if you die with courage then Brikorhaan takes you in his company, and then you get to fight in the Final Battle.¡± ¡°In Ouro¡¯s Belly?¡± Gunnar asked. ¡°Yes.¡± ¡°And if I die a coward, or if I happen to lose bravely and goblins come and chomp on my bones?¡± Engli smiled in discomfit. ¡°Then you would go to the Lady¡¯s Shadow.¡± ¡°In Ouro¡¯s Belly?¡± Gunnar pitched his question the same. ¡°Yes, but with Brikorhaan you¡¯re with the other warriors in the firelight. If you go to the Lady¡¯s Shadow then you¡¯re on the other side of Ouro¡¯s belly in the darkness¡­ along with all the Lady¡¯s creatures. And the spirits and the demons.¡± Gunnar chuckled, shaking his head. ¡°So I have a choice between being tortured during an eternal battle, or charging forward innumerable times to get hacked to pieces, or worse, during that same battle?¡± ¡°Eventually we would win,¡± Engli argued. ¡°Fighting at Brikorhaan¡¯s side is the greatest honour.¡± Gunnar nodded as if unconvinced. ¡°I¡¯ll fight with you, but let¡¯s agree that I can leave if you die before me. And if I die before you then I want you to drag my body away from the goblins, and away from the flames, and just leave me in a cave. That way I can live out my eternity as a ghost.¡± He smiled. ¡°How does that sound?¡± ¡°How does it sound?¡± Engli thought that sounded odd, but saw no need to mention it. ¡°Like a song from Frold himself.¡± *** Hjorvarth woke to a view of ocher darkness. He reached for his axe, but found his hand wrapped in a rough blanket. ¡°Hjorvarth.¡± A cold hand brushed his shoulder. ¡°You¡¯re awake.¡± He rolled over to a raven woman in a white dress. ¡°Astrid?¡± ¡°Bjorn found you.¡± Astrid smiled, her pale face and dark eyes eerie in the candlelight. ¡°They said you got lost in the snow.¡± ¡°No.¡± Hjorvarth shook his head. ¡°I was running.¡± He struggled up from the bed. ¡°I have to leave.¡± ¡°You can¡¯t.¡± Astrid sat straighter on her stone stool. ¡°Not until Jorund speaks to you¡­ he¡¯s still got quite a sore throat from you throttling him.¡± ¡°I have to leave,¡± Hjorvarth repeated, more as a warning. ¡°Or what?¡± Astrid asked. ¡°You¡¯ll take me hostage like your friend did?¡± Hjorvarth scowled. ¡°The Sage is no friend of mine.¡± ¡°So you were right not to trust him, then?¡± ¡°As if my mistrust did me any good,¡± Hjorvarth muttered. He clambered out of the stone bed, searching the gloom for his clothes. ¡°Where are my things?¡± ¡°Elsewhere.¡± Astrid rose to her feet and smoothed out her dress. ¡°I can take you to them, but I¡¯m worried that you might try to leave. And you can¡¯t leave¡ª¡± Hjorvarth stepped close. ¡°And how did your family fare the last time they tried to hold me against my will?¡± Astrid laughed a small laugh. ¡°I meant more that if you leave you¡¯ll die from exposure, you silly man. Leave, by all means, leave.¡± She tapped at her own nose, and smiled. ¡°So long as you don¡¯t get lost in the snow. Though by the look of you, you might need a snow bath after all.¡± Hjorvarth¡¯s gaze grew grim. ¡°Where did you hear those words?¡± Astrid answered with a hapless shrug. ¡°Edda tells me to say them. Are they bad words for you to hear?¡± Hjorvarth searched the dark space for a door, but found none, despite his efforts at pushing the stone walls down. ¡°I would let you out,¡± Astrid said, ¡°but Jorund told me to wait. Well, rather he said not to let you out. He wasn¡¯t too enthusiastic about me coming in here to begin with, but I told him that Edda¡ª¡± ¡°Enough of your Edda!¡± Hjorvarth snapped. ¡°There are no ghosts in this world. Only men and women, and men that make ghosts, and those that become them. I know not why you have took me,¡± he made an effort to calm his voice, ¡°but if you do not let me go, then people I know are going to suffer for it. I care not at all that your father attacked me and I hurt him for it. And if it comes to it, Astrid, I will¡ª¡± Astrid raised a finger to stop him. ¡°Ah.¡± Hjorvarth frowned. ¡°What does¡ª¡± ¡°Ah!¡± ¡°This does my temper no good at all.¡± ¡°You were about to lie.¡± Astrid smiled. ¡°And Hjorvarth¡ª¡± ¡°¡ªdoesn¡¯t lie,¡± Hjorvarth finished. ¡°Impressive that you know words spoken out of your hearing. And I would not take you hostage, true enough that was¡ª¡± ¡°¡ªa fool¡¯s bluff?¡± Astrid grinned before dipping her head in respect. ¡°Do go on.¡± ¡°I am asking you as a favour,¡± Hjorvarth all but pleaded. ¡°Let me go. I cannot waste any more time here. The gods know how much I have already spent sleeping.¡± He stared in severity. ¡°If I had you trapped, do you think I would stand idly by while your family were at risk of death? Do you think I would play games and make fun of you, despite your need to leave and save them?¡± ¡°Of course you wouldn¡¯t, Hjorvarth.¡± Astrid let out a long sigh. ¡°But I know that once you leave this room, Bjorn is going to die.¡± Hjorvarth knelt before her. ¡°I swear by all the gods that your brother will come to no harm by my hand.¡± Astrid smiled at the huge man, how bruised and wounded and sorrowed he seemed in the candlelight. ¡°It is never by your hand.¡± She turned away from him, walked to the wall, then brushed her palms against the stone, pushing on a brick so that it clicked. Mechanisms chattered together and the wall groaned inward to reveal a lantern-lit corridor. ¡°Astrid?¡± asked a deep shout. ¡°Astrid!¡± echoed another, shrill and desperate. Hjorvarth frowned. ¡°I thought Jorund knew you were here?¡± ¡°Jorund did tell me to wait,¡± Astrid assured. ¡°And not to let you out. He just said that in a different room.¡± She ambled into the corridor, brushing her fingers against the narrow walls, her white dress sweeping against stone. Hjorvarth followed. ¡°Which way is the way out?¡± ¡°I¡¯m here!¡± Astrid shouted. ¡°I found myself!¡± ¡°Astrid?¡± a deep voice called back. ¡°Where are you?¡± ¡°Here!¡± Astrid answered. ¡°Here!¡± ¡°Can you move aside so I can run?¡± Hjorvarth asked. Astrid glanced back. ¡°If I wanted you to run I would have let you go first.¡± ¡°So I should push you aside?¡± Astrid shook her head. ¡°I wouldn¡¯t like that at all.¡± Hjorvarth grumbled to himself and scooped her up into his arms. She gave a surprised yelp then laughed. He ran down the corridor until it opened out into an expansive room with a low roof. Bjorn stood waiting at the other end, wearing a plain shirt, woven thin enough to show the tenseness in his broad, well-knit frame. ¡°Put her down, Hjorvarth!¡± Hjorvarth lowered her so that she could stand. ¡°Are you hurt?¡± Bjorn asked his sister. ¡°I don¡¯t believe so,¡± she answered. Hjorvarth strode forward. ¡°Your sister is the one who took me,¡± he rebuked. ¡°And I might take issue with that if it were any different to what you did. You were looking down on me in the mountains, and I wake up here with no knowledge to how I arrived. Is this all your family is about, Bjorn? Taking people against their will? Boxing them up in the stone and then having the nerve to lay accusations against them?¡± Bjorn¡¯s black brows furrowed. ¡°We brought you here to¡ª¡± ¡°I have had enough!¡± Hjorvarth shouted. ¡°Take me to my things, and I will be on my way. I have no business with your family. I want no business with your family. I want only to leave here with gear to travel so that¡ª¡± ¡°You can rally the mining villages in aid of Horvorr?¡± Bjorn asked. Astrid guffawed as she ambled into another corridor. Bjorn frowned at his sister then at the half-dressed man. ¡°Hjorvarth.¡± He stared back with wide, frustrated eyes. ¡°I told Jorund what you told me before you gave in to weariness¡­ and I went with Dagny to the nearby villages. Stonefell to the North has been razed, and their mine has been collapsed. Our guess is that they brought it down themselves. There didn¡¯t seem to be enough bodies among the snow, even accounting for those that would be fully eaten.¡± Hjorvarth sobered at the words. ¡°Did you go South?¡± Bjorn nodded. ¡°Ilmkleif was untouched, but we went there first, so we didn¡¯t do anymore than take a quick look.¡± He rubbed at his black beard. ¡°Jorund is leaving with Dagny at noon. We¡¯re going to ask if any of the villagers will accompany us to the North, so that we can open the mine and look for any survivors. Now I know you spoke of wanting no business with my family, but¡ª¡± ¡°I misspoke,¡± Hjorvarth interjected. ¡°I¡¯m coming with you.¡± 47. A Family of Wolves 47. A Family of Wolves ¡°There is a lot talk in Horvorr of an ornate carving that Brolli has put above the doorway of his tavern. With the bad blood between Gudmund and Brolli so widely known, and their family symbol being a wolf, most see it is a veiled declaration of a coming conflict between them. I know myself that the brothers will never come to blows, but I was curious of the third wolf. ¡®Grim¡¯ was the answer from Brolli. ¡®He made me the man I am, and I dismembered him for it.¡¯ I did not ask for further explanation.¡± Sybille woke in a curtained bed. She started to yawn, but pain lanced through her cheeks then faded to a throbbing ache. Her breath quickened now she reached for her face, probing a soggy bandage and the swollen flesh beneath. Her stomach turned with the smell of old blood and pungent herbs as if touch had remembered her of her other senses. The curtains she mistook for her own were sea blue and she only lay on a single pillow that was flattened and stained with stale sweat. ¡°Hello?¡± she managed, but her tongue felt fat in her mouth. ¡°Hello!¡± Sybille pushed off the white bear fur that covered her, not recognising the bony stomach and scrawny legs as her own. She leaned forward despite her pain, and threw the fur fully through the curtains. Sybille stared at her dark and swollen feet, frowning at several bandaged toes that seemed far too small. Roaldr murmured from beyond the curtains, yawned, and pushed up from a wooden chair. He walked towards the driftwood desk and the large coral mirror opposite, to stretch his legs, having to duck under the middle rafter of the squat room to pass. ¡°Hello?¡± Sybille struggled up from the bed, and stumbled out from the curtains. Roaldr sidestepped her lunge, but reconsidered quickly enough to steady her before she fell. ¡°Sybille. You¡ª¡± ¡°How long have I been sleeping?¡± Sybille snapped. ¡°Almost a week,¡± Roaldr eventually answered. ¡°I did say that you were wounded. It¡¯s by Joyto¡¯s Luck alone that you¡¯re even alive. The healer thought you were touched by the gods. But you¡¯re still in no state to be walking about.¡± He glanced pointedly to her bare chest, then kept his eyes towards her bandaged face. ¡°Why don¡¯t you lay down while I have food, drink and a bath brought in?¡± Sybille scowled up at him. ¡°After I speak with your father.¡± ¡°He is busy,¡± Roaldr dismissed. ¡°We heard what happened from those that were with you. He¡¯s summoned the neighboring villages for an assembly.¡± ¡°And this assembly is taking place now?¡± ¡°Tomorrow,¡± Roaldr said. ¡°Which is why he¡¯s busy.¡± ¡°Are you married?¡± Sybille asked. Roaldr frowned, then shook his head. ¡°Why do you ask?¡± ¡°You don¡¯t need to know why I ask the things that I ask.¡± Sybille narrowed her tired eyes. ¡°Go and fetch your father or I¡¯ll refuse your food and your drink, and your bath. And you can explain to Horvorr how it is I starved to death in your care.¡± Roaldr met the words with a pained smile. ¡°So Horvorr stands?¡± he reasoned. ¡°We thought you might have fled after an attack.¡± ¡°Then there is a lot you don¡¯t know,¡± Sybille answered. ¡°A lot you¡¯re not going to know if I don¡¯t meet with your father.¡± ¡°Fine.¡± Roaldr laughed a quiet laugh. ¡°I¡¯ll bring him to see you sometime today, but I expect you to have eaten and bathed.¡± He bowed low, and reached the door in a single long stride. ¡°There¡¯s a dress atop the bed.¡± Sybille waited for the door to close, then frowned at her youngest brother. ¡°Why did you want me to ask if he¡¯s married?¡± Agnar grinned his wolfish grin. *** Ivar sat perched on a high stool, rolling bones onto the lambskin tables of Brolli¡¯s place. He could only see half of what he was used to, because his bad eye kept throbbing, burning and itching. He didn¡¯t turn at the sound of the door screeching inward, or at the three sets of footsteps. ¡°You,¡± demanded a voice edged with skepticism. ¡°You think he¡¯s deaf¡­? Boy!¡± Ivar turned to see Gudmund, wearing a badly stitched fur cloak, his red hair mussed and greasy. ¡°What?¡± Ralf stood beside him, chubby cheeks and bulbous nose redder for the weather. Eirik strode over to the dining hall, one finger in the loop of his belt and the other on his axe. Both members of Horvorr¡¯s Guard were clad in mail, worn over padded wool. Gudmund stared at the man¡¯s swollen face. ¡°What the hells is wrong with your eye?¡± Ivar tried to scowl but the pain made him wince. ¡°What do you want, Gudmund?¡± ¡°What do I want?¡± Gudmund asked as if that were a stupid question. ¡°You¡¯re the one sat at my gambling table, playing by yourself¡­ which I actually find a little pointless. Either way, unless you¡¯re going to work for me, you can leave.¡± Ivar nodded slightly. ¡°I am short of work. What do you want me to do?¡± Ralf leaned close to Gudmund. ¡°He looks half dead.¡± Gudmund doubtfully smiled. ¡°Hasn¡¯t stopped me has it?¡± ¡°What?¡± Ivar asked. ¡°Ralf whispered something to me. Either way, what¡¯s your name?¡± ¡°Ivar¡­ I was witness at the trial.¡± Gudmund shrugged, grimacing at the pain in his shoulder. ¡°That was a joke, Ivar. Your job is to shadow Ralf, and do everything he tells you to do.¡± ¡°So I¡¯m on Horvorr¡¯s Guard, now?¡± Ivar happily ventured. ¡°Honorary member,¡± Ralf said. Eirik cleared his throat. ¡°There¡¯s just three old men in here, Gudmund. And a fat bartender who¡¯s giving me a black look.¡± ¡°I¡¯m just wondering who you are,¡± answered a low voice from the taproom. ¡°Is that you, Arnor?¡± Gudmund walked past Eirik. ¡°I¡¯ve got the deed to this place.¡± He happily explained. ¡°So looks like you¡¯re working for me now.¡± ¡°Work?¡± Arnor stood a little unsteady behind the counter. He wore the same red shirt and brown apron, thick fingers wrapped around a murky bottle of clear liquor. ¡°Brolli¡¯s dead, Gudmund. Hjorvarth¡¯s gone, and now I hear goblins are coming to kill us all.¡± Gudmund chuckled. ¡°You know what kind of men get killed by goblins, Arnor? The men that talk like you¡¯re talking now.¡± He turned to three old men sat amid empty tables. ¡°Any of you old bastards think you can still swing a sword?¡± Odi exchanged skeptical glances with the balding, rotund man opposite, and the shrivelled, almost skeletal man to his left. ¡°Who¡¯re we swinging swords at, exactly?¡± ¡°Goblins,¡± Ralf said. ¡°Or any men that get in our way,¡± Eirik added. The shrivelled man laughed. ¡°We¡¯ve no mind to help you kill the people of this town.¡± ¡°Let me be clear,¡± Gudmund growled. ¡°I haven¡¯t killed any man that didn¡¯t swing at me first. The one man I took pity on, even after he tried to kill me, tried to kill me again the next day. Now I¡¯ve got other bastards going about trying to get a group of men big enough to come and saw through my neck. I¡¯ll kill who I have to kill to survive, and trust me when I say that me still standing is the best bet for all of Horvorr.¡± The shrivelled man pursed his lips, and mulled in silence. ¡°Is it?¡± Odi asked. ¡°All three of us fought in your conquest, Gudmund. Before Grettir showed up, you lost every battle worth mentioning. If Jarl Thrand hadn¡¯t brought all those men to back you at The Blackwood, then we all would have ended up dead. Even then, it was by Joyto¡¯s Luck alone that we won.¡± ¡°You think you could do a better job?¡± asked Gudmund. ¡°Aye.¡± Odi nodded. ¡°As it happens.¡± ¡°Good. I need someone to lead Horvorr¡¯s Guard while Grettir¡¯s gone.¡± Odi shook his head. ¡°I¡¯ve no interest. I want a quiet life, and that¡¯s all I want.¡± Eirik smirked. ¡°I¡¯m not sure how quiet you¡¯ll find it when a goblin¡¯s chewing on your innards.¡± ¡°I might as well fight.¡± The rotund man brushed remnant hair over his scalp. ¡°I¡¯m getting a little tired of growing old.¡± The shrivelled man shook his head. ¡°Gods¡¯ sake, Afi. You¡¯re too fat to fight.¡± He narrowed his sunken eyes. ¡°Fine. Fine.¡± He looked up at Gudmund. ¡°Let¡¯s sign our lives away to this arrogant fool.¡± Gudmund sniffed. ¡°There¡¯s nothing to sign. I¡¯ll pay you if you¡¯re alive, and I¡¯ll burn you if you¡¯re dead.¡± Odi pushed up from the table. ¡°So what exactly is it you want us to do?¡± ¡°Right now?¡± Gudmund swept his gaze across the grey-painted walls and mismatched furniture. ¡°Ransack this place and take anything useful back to the barracks.¡± He turned to Arnor. ¡°Are you useful, or are you staying here?¡± Arnor stared hard at his bottle of liquor, then shrugged. ¡°I¡¯ll bring what¡¯s left of the drink and the food.¡± Gudmund strode out of the kitchen, and made his way upstairs. He wasn¡¯t sure which room was which, so he started opening doors. He found Isleif¡¯s room first, mammoth wardrobe and well-wrought desk both made of the same black wood, straw mattress still depressed from where someone had slept. Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere. He stepped under the doorway, deciding by the quality of the furnishing that the old ghost must have lived in here. He thought of the stories he had heard about Isleif the Bard, how the man had found a dwarven treasure horde. Brolli once asked to dig up parts of the town in the hopes of finding the reburied treasure, but Gudmund had laughed at the fool¡¯s notion. Even so, and despite telling himself that his brother would have searched the room a dozen times over, Gudmund made a careful effort of searching the room. He found nothing, beyond a kitchen knife hidden under the straw mattress. Gudmund sighed in expected disappointment, then opened the storage room opposite, full of broken crates, a few brooms, and a collection of hand brushes. He clambered over the clutter to three ornate chests at the back, knocking over brooms as he went. He opened two chests, both empty, and smashed the last open with his axe. Gudmund pulled blankets up and out of it, finding something big and flat wrapped in oilskin, which he lifted onto his lap. The wrapping came away to reveal the ornate frame of a painting, a painting of their father¡¯s hall. Brolli and Gudmund stood at either side of Grim, taller but faceless, because someone had scratched through the canvas. Their father was little more than scrawled lines as well, but Gudmund recognised the scene and knew that he should have been sat on his throne at the back of the gloomy hall, scowling down at the three young brothers. Gudmund stared at his young brother¡¯s likeness, how small he used to be, how handsome and harmless he was before Grim stole the light from his eyes, made his heart harden, made him grow big with hate. If ever there was anyone that didn¡¯t deserve what was coming to him, then it was Brolli the Boy. Teardrops pattered onto the canvas. Gudmund wiped his eyes, cleared his throat, and carried the painting downstairs. He reached the main door without anyone bothering him, but turned back when he heard a desperate squeal from under the floorboards. He noticed the black door behind the counter, heavy lock hanging from a rusted bolt. Gudmund walked back through the kitchen, and followed the counter around until he reached the cellar door. He hacked the bolt with his axe then kicked it open. Putrid air wafted up to greet him along with timid squealing and squeaking. Gudmund scowled at the dark cellar. ¡°If someone is down there, then you ought to announce yourself!¡± He covered his nose with his fur cloak, and made his way down the creaking stairs. The cellar was an open space, built half as big as the upper floors. It had earth walls supported by wooden braces and dirt floors carpeted by filthy rugs. Most the place had been taken up by crude iron cages, some huge and wide, others stacked four high. Gudmund caught sight of wretched figures behind the bars. Wild eyes widened now he approached. Some cowered back, others scratched at their cages, whined unintelligibly, and a dozen or more screeched together in chorus. ¡°Food! Food. Food!¡± Gudmund felt angry and disgusted by the filth, the smell. He stepped back from thrown excrement, and wanted to burn the place to the ground. But then he considered that people didn¡¯t really believe that goblins were coming to destroy Horvorr. Maybe he had just found proof. *** ¡°Sybille.¡± Geirmund stood stoic in the corner of the small room. ¡°Do you know what you¡¯re going to say?¡± Sybille glanced at him, offering no reply. She made best effort to sit still on a stool, while an industrious old woman laced her black dress and a small freckled girl combed through her tangled red hair. She couldn¡¯t tell if her silence bothered Geirmund, because he had appeared in a full helmet and mail armour, but he had always had a habit of asking questions he expected no answer to. The girl snagged a sore patch of flesh. ¡°Sorry.¡± Sybille grimaced. ¡°It¡¯s all right.¡± She sat through the rest of the scrapes and tugs in painful silence, paying no mind to the old woman¡¯s complaints of how Sybille was too thin for the dress, but there was nothing to be done for it. She smiled, and nodded, even though when she stood she could barely breathe. Sybille stared at the fresh covers and stacked pillows of the curtained bed. ¡°Did you want us to keep you company?¡± the old woman asked. Sybille turned, her fanciful dress weighing on her aching shoulders. She could see that the old woman and the young girl were both eager to leave. ¡°Thank you for your offer, but I would like to be alone.¡± ¡°Of course.¡± The old woman bowed. She ushered the freckled girl out, then pulled the door to a close. ¡°I never knew you could be so quiet, Sybille.¡± Geirmund drew his sword, tilted his helmeted head as if to look at the blade. ¡°If you keep playing the mute, you¡¯ll have more folk keen to flee your company.¡± Sybille frowned at her brother. ¡°I didn¡¯t come here to make friends.¡± ¡°That¡¯s exactly why you came here, Sybille. Friends fight for friends. And you need these people to fight.¡± ¡°An old woman and a young girl?¡± ¡°Fromund¡¯s mother, and his youngest daughter?¡± Geirmund asked. ¡°Yes, I expect they hold some sway towards the man you¡¯re trying to impress.¡± He chuckled. ¡°It¡¯s a good thing that his son is taken with you¡­ though perhaps a little worrying that you¡¯re wearing the dress of his dead wife.¡± ¡°Roaldr¡¯s?¡± ¡°Fromund¡¯s.¡± ¡°Oh.¡± Sybille looked down at the black garment. ¡°Do you¡ª¡± The worn door creaked behind her. Roaldr ambled in, glancing at the corners of the small room. ¡°Were you talking to yourself?¡± ¡°I was praying¡­ aloud¡­ to Muradoon. Asking safe passage for my brothers.¡± ¡°Oh.¡± Roaldr bowed in apology. ¡°I shouldn¡¯t have intruded, but I am sorry for your loss. Geirmund was one of the best men that I have ever met.¡± He itched at his crooked nose. ¡°Agnar was a good man¡­ as well.¡± ¡°He hated Agnar,¡± Geirmund said. ¡°He broke Roaldr¡¯s nose.¡± ¡°Did you want me to leave?¡± Roaldr asked. ¡°My father is on his way, but I can wait outside.¡± ¡°It¡¯s fine.¡± Sybille forced a smile. ¡°I find myself both troubled and distracted.¡± Geirmund sheathed his sword. ¡°Do you want me to leave?¡± ¡°I see,¡± Roaldr spoke as if it troubled him. ¡°It doesn¡¯t surprise me. A few of those that came with you have thrown themselves from the sea cliffs.¡± He shook his head at himself. ¡°I shouldn¡¯t have told you that. I more meant to say that others have taken it worse than you. And that¡­ I don¡¯t truly know what I meant.¡± ¡°You¡¯ve changed your clothes,¡± Sybille said as idle mention. He wore a black jerkin over a deeply yellow shirt, which matched the colour of his wool trousers. ¡°Yes.¡± Roaldr looked down at his clothes, and laughed. ¡°One of the few sets that actually fit me. My father is into odd fashions from overseas,¡± he added as explanation. ¡°He buys me what he might like to wear himself if he were skinnier¡­ or taller, which leaves me looking something of a fool.¡± ¡°Does it?¡± asked a hearty voice from the door. ¡°Well, I¡¯d rather have you look like a fool than a common net mender.¡± Fromund himself was dressed in a thick robe, dyed purple and trimmed with smoky fur. He twisted up the ends of his thick mustachio, which met with his tidy beard, both faded to a grey that hinted at blackness. He lacked the height of his son, but made up for it with the girth of his belly. Roaldr offered a nervous laugh, and dipped his head in respect. ¡°Father.¡± Fromund¡¯s smile creased his rounded, ruddy cheeks. ¡°I didn¡¯t know you had business with our guest.¡± ¡°I came for the meeting¡ª¡± ¡°There¡¯s no need for that,¡± Fromund happily countered. ¡°Go on and enjoy yourself, boy. Don¡¯t let us keep you.¡± Roaldr grew tense, then let his unease go with a sigh. ¡°My thanks¡­ for my being excused.¡± He bowed to the bandaged, black-dressed woman. ¡°Sybille.¡± Geirmund chuckled. ¡°I would caution you not to underestimate this man, sister.¡± Fromund closed the door after his son, sighing as he brushed his hands together. ¡°Now where were we? Ah, Sybille.¡± He beamed. ¡°My name is Fromund. Chief¡­ Fromund of Wymount. I¡¯m not sure if you remember me from when you last visited. But I do remember you, and you¡¯ve grown all the more beautiful since. Even with that bandage.¡± ¡°Is it very bad?¡± Sybille asked. ¡°No, no. Gods no, not at all. I shouldn¡¯t have even mentioned it.¡± Fromund offered another broad smile, and ushered her over to the chair by the driftwood desk. He took a platter that had been left on the cupboard near the door, and poured wine from a jug into two cups. He handed one to Sybille, then sat down on the stool in the middle of the room. Geirmund sighed, still unmoving in the corner. ¡°Could you ask him of Arnora?¡± ¡°Is your daughter much saddened by Geirmund¡¯s passing?¡± Sybille asked. Fromund frowned in confusion, then began to nod profusely. ¡°Yes. Yes,¡± he answered. ¡°She knows she is unlikely to ever marry a man as fine as Geirmund now. She did not take well to the news at all, and in truth refused to believe it for a long while.¡± He swept out his thick arms in apology. ¡°I¡¯m sure that Roaldr made mention, but my whole family, and all the folk of Wymount, were greatly sorrowed to hear that your brother¡¯s had died¡­ and to die as they did.¡± ¡°Bravely?¡± Sybille asked. ¡°Yes, bravely.¡± Fromund smiled. ¡°Now¡­ if you¡¯ll permit me to change the subject, I would be eager to hear any knowledge you have of these goblins, and of what is happening in Horvorr.¡± ¡°Lie as best you can,¡± Geirmund suggested. ¡°If he hears the truth, he will laugh.¡± ¡°My father sent me here¡­ with Grettir, to warn you of a coming war.¡± Sybille took a sip of her wine, and barely stomached the sweetness of it. ¡°On our way we were pursued by a goblin clan, led by a creature more monstrous than anything that I had ever seen. Grettir bid me to abandon him, so I might bring this warning to you should he be captured or killed. As I rode away a stone struck me in my head, and I woke in chains, with those that came with me to Wymount¡­¡± She felt her own fingernails dig into her palm, so relaxed her grip. ¡°It was a long march.¡± Sybille blinked and her blue eyes seemed less bright. ¡°It was a hard march. And many suffered. There was another monstrous goblin¡ªa different one¡ªthat led these, and they were odd and had clawed fingers, and would often growl or howl. The one that led them spoke of other clans, and he seemed afeared of them. They spoke of Dalpho, and Balluk. ¡°Dalpho?¡± Fromund leaned forward on his stool, his palms pressed into his thick thighs. ¡°You¡¯re sure that was the name?¡± Sybille nodded. ¡°Yes.¡± ¡°And what warning did your father wish you to bring?¡± ¡°Goblins have cut off the Eastern Pass, and have killed any that travel on the Snake Basin Path. They will, or have already attacked Fenkirk. And there are hundreds of them gathered in the forests and mountains north of Horvorr.¡± Fromund¡¯s bushy brows furrowed. ¡°Not a warning at all, then. It¡¯s a plea for help.¡± ¡°He requests that you assemble an army, yes,¡± Sybille conceded. ¡°To join his own at Horvorr, and to scour Southwestern Tymir of goblins that aim to destroy us all.¡± Fromund stared at her without humour. ¡°And suppose I decide that I have no will or want to risk my folk at some desperate attempt to rout out an army that likely outnumbers us ten to one? That is led by abominations as large and as powerful as the likes of Dalpho. Suppose I decide that there is fishing enough for me and mine behind our wall? What would you say to that, girl?¡± Sybille smiled sweetly. ¡°That perhaps you should take the title of coward rather than Jarl.¡± She swallowed her anger. ¡°That abominations as large and as powerful as Dalpho can hurl boulders into your seashell wall. That they like to eat fish just as much as you and yours, and that they¡¯ll be more than happy to take the boats and gear that they¡¯re too clumsy to make themselves. That an attempt to win back our land is made less desperate while Horvorr and Fenkirk are still standing.¡± ¡°Your father also had a talent for turning words,¡± Fromund recalled, matching her smile. ¡°I can only hope he has as much luck turning away the goblins from his walls.¡± The purple-robed man pushed up from his chair. ¡°Thank you for your warning, and the information, Sybille. I bid you stay here stay for as long as you like¡­ though I¡¯m afraid I won¡¯t be able to arrange an escort for your return home.¡± Sybille met the words with a cold stare. ¡°Here I thought you would show more courage when it came to defending a town soon to be inherited by your son.¡± Fromund sniffed. ¡°I will defend Wymount to my last breath, as will Roaldr.¡± ¡°I had meant Horvorr,¡± Sybille said. ¡°It would be an easy matter for him to marry would it not? And as you might have heard my own betrothed had his head broken on cobblestones¡­ which leaves me open to engagement. My father has no love at all left for Timilir or Jarl Thrand. Could the other regions really question it if Gudmund threw off Timilir¡¯s stewardship? When by all accounts Jarl Thrand lifted not a finger to protect us when it came to war.¡± Fromund sat back down, twisting one end of his great grey mustachio. ¡°In what world would Gudmund of Horvorr support me for Jarlship?¡± ¡°He wouldn¡¯t.¡± Sybille laughed. ¡°He would support himself. But my father is not a young man, or a well loved man, or even a friendly one. Should any of his many enemies come for him, then his title would fall to me, or to my husband.¡± ¡°A fine offer,¡± Fromund mused. ¡°I only fear for the trouble I would have collecting your bride price from goblin hands.¡± ¡°Consider the offer then,¡± Sybille suggested. ¡°Beyond that, I wish to address your assembly tomorrow.¡± Fromund huffed as he got to his feet. ¡°And what will you offer me for that?¡± ¡°Nothing at all.¡± Sybille met his sly eyes with a baleful scowl. ¡°It is simply a thing that is owed. Do not think me any softer than my uncle or my father when it comes to dealing with men who are not good for their debts.¡± ¡°I think black quite suits you, Sybille.¡± Fromund chuckled, and turned away from her. ¡°I¡¯ll send summons in the morning.¡± 48. Winning Hearts 48. Winning Hearts ¡°When we first arrived in Wymount, I was more than wary of the men who had managed to hold such large stretches of land in a region full of greedy goblins. It was not that I was surprised to meet them, we¡¯d had to kill the men that sided with Gahr¡¯rul. Rather, I was surprised to see how thoughtful and civilised they were. They had divided their mountain into five main regions for the most prominent fishing villages, and created their own assembly for enacting law and disputing settlements. Upon meeting the Representative of Wymount, I was reminded of Timilir, yet another place full of snakes. As the days and wheedling proceeded, I was grateful Gudmund had sent Grettir in his stead.¡± Gudmund stood, clad in black and white, at the head of two long pyres, with Lovrin beside him. He had combed his hair, parted it along the middle, and topped it with his bronze circlet. The logs of the town¡¯s curved wall towered behind him. The Ritual House of Muradoon loomed at his right, having been built in narrowing tiers so the grey walls supported eleven red roofs. Men, women, and children stood ahead of the structure, in and around the graveled yard, some as far back as the long street of houses where stood Sam¡¯s Tavern. Huddled in the wide pen opposite the gathering, the many shaggy oxen watched with frustrated confusion. Their lows and moans punctuate the steady murmur of humanity. ¡°People of Horvorr!¡± Gudmund called, one hand on the pommel of his father¡¯s sword. ¡°We gather today to burn the dead.¡± A silence of shuffling feet descended now folk turned to the pyres, soon broken by a complaining ox. ¡°It is with great regret that I suffer any loss on any day,¡± Gudmund continued, ¡°but it is with anger that I look upon these fallen people, knowing full well that the actions of my own guard led to their deaths. Those laggards and cowards who have failed in their duties, and let a band of goblins wander into our town unannounced. A war is coming!¡± he went on, shaking his head. ¡°There is no mistaking that. If we do not band together under one banner, under my banner, then these will not be the last men, women, and children to be savaged.¡± He looked out at a sea of faces, some red with anger, other sore with tears, most swollen by disillusion. ¡°You may not like me. You may not even respect me. I would guess that some of you hate me. But my death won¡¯t save any of you. My death will bring more death, until there are no lives left to take!¡± The declaration echoed, swept away by a winter wind that forced a chorused shiver. Gudmund¡¯s regard turned solemn. ¡°You can put your faith in men who have never led, in men that whisper murder in the night. Or you can choose to trust the man that conquered this town without a single life lost¡ªin a man who will save you¡ªwho will keep you and your families safe. I can defend Horvorr. I am sure of that¡­ but only if the cowards of this town stop trying to stab me in the back, when they should be standing together to protect their own families.¡± ¡°This is your fault!¡± a man shouted from the crowd. ¡°The fault lies with us all!¡± Gudmund answered. ¡°I am trying to ready us for war to prevent this from happening again. I am doing all that I can. Can you say the same?¡± The exhausted crowd remained silent, wearing their worn tawny clothes, rubbing their hands together for warmth. People too tired to argue, too tired to fight for a change that might only end up for the worse. Gudmund turned to the purple-robed man beside him. ¡°Set the fires, Godi. Free their spirits and let these people rest!¡± Lovrin took a torch from Eirik, and started to set the base of each pyre alight. ¡°My sons burned the last time!¡± Gudmund called, in a tone less manufactured. ¡°I do not want to have to burn any more sons. Or wives, or husbands, or daughters. I want to burn my enemies, and I cannot do it alone. If you wish to oppose me. If you wish to murder me, then I would only ask that you wait until this war is done.¡± Gudmund stood stoic while the wind whipped up the flames. He searched the crowd for the eyes of any who opposed him, levying judgement with his unerring gaze. He watched the gathered folk with eyes stung by heat, as sweat trickled down his bearded cheeks, as the fires raged at either side of him. He appeared more than a man in that light, more than a bastard, more than an arrogant Chief. He stood ahead of the blaze with one hand on his sword, white cloak billowing behind him, while dead flesh glowed and the pyres began to collapse. He stared out at desperate folk who had finally decided to follow him, and wondered whether they could have been convinced without letting starved goblins run loose in his own town. Gudmund thought on the last looks of those he loved: Geirmund had broken their embrace and smiled as if reluctant to go to his duty; Agnar had stared sadly for a long while, like a man that already knew he was soon die; Brolli hadn¡¯t even managed a glance as he stood watching a boar eat straw, as if he didn¡¯t care that his nephews were dead. Gudmund wasn¡¯t sure if he would ever again see Grettir. He could still picture his oldest friend¡¯s hairy face, flushed red and twisted with hate. Gudmund sighed. He studied the tired faces of the men, women, and children he had sworn to protect. He wondered whether they would get another chance to look up at him with the same mix of hope and distrust, or whether he was simply looking for the last time at more folk soon to die. He strode away from the burning pyres, smoke in his lungs almost making him choke. Ralf handed him a wineskin. ¡°Too much heat is bad for a man.¡± ¡°An old ghost told me it¡¯s good to be warm.¡± Gudmund popped the stopper. ¡°And I trust a man who¡¯s reached his death.¡± Ralf¡¯s brows furrowed. ¡°Are you telling me you¡¯re seeing dead men?¡± He shook his head, gulping from the wine skin. He could see the gathered mourners in the corner of his vision, scores of lost folk shadowed beneath towering walls and the Ritual House of Muradoon. Carved crows watched from perches on the red roofs. Gudmund frowned, mouth twisting now he stopped drinking. ¡°I hope not.¡± *** The Gathering Hall of Wymount was erected some decades before Southwestern Tymir had been conquered by Gudmund. It had been made eight-sided, pieced together from good timber and driftwood, with six walls supporting tiered benches; five served for folk from the main fishing villages that supported Wymount, while the sixth bench was open to all that wished to attend, and found use mostly by those from the smaller settlements. Those benches each faced a raised podium in the hall¡¯s middle, which served for witnesses to speak. It was rare that the Representatives of the main villages that comprised the assembly and supported Wymount were called up to attend the city. So it was that those seagoing folk, gathered amongst the many benches of the dome-roofed building, were not in good moods. Most spoke of days wasted when they had hoped to better spend their time taking catch before winter began in earnest. Sybille could see of all the benches from a raised balcony. She had view of the main entrance opposite as well, which had two great whale bones crossing one another above the driftwood archway. There were eleven cushioned seats on the balcony, three with high and ornate backings that stood ahead of the plainer eight. Sybille, still wearing the same black dress, waited on the leftmost of the prominent chairs. Fromund sat beside her, his purple fur-trimmed robe now adorned with a heavy golden medallion and three chained necklaces. He wore a driftwood crown, set with sea pearls atop his balding grey hair. Now rising to his feet, he swept his thick arms out to encompass the hall. It was dimly lit by a few dozen scattered candles, barely aided by the noon light piercing through cracks in the creaking walls. It had hardly been decorated, beyond sparse hangings of bones, and the lichened remnants from the washed up wreckage of sunk ships. ¡°Thank you all for coming,¡± Fromund declared in his hearty voice, silencing most conversations. ¡°It does me good to see such an expedient response to the summons, even though I know you are all very busy with winter preparations. With that in mind, I will now call to order an unscheduled gathering of the Assembly of Wymount.¡± He slammed an ivory hammer onto the balcony¡¯s wooden parapet. ¡°Representatives,¡± Fromund called. ¡°Declare yourselves!¡± He smiled in satisfaction, and collapsed back onto his chair, making no mention of his son¡¯s absence, not even glancing to the empty seat at his right. Sybille watched as an old, long-bearded man rose up amid the first of the six tiered benches. ¡°Hafsteinn, Representative of Longhook. I declare in favour of skipping formalities. Does any here¡ª¡± A stout, weather-beaten and black-haired woman rose up from the bench opposite. ¡°Bjargey, Representative of Salvik, stands to second this.¡± Fromund grumbled to himself, and pushed up from his chair. ¡°Raise hands to vote.¡± All were in favour, save for the sixth bench that had no vote. ¡°Very well!¡± Fromund smiled in annoyance. ¡°I would now ask for silence.¡± He waited a moment for a refusal, then cleared his throat and spread his palms across the worn balcony railing. ¡°We have had a summons from Chief Gudmund of Horvorr to gather an army of our finest men, and go to war, because he has proved a failure in his defense of this region, despite the extensive taxes he has levied from us the winters past.¡± Sybille started to shake with anger, but she told herself that she would have her say. ¡°We have been provided with varied and conflicting reports,¡± Fromund went on. ¡°But what can be certain is that most of the villages from Horvorr to Wymount have been sacked, because a goblin force was allowed to cross by Horvorr without challenge. I have been informed that there is some gathered army outside the walls of Horvorr, or else what reason would there be for Gudmund and his guard to succumb so to impotence? I have been told that there are two forces, both numbering in the hundreds, perhaps close to a thousand, and that the other is ravaging Fenkirk.¡± Fromund took a long breath, his chubby face appearing grim despite his upturned mustachio. ¡°It is more or less decided that Timilir will not come to Gudmund¡¯s aid, or even Fenkirk¡¯s¡­ what with Gudmund sending a procession that ended the life of Jarl Thrand¡¯s youngest son. By my own guess, and by council taken from the Driftwood Temple, Horvorr has not the men or the means to win this war without us.¡± He shrugged as if it were regrettable but unavoidable. ¡°Or with us. Do any of you have questions?¡± The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. ¡°When will I get to speak?¡± Sybille hissed. ¡°Later,¡± Fromund whispered back. ¡°These people have precedence here.¡± Hafsteinn struggled up from his seat, as if suffering pain in his pack. ¡°From whom did you receive these reports?¡± ¡°A score survivors were imprisoned by the marauding goblins.¡± Fromund shook his head in somber disappointment. ¡°Tomlok guided them to an escape, and they brought word of what they had seen there.¡± ¡°And they brought word from Gudmund how?¡± Hafsteinn asked, strained voice sharp with anger. ¡°Is that not Sybille of Horvorr sat beside you now? Why do you seat her so as a game piece, when her words affect us all?¡± ¡°What is your name girl?¡± Bjargey called, risen to her feet. ¡°Are you as Hafsteinn names you?¡± Sybille stood, and walked over to the balcony. ¡°I am Sybille, daughter of Gudmund. And I brought word of the goblins that threaten Southwestern Tymir. But Fromund has asked that I do not speak¡­ until later.¡± Fromund smiled in apology. ¡°I merely wished to respect custom.¡± ¡°And you bring this word from Gudmund?¡± a man younger than Sybille shouted from the far right bench. ¡°In what manner do you bring it? Is he in dire need that would affect us all? Or is this a request for us to do work that he is too lazy to do himself?¡± He waved away the angry glances of the other Representatives. ¡°So says, Gorm, Representative of Kollkleif.¡± ¡°My father is a proud man,¡± Sybille answered. ¡°He would not ask for help unless the need was dire. And he has sworn to lessen the taxes for Wymount should they answer his call to arms.¡± Gorm considered that as he nodded, then sat back in his chair. ¡°Sybille.¡± Bjargey regarded her with stern eyes. ¡°If he is at such risk. Is it not possible that Horvorr has already fallen? That we would be exposing ourselves for no gain?¡± ¡°A greater risk to do nothing, I would think,¡± Sybille spoke Geirmund¡¯s words. ¡°What risk is there in assembly, beyond cost of time lost? As to whether you would expose yourself by moving in number to Horvorr¡¯s aid, I would say no. The land from Wymount to Horvorr is long and flat, with the high ground ever with you. So if you send scouts ahead you would be at no risk of being caught unawares.¡± Bjargey slowly nodded. ¡°Could the same not be said for the Snake Basin Path?¡± ¡°Of course.¡± Sybille nodded, speaking with less confidence. ¡°But we were not cautious. We were sheltering the man who had killed Jarl Thrand¡¯s son, and Grettir was certain we had to bring Chief Gudmund quick word before things got out of hand.¡± ¡°Perhaps,¡± Gorm shouted, not bothering to stand, ¡°if you had not sheltered a murderer you would be able to count on Jarl Thrand for support? And we of Wymount could have been satisfied that the tax we pay for protection keeps us protected.¡± Sybille smiled, and dipped her head. ¡°I applaud you for your hindsight.¡± Hafsteinn sighed, leaning forward on the railing ahead of his bench. ¡°This is too much to ask of us, daughter of Gudmund. We are fisherman, not warriors. We rely on Horvorr¡¯s Guard to keep the region safe. That is why we pay your father. What good would we even do if we came to their aid?¡± Sybille frowned down at the old man. ¡°Your people are young, and strong, and hard-lived. Twice as tall as the goblins in this army, stronger, with better reach and quicker minds. I would hope that the good you would do, would be to break the godless army that threatens this region. And if your words are true, Hafsteinn, are they not as true when the goblins burn Horvorr and make the climb to Wymount?¡± ¡°We can hold our mountains, girl,¡± Fromund assured. ¡°Does anyone have more to say, or can we call a vote?¡± ¡°Yes,¡± Sybille said, staring down at Bjargey. ¡°Since you spoke of the Snake Basin Path, I will tell you what my brother¡¯s would have said. Agnar would laugh his frustration, and curse you all as cowards, and in the end he would plea that were the roles reserved then Gudmund would not hesitate to come to your aid. That Grettir had already died bringing me here to deliver this message,¡± she added with regret. ¡°Geirmund would tell you that in matters of war it is best to act while you still have allies on the field, and a sturdy town to defend. That once Horvorr and Fenkirk fall that Wymount is beyond isolated. Especially in winter, where you can make no trips overseas. The odds are bleak, but they become bleaker as each day passes.¡± ¡°Well and good.¡± Gorm was standing again. ¡°But what would you say?¡± ¡°That I would give and say anything to make you come to the aid of my town, of my family,¡± Sybille answered. ¡°That I already offered myself in marriage to Fromund¡¯s son, but his father was too much a fat and honorless coward to take the risk.¡± ¡°Step back, Sybille!¡± Geirmund warned. Sybille stepped back and Fromund¡¯s open palm swept past. She drove her knee into his big belly, causing him to splutter and stagger and spin towards the driftwood barrier of the balcony. Sybille heard a wooden crack and a fearful bellow, but she didn¡¯t truly understand what had happened until he started to choke. Fromund dangled under the balcony, hooked on a broken baluster by the gold chains around his fat neck. He wheezed for breath, clawing at the choked flesh, kicking out his legs until the chain, eventually, snapped. Fromund crunched onto his knees, his head hurled into wood with a sickening thud. The Gathering Hall of Wymount fell to an uneasy silence, their wary faces shrouded in the dim light. A tall and wiry, black-and-yellow clad man rose up from the sixth bench. Roaldr hurried down the stairs, and ran around the podium, slowing when he saw the dark pool spreading out from his father¡¯s head. He gazed down to see the bloodied driftwood crown at his feet. ¡°He is dead,¡± Roaldr declared. Silence answered him, though nearly all folk rose slowly from their seats. The Representatives exchanged thoughtful or forceful glances across the hall, urging another to action, cautioning silence, hinting towards biding time. ¡°I would have silence,¡± Roaldr shouted into the half-lit hall, his own words echoing back at him. He looked at his father¡¯s broken body, then up at Sybille, who had grown paler than even her ailing health afforded. Roaldr left the crown on the floor, and made his way to the other side of the middle podium, ascending the stairs as all eyes shifted between he and Sybille. ¡°This was not murder,¡± Roaldr spoke quietly, but his voice carried. ¡°Would that my father ever listened to me when I said he should sit among the benches like the old Representatives of Wymount¡­ or that he took heed this morning when I told him too many gold chains make a man look foolish.¡± He shared his troubled gaze between the tiered benches. ¡°It was not for those words that he did not invite me to his balcony, but because I advocated war and he did not. And that is all the bad blood there was between us. Though I can see clearly in the eyes of some of you an accusation of opportunism. In all else, I will give you a vote. But in this, in whether my father died because of unfortunate accident or murder, I will brook no challenge. This was an accident, one that he brought upon himself. I leave it to you all to take what you will from watching a man fall from a height elevated above his allies, from watching a man choked by his own wealth¡­ to have his head split open wearing a crown that he wrought for himself.¡± Roaldr sighed a loud sigh, his eyes watering. ¡°I do not mean to insult my father,¡± he explained, sorrow coloring his tone. ¡°I only say the words that come to me.¡± He swallowed. ¡°As to the leadership of Wymount, I will take my father¡¯s place as Representative until next summer,¡± he raised his voice to account for a murmur of dissent, ¡°and if Wymount still stands when that time comes, then we will hold a vote if my people wish for another to lead.¡± ¡°Kollkleif takes no issue with this,¡± Gorm announced from the far right bench. ¡°I will have no question of leadership hanging over us with war coming.¡± Hafsteinn scowled. ¡°And do you lead us now, boy?¡± Gorm laughed, and shook his head. ¡°I simply talk the sense that all of us know!¡± Bjargey loudly cleared her throat. ¡°Salvik is of a mind with Representative Gorm¡­ and with Representative Roaldr.¡± ¡°Longhook also supports Roaldr as Representative of Wymount until summer,¡± Hafsteinn declared. ¡°Only until summer.¡± A big man with shaggy red hair stood up on the left middle bench, and offered a lazy wave of his hand. ¡°Aye.¡± Roaldr turned to a tall, young woman, who appeared majestic in her white fur cloak. ¡°And you, Aerin¡¯?¡± Aerindis squinted at her fingernails, paying him little mind. ¡°Does the Representative of Wymount intend to marry the daughter of Chief Gudmund of Horvorr?¡± ¡°No.¡± Roaldr shook his head. ¡°I am promised to the Representative of Skarshaw.¡± ¡°Well and good!¡± Gorm nodded, brushing his hands together. ¡°But we came here to talk of war did we not? And little has changed in the numbers¡­ lest any man here think Fromund had a sword hand worthy of Brikorhaan. Can we have a vote, Representative Roaldr? I may be younger than any here, but I¡¯ve no mind to waste my years.¡± ¡°Of course.¡± Roaldr met his wisdom with a shallow bow. ¡°I would like to call a vote. Please state what actions, if any, you think we should take in response to the request from Chief Gudmund of Horvorr, and the reports of a goblin threat.¡± Hafsteinn eyed those around the benches of each village. ¡°I will not send the men of Longhook to senseless deaths. I would support an expeditionary force, and urge caution until we better understand the intent and strength of the goblin host.¡± ¡°What intent¡ª¡± Sybille began. ¡°No words!¡± Roaldr ordered. ¡°No voice from anyone beyond the Representatives.¡± Sybille bit her tongue, and bowed her head. ¡°I would support an expeditionary force, as well,¡± Bjargey offered. ¡°But I would also suggest that we prepare in earnest for a war, rather than all of us returning to our people, only to forget and wake up one day to fire and death.¡± The big shaggy man grunted his distaste. ¡°All talk of ¡®expedition¡¯ makes me think too much of Isleif the Bard and his ill-fated trip. I do not deal in expeditions. Redrock does not deal in expeditions. If there is a threat then we march and we crush it,¡± he gruffly promised. I¡±f there is not, then we do nothing. But in what world does a man as Gudmund of Horvorr send his only child and most loyal follower to ask for help¡­ unless he needs help. Unless he is beyond help. And maybe he is, but better to beyond help with fighting men, than to be helpless on our own.¡± He swept a dangerous glare about the half-lit hall. ¡°Unless you all wish to return to the days of hard living, begging and scraping, paying tribute and offering firstborn sons to those goblin scum? If that is what you want then you all might have bigger worries than an enemy that knocks at your gate. Our rock is not red with the blood of berries.¡± ¡°Fish, then?¡± Gorm asked. ¡°Men,¡± he growled. ¡°Men older and stronger than a boy like you.¡± ¡°Your opinion is well regarded,¡± Roaldr spoke in a solemn tone. ¡°And your threat is noted. Rest assured, none of us aim to return to the old days¡­ or the old ways.¡± Aerindis let out a quiet laugh. ¡°I am of a mind with the brute. Delay benefits none but our enemies, and may well prove fatal for those we swore to support.¡± ¡°If there was any doubt,¡± Roaldr declared, ¡°I stand with the Representatives of Redrock and Skarshaw.¡± He turned to regard the young, black-haired man. ¡°Gorm. The decision rests with you. We will either muster a force now, and march to arms when we are best ready, or we will send an exp¡ªa scouting force from Wymount¡¯s own guard.¡± ¡°Well.¡± Gorm raised his brows, sitting back on his bench. He glanced back at the lean men and women that accompanied him from Kollkleif. ¡°Would those who came with me please stand if you wish to rush to war.¡± He waited, but no one stood. ¡°Honest question,¡± Gorm pressed. ¡°Do not take my sitting as any hint towards my own mind.¡± Gorm pushed up from his chair, and looked back at them. ¡°Do none of you truly wish to go to war?¡± The shaggy red-haired man chuckled, his mirth joined by the rowdy folk of Redstone. A frail old woman struggled up from her chair at the very back of Kollkleif¡¯s bench. ¡°They do not stand, because the decision is yours,¡± she said. ¡°Your father would not ask folk to make his mind up for him.¡± Gorm dipped his head in respect to the woman, and turned back to the other benches. ¡°Let it be known that Longhook and Salvik are long respected friends of Kollkleif. Unfortunately, on this occasion, I must disagree with their caution. I was not born into a world where men made peace with monsters. And I will not sit idle while a goblin horde seeks to make that world anew. Gudmund of Horvorr was an old friend of my father.¡± He smirked at Sybille. ¡°And it would do me great honour to renew and strengthen the ties between Kollkleif and Horvorr.¡± ¡°It is agreed, then.¡± Roaldr nodded, and let out a long sigh. ¡°By a vote of four to two, we will march for war.¡± 49. Saving Souls 49. Saving Souls ¡°Sibbe has told me again that she wishes to leave Horvorr. I tried to convince her that she could still be cured, but she will hear no word of it. She speaks of living her last years on this world in joy and in peace, as if she is happy to accept the curse laid upon her. I told her that there will be no joy or peace for me if I have to watch her decay knowing that I could have saved her. When she relented, I was not certain whether she had been convinced or simply given up on me.¡± Engli hadn¡¯t managed to convince anyone from the hunting village to accompany him, but he and Gunnar had wandered into two brothers, Ottar and Skorri, who were on their way to a gathering place in the stony hills near the forest, which is where the hunters would gather for seasonal meetings, to discuss whose grounds were whose, and air any grievances amongst the forest folk. Engli had trouble telling the brothers apart. Gunnar admitted he wasn¡¯t going to bother trying. Ottar and Skorri both had two bows and several knives each. They both wore a mix of earth-hued clothing, wore necklaces of fabric and bone. They stood very tall and very lean, to the point that they appeared ungainly, but maneuvered through trees and brush soundlessly. They both had the same long, sharp-eyed and high-cheeked face. Engli quickened his stride when he saw the distant glow of fire. ¡°Easy,¡± Ottar said, grabbing his shoulder. ¡°Traps about!¡± Skorri snorted. ¡°He says as if I¡¯m blind.¡± Engli squinted into the darkness of the forest. ¡°I don¡¯t see anything.¡± ¡°No?¡± Ottar asked. He threw a small stone. A trap snapped with a scrape of metal, rusty teeth shining dull in the darkness. ¡°What about now?¡± ¡°I said stop, Gunnar!¡± Skorri shouted. ¡°I¡¯m not blind either,¡± Gunnar replied. ¡°Why don¡¯t you all hurry up?¡± He made a rustle of leaves now he led off into the forest. Engli and Ottar followed more slowly after the other two. Engli had to walk in his footsteps, then stand about while he waited for Ottar to disarm a trap. A wooden frame of stakes lurched up from the cover of a bush. Ottar dipped his finger on the sharpened wood, and smelled the dark liquid. ¡°Goblin blood. They must be hiding out under the cover of the mountain. Setting the traps over when they can.¡± He crossed from loamy dirt onto stony ground. ¡°They end here.¡± He started into a run up the winding slope ahead. A mossy rock face walled the path on the left, while a crumbling ledge on the right gave way to the forest floor below. Gunnar and Skorri were sat waiting on boulders that sat at either side of the path. ¡°What took so long?¡± Skorri asked. ¡°Thought you¡¯d got yourself trapped.¡± Ottar only shook his head, and strode past them in silence. Gunnar and Skorri followed, while Engli ran up behind them. ¡°Stop!¡± demanded a warning shout when they neared the end of the slope. They slowed, listening to the scuff of stone and the creak of bowstrings. Half a dozen archers crouched atop the shadowed rock face. Several more figures were on their knees behind another pair of twin boulders. ¡°Would have thought,¡± Skorri said, ¡°that you¡¯d be pleased to see men instead of goblins.¡± ¡°Say your names,¡± said a quieter, woman¡¯s voice. ¡°And state the reason for your visit.¡± ¡°Ottar,¡± he said. ¡°I¡¯ve come to speak with Eyjolf.¡± ¡°So your brother¡¯s with you, then,¡± the woman said. ¡°Who are the other two?¡± ¡°We¡¯ve got Engli.¡± Skorri glanced down at the fancifully armoured man. ¡°From Horvorr¡¯s Guard. Come to see whoever is in charge.¡± ¡°And is this all Gudmund sends us?¡± an old man asked from the darkness. ¡°One man from his guard.¡± ¡°Smallest one he could find by the look of it,¡± the woman added. ¡°I¡¯m from Horvorr¡¯s Guard as well,¡± Gunnar said. Engli frowned. ¡°I¡¯ve come a long way¡­ so has Gunnar. We have to speak to¡ª¡± ¡°¡ªwhoever is in charge,¡± the woman finished. ¡°I heard you the first time.¡± ¡°Then are we free to pass?¡± Engli asked. ¡°Or are we going to stand around until the sun rises?¡± Eyjolf approached from the distance, holding a torch in his hand. He was middling in height, lithe, pulling on a shirt over his hairy chest. He wasn¡¯t bald but had shaved his head. Stubble bristled from his scalp and from his cheeks. He paused not far from the four men, illuminating Engli, Gunnar, and the twins, both of whom looked about at nothing as if bored or disinterested. A middle-aged woman with tied-back hair walked over to Eyjolf, whispering to him. He nodded as she spoke, then walked forward. ¡°You can all follow me.¡± He turned back the way he had come, and the four men followed after. As they approached the height of the plateau, they got sight of the outline of hide tents, some well-made, others crude and leaning on the stone. Hundreds of folk were gathered about, sat or sleeping on the hard ground, some with blankets or furs. They were all illuminated by the weak and ruddy light leaking out from the mouth of a small cavern. ¡°Good to see that so many made it here,¡± Ottar said. Eyjolf grunted. ¡°We thought you and your brother were dead.¡± ¡°Hunting snow leopards,¡± Skorri said. ¡°I knew something was off when I lost the trail, and then decided to head back when we found a pack of half-eaten wolves.¡± ¡°I went to your house with a few others,¡± Eyjolf unhappy mentioned. ¡°Wouldn¡¯t have thought a man would bother to lay that many traps.¡± Skorri upturned his palms. ¡°Don¡¯t want people to steal my things.¡± ¡°You have anything worth stealing?¡± Eyjolf asked. ¡°I might one day.¡± Eyjolf stopped at the largest tent, candlelight glowing through the stretched hides. ¡°Wait here.¡± He ducked under the flap, and the four men watched his shadow while he walked by candles and bent down to wake folk from sleeping. They got up, making the silhouettes of young children. Eyjolf woke his wife, and whispered quietly to his family, then a tall blond woman left the tent with two black-haired children ahead of her, both boy and girl holding blankets. Eyjolf poked his head out the flap. ¡°Come in, and take a seat.¡± The air inside was overly warm, thick with the scent of sweet mead and cooked meat. There were no chairs, so each man took a seat amongst the layered furs, facing a low table. ¡°You¡¯ll have to sit together,¡± Eyjolf said. ¡°To leave room for the others.¡± ¡°Who else is coming?¡± Skorri asked, as the other men shifted to sit along the right side of the table. ¡°All that need to hear it. You wanted to speak to who is in charge, but I don¡¯t make my decisions alone.¡± Eyjolf, one dead eye now clear in the candlelight, turned his gaze on Engli. ¡°Did Gudmund send you?¡± Engli shook his head. Eyjolf frowned. ¡°So you¡¯ve turned your back on your brothers?¡± ¡°No,¡± Engli answered. ¡°I accompanied a Salt Sage into the mountains, with Gudmund¡¯s permission. I came here to gather men to fight the goblin army.¡± ¡°More of a horde.¡± Eyjolf sighed. ¡°I¡¯ll wait for the others to come, but you might want to think hard about why it is good men should risk their lives to save your town¡­ when all know it¡¯s Gudmund and his Guard who swore to protect these lands from goblins.¡± Eyjolf pushed up from the furs, and went to wait outside the tent. ¡°Engli.¡± Ottar craned his neck so he could see past his brother and Gunnar. ¡°You do have something to say?¡± Engli nodded as if uncertain. ¡°I think so.¡± ¡°Tell us then,¡± Skorri said. ¡°We¡¯ll let you¡ª¡± A hulking, black-bearded man pushed his way through the tent flap. Ragi lumbered onto the furs with a great sigh, discontent plain about his big face. He rubbed hairy hands against tired eyes, grumbled another sigh, then stood opposite the four men. ¡°Brothers thin.¡± Ragi lifted his head in greeting. ¡°Thought you two were dead.¡± He swept a disinterested gaze past Gunnar, and paused to study Engli. ¡°I was told there was a man in hear waiting to speak to me. Have you seen him, boy?¡± ¡°Often,¡± Engli said. ¡°In clear water, or a looking glass. Now, in your own eyes.¡± Ragi sighed out a laugh. He settled onto his knees, grumbling all the while. ¡°Tired, Ragi?¡± Ottar asked. Ragi bit down on his teeth, and his visage turned violent. ¡°Haven¡¯t slept since those monsters took my daughter¡­ and my wife. Since I had to open my boy¡¯s own throat when a small cut gave him a deathly fever.¡± ¡°Oh.¡± Ottar met the sentiment with solemnity. ¡°I had no idea.¡± Ragi shook his head, anger fading away from him. ¡°Things are as they are. I wanted to go and find my death, but they told me they had need of me. So here I am. Tired. Tired of it all.¡± He turned to stare at the lithe fur-clad man. ¡°I know you.¡± Gunnar shook his capped head. ¡°We¡¯ve never met.¡± ¡°Son of Jorund,¡± Ragi spoke the name like a curse, his dark eyes sparked alight with madness. ¡°What is he doing here?¡± ¡°He¡¯s with me,¡± Engli said. ¡°You keep company with heathens?¡± Ragi snapped. ¡°A goblin lover.¡± Gunnar met the words with a roguish smile. ¡°I¡¯m no lover of goblins, friend.¡± ¡°I¡¯m no friends of yours,¡± Ragi growled. ¡°Nor are you of any man here. It doesn¡¯t take Broknar¡¯s Wit to know you¡¯re a spy. I¡¯ll speak no word of worth in your hearing, and I¡¯ll have no words with any of you until you cast him out into the cold.¡± ¡°Then you¡¯re free to leave,¡± Engli replied. ¡°Leave?¡± Ragi rose to his feet, looming over the blond man. ¡°He¡¯s with you, or are you with him?¡± ¡°Leave.¡± Engli stayed seated, holding the man¡¯s murderous gaze. ¡°Gunnar killed a goblin Chief, and others beyond that. He saved my life. You draw your weapon on him, or you cast him out, then you¡¯ll do the same to me. Grief can¡ª¡± ¡°What do you know of grief?¡± Ragi snarled. ¡°Little,¡± Engli kept his voice low, ¡°and I hope to keep it that way. I do know that the man next to me is no spy. I know him well, and know him true. I will die for him, if it comes to that. And I have no doubts that he would do the same for me.¡± ¡°To think I crawled out of bed for this.¡± Ragi shook his head. ¡°Good luck with your war, boy. You might find there¡¯s more blood and death than you imagined.¡± Ragi strode out through the curtains, near upsetting the tent. ¡°Ragi?¡± Eyjolf¡¯s silhouette followed him into the darkness. ¡°Where are you going?¡± ¡°Well,¡± Ottar said, ¡°that went well.¡± He frowned at Engli and Gunnar. ¡°Didn¡¯t you two tell us that you only met a week ago?¡± Engli nodded. ¡°And I¡¯ve only known you for four days, but I trust you and your brother all the same.¡± Gunnar stared down at his gloved hands, shaking in his lap. ¡°I think I should leave.¡± ¡°No,¡± three men answered. ¡°You leave now,¡± Skorri said, ¡°and Ragi has all the more reason to doubt you, and every other man has all the more reason to doubt Engli. Not to mention that Ragi has a fool¡¯s temper to begin with, and acts out like a child when he doesn¡¯t get his way. He is a big man, but he would be more harm than help, even if we could get him to go with us.¡± Ottar narrowed his keen eyes. ¡°So we¡¯re with them now?¡± Skorri shot his brother an irritated look. ¡°What else are we going to do? Sit here on coward¡¯s mountain, and wait for the goblins to become civilized and start selling wares?¡± ¡°Coward¡¯s mountain?¡± Eyjolf stood ahead of the tent flap, holding it open. ¡°That what you think of us, Skorri? Having a family to care for doesn¡¯t make a man weak, you know. It makes him practical.¡± A feather-cloaked old man crept in, baring semblance to a vulture with his wrinkled neck and hooked nose. Skorri upturned his palms. ¡°You want an honest answer to that?¡± If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. ¡°If we¡¯re speaking honestly,¡± the feathered old man rasped, ¡°then here we are, on our mountain. Here we are, who led the people here. Who gathered folk¡ªwomen and children¡ªwho bled and died to protect them. And standing on the other side, you, and you. Those that went about their own business, with no mind for anyone but themselves. So¡­ speaking honestly,¡± he venomously concluded, ¡°if this mountain has cowards on it then it began with your arrival, and will¡­ hopefully, end with your departure.¡± He scowled back at Eyjolf. ¡°No chairs?¡± ¡°I¡¯ll fetch one for you.¡± Eyjolf ducked under the tent. ¡°So,¡± the old man hissed, his withered hands clasping around a crooked staff. ¡°Which one of you is here for war?¡± ¡°I¡¯m not here for war,¡± Engli spoke in a careful voice. ¡°I could find this war anywhere in Southwestern Tymir. I¡¯ve come here for help, to bring an end to it. So that you and yours¡ª¡± ¡°And you and yours,¡± the old man put in. ¡°¡ªcan live in peace.¡± The old man scowled down with sunken eyes. ¡°Where are the other members of your guard?¡± ¡°Horvorr.¡± ¡°Ah,¡± he rasped. ¡°And there it is. Horvorr¡¯s Guard in Horvorr, behind Horvorr¡¯s walls, with Horvorr¡¯s women and children. While the rest of us fend for ourselves, and do what we have to do to survive.¡± ¡°Abi.¡± Eyjolf stood behind him, holding a square-cushioned stool. ¡°Where do you want it?¡± ¡°Near the door is fine,¡± Abi rasped. ¡°The sooner I can get back to sleep the better.¡± Eyjolf set it down, and went to sit outside the tent. Abi struggled over to the chair, his staff thudding into the furs with each stride. He reached the stool, and managed to seat himself, pulling his feathered cloak around so he appeared an alighted vulture. He scowled down at each of the seated men, picking at his nails while they grew less and less comfortable under his gaze. A huntress swept into the tent, clad in a hardy leather jacket. She had her blond hair tied back in a tail, her bow slung over her shoulder, her knifes and daggers ready at her belt. ¡°You¡¯ve all a funeral spirit,¡± she remarked in a cheery voice. She took a seat on the other side of the low table, and smiled kindly at all four men. ¡°They didn¡¯t say that two of you were handsome.¡± Ottar frowned. ¡°Which two?¡± ¡°Ingrid,¡± Skorri said as greeting. ¡°Is Gamal sleeping?¡± ¡°Dead.¡± Ingrid¡¯s smile fell. ¡°A good death, as you might expect, but I¡¯d have rather he¡¯d have settled for a bad life.¡± She raised her blond brows. ¡°Though I suppose that¡¯s the way of things. And I meant the other two, Ottar. You and your brother have too much of a predator look about you, whereas these two.¡± She studied the men. ¡°Both handsome. But I think one¡¯s harmless and the other¡¯s more dangerous than he lets on.¡± She glanced over to Abi. ¡°What do you think, old bird?¡± Abi snorted. ¡°I could be blind and still see four bastards sat across that table.¡± ¡°Sorry to hear about Gamal,¡± Skorri mentioned. Ingrid met the sentiment with a curious gaze, then shook her head. ¡°No you¡¯re not.¡± ¡°Not as another man might be.¡± Skorri dipped his head in deference. ¡°But I am sorry for your loss.¡± Ragi shouldered back through the tent, grumbling to himself. He took heavier breaths and had a redder face than the last time he entered. He glared at the four men sat by the low table, then forced a smile when he met eyes with Ingrid. ¡°Ragi.¡± Ingrid patted the furs beside her. ¡°Why don¡¯t you take a seat?¡± Gunnar gripped the floral-wrought sword at his belt, waiting and watching while the huge, black-bearded man lumbered over beside the lithe huntress to take his seat. Gunnar offered a smile that didn¡¯t reach his wary eyes. ¡°Surprised to see you back,¡± Ottar said. ¡°Never known you for short-lived tantrums.¡± Skorri nudged his twin brother. ¡°Leave him be.¡± Eyjolf ducked under the flap, dipped his head in respect to Abi, then walked over to sit beside Ragi. ¡°Now that we¡¯re all here¡ª¡± ¡°Is the crone dead, too?¡± Ottar asked. ¡°Forgive him for his bluntness.¡± Skorri upturned his palms. ¡°Is Gudrid no longer with the living?¡± ¡°At this hour, I expect she¡¯s dead enough to the world.¡± Eyjolf rubbed at his shaved head. ¡°Did you need to speak with her?¡± ¡°I suppose not,¡± Skorri said, ¡°but she¡¯s as much, if not more, a leader than the lot of you. So it seems a little odd that she¡¯s not here¡­ doesn¡¯t it?¡± ¡°It does,¡± Ottar agreed. ¡°She wanted not to be here,¡± Abi rasped, leaning forward on his stool. ¡°Is it a problem?¡± ¡°So you could convince him to come?¡± Engli dipped his head towards Ragi. ¡°But not an old woman?¡± ¡°You know none of us,¡± Ingrid spoke bluntly. ¡°What matter is it to you who attends, or who avoids your company?¡± ¡°Who is this old woman?¡± Gunnar asked, softly, glancing all around the table, at the twins, even at the old man. ¡°A seer?¡± ¡°Speak less,¡± Ragi growled, ¡°Son of Jorund.¡± ¡°Who is she?¡± Engli echoed, looking to the brothers. ¡°She is a spiritual leader,¡± Eyjolf dismissed. ¡°She has no say in matters of war. Now tell us why you¡¯re here, Engli of Horvorr¡¯s Guard. What do you want from us?¡± ¡°I need your men, and your women, and your bows, and your lives,¡± Engli swiftly began as if he¡¯d rehearsed the words. ¡°I need your loyalty, and your will. And I would ask that you trust me, and entrust to me your revenge.¡± He swallowed. ¡°Goblins have blighted this forest. They have took hold of the plains of Horvorr, and those forests as well. If Fenkirk is not under siege then it is already destroyed, and I expect that Horvorr is under siege as well. I was sent here by a Sage of Tomlok, to rally men to my side so that we might break the siege of Fenkirk, and in turn break the siege of Horvorr, to drive out the goblin horde that is ravaging our lands.¡± Ingrid smiled sadly. ¡°And what gain is that for us, Engli? Our people die to save Fenkirk. Their people die to save Horvorr.¡± Abi cleared his throat. ¡°Perhaps your Salt Sage should have come here before this war was already lost?¡± ¡°If this war is lost, then you are all already dead.¡± Engli held their scrutiny with a steadfast gaze. ¡°Would it not be better for you all to die doing something worthwhile? Rather than waiting for winter to take you on this hill?¡± ¡°We can survive a winter, boy,¡± Abi rasped. ¡°Ragi might.¡± Engli bowed his head in assent. ¡°But old men, old women? Newborn babes and sickly children? How will they fare when all the prey is taken? When there¡¯s no wood for the fire? And how do they fare the winter next, or the others after that? Because there will be no men in these lands if Horvorr falls. Wymount won¡¯t come down from their mountain to make trade with goblins¡­ which leaves you all here, on this mountain, in this tent. Cold and hungry and alone¡­ lamenting the day that Engli of Horvorr¡¯s Guard offered you a chance at an honourable death, only for you to turn it away so you can shiver and starve instead.¡± ¡°If we wanted to go to war,¡± Ragi muttered, ¡°why would you even need you?¡± ¡°The easy answer would be that you don¡¯t.¡± Engli clasped his hands atop the table. ¡°Yet here you all are. Waiting. Sitting. I am here because I need all of you. If you have a plan. If you want to fight, then fight and I will follow. But she tells me there is no gain in fighting,¡± he said of Ingrid. ¡°He tells me that he can weather the weather, when he looks as if he can barely stomach a month. Eyjolf sits in silence, waiting, no doubt, to tell me no. You are all waiting¡­ but for what? For the gods to come down and help you? For Joyto to wake you in the night and let you know that this was all some grand jest of his. For Brikorhaan to clear the field? ¡°There are no other men in Southwestern Tymir to find courage for you. There is no one coming to save you. Your days are numbered. Eluna sits, needle in hand, to weave your deaths, and Muradoon waits, one eye open, to reach for your souls. I am asking you to fight, and you want not the risk. But you are already at risk, and you are already fighting. You have simply chosen enemies that can never be bested, and that is time and cold, sickness and weakness, and a certain death.¡± Eyjolf let out a loud sigh. ¡°So what, Engli? Better to fight an enemy we can see? To be scratched to pieces and eaten. To be sent straight to the Lady¡¯s Shadow. And what of our women and children? Should we keep them here in the hopes that we win, or send them off on their own?¡± He shook his head. ¡°I would rather hold out, and wait for Jarl Thrand to¡ª¡± ¡°Is that who you wait for?¡± Engli asked in disbelief. ¡°Jarl Thrand will not come. He didn¡¯t want to conquer this region to begin with. It was men of Horvorr¡¯s Guard that murdered his son less than a season ago. And the only reason Jarl Thrand ever wanted this land was to take coin from Fenkirk.¡± Eyjolf held to solemnity. ¡°We have heard what you have said. I would now ask that you wait here while we discuss your request.¡± Engli nodded in reply, his throat dry. He could feel heat in his tired cheeks, unease roiling in his aching stomach. *** Silence had a hold on the candlelit tent, shadowed by the four somber men seated at the low table. ¡°We have to run,¡± Gunnar said quietly. ¡°They¡¯ve made dealings with the goblins.¡± The three men turned to frowned at him. ¡°What?¡± they asked, Engli in confusion, both brothers in anger. ¡°Was it obvious to no one but me?¡± Gunnar stared at them in disbelief. ¡°Why else would they let Engli go on as he did? Why would they claim that they are waiting for Jarl Thrand? Why would Ragi come back, angry as he was, unless he was told that he might have to fight with us¡­ with me? The old man blocking the way out wore a belt of fighting daggers under his cloak.¡± ¡°You speak from ignorance,¡± Skorri said. ¡°We know these folk, and they would never¡­ never, think to make peace with goblins.¡± ¡°And what choice would they have?¡± Gunnar asked. ¡°Did Engli not lay it out for you? Believe me or don¡¯t believe me, I don¡¯t care. But we have to go, Engli,¡± he warned. ¡°At best, these people will kill us both.¡± ¡°He¡¯s wrong, Engli,¡± Skorri insisted. ¡°If he wants to go, I¡¯ll get him safe passage. But you¡¯ve no need to go with him.¡± He glared at the fur-capped man. ¡°As to you, Gunnar, you¡¯ve lost your wits. Not all men are like your father. Not all men will sell their souls for a house of stone.¡± Gunnar smiled at the sentiment. ¡°Well, I¡¯m going to cut a hole in this tent, and I¡¯m going to crawl out of here. If they¡¯ve made peace, then there¡¯s a Great Chief here. So why don¡¯t you come with me, and I¡¯ll show the lot of you what soulless folk look like. I¡¯ll show you that they look no different sat across from you at a table.¡± ¡°I can¡¯t let you go sneaking off in the night,¡± Skorri said. ¡°Not with your sword and dagger. How do I know what you¡¯ve planned? How do I know it isn¡¯t you whose got betrayal in mind?¡± ¡°So cut my throat.¡± Gunnar plucked the black feather from his hat, laying it on table. ¡°I swore my sword to Engli, and to live by that oath is to seek out his enemies.¡± He paused. ¡°You asked about that old woman because you expected her to be here, and you thought her not being here meant they had no mind to hear us out. Is that not the truth?¡± ¡°It is,¡± Ottar conceded. ¡°And I can tell you now that if anyone is arranging peace with goblins for your people, then it is a woods witch, who knows the old ways before Gudmund took these lands from goblin hands.¡± Gunnar shook his head. ¡°You¡¯re either with them, or you¡¯re blind. Same goes for you, Engli. We find this Chief, we butcher it, then there¡¯s no peace for these people. They¡¯ll have to fight. They¡¯ll have no choice.¡± He stared in pleading. ¡°You said that you trusted me. Were those just words?¡± ¡°He has a point,¡± Engli said. ¡°He has¡ª¡± Ottar began. Skorri grabbed him by the shoulder. ¡°He does have a point, brother,¡± Ottar repeated. ¡°They were all acting odd enough, but for Ragi and Abi to sit in silence is too odd for me to stomach. I¡¯m with them, now. Like you said we were. And if you¡¯re right, then what¡¯s the worry? Eyjolf will just be a little mad that we cut his tent. But if you¡¯re wrong, then¡ª¡± He shrugged. ¡°I¡¯m going.¡± ¡°Fine,¡± Skorri said. ¡°Cut a hole, Ottar. We¡¯ll sit still until you¡¯re ready to go.¡± *** ¡°He¡¯ll be in a cave,¡± Gunnar insisted, for the fifth time. ¡°We should have gone¡ª¡± ¡°They would not keep children with a goblin,¡± Skorri argued. ¡°There is another cave this way.¡± ¡°And how can we trust you?¡± Gunnar asked. ¡°These are your people.¡± ¡°Gunnar,¡± Skorri spoke coldly into the darkness, ¡°if my brother wanted you dead, you would be dead. We don¡¯t play with prey. We bring it to a clean end. If he says there is another cavern on this rise, then that should be more than good enough for you.¡± ¡°Is is,¡± Engli assured. ¡°Gunnar won¡¯t mention it again.¡± Gunnar smiled at shadows. ¡°Engli tells it true.¡± Skorri called a halt up ahead and they all stuck close to the rock face. He waved them forward, and crept towards a faint line of firelight. They each followed after him, reaching a curtain of rags and bones. ¡°Stupid witch,¡± Ottar hissed. Skorri stepped forward, plucking stringed bones with both hands, then spread his arms to make a cross of a man. ¡°Come on, then.¡± Engli ducked under and led the way. He had a floral-wrought dagger drawn, his ornate shield slung across his back. He could see more clearly ahead, to the end of a rugged tunnel that looked hewn wide enough to allow the passing of two carts. Gunnar slowed to a stop behind him. ¡°What are you waiting for?¡± ¡°Going to apologize?¡± Ottar asked from further back. ¡°I may have been wrong,¡± Gunnar admitted. ¡°Let¡¯s not dwell on it.¡± Skorri swept ahead. ¡°I think we¡¯re about to see you be wrong again, and then we¡¯ll have to explain to Eyjolf why it is we crawled out of a hole in his tent, and went sneaking about his camp at night with weapons drawn.¡± Gunnar sniffed the air. ¡°You smell that?¡± ¡°It¡¯s bat droppings,¡± Ottar said. ¡°What of it?¡± ¡°It¡¯s goblins,¡± Gunnar whispered. ¡°We should stop speaking.¡± Skorri nodded his assent. He waved them all forward, and drew two daggers from his belt. They followed him around a bend and the air grew thick with the smell of sour smoke. A snarling voice rolled through the passageway now they crept forward. Skorri and Ottar exchanged wary glances. ¡°Big bat,¡± Gunnar whispered. The stone walls opened out into a domed cavern that glowed with the smoky light of a dozen campfires. Wretched creatures were sprawled all about the moist and uneven floors, though most huddled near the crackling flames. The men had view of another tunnel opposite, a murky pool to their left, and a small wooden hut on a rise to their right. The hut stood bathed in the orange light of a small brazier, which lent warmth to the mismatched pair that faced it. A diminutive old woman sat garbed in a dark cloak. She had unfinished needlework laid in her lap, but kept her aged gaze towards the huge hunched goblin sat opposite, watching as it smashed marrow from bones with a stone. Gunnar stepped out from the tunnel, nocked an arrow, and drew back his bow. Skorri and Ottar did the same before all three loosed. Twin arrows struck Krakann Bonesipper¡¯s ugly head, while Gunnar¡¯s own skewered the old crone. *** Skorri waited atop the hut on the right, stood beside a dead goblin and an old woman. Both had been posed so that the crone had been thrown and broken against the stone, while the goblin had been skewered through its eyes with a pair of knitting needles. Gunnar sat at the edge of the pool opposite, sword across his knees, bow leaned against his leg. Engli stood on the central stone rise, waiting with a smile now Eyjolf, Ragi, and Ingrid strode into the domed cavern with a dozen picked men. The ruddy light of a dozen dying fires lit the damp stone with a smoky glow. ¡°Glad that you¡¯re here!¡± Engli swept out his hands. ¡°Though it wounds me deeply for you to meet with the news I have for you.¡± Eyjolf scowled up at him. ¡°What you have done?¡± Ingrid drew her bow, aiming it towards Skorri, who had her in his own sight. ¡°We heard a struggle,¡± Engli answered. ¡°But by the time we reached Gudrid she was grievous wounded. Skorri and Ottar had been tracking this goblin for over a season, and they are glad to have found it, but Gudrid had already brought an end to the monster. We tried to save her¡­ to carry her, but she only shook her head and spoke the words of the gods¡­ that they love us and wish nothing more than for us to go to war.¡± ¡°And where is Ottar?¡± Ingrid demanded. ¡°By now?¡± Engli upturned his palms. ¡°I would expect that he¡¯s telling the same story to your people in the main cave.¡± Eyjolf drew his sword as he strode towards the stone rise. ¡°You have doomed us all.¡± ¡°You have disgraced yourself, Eyjolf!¡± Skorri shouted down at him. ¡°As have all of you for following godless cowards who would sell your futures to a mad old woman, and a huge, malformed goblin.¡± He shook his head. ¡°Muradoon take you all! Lay down your weapons or this will end in a slaughter!¡± ¡°Eyjolf.¡± Ragi walked forwards, wielding a cruel two-handed axe. ¡°It¡¯s over.¡± Eyjolf shook his shaved head. ¡°We¡¯ll explain it to them, arrange another¡ª¡± He barely managed to raise his sword before Ragi¡¯s axe crashed down, breaking his guard and arm. Eyjolf staggered back, flopping onto the stone to avoid a second swing. He had only a short-lived scream to offer in defense of the third strike. ¡°Ingrid,¡± Ragi growled, wrenching his axe from flesh. ¡°I warned you this would end in blood, woman.¡± He shook his head in disappointment. ¡°And as to you, Engli, I hope you have a damn good and godly plan. I have no love at all for heathens.¡± Engli, surprised enough by the swift changing fates, had no mind to question the fact that the man had only recently meant to betray godly folk. He was apparently in charge as well, which could only be a good thing. So long as he didn¡¯t end his days like Eyjolf. Ragi turned to face Ingrid and the dozen other men. ¡°Unless any of you want to avenge, Eyjolf?¡± ¡°The goblins killed him,¡± Engli reminded. ¡°We¡¯ll only have our revenge when we¡¯ve brought slaughter to The Blackwood.¡± ¡°Of course.¡± Ingrid, regarding the newcomers with open disgust, could only shake her head. ¡°You¡¯ve left us with no other choice.¡± ¡°Thank Broknar for that!¡± Gunnar declared, unmindful of the answering glares. 50. Leaders 50. Leaders ¡°I once heard it said that Grettir and Gudmund were two halves of the same man. Perhaps then it is both tragic and fitting that they should become widowed in the same way. Gudmund never truly recovered from death of Hilda, but he still had his boys and daughter to raise. I fear that not even Grettir has the strength to accept that he has lost his wife for the sake a stillborn babe.¡± Gudmund sat at the same booth in Horvorr¡¯s Barracks, watching the shaggy oxen through the open shutters. The beasts had begun to grow restless and ornery with the smaller rations given. Moans and lows carried on the morning wind. He turned back to the table. Arfast was taking a long suck on his bone pipe. Odi sat rigid beside him. Gudmund saw them as brothers, in age if not in appearance. Though Arfast¡¯s years seemed to have tempered a steadfast determination, while Odi looked more like he had suffered a loss of patience. ¡°Gudmund.¡± Arfast set his pipe on the worn table. ¡°You ready to begin?¡± ¡°Where¡¯s Anna?¡± Gudmund asked. She suspected he had unleashed the goblins. ¡°She¡¯s outside the Ritual House with Ralf,¡± Arfast said. ¡°They¡¯re shooting targets, teaching women how to use bows¡­ like you said she should.¡± Gudmund¡¯s eyes narrowed. ¡°Either of you have any news?¡± Odi grumbled. ¡°We¡¯ve had three dozen more men join us.¡± ¡°And that¡¯s a bad thing?¡± Arfast asked. ¡°To anyone else?¡± Odi shook his head. ¡°No. But to me, knowing that there¡¯s no sight of goblins to actually be had, I¡¯d say so. How long will it be till people start to think Gudmund made the whole thing up to keep charge of the town?¡± Arfast smiled. ¡°So he plucked those goblins out of his imagination?¡± ¡°We plucked them out of Brolli¡¯s¡ª¡± Gudmund raised his hand to silence him. ¡°Any other news?¡± Arfast nodded, his mirth fading. ¡°Eirik¡¯s home got ransacked, so he¡¯ll be staying at the Ritual House from now on.¡± ¡°Makes me wonder what I ever did to inspire such hate,¡± Gudmund mused. Odi shrugged. ¡°Might be that you killed a lot of folk in your hall.¡± ¡°Either way,¡± Gudmund dismissed. ¡°I think we should get to work.¡± Arfast puffed his pipe, blowing smoke out the window. ¡°What did you have in mind?¡± ¡°I want work crews put together.¡± Gudmund pulled a worn map from his pocket, and unrolled it onto the table. ¡°We¡¯re here.¡± He pointed near the main gate. ¡°I want the main road dug out, so that the only way through the gate is through the oxen pen.¡± Odi shook his head. ¡°There¡¯s no gear for digging.¡± ¡°There¡¯s plenty.¡± Gudmund smiled. ¡°I have three storehouses full of equipment for mining and breaking land. I bought it back before I ran short on coin and optimism.¡± ¡°And when we¡¯re done digging this great hole,¡± Odi said, ¡°then what?¡± ¡°Then I want you to fill it full of stakes. I want every building with two floors to be stocked with arrows and bows, and I want the stairs destroyed and replaced with ladders.¡± Gudmund scratched at his fiery beard. ¡°I want the main crossroads to be dug out, as well as all the side-roads, so that if the goblins break the main gate they¡¯re only left with a clear path to my hall¡­ or Brolli¡¯s place. And I want the courtyard around that to be dug out and staked.¡± ¡°Are you sure this isn¡¯t going too far?¡± Arfast asked. ¡°No,¡± Gudmund spoke with surety. ¡°I want the back of the oxen pen reinforced, with carts and crates, so that the way from the main gate to the Ritual House can be held by men and by bows. And I want the only clear path from the Ritual House to any place else to be to the south gate¡­ in case folk have to flee.¡± ¡°You really think people are going to let you dig up this town?¡± Odi asked. ¡°Arrest anyone that doesn¡¯t,¡± Gudmund answered. ¡°As well as any man that¡¯s out after dark who isn¡¯t a member of Horvorr¡¯s Guard.¡± He drank from his mug. ¡°Once you¡¯ve dug out the main gate, I want you to go to the Lake, and make a barrier to cut off any goblins that land on the embankments. It should be low enough to use a bow and high enough stop any goblins coming into Brolli¡¯s place from the back way.¡± He sniffed, and cleared his throat. ¡°I want all the space between the fisher huts to be replaced by stakes or blocked by boats, and I want the road outside of Grettir¡¯s house to be completely dug up, his yard included, so that the only safe way into the town from the Lake is through his ground floor.¡± Odi frowned. ¡°Cut off two-thirds of the town, and close most the roads?¡± Gudmund nodded. ¡°Whether by ditches or blockades¡­ or any other way you can.¡± He glanced at the hoary, pipe-smoking man. ¡°Arfast, if you could tell Anna that I¡¯ll want half her archers to hold the Ritual House and the rest to hold the lake.¡± ¡°Gudmund,¡± Odi said, ¡°you¡¯re talking as if we¡¯re under siege. And as far as I know the only thing surrounding this town is barren ground.¡± ¡°I can get it done.¡± Arfast set down his pipe. ¡°The main road and the crossroads at the least. I doubt anyone¡¯s going to mind if we ruin Brolli¡¯s courtyard, either. As far as the rest goes, I¡¯ll try for it. But the fishermen, along with everyone else, won¡¯t be too happy with us digging around their homes.¡± His gaze turned severe. ¡°You ought to consider that if we do this, and no goblins show, then you¡¯re going to look like a fool.¡± ¡°Worse than a fool,¡± Odi added. ¡°And then we¡¯ll be back to folk trying to kill you,¡± Arfast added. Gudmund met the words with a resigned smile. ¡°I didn¡¯t even want to live this long. But, since I have, and since we¡¯ll all be slow in dying when goblins break our gates¡ªand we¡¯ve nothing to greet them with beyond open streets¡ªwe should probably stop straining our necks and wasting our time by trying to watch our own backs. The Great Chiefs are coming,¡± he promised. ¡°I intend to be ready for them.¡± *** Ragrak the Strong had been abandoned. He no longer had a brother. Ragalak had been slain by a golem made of green metal, that same creature who had brought havoc upon Ragrak¡¯s diminishing clans. He now knew the word grief in entirety, but he had become as kin to anger. He had been betrayed. He stood to suffer. The Eastern Clans marched off and convinced him of this simple task, convinced Ragalak, that they would need do no more than sit here and harass the manling town of wood and mud. Ragrak studied the lean goblins with him. They had grown wary of his outbursts, of his murderous rages, yet still they sat around him and the fire. If only they possessed any semblance of true wisdom. But they did not. He was surrounded by goblins and still utterly alone. He had none to call friend. None to call brother. He could not stand against the onslaught that befell while Sun was high. The hunters came, with arrows and fire, to kill goblins as they slept, to scare them, to harass them. To turn them into meat that they didn¡¯t even eat. So Ragrak sat, with his clan, watching a fire that was unneeded for Sun was full in the sky. Ragrak the Strong was waiting for the manling hunters to come. He sat at the limits of the forest, for he had been forced that far back, and watched for movement. He listened for screams and violence while most of his clans slept despite their fears. They did not seem to understand that they were pursued, that flight from one conflict did not mean that conflict would not still seek them. Ragrak had grown so desperate that he had tried to take the manling town. He had tried to hide where they had hid for so long. But the manling known as the Spearslayer was worse than the hunters. He was spoken of as an animal, as were all his clan. They had been faced with a fate of destruction and consumption yet failed to yield. Now they were as any wounded animal. Snarling. Vicious. Cruel. Spiteful. Ragrak did not make the same mistake as Mabaruk and Muburak. He would never sacrifice himself to bolster the Spearslayer¡¯s honour. ¡°Ragrak?¡± Ragrak looked down at the savage face of the skinny goblin. ¡°Yes?¡± ¡°When do we sleep?¡± ¡°You can sleep as you wish. I will remain awake.¡± ¡°For all time?¡± asked the goblin opposite the fire. ¡°For as long as is needed.¡± ¡°Do that, then?¡± ¡°Do as you wish.¡± ¡°Sleep¡­?¡± ¡°Or wake?¡± another asked. This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. ¡°Sleep.¡± Ragrak sighed in anger, rising to his feet. He towered over the circle of fearful goblins. ¡°You should all sleep.¡± He stepped over the fire, over the goblins before they scrambled clear. Sleeping goblins were sprawled across the grassy forest floor, nestled under the shadows of trees or hidden among bushes. A diminutive runt stood scratching moss from a trunk, suckling on the bark and on his claws. He scampered away at the loud sound of Ragrak¡¯s footfalls. He was reminded by the sight of Lazarus. He now understood that his brother was right. They had made a mistake in following the Moonbear. Ragrak and Ragalak might both still live had they joined the Eastern Clans. Ragrak might not be so alone. Metal flashed in the reaches of his vision. Sickness roiled up inside of Ragrak when he realised what was happening. The forest was alive with manlings and blades. The hunters were stalking through the trees, opening the throats of sleeping goblins. ¡°Manlings!¡± Ragrak roared. ¡°Wake! Fight! Gather¡ª¡± An arrow thudded into his shoulder. Four manlings in fur ran at him, weapons readied as they shouted for glory. ¡°It is too late,¡± he realised, smashing his heel into a capped head. The manling crumpled underfoot. He kicked another off into a tree trunk, grabbed a third, biting off the head as he stomped on the forth. He tossed the headless body towards the bushes, knocking over another pair. Ragrak stood ready but the others did not come. He could see a wave of manlings rushing through the trees to his left and right, out of reach, cleaving through goblins that now screamed or made desperate efforts to fight back. But there was too much disorder, too much fear. The clans of Ragrak were about to be hacked, slashed, and left to rot. Still, he had to try to fight. ¡°Follow me!¡± Ragrak declared, running out of the trees. ¡°Gather on me! Gather on Ragrak! Horns! Stones!¡± He took in a deep breath while dozens of goblins gathered around him, hauling stones at grass, trunks, and bushes. He glimpsed the green metal of the golem that had so harassed him, of the huge black-haired giant that had slaughtered his people. He did not expect to see or sense the Son of Jorund, but he charged out from the trees with the rest of the manlings all the same. ¡°Hold ground!¡± Then began the roaring and cheering of manlings that ran forth to bring death, met by the fearful growling and squealing of goblins that were about to lose all courage. Stones were thrown. A hail of arrows sailed down in answer, thudded into the grass, into green flesh, some bursting through heads. Goblins died by the score and the fur-clad manlings drew close enough to see their grim faces. Ragrak the Strong stepped forward then staggered back. A spear protruded from his chest, prominent amid a dozen arrow shafts. He grabbed two of his own goblins, using them as shields, then hurled them into the manlings. ¡°I challenge you, Golem!¡± He ran over the manling fighters, rushing for the creature of green metal. Fire tore through his leg and he landed not on his foot but on a raw stub. Agony ripped through Ragrak now he tumbled onto one knee, the world shifting, the manlings seeming to grow taller and more fearsome as they drew in on him. Ragrak struck out at the black-haired giant, knocking him off of his feet. The son of Jorund ran under him. Ragrak felt cold pain now two long knives were shoved up into his hips. Desperate sickness dizzied him. He heard the distant torrent of his own blood. *** Gunnar and Engli stood outside the collapsed walls of Fenkirk. The smashed remnants lay scattered around, barely discernible against a town that reeked of death, decay, and suffering. Hundreds of dead, man and goblin alike, lay sprawled ahead, blending together in a humped rug of dried blood and muddied flesh. The settlement itself stood father back, huddled at the end of the once circular wall. A killing ground of crisscrossed ditches, stakes, and the broken dead separated the breach from another sprawling defense, which had been made of carts, houses, and crates. It had been destroyed in a dozen places, corpses lay half-way through windows or atop crates and upturned carts. Engli thought there might have been an intended entryway at the middle, but it was blocked by a heaped pile of rotting goblins. ¡°I think they¡¯re all dead,¡± Gunnar said. ¡°Do I smell as bad as this?¡± He gleamed with a coating of black blood. He had barely bothered to wipe his face. ¡°Not as bad.¡± Engli brushed a hand down his grimy breastplate. ¡°But there¡¯s no harm in searching for survivors.¡± ¡°What are you two waiting for?¡± Abi rasped, striding up behind them. He wore the same feather cloak, now spattered with blood. ¡°Gods above.¡± He blinked, mouth agape now he studied the ruined town. ¡°They¡¯ve made a damn mess of this.¡± He shrugged, and stepped forward, taking little care whether he trod on a broken skull, wet mud, or swollen flesh. Engli followed after him, managing to walk between corpses. Gunnar entered as well, removing his blood-soaked cap to cover his nose. Dizzied and sickened by the smells, Engli had to do the same and breathed into his conical helmet. ¡°Stop,¡± Gunnar warned, grabbed his shoulder. ¡°There¡¯s blades buried in the mud.¡± He urged him back, then lead him forward. The straight path that Engli had hoped to follow turned into a winding route back and forth along the field, seemingly watched by every aimless gaze of the dead. Gunnar murmured in surprise, staring down at the ground. ¡°Mabaruk or Muburak.¡± Engli craned his neck to see the decaying body of a gargantuan goblin, skewered through the chest and neck by a spear. They had an easier time reaching the wall from there. Gunnar led them towards a modest house, and they clambered through the shutters and into a room that stank of old blood. The walls, shutters, and floors were a dark shade of red. ¡°Dagny always said that I should visit Fenkirk,¡± Gunnar mentioned, one hand resting on a dagger. He craned his neck beyond the broken wall of the home. ¡°I had no idea it would be so grim. Goes to show women like odd things.¡± ¡°It was different¡­ before.¡± Gunnar¡¯s smile was wry. ¡°Do you think so?¡± They turned onto a churned street, which was covered in less goblins than the rest of the town, and there were no ditches or buried blades in sight. They walked past the piled goblins bodies and towards a third blockade, which had been erected between a large workshop and the circular bardhouse. Engli could only see four structures still standing, all the other wood had been hammered into two mismatched walls that bridged the structures and fenced off a corner. Abi was shouting up at the bardhouse, hands sweeping out of his feather cloak. The voices that answered held no warmth. Engli noticed fighters standing with spears behind gaps in the wall. Archers watched from the upper floors of the bardhouse and the roof of the workshop. The faces he saw, man and women both, were haunted and gaunt. ¡°I want to speak with the Trapper!¡± ¡°Stay where you are, and we¡¯ll go and fetch him. Do not try to cross the fence!¡± ¡°Or what?¡± Abi snapped. ¡°You¡¯ll murder the folk who came here to help you?¡± Engli came to stand beside the old man. ¡°Leave them be.¡± Abi scowled. ¡°Leave¡ª¡± ¡°Drop your weapons!¡± a woman declared. ¡°Or we will, as you say, murder you folk.¡± Abi scoffed in answer. Engli and Gunnar set their blades on the ground. A cart, rattling with weapons, was wheeled out to leave a gap between the workshop and bardhouse. The three men turned towards it as folk in dirty clothes, more women than men, marched out with grim visages and worn spears. ¡°We mean no harm,¡± Engli assured. ¡°I only wish to speak to whoever is in charge here.¡± He had never seen a group of folk that he both pitied and feared at the same time. They watched with disbelief as if they weren¡¯t sure of their good fortune, or thought that this was some kind of complicated treachery. ¡°We¡¯ve dropped our weapons.¡± ¡°That old bastard hasn¡¯t,¡± snapped a man as old as Abi. He wore a brown fur-trimmed jerkin. He had a bow on his back, three small blades at his belt, and wore a necklace adorned with teeth and a bone idol of Laykia the Huntress. ¡°I don¡¯t own any blades,¡± Abi rasped. ¡°Too ancient for that.¡± The old man grinned. ¡°I¡¯ll take you on your word, then. And I¡¯ll take you two to see the Spearslayer.¡± ¡°Aren¡¯t you in charge here?¡± Abi asked. He shook his head. ¡°Too ancient for that as well.¡± Engli had the feeling that the men knew each other, which didn¡¯t put him at ease, but the women urged them forward with spears so he had little choice other than to enter the remnants of Fenkirk. He felt no better when he saw they were taking him to a small hut at the back, which had been strung times over in bones that now rattled with menace in the foul breeze. ¡°Promising,¡± Gunnar murmured. ¡°Take them in,¡± the old man ordered, walking off with feather-cloaked Abi. ¡°I¡¯ll deal with this bastard.¡± Engli and Gunnar slowed at the bone-hung doorway. The women surrounded them on all sides, gazes close to amused. ¡°Go on in,¡± the lead woman ordered. ¡°Both of you.¡± Gunnar smiled. ¡°I¡¯ll follow your lead.¡± Engli shivered as he strode through the cold bones, causing them to rattle on all sides. He slowed to a stop and Gunnar walked into his back. They both stumbled forward into a circular room that only housed a bedroll and rocking chair. The seated man appeared half-starved, black hair muddied, cheeks smeared with blood, eyes both numbed and wild. ¡°Have we been freed?¡± he asked almost tonelessly. ¡°Is it over¡­?¡± ¡°No. We were only able to break¡­¡± Engli trailed off. He scrutinised the man¡¯s lean face. ¡°The Western Clans have moved to conquer Horvorr. We slew those that stayed behind.¡± He paused. ¡°Have we met before?¡± The man sighed. ¡°Mind my manners, but I really don¡¯t care if we have.¡± Gunnar chuckled. ¡°And here I thought people from Fenkirk were meant to be friendly.¡± ¡°There¡¯s your mistake, then.¡± The man shrugged. ¡°I¡¯m from Horvorr.¡± Engli frowned. ¡°Sam?¡± The tired man mirrored his expression. ¡°I suppose we have met, then. Wait¡­ Engli?¡± ¡°You look different.¡± Sam nodded. ¡°I feel half dead. Where¡¯d you get that armour?¡± ¡°We were led into the mountains by the Sage¡ª¡± ¡°Say no more.¡± Sam¡¯s smile bordered on manic. ¡°I completely understand.¡± ¡°Right¡­ well, I came to look for survivors,¡± Engli explained. ¡°We¡¯ve a place a couple days North for those who can¡¯t fight. But I was hoping¡ª¡± Sam sighed, rubbing at his face with both hands. ¡°I¡¯ll be heading to Horvorr. I¡¯d guess most those outside will go with me. If you¡¯ve a place where we can camp away from this smell, then I¡¯d be grateful.¡± ¡°I thought you might be heading for Timilir. To save your son.¡± ¡°Yes.¡± Sam¡¯s gaze drifted, lapsing to desperation. ¡°I had thought about that. But I¡¯ve got family in Horvorr as well. And I¡¯m not ready to give the region up. Too many men, women, and children are already dead.¡± Gunnar smiled. ¡°Where¡¯s the harm in adding more to the pile?¡± ¡°It¡¯s like they say,¡± Sam answered with as much enthusiasm as he could muster, ¡°if somethings going to hack you to pieces you might as well join in on the fun.¡± ¡°Who says that, exactly?¡± ¡°Heroes.¡± Sam shrugged. ¡°Monsters.¡± Engli worried the barkeeper had turned mad. ¡°Are you sure you¡¯re alright, Sam?¡± ¡°I never claimed to be.¡± Sam struggled up from his chair. ¡°But I¡¯m ready and more than willing to fight. Win or lose, I need to see the end of this godsdamned war.¡± 51. Breaking Through 51. Breaking Through ¡°We have had to slaughter our oxen and leave our carts behind. Snow falls heavier and heavier, and the winds are lashing men with frostbite. We number in the hundred, all the cowards and brigands have abandoned us. We would have died two nights ago were it not for the troll hunters, Toki and Tofi, who laid waste to two dozen of the hungry creatures before we broke through. The men take courage in the twin¡¯s skills, but I see the brothers watch me as if they know of my cargo.¡± The folk of Stonefell shivered in the darkness of their richest mine. It had yielded great veins of ore, and kept families well fed through years of cold winters. They had once took pride in their mine. Now though, as they sheltered inside of it, trapped by their own doings, thirsting for more water than the sparse amount they had taken with them, they began to look upon the place with loathing. It was no longer a source of wealth, of employ, of hard but good living. But a prison with cold and foreboding walls, with wooden braces that hadn¡¯t managed to uphold the collapse, so the stones had come in a number greater than wanted. And despite the efforts of the miners and their families, despite each stone lifted, or each boulder broken apart for quarry, they had no view of the light outside, no fresh air to breathe. Worse still, some folk had begun to grow delirious. They had started to tap their picks against the stones of distant tunnels. They would hoot madly in the dark. They would look at people not as folk they knew, but as obstacles to their survival. Of sacks of meat and blood, which wasn¡¯t much for thirst, but it was something. It was better than the drip, drip, drip of a dank cavern wall, or waiting for a heavy enough snow to fall down from the hole in the ceiling, which lit the gaunt, hopeless faces with faint light. All this had made the mine of Stonefell a gloomy place of desperation, of the fearful old folk, mothers and children, their whimpering, crying, shuffling, their whispering reassurances to one another that they would break through soon, even though all the miners were becoming bone tired; of the miners themselves, the strike of their picks, the grunts of their labor, and the desperate whispers to one another. ¡°We can do this.¡± ¡°We can¡¯t do this.¡± ¡°We must do this.¡± ¡°What choice do we have?¡± ¡°Keep faith for the children.¡± ¡°Keep faith for your women.¡± ¡°Keep faith in the gods.¡± They all feared the growing number of the mad folk, come to think of the tunnels as their own runs, come to think of the darkness as a friend that enveloped them and made them belong. Try as all those of Stonefell might, to tell themselves that they would break through, or that those who had gone mad wouldn¡¯t dare attack all the sane ones huddled near the collapsed entrance, they all truly believed that they were doomed, that this would end not in communal acceptance of a bad death, but rather a savage refusal to yield life, by those who thought it better to just become an animal and be done with it. Then all those silences were broken, hope ignited, by the muffled noise of a deep voice on the outside of the mine. Hearts soared when others joined that hollowed conversation, when stone rattled and grated on both sides of the collapse. ¡°They¡¯ve come to save us!¡± ¡°We¡¯re saved!¡± ¡°Thank the gods!¡± ¡°Never mind thanking the gods. We don¡¯t even know who it is.¡± ¡°Who else would it be? It¡¯s Horvorr.¡± ¡°Gudmund¡¯s honoured his promises.¡± ¡°That bastard has no honour.¡± ¡°Mind your words.¡± ¡°You mind yours.¡± ¡°Enough bickering,¡± a young child chided. ¡°Babes are trying to sleep.¡± Men grumbled in unison, and went back to hauling rocks. The strike of a pick rang out. ¡°Best to get it done,¡± an old woman said, her strained voice louder in the dank cavern. Outside, amid the sheltered pass that housed the ruined homes of Stonefell, Hjorvarth stood ahead of the stone and snow that marked the mine¡¯s collapse. His cloak had been woven together by Astrid, so the garment fit him better and was now colored two shades of grey. The air was still, windless, and the sound of scrabbling stones echoed loudly as the two dozen miners of Ilmkleif began their work with well-worn pickaxes. ¡°Do you even know how to swing a pick?¡± asked a doubtful voice from behind. Hjorvarth weighed it in his hands, turning to the old man. ¡°How hard could it be?¡± ¡°Easy enough,¡± Magnus said, ¡°if you¡¯re hoping to throw out your back.¡± He was wiry built, weathered by the wind, wrapped in a luxurious fur-lined cloak that had been woven black and threaded with a dozen colours. ¡°Why don¡¯t you let me do the swinging, and you can haul the rocks?¡± Hjorvarth handed him the pick, and stepped aside to lift a large rock from the ground. As he weaved his way through the folk of Ilmkleif, the rest of the wiry miners set to work breaking apart the rocks and the picks rang out in a clangor. Hjorvarth slowed to a stop, setting his rock beside the blackened wall of a hut. ¡°There¡¯s no need to carry it that far,¡± Bjorn said, his deep blue cloak pinned by a golden broach. Hjorvarth looked up to see a man who shared his hard features and steadiness of gaze. Bjorn appeared at peace in the mountains though, while Hjorvarth felt frustrated by the biting cold and persistent winds. ¡°Astrid told me that I¡¯m going to die,¡± he spoke the words without inclination. ¡°I¡¯ve never known her to be wrong.¡± ¡°Your sister tells odd lies,¡± Hjorvarth said. ¡°As to the wrongness of it¡­ or otherwise, if you die, you die. Thinking that you will, will only make a truth of the lie.¡± He shrugged. ¡°Besides, Astrid had me promise that I would protect you.¡± ¡°Yes,¡± came a woman¡¯s sly voice. ¡°I saw that.¡± Dagny walked over, her wintry clothes trimmed with fur. ¡°She kissed you, didn¡¯t she?¡± Hjorvarth sighed, but nodded. ¡°I made no move to encourage her.¡± Dagny grinned. ¡°She seems to think you¡¯re going to be wed.¡± Hjorvarth¡¯s tailed hair swayed as he shook his head. ¡°She¡¯s only a girl.¡± Dagny laughed her surprise. ¡°I think you might be confusing height for age, Hjorvarth. I¡¯ve known plenty of men to take wives younger than her.¡± ¡°Take would be the word for it,¡± Hjorvarth agreed. ¡°I don¡¯t expect to wed any woman at any age. But if I did I would offer marriage, not take a wife.¡± ¡°What does it matter if you say it one way or say it the other?¡± Dagny chided. ¡°Words are important,¡± Bjorn said. Hjorvarth nodded. ¡°He has the right of it.¡± ¡°Ah.¡± Dagny smiled. ¡°And here¡¯s Bjorn. Talking vague talk that others mistake as wisdom.¡± ¡°I know little of wisdom,¡± Jorund said, frustration plain in his deep voice. ¡°I do know that three folk staring at a rock that¡¯s already been moved won¡¯t help to move those that still need to be moved.¡± ¡°Sorry, father.¡± Bjorn bowed his head. ¡°I¡¯ll go help.¡± Dagny smiled at Hjorvarth, and slinked away without further word. Jorund wore only his shirt, a belt, and plain trousers. He looked like his son. Older and harder lived. He showed all the wear of the snowy mountains around him, as Magnus did, but still had the strength and muscle of youth, and more black than grey in his thick hair. ¡°I need to speak with you.¡± ¡°Then your need is met.¡± Jorund met the answer with an annoyed smile. ¡°I have thought long and hard over what do with you. I came here to help free these people and you would enslave them under your banner. You would lead them to their deaths on a promise of glory in war. But there is no glory in war. There is only blood and death and loss. These people, of Ilmkleif, and of Stonefell¡ªif there are any survivors¡ªdeserve better than that. They deserve a chance to live their lives.¡± ¡°Unlike those of Horvorr?¡± Hjorvarth asked. ¡°Gudmund deserves to die,¡± Jorund answered. ¡°Those that stand with him will share the same fate.¡± Hjorvarth took a deep breath. ¡°As will you, and all those with you. There is nowhere to run. Not North nor East nor West. They will all starve.¡± ¡°I can negotiate with Lazarus. I can make¡ª¡± ¡°Peace?¡± Hjorvarth asked, his anger rising. ¡°Is that your plan? You would buy your survival at the cost of the blood of others?¡± Magnus had approached in his colourful cloak. ¡°Our ancestors lived alongside the goblins far longer than we¡¯ve lived under Gudmund. He doesn¡¯t belong.¡± ¡°They tried to kill you!¡± Hjorvarth rebuked. ¡°They will slaughter you all!¡± ¡°There are no certainties,¡± Jorund plainly agreed. ¡°Not with my way. But with yours there are. Certainty of suffering. Of blood. Of death.¡± Hjorvarth frowned. He looked around the ruined village, seeing that all had fallen quiet and the work to open the mine had paused. All eyes, their gazes harsh and suspicious, had come to rest on his grey-cloaked shoulders. ¡°Have you all lost your wits? Have you all lost your courage?¡± he asked, accusations echoing across the mountainous basin. ¡°Is Ilmkleif naught but a gathering of treacherous cowards?¡± He glanced back at the sound of footfalls and found himself very nearly surrounded, grips tight around picks and knives. A cruel and disbelieving laugh rang out from Hjorvarth. ¡°You have but a moment to step back! Draw weapons and you all die!¡± The threat seemed to have the opposite effect. The miners raised their weapons. ¡°Enough,¡± Bjorn warned, one hand wrapped around an unslung war hammer. He stepped into the circle of men, putting his back to Hjorvarth. ¡°Get away from him. You are free to leave, Hjorvarth. I will accompany you as far as you need.¡± He scowled at his father. ¡°Forgotten the old ways, have you, Jorund? Have all of you?¡± Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel. ¡°The Old Enemy walked into our home,¡± Jorund replied with all conviction. ¡°I have remembered the old ways. I have been reminded. The Small King lives.¡± ¡°The Small King lives,¡± the miners intoned. Bjorn shook his head. ¡°You¡¯ve all lost your damn minds. I should¡¯ve left with Gunnar.¡± ¡°Be gone, then, heathen!¡± Magnus snapped. ¡°We¡¯ve no need for you here. The Old Enemy supports Gudmund. He befriended the man you now defend.¡± ¡°I have no need of defense.¡± Hjorvarth drew his runic axe. ¡°But if you now all stand before me as foes of Horvorr then you are the one¡¯s endangered.¡± ¡°So you would murder us all?¡± Jorund asked. ¡°Will you go back to Ilmkleif to kill the women and children as well?¡± ¡°Enough of this,¡± Bjorn pleaded. ¡°Hjorvarth. There is no gain in spilling blood here. You would only make a truth of my sister¡¯s prediction.¡± Hjorvarth considered the words. He then turned towards the sloping road that led through the mountains and down to Horvorr. The miners moved to block his way, knives and picks ready to hand, their gazes without warmth. ¡°I have no wish for violence,¡± he said, even as he considered the many ways he might have to brutally fight his way out of this. ¡°But I see that I am not wanted here. So I will return to my family and you can all return to yours.¡± ¡°No,¡± Magnus said. ¡°You can go further into the mountains or you can fight through us. I won¡¯t have you helping Gudmund.¡± ¡°He is but one man,¡± Bjorn reasoned. ¡°This is madness. Why are you all acting as rabid animals?¡± He turned to his father. ¡°Or is that truly what you are?¡± ¡°You¡¯ve chosen your side, son,¡± Jorund replied. ¡°So take the path offered you or die for no reason at all.¡± Hjorvarth moved so quickly, cloak sweeping upward, that the miners could only freeze upon understanding his action. The blade of his runic axe pressed against the wrinkled flesh of Magnus¡¯s neck. ¡°Lucky for you that I have killed enough men for a lifetime,¡± he growled. ¡°That I had a revelation mid-swing and managed to bring my arm to a halt before this blade hewed clean through your shrivelled neck. I will take the path offered me. I will travel further into the mountains. I will do so spilling no more blood than that which now trickles from your flesh. And I would beg that you do not force me towards self defense. Or the rage I now suffer will be made absolute.¡± He withdrew the blade, and turned away from Magnus and Jorund. There were those among the miners who did not want to let the huge warrior go, but he radiated baleful wrath and his pale eyes trembled with murderous rage. Hjorvarth marched forward, and the miners all found themselves stepping aside. Bjorn, after exchanging harsh words with Dagny, caught up with him soon enough. Hjorvarth slowed at his approach, glancing back to see that the miners had begun clearing the mine once more. He regarded the young mountaineer for a brief moment. ¡°You have my honest thanks for your help. But you need not waste your life accompanying me. Go back to your father and I am sure he will receive you gladly.¡± Bjorn met the words with a regretful shake of his head. ¡°When I next see my father, I will have no choice but to kill him.¡± ¡°Why?¡± ¡°Jorund of the Hill, of the old ways, beds all women in his home,¡± he answered. ¡°I will do so for the sake of my sisters.¡± ¡°Then we should turn back now.¡± ¡°Dagny can manage,¡± Bjorn assured. He stared down at the snow for a long while. ¡°So did your courage fail you,¡± he asked, looking up, ¡°or do you truly wish to go further into the mountains?¡± ¡°Fear did not stay my hand,¡± Hjorvarth replied. ¡°I simply had no great urging to make a village of widows and orphans. But, yes, I wish to go further. I know a group of armed men who should have gone this way. They worked for Brolli but I have yet to find their corpses or cart. Thus they must still be ahead of us.¡± Bjorn slowly nodded. ¡°Given all that happened, you seem remarkably calm.¡± ¡°I have oft been told I have an unreadable face. But I can say with all severity, had you not intervened then all of Ilmkleif would have found their death.¡± Hjorvarth took a deep breath, pulling his grey cloak tighter about his great shoulders. ¡°Let us move quickly now. And pray to all the gods that the next folk we meet are not as mad as the last.¡± *** Hjorvarth and Bjorn had not paused in their journey, had shared few words, and the sun had since set, leaving their surroundings far colder and far darker. The mountainous path they followed grew ever more narrow, so much so that they would brush shoulders were they to walk alongside one another. Still, there was no place to build a fire and no wood to burn, so sleeping seemed a needless risk and they continued on by the faint light of the stars. ¡°Hjorvarth.¡± ¡°Bjorn?¡± ¡°Do you ever wonder what the point of life is?¡± Hjorvarth hesitated. ¡°I don¡¯t understand the question.¡± ¡°Well I¡¯ve been walking, and thinking. And I may well kill my father¡­ but what then?¡± ¡°Take care of Astrid and Dagny until they find suitable husbands?¡± Hjorvarth eventually reasoned. ¡°Find a woman yourself?¡± Bjorn stayed silent now they made slower progress forward. ¡°Is that what you¡¯ll do?¡± ¡°Me?¡± Hjorvarth asked. ¡°I intend to take care of my father.¡± ¡°He is an old man?¡± ¡°He is.¡± ¡°And when he dies?¡± Bjorn asked. ¡°I will burn him.¡± ¡°And when you¡¯ve finished grieving?¡± ¡°I expect I will stay on Horvorr¡¯s Guard until I die,¡± Hjorvarth answered. ¡°Though that depends whether I¡¯m allowed. Gudmund may exile me upon my return.¡± ¡°And what would you do then?¡± Hjorvarth made a disagreeable grunt. ¡°I am not a man who likes to think ahead.¡± ¡°Do you plan to get married?¡± ¡°I do not,¡± Hjorvarth eventually answered. ¡°Why?¡± ¡°I do not see myself as a capable husband. Or father,¡± Hjorvarth added. ¡°So I would avoid both roles and burden neither wife nor child.¡± ¡°So you will live alone and fight until you die?¡± Hjorvarth sighed in discontent. ¡°Is there really any need for these questions?¡± ¡°I suppose not,¡± Bjorn admitted. ¡°I was simply curious. And I grew tired of walking in silence.¡± ¡°I can tell you a story if you like.¡± ¡°Go ahead.¡± ¡°I once worked for a gang of criminals known as the Black Hands,¡± Hjorvarth began. ¡°And, one night, I was given the task of escorting a strongbox breaker to a guarded estate so that we might rob the place of the jewels held there. The man with me, who was meant to break the safe, seemed unduly nervous. I¡ª¡± Hjorvarth paused. ¡°Torches.¡± A score of armed and armoured figures approached from the narrow mountain path, wreathed within ruddy air made misty by the coldness of the night. ¡°They¡¯re men,¡± Bjorn said. ¡°Hjorvarth?¡± an old voice called. ¡°Hjorvarth!¡± ¡°Hjorvarth!¡± came a gruffer voice, followed by a deep laugh. ¡°Did Brolli send you?¡± Hooves clopped and metal rattled now the ox-led wagon drew to a halt. The lean beast huffed mist. ¡°He did not.¡± Hjorvarth stopped when he recognised the rough fighters as men who worked for Brolli. ¡°Why are you all traveling by night?¡± ¡°Weapon shipment,¡± answered their sturdy blond leader, Asgeir, who had one scarred eye sewn closed. ¡°We¡¯re running a bit late. Bad enough that we just spent the last weeks fighting for our lives, we had to fix the cart and bring the weapons or else Brolli would finish the job that the goblins started.¡± ¡°You¡¯ve got a cart full of old weapons?¡± Hjorvarth asked. ¡°Aye.¡± Asgeir nodded. ¡°Another cache of Timilir¡¯s finest, courtesy of Jarl Thrand¡¯s contributions to the war.¡± ¡°The old war,¡± Hjorvarth corrected. ¡°Southwestern Tymir is under threat from a goblin horde. I came here to search out survivors to help defend Horvorr.¡± ¡°What was that?¡± an old fighter asked. Asgeir dismissed the question with a gesture. ¡°We¡¯ll stop here for a short while! I need to talk a few things through with Hjorvarth.¡± Bjorn waited near the cart, making small talk, while Asgeir and Hjorvarth walked out of earshot. ¡°So,¡± Asgeir began, ¡°I¡¯m not too glad to hear about the goblins but that doesn¡¯t explain why you¡¯re out here on your own.¡± ¡°I was more or less exiled.¡± Asgeir blinked. ¡°For what?¡± ¡°Brolli is dead,¡± Hjorvarth explained in a sober tone. ¡°I stood accused of his murder.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t¡ª¡± Asgeir scowled. ¡°Is this some sort of odd dream? Goblin hordes and now this. There¡¯s a lot of people who would kill him. But not you.¡± ¡°I will never wake from this,¡± Hjorvarth assured. ¡°I attacked him in his home. Kicked him the back as he sat in the taproom. I had him on the floor but I was knocked senseless. I woke, bound, on the embankments of the lake.¡± He sighed. ¡°Brolli was kicked in the water by some robed stranger who had come to meddle in our affairs. He had a hold of my hair, and I was dragged in with him. So I may not have killed him. But I am by my own account the one who is most to blame for his death.¡± Asgeir¡¯s scarred face was shrouded in shadows. He had reached for a knife. ¡°Why¡¯d you attack him?¡± ¡°If I could answer to your satisfaction, I would.¡± Hjorvarth suffered anguish. ¡°I take it you¡¯re sworn to revenge Brolli?¡± ¡°I am.¡± Asgeir nodded more than he needed to. ¡°And he swore me to protect you as well, should Muradoon ever take him.¡± He glanced back at his fighting men, then shook his head in frustration. ¡°Why? With all the folk that hated him, why would it be you? Isleif would be dead if it wasn¡¯t for Brolli. You would just be some huge fool without sense or skill to make a real living. Do you deny that, lad?¡± ¡°I do not. But I thought he murdered Sam,¡± Hjorvarth¡¯s deep voice reverberated with misery. ¡°And Ivar was laughing at me. And he showed me a letter written in blood by another man¡¯s hand. And all I could think of was how Sam had been worried by Brolli¡¯s threats, and how I had told him that he was at no risk. At no risk at all,¡± he shakily repeated. ¡°That his death was my fault. And I had sworn to revenge him.¡± He frowned as if deeply confused. ¡°But he wasn¡¯t dead, Asgeir. He had simply left for Fenkirk without giving word. And Brolli tried to tell me that, but I wouldn¡¯t listen.¡± He swallowed. ¡°I would make no claim to deserving my life. And I will not even move to defend myself so long as you swear to safeguard my companion.¡± ¡°So I should kill you, then?¡± Asgeir reasoned. ¡°If you think you deserve to die?¡± ¡°I make no judgement on that,¡± said Hjorvarth. ¡°But you are sworn to attack me and I do not value my life above yours.¡± Asgeir stared for a long while, and sighed. He gripped the knife, flipped it, then handed it over. ¡°If you ever live to old age, or if you¡¯re wounded badly enough that you want to die, then you stab yourself with this. And that¡¯s as close as I¡¯ll get to keeping both oaths.¡± Hjorvarth took the knife in exchange for his own. ¡°The odds of either seem slim. But you have my word that this is the knife I¡¯ll use.¡± ¡°Good,¡± Asgeir replied. ¡°But don¡¯t confuse this for forgiveness. You¡¯ve betrayed the man that raised you. A man who wouldn¡¯t want you dead. Understand?¡± ¡°All too well.¡± ¡°Good,¡± Asgeir said again. ¡°Now you said you¡¯re searching for survivors?¡± ¡°Yes.¡± ¡°None at Stonefell?¡± ¡°Those of Ilmkleif travelled there, and then threatened to kill me if I did not leave. They mean to negotiate a peace with the goblins.¡± ¡°Lady take them,¡± Asgeir muttered. ¡°But those Stonefell folk will no doubt lean the same way. They¡¯ve all got long histories.¡± He stood silent for a time. ¡°So did you slaughter them or what? And who¡¯s the man with you?¡± ¡°I left before things became violent,¡± Hjorvarth answered. ¡°Bjorn was with the miners. He didn¡¯t agree with the decision to side with goblins.¡± ¡°Right.¡± Asgeir nodded. ¡°Now let¡¯s say there¡¯s a village trapped by goblins further into the mountains. You think we should go back and save them?¡± ¡°How far?¡± ¡°Not far,¡± Asgeir replied with some shame. ¡°We left them this morning. We were desperate and we figured they¡¯d not bother us if we left the villagers behind. I was going to send for help, of course, but by what you¡¯ve said, doesn¡¯t sound like there¡¯s any help to be had. Only problem is my men don¡¯t want to go back. And, even if they did, we¡¯d be in for a hard fight. Add to that the villagers might already be dead, and we may as well head straight for Horvorr. Get behind the walls.¡± Hjorvarth nodded. ¡°I will march the way you¡¯ve come until I find them.¡± ¡°Not exactly a fight a man can handle on his own.¡± ¡°Then you and your men can accompany me or I will have to manage against unfavorable odds.¡± Asgeir scrutinised the huge warrior. ¡°Not sure I want to follow a man who wants to get himself killed.¡± ¡°I have no great urging to die, Asgeir. I only wish to save the people who you abandoned. That is all.¡± ¡°You sure?¡± ¡°I¡¯m sure.¡± ¡°And why shouldn¡¯t me and mine just go on our way to Horvorr?¡± ¡°In all honesty, I can only think of one reason.¡± Asgeir hurried after him. ¡°And what¡¯s that?¡± ¡°Guilt.¡± 52. Duels 52. Duels ¡°Today I watched Brolli duel in an effort to avoid a siege and a slaughter of the Goblins of Horvorr. I had never seen him move with such skill or determination. Brolli collapsed afterwards in absolute triumph, and I thought that he had finally earned himself some measure of peace. When the gates opened, when Gudmund ordered the slaughter of every goblin there, I watched as all the love Brolli had for his brother died.¡± ¡°Where are they?¡± Dalpho pondered in his cumbersome voice. ¡°No archers. No guards at all.¡± ¡°Perhaps the Young Wolf is truly unprepared,¡± Lazarus replied. The four hundred and more goblins of the Western Clans had marched out from their camps in the nearby forests, and now they stood, green flesh exposed to the elements, wild eyes narrowed against the wind, sharp teeth bared in excitement, in a disorderly mass that made best effort at restraint. They would wait until given new orders from the two Great Chiefs ahead of them. Lazarus¡¯ lithe frame made Dalpho¡¯s blubbery enormity all the more apparent but even the elephantine goblin seemed undersized in the shadow of Horvorr. The immense logs that encircled the town left no glimpse of the settlement within and extended into the water to cordon the embankments. The main gate was the only break in the ribbed horizon of the sprawling wall. The goblins gathered felt wonderment or fear about the place, most knowing that it must be a fortress for fearsome giants. Both Great Chiefs had been beyond the wall though, and they knew well enough that it now sheltered the homes of manlings. ¡°Blow the horns once more,¡± Lazarus suggested. ¡°Horns!¡± Dalpho roared. A shrill chorus of horns blared up through the chill noon air, swept along in a strong wind with small stones and specks of dust. The sea of goblins rippled in a shared flinch as the debris hit them. A fire-haired manling leaned over the parapet. ¡°Heard you the first time!¡± Dalpho recognised the proud face, despite tire and age, as the Young Wolf. He raised his enormous hand to call a pause. Chief Gudmund rubbed his ears now the horns faded. He saw no more than five hundred of the scrawny goblins, filthy and wretched and fearful. There was no hate there, only the foolish belief that they were standing where they needed to be, doing what they needed to do. He almost wished his own people had the same good sense to do what they were told. Gudmund would have been relieved by the meager horde, were it not led by a pale goblin layered in scarred flesh. Dalpho seemed no less enormous than the years before: as tall and as wide as most two storey structures, girth greater than that in the hips, where all his fat seemed to gather, his rounded head small enough to be an afterthought. ¡°I saw you drown, whale!¡± Dalpho laughed a low, slow laugh. ¡°You saw me swim.¡± ¡°Make the offer,¡± Lazarus instructed. Gudmund couldn¡¯t hear the words, but wondered why the enormous goblin was paying heed to the ugly little thing at his feet. ¡°I deliver a message from Lazarus, Chief of Chiefs of the East.¡± Dalpho cleared his throat, snorting up black phlegm. ¡°Gudmund¡­ Young Wolf turned Old, we have returned from exile to make war on you for your betrayal. Yet I would make an offer you made to our people all those years ago. I will allow you to settle this in a duel. To settle this without needless losses. To settle this with honour. And¡­ win or lose, your people will be granted safe passage to leave this place in peace.¡± Gudmund stared down, his white cloak undulating. ¡°Who would fight who?¡± ¡°You!¡± Lazarus clashed his long claws together. ¡°Would fight me!¡± Dalpho dipped his fat head. ¡°Chief to Chief!¡± ¡°You have my thanks and respect for the offer,¡± Gudmund declared in all severity. ¡°I would ask for time to consider.¡± ¡°Granted,¡± Dalpho bellowed. ¡°But I would not wait too long. The Eastern Clans approach, and when they arrive this offer will be no longer be extended to you or your people. We will break your gates, and grant them only death. By claw, by fangs, by fire.¡± ¡°Gahr¡¯rul spoke the same threat!¡± Gudmund smiled down at them, before he ambled away from the wall-walk. ¡°You should not fight him,¡± Dalpho urged Lazarus. ¡°We will send another in your place.¡± ¡°Was it not you who declared Chief to Chief?¡± Lazarus asked. ¡°I am his match and more.¡± ¡°Grallug thought much the same. He moved twice as quickly as the Young Wolf, had twice his strength, and bore the wounds of a hundred duels. Yet he fell all the same. Whether by magic or luck, I know not. But I do know that the Young Wolf has fought many a time against his betters, and each time he has won. Not as the Black Heart won his duels, with violence and savagery, or as the One Swing, with endless effort and courage, but as a man who seems only to face his opponents on their worst days.¡± ¡°Magic?¡± Lazarus shook his skullish head. ¡°No magic will stop me from bringing an end to this enemy.¡± ¡°Let me fight for you,¡± Dalpho pressed. ¡°Or let me choose a Chief in my own stead.¡± ¡°I would rather lose my life than yours.¡± Lazarus paced about his friend¡¯s fat feet. ¡°Would that Balluk were here,¡± he mused. ¡°I could send him to fight and be as happy with victory as I would be with loss.¡± He turned back to the gathered goblins, rigid and unmoving despite the wind and the cold. ¡°Look at the discipline you inspire. If you were to fall, then all would be lost.¡± Dalpho stared at the tall walls that once protected the place he knew as home. ¡°I have stood for many years. I have lived most of those in exile, hiding as only a coward could. You spared me of that, Lazarus. Thus you lay claim to all that there is to lose. I will not stand by and watch you die at the sullied hands of Gudmund of Horvorr.¡± *** Hjorvarth waited with his shield ready and his runic axe gripped. The rough fighting men of Asgeir¡¯s band had gathered nearby, more anxious and less enthusiastic. Bjorn felt as nervous as they appeared, but stood stolid at Hjorvarth¡¯s side. They were nestled in a mountainous recess, waiting for Asgeir and another man to return from a stone rise that had vantage over the goblins they sought; those that had blocked off the escape for trapped villagers, but had not had the courage to attack Asgeir¡¯s group when they fled tight-ranked about their cart. The men had view of the setting sun, soon to pass over the rock faces that walled the mountainous path. The dusky light lent hues both gold and pink to melting snow, glistening icicles, and rugged stone. ¡°He¡¯s been too long,¡± a young man whispered to his larger, hoary companion. ¡°What do we do if he doesn¡¯t come back?¡± ¡°We would go forward blindly,¡± Hjorvarth answered for him. ¡°Asgeir may have slipped and fallen, and I¡¯ve no mind to wait. That and besides, if he has, then he might be wounded and alive, so we would need to go and save him.¡± The band showed no enthusiasm towards either idea. They grew as wary of the grey-cloaked man at their backs as they were of the wintry trail ahead of them. Asgeir crested the mountain then though, a brown-haired youth behind him, and both soon began a descent of the stone slope. The fighting men sighed in relief, some grumbling knowingly towards those who had doubted Asgeir¡¯s return, even though they all saw no true reason to have come here in the first place. They were men better suited to fighting, no denying, but just because they were the best folk for the work didn¡¯t mean they had any reason at all to risk their lives for those they¡¯d already abandoned. Asgeir quickened his pace now he approached, brushing dirty hands down his leather jerkin. He clapped a few men on the back, nodded and grinned to others, then walked beyond his group. Hjorvarth and Bjorn traded unknowable glances, and followed him out of earshot. ¡°Well,¡± Asgeir said, ¡°there¡¯s a lot more goblins than I remember. Over four score, and now there¡¯s two big goblins instead of one.¡± ¡°We¡¯ll kill five each then,¡± Hjorvarth said. ¡°Where¡¯s the problem?¡± Asgeir frowned. ¡°The problem would be that four against one is bad odds for any band of men. We might win, but Muradoon would take over a dozen, and you¡¯d have more than that wounded. What good does this do if we all come out as corpses at the end of it?¡± Hjorvarth regarded the fighter without warmth. ¡°I thought you were with me?¡± ¡°I am,¡± Asgeir answered with annoyance. ¡°But I¡¯m not going to die for no sake at all.¡± ¡°We could challenge them,¡± Bjorn mentioned in his thoughtful voice. ¡°Single combat. Chief to Chief¡­ but all of Asgeir¡¯s men would have to be with you to witness it, or they¡¯d see no honour in the challenge.¡± ¡°Honour?¡± Asgeir scowled. ¡°If we walk up to them they¡¯ll swarm us, and then they¡¯ll break open our heads with stones.¡± Bjorn slowly shook his head. ¡°I am sure that they will allow you a duel. I¡¯m not sure whether you could win¡­ if it helps then I will go and approach them on my own, and ask the Chiefs if they are willing. At worst they¡¯ll kill me, and you¡¯ll be at a distance to get back to better ground and fight a retreat through the pass.¡± ¡°And in this mad world of yours, what happens if he wins?¡± Asgeir asked. ¡°They just clap us on the backs and let us on our way? Or are they going to stand there and applaud us while we hack them to pieces?¡± Hjorvarth studied the black-haired mountaineer, then turned to the blond fighting man. ¡°Will your men follow us?¡± Asgeir rolled his eye in frustration, looking back at his men, who had now gathered around the brown-haired youth. The wide-eyed scout spoke in a fearful tone, and all those who listened cast suspicious glances at Asgeir. ¡°I¡¯ll see what I can do.¡± *** ¡°You are acting out of your mind,¡± Asgeir hissed, trying to block Hjorvarth¡¯s way as he marched closer to the mountainous clearing where the goblins had gathered. ¡°My men will not go. This will not work. So we should go back and march on our own to Horvorr.¡± ¡°I must admit,¡± Bjorn strode behind them both, appearing regal in his deep blue cloak. ¡°I do not think they will accept your challenge. Not as a man alone, no matter how big you are. Perhaps we should¡ª¡± This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings. ¡°What?¡± Hjorvarth stopped, staring back at him through the dusky light. ¡°Leave these folk to die?¡± He shook his head. ¡°I will challenge the biggest among them, and once I kill it the rest will run. I saw as much when I fought Ragadin.¡± ¡°Ragadin?¡± Bjorn asked. ¡°You¡¯re the Slayer of Ragadin?¡± ¡°I helped to kill a goblin who had that name.¡± ¡°Oh.¡± Bjorn nodded as if in estimation. ¡°Then this should work fine.¡± ¡°Are you two mad?¡± Asgeir growled, sweeping out a hand to encompass the abandoned pass around them. ¡°My men are not coming. You¡¯re both going to die, even if you can challenge them to single combat, even if you win the duel.¡± He shook his head. ¡°I might have sworn try to keep you safe, Hjorvarth¡ªand I know you, and I like you¡ªbut I won¡¯t follow you to a pointless death.¡± ¡°You are a still man of your word, Asgeir.¡± Hjorvarth dipped his head in respect. ¡°You have done all you could to keep me safe. And I wish you only the best luck until we meet again in Ouro¡¯s Belly.¡± ¡°You should wait,¡± Asgeir said, ¡°to give me more time to convince my men, or to see if any of the goblins leave or start to fight amongst themselves. If we could catch them as they¡¯re attacking¡­ if we could pick them off slow, then my men might take the risk.¡± Hjorvarth met the sentiment with a broad smile that made his pale eyes seem kind. ¡°I can suffer much, but not delay.¡± He swept around and marched forward. Bjorn bowed to Asgeir, then strode after the grey-cloaked warrior. The winding passage opened out towards a sheltered clearing of tiered plateaus, which were topped by misused huts and houses. Goblins had gathered around the structures, leaving remnants of meals and broken bones scattered around the snow and stone. They belonged to two disparate clans, separated by an unoccupied divide. The eastern side had been taken by a brown goblin, Broggo, that dwarfed the modest huts both in girth and height. He sat unadorned amid a clan of sturdy goblins who shared his likeness but not his size. A green and wiry clan gathered in circles atop the plateaus opposite, keeping clear of their spindly leader, Rizzig, who had draped himself in a patchwork of furs, so he appeared not as a goblin but as a misshapen yeti. ¡°Greetings!¡± Bjorn declared in a formal tone. ¡°I am the son of Jorund of The Hill. And I wish to speak to whomever is Chief here!¡± Rizzig stirred under his furs, and rose up to a height twice as tall as most men, leaving only his bony legs exposed beneath his patchwork cloak. Broggo lumbered up to his chubby feet and his sturdy goblins grew curious but not alarmed. ¡°The Hill is a way from here¡­ why do you wish to speak? Does Jorund of The Hill lay claim to the manlings of Broggo?¡± ¡°No.¡± Bjorn bowed his head in respect. ¡°I come with the Slayer of Ragadin.¡± Rizzig stepped closer as his own clan began to hiss amongst themselves. He stopped short of the stretch of snowy ground that served as the divide. ¡°He wishes to win himself honour,¡± Bjorn added. ¡°So he has come here, to fight those deserving.¡± Hjorvarth stood at an equal distance from each clan, his shield ready at his right side, not bothering to shift it despite the green goblins picking up stones and peering down. Rizzig spidered over to the ledge closest to Hjorvarth. ¡°That is a fine cloak,¡± he purred. ¡°I will fight you for it,¡± Hjorvarth offered. ¡°If you have the courage.¡± Rizzig murmured, sweeping spindly arms out from his cloak, rubbing clawed hands together. ¡°Yes. I accept your challenge¡ª¡± ¡°Stop!¡± Broggo bellowed. All of his clan leapt to their feet. ¡°I accept his challenge!¡± ¡°I challenge you for his challenge!¡± Rizzig screeched. ¡°You sit there lazy and fat, and lay claim to my manlings¡ªlaugh at me across the divide! I will not stand it. Rizzig the Beast will not allow you the honour of fighting the Fire Giant!¡± ¡°Rizzig the Beast?¡± Broggo chuckled. ¡°Rizzig the Rat more likely. Come then, let us see¡ª¡± ¡°Charge!¡± Rizzig ordered. ¡°Savage Broggo the Bragger!¡± Hjorvarth took a step back now shouts and screeching rang out across the plateaus. Stones sailed across the divide, crunching into skulls and dislocating limbs. Broggo thundered towards Rizzig, tripped on a dip between plateaus, and stumbled forward with little force. He swung at the spindly goblin all the same, but Rizzig twisted clear, then sliced and slashed at Broggo¡¯s thick flesh. Brown goblins began to clear the divide, most of them already wounded, and found the green goblins no easy work when they were fighting for their lives, so it became a matter of breaking their skulls before they could worm their claws too deep. Broggo tried much the same, but managed only glancing blows. Dark blood curtained down his lacerated chest. He grabbed a hold of the patchwork cloak, pulling it back so he could grapple at Rizzig. He collapsed instead, flattening the spindly goblin. He used his last breaths to smash his big head into Rizzig¡¯s fur hood, crunching the softer skull, leaving them both bloodied and broken in a macabre pile. Goblins from both sides lost heart at the grim spectacle. They saw that there was none to lead them, and fled. A dozen or so asked Hjorvarth to be their Chief, but he dismissed them with a brandished axe. Bjorn and Hjorvarth spoke no words while they ended the broken goblins strewn about misused huts. They frowned at each other across the disparate bodies of the fallen Chiefs. With their warrior¡¯s trappings and sturdy bearings, they had appearance of heroes overseeing their own bloody work; at least that was what the trapped villagers chose to believe when they came roaring out of the frosty mine with their hopes burned low and their weapons raised high. *** A frore night of foreboding moonlight had settled above the barren plain that encircled Horvorr. Lazarus and Dalpho had stood in the same spot for nearly a dozen hours. They had seen faces appear above the log walls, those of manlings gawking down at the goblin horde. Beyond that, they had no word from the Young Wolf. Dalpho had willed a retreat, to prepare for an earnest attack, but Lazarus had denied him. Thus they waited, despite the bitter cold, the darkness, and the snowfall. Lazarus would stay here as long as he could, even if it cost him his own life. He would stay on this plain and wait for the Young Wolf to come out of those walls. He would witness the death of a man that razed the settlements of his people, of a man that ravaged their homeland for no reasons beyond arrogance and greed. He would bring suffering upon the coward who had sworn safe passage to the Goblins of Horvorr, only to butcher them when they opened the gates. Unlike Gudmund, Lazarus would keep to his word. He would spare those who followed the Young Wolf turned Old. He would grant them protection from his own goblins, and urge them into the mountains, because he could not vouchsafe them against the savage gathering that was the Eastern Clans. Dalpho let out a low groan. ¡°He will not come, Lazarus. He means only to launch an ambush, to catch us unawares, or bide time for his own defense.¡± ¡°Do his people have night eyes?¡± Lazarus asked. ¡°We are covered by darkness.¡± ¡°And is it so hard to hold fire aloft?¡± Lazarus paused in thought then flexed his claws. ¡°We will leave soon.¡± ¡°Soon,¡± Dalpho spoke the word with worry. ¡°I fear you underestimate our enemy.¡± Lazarus hissed laughter. ¡°Perhaps it is you that underestimates me?¡± ¡°Perhaps.¡± Dalpho¡¯s fleshy chest rose and fell with his slow breaths. ¡°Yet a month ago we both considered this war won. We ambushed Horvorr¡¯s Guard on the Snake Basin Path only to suffer the loss of Ragadin. Our prisoner was stolen. Our alliance was broken. Now we stand alone against the manlings of Horvorr and the goblins of the Eastern Clans.¡± ¡°Our alliance is remade.¡± ¡°Things broken remain so. Always.¡± Lazarus glanced up at the elephantine goblin as the words rumbled into the wind. The shouts of men sounded out behind the walls of Horvorr. The main gate shuddered in the darkness then groaned open in a slow sweep that scraped up a layer of dirt and stones. Sounds echoed along the barren plain, answered by the curious chatter of over four hundred goblins. ¡°Hold ground!¡± Dalpho bellowed. ¡°Keep to silence!¡± Gudmund held a torch aloft now he strode out from the open gates. He wore a black shirt with a white cloak, both edged by blurry firelight. ¡°Well?¡± he roared. ¡°Who has the courage to face me?¡± He buried the torch in the ground, laughing to himself and brushing dirt from his hands. He listened to the wind sigh by, carrying the screeching and squealing of distant goblins, then smiled when the earth and air shook with enormous footfalls. Dalpho crossed into the torchlight and stared down with beady eyes. ¡°Lazarus has chosen not to face you.¡± Gudmund had to crane his neck to look past the unearthly girth of rolled flesh. He could barely see the shadowed edges of a trunked nose and rounded head. ¡°That¡¯s a little cowardly of him, whale. I suppose that means it¡¯s you and me?¡± ¡°Dalpho challenges you,¡± agreed the cumbersome reply. Gudmund swept out his arms in low bow, starting to step backwards. ¡°And the Young Wolf graciously accepts.¡± Dalpho chins bulged when he lowered his gaze. ¡°Do you mean to fight, or flee?¡± ¡°I just wanted a better look at you, whale.¡± ¡°I am a goblin.¡± ¡°Are you?¡± Gudmund smiled, every line in his proud face prominent with shadows. ¡°You look a little like a whale to me.¡± Dalpho snorted. ¡°I will not follow you into your gate if that is your hope.¡± ¡°But you were quick to pass through before,¡± Gudmund noted. ¡°I saw no sign of you when the real battled raged, when all your kin were broken and slaughtered in The Blackwood. No glimpse of your blubbery flesh or your big fat head. It took me by pure surprise when I found you hiding in Horvorr. Running to the Lake with all your body wobbling. Running like a great, fat coward.¡± Dalpho clenched his huge fists. ¡°¡¯Bring it down!¡¯¡± Gudmund roared. ¡°Do you remember that, whale? Do you remember how we chased you?¡± he added with a cruel smirk. ¡°Filling you full of arrows and taking chunks from your flesh. How you leapt into the water like a great, big, fat coward? How you tried to swim away?¡± He ruefully shook his head. ¡°I lost some coin that day, betting that you¡¯d float. But you didn¡¯t even make a splash did you? Sank down to the bottom of the Lake, and managed to crawl out like a great, big, fat, ugly coward of a thing. Great, big, fat, ugly whale of a thing.¡± ¡°A goblin?¡± Gudmund laughed a manic laugh. ¡°How can you be a goblin when you flee from honest combat? How can you be a goblin when you run in terror? When for all your size you¡¯ve got a tiny coward¡¯s heart inside your chest? I thought goblins were supposed to be brave? Not great, big, fat¡ª¡± Dalpho bellowed a roar, shaking the ground with his charge. Gudmund spun on his heel and ran. He could hear and feel the goblin stomping after him. He waved his arm and torches were lifted, thrown from the wall, burning as they twisted through the darkness. Dozens of folk rose, nocking arrows and drawing bows. Gudmund sprinted so fast that he feared tumbling. Dalpho grabbed for the Young Wolf, caught his cloak, but the clasp snapped. Dalpho lurched forward and the Young Wolf dived to the earth. Arrows rained down, sinking into flesh and head. ¡°Coward!¡± ¡°I¡¯m still here!¡± Gudmund shouted from behind. He leapt forward and sank two axes into the fat of the goblin¡¯s back. He used metal boots to dig holds into the flesh, dragging himself higher with each rhythmic hack. Dalpho bellowed in agony and made a desperate effort of grasping for the man. ¡°Run, Dalpho!¡± Lazarus screeched from the darkness. ¡°Flee!¡± Dalpho staggered around, and made for escape. ¡°You¡¯re too fat!¡± Gudmund drove his head into the bleeding flesh. He gripped the iron haft of Grettir¡¯s axe, then wrenched himself and the weapon free. He landed on hard ground, leaving the other axe behind now the goblin stomped off into the darkness. ¡°Charge!¡± Dalpho rounded back when he was free of the Young Wolf and the falling arrows. ¡°Destroy Horvorr!¡± Gudmund pushed up to his feet, laughing, running happily back to the gates. The squeals and jeers of Western Clans began. The barren plain writhed to life as hundreds of shadowed goblins made a din of screeching and scampering. They hurled stones when they reached the buried torch, but bright firelight made them miss their mark and then the manling disappeared into the darkness of the open gates. Dozens of goblins swarmed into Horvorr before they were even close to closed. Dalpho chuckled in relief. Pained screaming and screeching then rang out from behind the walls. A holler of men began, a low of oxen, then a rumble of hooves. The goblins slowed, squealed, and started to stagger back. Shaggy oxen thundered out from the town, over the goblins and through them. Then onto the crowded plain. The muscled beasts stampeded further into the panicked mass, hooves hammering limbs into dirt, horns goring green flesh and hurling corpses aside. Lazarus watched in sorrowed resignation while his people trampled one another, destroying more of their own kin than the oxen ever would have had the goblins held their ground. ¡°Back!¡± Dalpho bellowed, watching the gate groan closed. ¡°Fall back!¡± 53. Moonlight 53. Moonlight ¡°Though the moon holds more significance to goblins than men, rumours abound that it is linked to the practice of magic. In my own experience, the results are the same regardless of lunar cycle, but then I only ever managed cheap tricks. Lucius believed that teaching me any more than that was too much of a risk, not to the wider world, or to him, but to me. He thought that each act of magic made a man¡¯s soul more volatile. He was fearful of using his own gifts.¡± The great fur cloak of Braguk Moonbear lay draped across a copse of small trees. Braguk himself sat with his knees up and his eyes closed. He bathed in the silvery water of a large pond, which seemed only a deep puddle lapping at the huge legs of the prodigious goblin. He appeared not at all like the mysterious shaman wreathed beneath the cloak. He was an ugly thing, with monstrous limbs and a hunched back, with a long lopsided face and a great hooked nose. He could never fully press his uneven lips together, so he permanently bared six grimy fangs. The moon hung heavy and bright in a starless sky, shining down on Braguk Moonbear, shading his waxy skin a slate grey, so that he bore likeness to a gargoyle sized for the world. ¡°Braguk,¡± Lazoor¡¯s sibilant voice came as a whisper on a windless night. ¡°Come to kill me?¡± Braguk grumbled, not bothering to open his eyes. Lazoor laughed softly. ¡°I come to kill¡­ others. Does the Moon not tell you that the manlings have left their town of walls and wood and mud? That Ragalak and Ragrak are dead. That Krakann Bonesipper is dead. That we are to join them, should we not act when our enemies are only a short walk away.¡± ¡°I know.¡± ¡°Then we should act!¡± Lazoor hissed. ¡°Kill them now while they sleep!¡± ¡°And how many snaps, traps, and screams will it take before they wake? They have made the forest our enemy.¡± ¡°The enemy of our lessers. But should you and I go forth alone¡­ shrouded, silent.¡± Braguk opened his green eyes to the lithe figure of Lazoor. Tiny before him. ¡°Then you could stab me in the back? Eat me to pieces where none would ever find me?¡± Lazoor bared his shining maw in a smile. ¡°I am no match for Braguk, not when the Moon is full. I simply wish to help our leaders. I simply wish to help Grugg, Trugg, and Brugg. For it is them that deserve to lead¡­ is it not?¡± Braguk¡¯s sigh rumbled through the shadowed forest. He lumbered up from the pond, water cascading from his moonlit skin. ¡°They lead because I allow them to the lead. Because they are too greedy to follow.¡± Lazoor slunk back into the shadows, waiting for the prodigious goblin to garb himself in the great fur cloak. ¡°Well?¡± ¡°We will see what we can find,¡± Braguk grumbled, hoisting his huge staff. ¡°See who we can kill.¡± *** Engli and Gunnar were the last men awake at their fire. They had built it at the very middle of the road, so tents, trees and bushes surrounded them, as did the wary folk of Fenkirk and the gathered hunters of The Blackwood. Engli wore his floral-wrought armour, which had itched and stank for so long that he no longer noticed it. Gunnar had washed his fur clothes, but they were still stained and smelled faintly sour, so he appeared all black, save for his tired, roguish face. They both sat facing each other across the dying flames. Their eyes were glazed, lambent with the fire. Mirth echoed in the distance, and every now and then an enthusiastic moan would sound out through the darkness. Gunnar laughed at nothing. Engli yawned for a long time. They had sat in those seats for most the night, with Ingrid and Ragi. Sam had come, so had the Trapper. Abbi had come with him, and the two old men kept company like brothers. Dozens of others passed by, sitting for a while, offering drink or food, or kind words, or bold boast, or jovial jest. Skorri and Ottar had come with four young women and, despite offering to leave two behind, had gone with them all. Ingrid and Ragi had left together, after they had grown tired of joking of their mutual lust and simply acted on it. ¡°I really didn¡¯t think¡­¡± Gunnar chuckled, and yawned. ¡°I didn¡¯t think you could do it. Any of it. And now you¡¯ve got hundreds of men ready to go to war for you. How does that happen?¡± ¡°Honestly?¡± Engli paused for a long while. He knocked against his ornate helmet. ¡°I would have to put it down to the armour.¡± Gunnar laughed more quietly. ¡°It¡¯s no lie,¡± Engli said. ¡°Folk look at me like I¡¯m someone important because I¡¯m wearing stolen armour.¡± ¡°Well¡ª¡± Gunnar sniffed. ¡°To be fair to them it is fanciful wrought.¡± A scream sounded in the distance, too quietly for either man to pay heed. The woman who made it was crushed under the weight of Braguk Moonbear¡¯s staff; the man she was with got snatched up by Lazoor before he could reach his sword. Gunnar shivered, pushing up from the ground. He rolled his neck and licked his lips. ¡°Something wrong?¡± Engli asked. Gunnar swallowed, and cringed. ¡°There¡¯s a taste in my mouth¡­ like blood, or fear. It¡¯s odd.¡± He scowled into the shadowed forest. ¡°Do you hear anything?¡± ¡°A few people having sex, some other folk snoring¡­? It¡¯s a windless night¡­ if there was anything wrong we would have heard.¡± Gunnar nodded his assent, yet still prowled around the dying fire. He glanced up at the night sky, and stopped dead. Gunnar stepped back until twisting branches no longer obscured vision of the luminous moon. ¡°It¡¯s full¡­ the Moon.¡± ¡°It is,¡± Engli agreed. ¡°Does that matter?¡± Gunnar stared in severity. ¡°Do you know who Gahr¡¯rul is?¡± ¡°He led the goblins¡ª¡± ¡°He was the Great Chief of Horvorr,¡± Gunnar spoke in frustration, ¡°who swore loyalty to the Small King. He didn¡¯t lead any more than ten score goblins before Gudmund came here¡ª¡± He shook his head. ¡°It doesn¡¯t matter. I think that his shaman, Braguk Moonbear, is here.¡± He spat on the dirt road. ¡°I can taste his magic.¡± Engli eyed him skeptically. ¡°You can taste his magic?¡± ¡°There¡¯s something wrong with my blood.¡± Gunnar upturned his palms. ¡°It¡¯s to do with whatever deal the original Jorund made, and I¡¯m telling you that there is someone, or something, nearby using dark magic.¡± *** Braguk Moonbear loomed over a hide tent, listening to the soft snores of those resting within. He raised his huge staff, then held it aloft. ¡°What is it?¡± Lazoor hissed. ¡°Crush them.¡± ¡°The Trapper is after us,¡± Braguk grumbled, bringing his staff down with a solid thump. ¡°It is time to leave.¡± ¡°For an old man?¡± Lazoor laughed softly from the darkness. ¡°He has chased us for many years. Better we bring him an end that he deserves, than let him fade to old age.¡± Braguk Moonbear leaned heavily on his staff. ¡°There are more. One of Jorund¡¯s blood. And another that bares the taint of the Old Enemy.¡± This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source. Lazoor slunk forward to the crumpled tent, slicing open the hides, and dragged out a crushed man from within. ¡°I will spill Jorund¡¯s blood if it comes to that. As to the third, well, the taint often brings bad luck.¡± Braguk snatched up a body, and looked skyward. He dangled it into his hood, and crunched. ¡°There is more. The One-eyed God has broken too many of his own rules. Joyto¡¯s Luck was plainly written among the stars. There are too many hands in this war, and too many hands in this night.¡± ¡°If we leave now,¡± Lazoor hissed, ¡°then there will be too many men in the coming battle. Why risk our clans being broken on the battlefield when we can eat these in their sleep? At the least, let us take a few more. I am not even full.¡± ¡°Then you are greedy,¡± Braguk growled. He peered out from his great fur hood, green eyes glinting in the moonlight. ¡°Fine. I will kill more. But should our enemies come upon us, do not think that I will risk my life to save yours.¡± Lazoor bared his sharp teeth. ¡°I would have it no other way.¡± *** ¡°This feels a little mad,¡± Engli whispered. Gunnar led the way into the night forest, his two daggers shining in the moonlight. ¡°I can feel him. You should be ready to fight¡­ only Dalpho is known to be bigger than Braguk Moonbear.¡± Engli side-stepped a branch that snapped back. ¡°Then shouldn¡¯t we call an alarm?¡± ¡°No,¡± Gunnar warned. ¡°Braguk must be leading this clan, in spirit if not in name. If we can kill him now, we can win the whole war.¡± Gunnar twisted his body to fit between two thorny bushes. He murmured in surprise then heard other men arguing in whisper. Engli freed his axe as he hurried forward. ¡°What¡¯s going on?¡± ¡°Keep your voice down,¡± the Trapper hissed. He kissed his bone-carved Laykia idol, then studied black-clad Gunnar. ¡°You felt it too?¡± Gunnar nodded. ¡°It¡¯s¡ª¡± ¡°I know who it is.¡± The Trapper¡¯s grey gaze spoke to old regrets. ¡°I have been hunting the Moonbear my entire life.¡± Abi strode out from behind a shadowed oak that seemed unnaturally smooth. He kept his arms under his feathered cloak. ¡°I thought we were being quiet?¡± The Trapper scowled at his brother, and raised a finger to his own lips. ¡°What¡¯s going on?¡± a lean, black-haired man shouted from a distance. Sam stepped back now four men rounded on him with weapons drawn, whispering that he be quiet. He had woke with the urge to come here, so only wore a thin nightshirt, but had the foresight to bring a thrusting spear all the same. The Trapper rounded on Gunnar, and stared with old eyes that spoke to a lifetime¡¯s hunger. ¡°Which way?¡± Gunnar glanced at the shadowed forest around him. He shook his head, and upturned his palms. ¡°My urging ended here.¡± ¡°What about you, Sam?¡± the Trapper pitched his whisper for the distance. Sam stood staring at the smooth oak. He raised his gaze to see orbish green eyes at either side of a huge hooked nose. ¡°This isn¡¯t a tree.¡± ¡°It used to be,¡± Braguk grumbled. ¡°Weapons!¡± the Trapper shouted. ¡°Backs to¡ª¡± Lazoor clawed through the old man¡¯s throat, using his own weight and momentum to hurl the Trapper into the darkness. Sam had already begun a charge. He snarled, and drove his spear into a huge green foot. He ripped the weapon out as he got plucked up by prodigious shaman. Gunnar and Engli stood back to back, trying to watch for a lithe creature that appeared no more tangible than a shadow. Lazoor ducked in, swept by, and slashed out, nicking and cutting at their toes, shoulders, and feet, laughing softly all the while. They answered with their own swings, but their blades met only night air. Engli roared with frustration. He hurled his axe at the fur-cloaked goblin with a tree-sized staff. The blade cleaved into Lazoor¡¯s bony black shoulder, forcing the lithe goblin to stumble into physicality. Lazoor turned to flee, but found himself ensnared in a feathered cloak. He tried to escape despite that, blocked by the lean frame of an old man. Long knifes flashed in the moonlight as Abbi stabbed and slashed, striking the goblin a dozen times before Lazoor managed to shred the cloak. Abbi forced himself to thrust and duck even as his own flesh got tore to ribbons in answer, not even sure if he was even harming the black goblin. Gunnar closed the distance between where they had stood, wondering how the old man or the goblin had ever got so far so quick. He managed to drive a dagger into the black goblin¡¯s back, then Lazoor spun on Gunnar with his claw leading. Gunnar crashed back into the grass, bleeding and blind, knowing only that he was terribly hurt. Sam had broken free of being grabbed by thrusting his spear into Braguk¡¯s wrist. He had swung off the shaft to get clear of a huge-handed clap, managing to stop his fall by slamming a dagger into a distended belly. Sam had then managed a lucky leap from his sliding handholds on green flesh, and now clung tightly instead to one of the bear hides that comprised Braguk Moonbear¡¯s great cloak. ¡°Where are you?¡± Braguk grumbled, thumping his own chest with bony fists as he ran from the others. He grabbed a hold of his cloak, and shook. Sam got thrown free and landed in a tree, grateful of the spiky leaves that softened his landing. ¡°Why is the Old Enemy here?¡± Braguk Moonbear¡¯s hooded head obscured the moon, his great green eyes stared down at Sam. ¡°What does he want? With you? With us? Give me answers, and I kill you here, manling. Keep to silence, and I will bring you with me for a short journey towards long suffering.¡± Engli let out a war cry from a distance away. His floral-wrought armour glistened in the moonlight. Braguk grumbled in anger and reached for the tainted man. Sam swung Hakon¡¯s sword, hewing a third way through a bony finger. He shifted his weight, and the branches beneath him gave way. Sam descended the tree with a rustling of leaves and a painful snapping of wood. ¡°I challenge you!¡± Engli shouted. ¡°You would need a bigger clan and a bigger name, manling!¡± Braguk Moonbear chuckled down at the shining fool. ¡°But I will gladly crush you after you witness your people broken and slaughtered.¡± He swept around with a flourish of his great fur cloak, and was gone without further sight or sound. Engli slowed to a wary stride, genuinely glad that the gargantuan goblin denied him. He regretted leaving the others, and could only hope his call for help had been heard. He took heart when he found Sam bruised and bleeding, still breathing. *** Lazoor the Black screeched his anguish into the darkness. He had been beaten by a lucky throw and a feather cloak. He had been abandoned by that coward of a shaman. What good was it for a goblin to be so huge when all that resided within was a rat¡¯s heart. Lazoor sucked in breaths while he made his desperate flight across the shadowed floor, only fast enough to avoid the snap of traps that he triggered. It was luck alone that he had bled the colour of his skin, so those that saw him only saw Lazoor and not a wounded prize of meat, and flesh, and respect. He would live. He was sure of that now. He had almost reached the cave he had chosen as his own. He would need to rest for a long while. But when he was healed Lazoor would take his revenge on the shaman. He would put an end to the name of Braguk Moonbear. For all the shaman¡¯s talk of strength in the moonlight, he showed little more than speed in his flight. He took one spear in the foot, and was running away like a newborn runt. Lazoor hissed relief through his toothy maw. The rocky fissure that led into his cavern lay ahead. He would drink from his pool, and chew on his wolf carcass, then he would rest, and he would wake to see what had happened at Horvorr. Whether the peace of the two clans had lasted, or whether the Young Wolf was not so old as the goblins thought. Perhaps he truly was the Old Wolf now, like the Trapper had been. Not even a slash, or attack to answer with when Lazoor came for him. Nothing more than an order half-spoken. Lazoor laughed, thinking of all the years that the Trapper had tracked him and Braguk Moonbear, how dearly he had wanted his revenge. He thought on the terrified look in those old eyes before he ripped the Trapper away, and threw him off into the darkness. Lazoor could not believe how much he had once feared the old manling, could not imagine how much time he would have saved by seeking the Trapper out to begin with instead of listening to the cautious words of the huge coward of a shaman. He made his way into the fissure, rugged stone pressing into his lacerated flesh. Lazoor the Black crept into his small and gloomy cavern, and sniffed for intruders. There was a slight smell beneath the stink of wolf guts, but he could not place it so paid it no mind. Any goblin that could fit through the fissure had not the wits or courage to attack. He staggered forward, his pain and weakness growing with his sense of safety. Loffi clung to the moss of the roof, waiting with numbed determination for the black goblin to come to the wolf carcass. He had hung there a long while, but found the ache in his limbs no hard burden to bear. He had actually wondered if Izzig had shown him the right cave, but decided that Izzig was as good a goblin as any, so he should trust him. And now Loffi knew he was right to trust. Lazoor hissed agony, and fell to his knees. He started to tear and bite at the wolf meat. Loffi let go of the moss, twisting in the darkness, falling like silent death. He readied hand claws and hind claws as he landed, burying them into black flesh. He clasped his hands around the goblin¡¯s bony neck. Lazoor staggered now pain burrowed into his back and his throat. He tried to throw whatever it was from his shoulders, but the claws dug deeper. ¡°Better that you¡¯re dead,¡± Loffi whispered, scratching and scraping until all the wet bits gave way to bone. ¡°Better that you¡¯re dead.¡± He clung on while the black goblin writhed against the cavern floor. ¡°Better that you¡¯re dead.¡± 54. Touched by Death 54. Touched by Death ¡°It seems fitting that the only place of worship yet erected in Horvorr is a Ritual House of Muradoon. Though in truth the Godi sent to serve us did not take well to the town. For days he went around accusing folk of being touched by death, of being spirited, and then he began to spend long hours sitting on the embankments. I know not whether he jumped, or whether someone pushed him in, but one day all that was left of the man was a purple robe.¡± ¡°Well,¡± Gudmund began, laughing as if tired, ¡°it would seem I¡¯ve had more gatherings in this Hall in the past month than in the seasons prior. I¡ª¡± ¡°What is happening?¡± a chubby man shouted. ¡°What have you done to our town? Why are the nights filled with screeching?¡± Gudmund stared down at him, having heard his words, paying no mind to the screams and shouts of other men and women that had opened their mouths when the fat man did. Honest questions or demands for answers, Gudmund couldn''t bring himself to care. ¡°You want answers?¡± he roared. ¡°Answers? Then be quiet! Any of your interrupt me again and I¡¯m going to bed. I brought you all here as a courtesy. You think I care for your fears, for your questions, for your words, for your pleas? I care nothing for any of it! I am a man made angry! And your shouting does no good for me! My shouting does no good for me! Yet here it is,¡± he spoke more quietly into an irritated silence. ¡°That is the truth. So be quiet, or by the gods you¡¯ll have no answers at all.¡± Gudmund sighed down at the people of Horvorr. He rested both arms on the altar of Muradoon that he¡¯d not bothered to move since the trial. ¡°I heard three questions, and I will answer them. But I am too tired and hoarse to speak into a chorus of angry voices.¡± The people of Horvorr looked hungry, for answers as well as food. They were all tired, all wary, all unwilling to stay still with a restless energy that spoke to deep worry and unhappiness. Gudmund¡¯s Hall was full of folk, clad in rough-woven clothes, tattered furs, or cracked, worn leather. Most had brought weapons as well, whether a family antique of a sword, hammer, or axe; or a knife, well-made and oft-worn or newly lifted from a kitchen. Gudmund¡¯s broad smile made him appear no less haggard than his people. He hadn¡¯t combed his red hair since the funeral and he had been wearing the same black clothes since then as well, so he stank of smoke, while the rest stank of dust, dirt, and sweat. The men of Horvorr¡¯s Guard, standing at his back and in a wall ahead of the altar, looked no better. Only Arfast seemed not to change from the ordeal, though he had begun ancient and world weary. ¡°What is happening¡­ well¡ª¡± Gudmund sniffed, furrowing his brows. ¡°We have been put to siege by goblins. And I thought it best to dig up some roads and make defenses should they happen to breach our walls.¡± He took a long breath and glared at the rowdy folk as they started shouting once more. He held his angry gaze until they fell close to silence. ¡°I want to make it very clear that we can not fight our way out of this town. That we do not have the numbers, or the ground, or any sort of vantage to press an attack outside of these walls. That is why I have ¡®ruined¡¯ your town¡­ or ¡®destroyed¡¯ your homes for wood. As to whether anyone is coming¡­¡± ¡°Well?¡± a young woman called, suddenly shy when other folk scowled at her. ¡°Yes,¡± Gudmund decided with a slow nod. ¡°Jarl Thrand is coming to save us. Timilir will save us. But I swear to you all that we will be breached before they arrive. Our gates will be broken tomorrow, make no mistake of it.¡± Gudmund sighed again as folk shouted their own tactics to flee, or to hide, or for everyone to climb to the top of the walls and knock down the stairs until Timilir arrived. A few men drew threateningly close to the wall of guards, but soon backed away when the armoured men readied weapons. ¡°No!¡± Gudmund answered in exhaustion. ¡°No to every suggestion! I will tell you what you should do!¡± The people of Horvorr looked up at him, confused by some small measure, desperate by all others. Gudmund thought they looked as if they doubted his words, which was odd, because having a gate broken and being given a slim chance to live wasn¡¯t exactly a bold promise. ¡°A lot of people are going to die. There is no avoiding that. So the folk around you now, your friends and your family, and your children at home¡­ some of them will die, and you should speak whatever words you want to speak before this night is over.¡± The weathered visages of men and women fell to fear. They looked among themselves, hands nervous, eyes wide with worry. ¡°And as to how you survive,¡± Gudmund continued, his tone less than encouraging, ¡°you will all hear the gate go down. When you do, it is up to you to keep your own homes safe. We will do our best to watch the roads, to slaughter the goblins, and we will do our best to survive. But your lives are your own to safeguard. And if you do the job well enough then you may well hold out until Timilir arrives¡­ and I have had message by trained bird that they will be here in no more than two days.¡± Gudmund hoped that he had well-timed his false promise of reinforcement and his warning that they would be broken. He had seen clans gathering to the North and to the East. He had seen hundreds of fires burning among the trees. Goblins crawled all over the plains, and there was a second, larger host that had nought to do with that enormous fool Dalpho, or the little runt Lazarus. If he had to, Gudmund would open the gates himself. He wasn¡¯t going to wait around for starvation or for the goblins to dig under his town and make him look like a fool. He wanted a bloody end at the least, some honest war, some honest butchery. He would die on a pile of goblin bodies before the day was done. Better that then to wake up in the night like Gahr¡¯rul had, with your foes stood over you, with nought to do but feel the blades sink in before they carve you to pieces. ¡°Gudmund!¡± Linden was frowning up at him from the morbid crowd. ¡°What good is our silence if you offer no answers?¡± Gudmund squinted down through the dying light. ¡°What was the question?¡± ¡°Why do we wait for Timilir?¡± an old man shouted. ¡°Where are Fenkirk, or Wymount?¡± ¡°Have we had any word from the Salt Sage?¡± an old crone asked. ¡°He swore that Tomlok would save us!¡± Gudmund smiled as if that were as disappointing to him as it was to them. ¡°My advice to you all, and my only advice, is that help is coming¡­ so you should try to stay alive.¡± ¡°If you wish to fight,¡± Arfast added in a forceful voice, ¡°then we will be holding them at the Lake, at Brolli¡¯s courtyard, and near the Ritual House. There will be weapons for you at either place, as we¡¯ve plenty of those. If you want shelter, then you can hide in the Ritual House as well. If you want a bow then you can find Anna there, and if you want a prayer then Lovrin is there too.¡± The people of Horvorr stood watching and waiting for more. ¡°Thank you for coming!¡± Gudmund regarded them with sorrowful eyes. ¡°I wish you all Joyto¡¯s Luck and Brikorhaan¡¯s Courage. If you have further questions, any at all, then the gods are always listening.¡± The chubby man who had first spoke now scowled. ¡°That¡¯s it?¡± The words were echoed, as were others of a similar intent. Gudmund wanted to help the shouting crowd but he had no words to lessen their woes. There was no help coming, he was sure of that, and he didn¡¯t want to push the lie. He might even manage to save some of them if luck held, if they managed to kill the Great Chiefs or just stopper the streets with goblin corpses. He couldn¡¯t tell them the truth, the last thing the town needed was folk burning themselves in their houses to avoid the Lady¡¯s Shadow. Worse still, it might cause a mad dash to drown in the Great Lake. ¡°Those who can fight should fight!¡± Ralf declared above rising tempers. ¡°Against the goblins, not us! Chief Gudmund and Horvorr¡¯s Guard are the only hope you have of living out tomorrow! Your hopes get worse, not better, when you refuse to help us. If you¡¯ve courage to show tonight, then you¡¯d do far better to show it tomorrow.¡± The words lessened most tempers, but left some of the folk standing and staring in resentment. ¡°What more do you want?¡± Eirik snapped, throwing out his arms. ¡°When the goblins break down the gate, you¡¯re not going to care that Gudmund dug up your town. Or that he didn¡¯t answer every question to your satisfaction. It won¡¯t matter that you don¡¯t like him, or me, or some other man of the guard. What will matter is the time you¡¯re wasting now when you could be boarding up your home, bringing your children to the Ritual House, or getting a weapon and armour so that you¡¯re ready to fight.¡± ¡°This is not a war that you can avoid!¡± Chief Gudmund suddenly roared through the hall, his words proud and defiant. ¡°We stand together! Or you die alone!¡± *** It was a dark night that would make any feel cold, worsened with the doleful howl of a lone wolf. There were no stars at all, but the rugged walls of the mountainous pass could still be seen through the smoky glow of many fires. It was a windless night, so muttering and chattering hung heavy in the air, hinting towards fear, distrust and oppression. Longhook had took one stretch of stony ground for their tents, bedrolls and fires. They gathered furthest at the back, nearest to those of Salvik. Redstone had erected no tents, and instead gathered in number around several great bonfires that burned further along the pass, closest to any goblins that might approach. Kollkleif was middling, in place, in tents, in fires, but low in spirits; those folk followed a man they had no faith in, for so many reasons, most unspoken. Wymount had more men than almost all the other villages combined, with dozens of fires dotted around a dozen tents. Skarshaw lay close to Wymount, in the lay of their tents, and by the mix of folk at the fires. Sybille saw that blending clearly from the log where she sat staring into the glowing coals of a campfire. Roaldr reclined across from her on the stony ground, his arm over the shoulder of the Representative of Skarshaw. Aerindis wore a fine fur cloak that served to warm them both, because Roaldr had returned to wearing plain clothing. ¡°We march with too few men,¡± he was muttering. ¡°Would that the crone Bjargey had gathered anywhere near as many as she could, or that Hafsteinn had bothered to bring more than one of his sons.¡± Aerindis nodded, but offered no answers to the man¡¯s laments. Sybille sat alone and watching the pair only made her feel lonelier. She had not seen Agnar or Geirmund for days, and dread crept up on her that she had only ever imagined them. Sybille had seen them die. She had seen them die, and they were dead. Her brothers would no longer look after her, or protect her, or guide her. Geirmund was dead, she had seen him burn. Agnar wasn¡¯t found, but that meant he was worse than dead, in a place where even Muradoon, or any of the gods beyond Brikorhaan, had no strength or sway. ¡°Lady Sybille,¡± a gruff voice startled her from grim musings. ¡°Would you like livelier company?¡± Sybille squinted up to see the shaggy brute looming over her. She knew now he was the Representative of Redstone, the most feared and barbaric of the fishing tribes. ¡°Sorry?¡± He pointed towards the bonfire behind Sybille, where rowdy men and women enjoyed drink and each other¡¯s company. ¡°You seem sorrowed, Sybille,¡± he answered. ¡°And I know both Roaldr and Aerin¡¯ to be either dour or fiery, and by the look of them¡ª¡± The hulking man grinned at the pair, his tangled beard and stained teeth glistening with firelight. ¡°They are not fiery.¡± ¡°Oh.¡± Sybille nodded, and offered a small smile. ¡°And no. I¡¯m fine where I am.¡± She yawned. ¡°I think I¡¯ll go to sleep soon¡­ I¡¯m quite tired.¡± ¡°Would you like to go now?¡± he asked in a more serious voice. The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings. ¡°No.¡± Sybille shook her head. ¡°I would like to sit a little while longer. But I prefer it here. I prefer the quiet.¡± ¡°Ah.¡± The shaggy man bowed his head in respect. ¡°Then I will leave you to your quiet, Lady Sybille. I would only ask that you call me when you are ready to leave¡­ a camp of men in their drinks and fearful of war is no safe place.¡± Aerindis waited for him to lumber away, then smirked at Sybille. ¡°Bragi is quite taken with you.¡± She narrowed her eyes, waiting a while for reply. ¡°He is well respected¡­ an important man. And handsome, under all of that hair. When he asks me, should I tell him you welcome his advances?¡± Roaldr laughed, and sighed into the dark hair of his betrothed. ¡°Can¡¯t you see she is in no mood for your jokes?¡± Sybille frowned. ¡°Is it a joke?¡± ¡°I think not.¡± Aerindis shrugged off Roaldr¡¯s arm, and rose to her feet. ¡°Most men here would think you a fine wife.¡± She offered a pristine smile. ¡°As they should. And Bragi is a good enough man to lay claim by any estimation.¡± ¡°Oh.¡± Sybille gazed at the flames. ¡°It is a wonder he would think of such a thing with the battle approaching. What good is a wife to a man who might die?¡± Aerindis arched an artful brow. ¡°That makes her all the more important. A man cannot warm his bed with the fear of death, Sybille. And a cold night it is for he who goes to find his end tomorrow. Isn¡¯t it, Roaldr?¡± ¡°I am all the colder for you having left me.¡± Roaldr smiled up at her from his back. ¡°Could I borrow your cloak?¡± Aerindis rolled her eyes. ¡°No.¡± She offered her arm to help her betrothed. ¡°Now are you coming to keep me warm¡­ or shall I find another man?¡± Roaldr took a long breath, sighed, and clasped her hand. Aerindis hauled him up, then frowned at his hesitation. ¡°Is something wrong?¡± ¡°Is it wise to leave her alone?¡± Roaldr asked. They both looked to Sybille, who had eyes only for the flames. ¡°Bragi watches her,¡± Aerindis assured, dipping her head to the hulking figure by the far fire. Bragi nodded in the distance, and swept out his great arm to dismiss them both. ¡°Sybille,¡± Roaldr spoke in a worried voice. ¡°You¡¯ll have Bragi walk you back?¡± ¡°Hm?¡± Sybille squinted at him. ¡°Oh. Yes. Of course.¡± She barely noticed the couple go, and never mentioned that her reluctance to return to her tent was because the last she had been in one was with Agnar, Geirmund, and Grettir. Sybille had managed to stay among the furs and furniture for an hour before the stillness drove her to this fire, where others had sat before she pushed them away with her oddness and silence. ¡°Here I thought they would never leave,¡± remarked a confident voice. ¡°Can I sit with you?¡± Sybille only just recognised Gorm. He appeared all the younger by the fire, smooth skin and optimistic eyes alive with the light. ¡°I¡¯m in no mood to speak.¡± Gorm simpered. ¡°I only asked to sit.¡± Sybille acceded with a tired sigh, then returned to watch the flames, making no mention that he had sat too close. Bragi watched from the crimson darkness of his own fire, his dark eyes ponderous and violent. He sat ready to rise, dragging a hand through his shaggy beard. Gorm smiled at the pale maiden beside him. ¡°I have come to court you.¡± Sybille sniffed. ¡°A wasted trip.¡± ¡°I consider it well spent just to sit in your presence.¡± Gorm rested a hand on her knee, stroking the fabric of the black dress with his fingers. ¡°Your smell and beauty does more good for my heart than any boastful tale of courage.¡± ¡°Get off of me,¡± Sybille replied, leveling a disgusted glare. ¡°Or I will stab myself through the thigh just to skewer your dainty hand.¡± ¡°Does my face so repulse you?¡± Gorm asked lightly. ¡°Here I thought I was quite doing you the favour, what with your broken nose and ruined cheek.¡± He scoffed when she reached for her knife, lifting his hand from her leg. ¡°Well how about this then, Sybille? You come back to my tent with me, and start to smile and laugh a lot more, or I will take all my men with me¡­ which will mean that Bjargey and Hafsteinn will do the same, which will leave you and Roaldr with half the men, and leave your father, your family¡­ well, dead, really, won¡¯t it?¡± Sybille sighed, and smiled her sweetest smile. ¡°Go on and flee then you little coward.¡± Gorm flinched from her words, her spit, then a slap that clapped against his cheek. ¡°Boy.¡± Bragi loomed over them both, his dark eyes trembling with anger. ¡°Lose your anger and your pride, or lose your life. I¡¯ve waited long days for you to give me reason for murder. Long nights. I won¡¯t make it quick. We¡¯ll have a go of it, boy. I¡¯ll make sure you enjoy yourself.¡± Gorm sneered up at him. ¡°This is none of your business, brute. And you should mind your words. My father thought he would make it quick as well, thought that he could threaten me, and now look where he is.¡± ¡°I do not care about your father, little rat. I care only where you¡¯re going now. Is it back to your tent, and back to the folk that hate you? Or are you going screaming down Ouro¡¯s Belly?¡± Bragi lifted his axe from his belt. ¡°Your answer, Representative Gorm?¡± Gorm laughed happily, and pushed up from his seat. ¡°You¡¯ll pay for this, brute.¡± Bragi met the words with a black stare. ¡°You¡¯ve not the strength or spirit to make me.¡± ¡°Sybille.¡± Gorm bowed low, having to sweep hair clear from his eyes. ¡°I hope to see you soon.¡± Sybille frowned after the young man in hatred, then turned her gaze to Bragi. ¡°Apologies.¡± Bragi bowed his shaggy head, and stepped back. ¡°Your affairs are your own, but I could not¡­ not act.¡± ¡°Oh.¡± Sybille softened her expression. ¡°I was angry at him, not you. Quite a worm of a man.¡± ¡°Yes.¡± Bragi nodded slowly. ¡°Now can I walk you back to your tent? I have to rest for the battle, but I¡¯ll find no sleep leaving you out here alone.¡± Sybille smiled at his earnest concern. She pushed up on her own, ignoring his offered hand. ¡°It¡¯s this way¡­ and I¡¯m of no mind to humour you or kiss you, or¡ª¡± ¡°I had no mind towards that,¡± Bragi rebuked in a fierce voice. ¡°Sorry,¡± he whispered. ¡°I meant to say that I care only for your safety.¡± ¡°My mistake,¡± Sybille said, then led off between a pair of small hide tents, beckoning him to follow with her hand. ¡°Why is it you care for my safety?¡± Bragi lumbered at a short distance behind her. ¡°Does a man need reason to protect a woman?¡± Sybille shook her head, steering clear of a pair of arguing drunkards. ¡°I suppose not.¡± ¡°I fought for your father,¡± Bragi spoke in an idle voice. ¡°With my brother, Ragi. He is a bastard. My brother, I mean.¡± He bobbed his shaggy head. ¡°Gudmund is as well, a worse bastard than Ragi.¡± ¡°Oh?¡± Sybille asked with false enthusiasm. ¡°Well that¡¯s good to know.¡± ¡°Hah.¡± Bragi found it hard to see her as she crossed into the shadows. ¡°I had meant that to be a good thing, to turn it some way to say that you were not a bastard¡­ do you see? It was a good thing. Afford me more time for thought the next time.¡± Sybille glanced back. ¡°The next time?¡± Bragi shrugged, scratching at his shaggy hair. ¡°I can speak not at all if it bothers you.¡± ¡°It¡¯s no bother for me to listen,¡± Sybille softened her voice. ¡°I do find it harder to make reply as the days pass by.¡± ¡°Ah.¡± Bragi nodded. ¡°I know well the feeling. I have once gone a year without speaking a word.¡± ¡°A year?¡± Sybille stopped, turning to him, his hulking frame edged by the light of four distant fires. ¡°Truly?¡± ¡°It matters not,¡± Bragi assured in his gruff voice. ¡°Here is your tent.¡± Sybille squinted at the large, shadowed mound. ¡°Is it?¡± ¡°Why else would we have stopped?¡± ¡°I suppose it is,¡± Sybille decided, studying him for a minute in the ruby gloom. ¡°Good night, then.¡± ¡°Do you wish for me to sleep on the floor?¡± Bragi asked. ¡°Inside or outside.¡± Sybille smiled in confusion. ¡°To what end?¡± ¡°For your protection.¡± Bragi upturned his hairy hands. ¡°Should Gorm come to find you¡­ or any other man. It is not a thing that would sit well with me, were you to come to harm when I could prevent it.¡± ¡°I will be fine,¡± Sybille assured. ¡°You should go off and find a woman who needs you.¡± Bragi laughed a troubled laugh that made even Sybille feel sadder. ¡°Look inside while I¡¯m here, at least. That would set my mind at ease.¡± Sybille obliged him, somewhat touched by his fears, somewhat wary of his reluctance to leave. She saw nothing save for the hides that made the tent, furs strewn across the floor, and the sturdy chair and desk, which had been topped by a fresh candle. She turned back to Bragi. ¡°No men or ghosts in there.¡± ¡°Ah.¡± Bragi smiled broadly, sadly. He bowed low. ¡°Good night then, Lady Sybille.¡± ¡°I am not a Lady. But good night to you, as well.¡± Bragi glanced back as he departed. ¡°I spoke more to heart and bearing than to title.¡± Sybille laughed quietly into the darkness, thinking him an odd man, then ducked into the mellow light and subtle warmth of her tent. She found herself jerked back, an arm around her chest. She opened her mouth to scream, but a palm smothered her mouth. ¡°I¡¯ve waited long days for this,¡± Gorm whispered. ¡°Long nights. I won¡¯t make it quick. We¡¯ll have a go of it.¡± ¡°Sybille,¡± Agnar¡¯s words arrived before he did. He appeared ahead of her, ragged, hunched, dirty and broken, covered in a tattered cloak. ¡°Stay calm, sister. This man looks weak. Stay calm. Stomp on his foot, drive your head back, then scream and fight him.¡± Sybille tried to do that but her view of the world shifted. She landed hard against the earth beneath the rugs. She tried to scream again but her plea came muffled, then something struck the back of her skull, driving her head forward. Sybille was pulled over and the blurry face of a young man appeared in her vision. A smooth hand stopped her words, obscured her view. ¡°Sybille!¡± Agnar¡¯s voice shook with anger and desperation. ¡°Geirmund! Come to me, brother!¡± Sybille blinked to clear her eyes, hearing her younger brother plead and scream. ¡°Sooner than you¡¯d think, isn¡¯t it?¡± Gorm grinned down at her, almost apologetically. ¡°Why don¡¯t you relax and try to enjoy it? Think about how this could¡¯ve gone if you¡¯d have just been a smart whore, and come willingly.¡± ¡°Try to throw him off, Sybille!¡± Sybille struggled, but his palms pressed into the flesh of her arms. He was too heavy, so much heavier than he looked. She writhed against the floor, tried to bite his hand. A slap stole her vision and her sense, when she remembered herself hands were clawing at her dress. Sybille managed to force her legs closed, and heard a young man¡¯s quiet laugh. ¡°There¡¯s no need to struggle,¡± Gorm said. ¡°I¡¯ll be gentle.¡± Sybille gritted her teeth, squirming and struggling as he pulled down her undergarments. Some part of her saw the gleaming steel of Geirmund¡¯s armour in the corner of the tent, saw the ragged visage of Agnar screaming at him, roaring at him, punching and kicking and spitting at him. ¡°Do something, you dead fuck!¡± Agnar sprayed spittle into his visor. He ripped off Geirmund¡¯s helmet to reveal a gaunt head, bone showing under rotten flesh, eyes aglow with emerald light. ¡°What are you looking at?¡± Gorm asked, glancing back. He spat in her face and slapped her for good measure. Sybille could barely see the young man atop her, struggling with his own trousers. ¡°I said, patience.¡± The dead warrior stared down at what he saw as a deranged, froth-mouthed beggar. ¡°Gudmund was sleeping. And now we¡¯ve all sold our souls,¡± the words came cold and spectral from his mouth. With each note spoken, mist swirled in the air and hoarfrost crystals spread across the wood and furs. Gorm paused when a chill crawled up his back. He had heard the deathly words as a faint whisper. ¡°Boy,¡± Geirmund spoke with a voice like the world ending. Gorm scrabbled back from the dead warrior in terror, his foot caught in the torn black dress of the fallen woman. Geirmund snatched him up with a rotting hand. He hauled the young man from his feet, watching his terror with a macabre emerald gaze. ¡°Would that I lived and I could see you suffer properly. But I will take your soul and that will have to be enough.¡± Geirmund let him drop, catching him with a gauntleted hand, thrusting his rotting fingers into Gorm¡¯s chest without breaking flesh. Gorm opened his mouth to scream but made no sound. He tried to kick his way free from the grip, but he lost his fight now his skin started to shrivel. He pleaded with his eyes, but they clouded over, rotting to a shade close to brown while all the rest of his flesh puckered to a desiccated black. Gorm writhed in his death throes. He shuddered to stillness. Geirmund tossed the shrivelled husk onto hoarfrost furs. He swept his emerald gaze over the frozen tent, each inch pristine, countless crystals gleaming with the flame of a single candle. He then regarded Agnar. ¡°Brother.¡± ¡°Brother.¡± Agnar swallowed, and dipped his bruised head in respect. ¡°My thanks¡ª¡± ¡°You want me to thank me?¡± Geirmund¡¯s voice seemed to shake the world itself. He ran at the ragged, broken man. ¡°Then return, brother!¡± Agnar did not shy from his charge, or from the blow of the decayed palm. He only smiled down at his sister before he was struck clear of the place, and sent somewhere many miles away, in a cage that stank of sweat and blood and filth. Geirmund turned to the glimmering brilliance of the tent. He gazed down at his sister, no flesh upon his rotting face to show emotion. ¡°As to you, Sybille,¡± he spoke in a voice that was almost his own. ¡°I love you, and I miss you, but I cannot see or save you again. Stay safe. I will fix this.¡± He swept out his hands, gauntleted and rotting both. ¡°You will wake in the morning, and all of this will be undone.¡± He reached out for her with decaying fingers. ¡°Sleep now, sister.¡± 55. The Lesser Evil 55. The Lesser Evil ¡°When I was a much younger man, I feared goblins. When I grew older, I despised them. I¡¯d heard tales of wandering bands that ate up children and grandmothers. That marauded through the Eastland Plains burning crops or stalked through Midderlands Forest to slay hunters and foragers. During the Midderlands Wars, I crossed paths with many Chiefs who were better spoken than some men I had met. I had always hoped that I might meet Gahr¡¯rul and speak with him too. As surely, given all he had accomplished in Gudmund¡¯s war, he was a goblin with the sharpest of minds. Now Gahr¡¯rul is dead. Were he a Jarl, they would call it assassination. Instead, it is a victory. I know in my heart, of course, that if he were to have lived then the war would have been lost. I suspect that Gahr¡¯rul even considered his odds favourable in the duel he offered to Gudmund, Grettir and Brolli. But when I see the hatred with which grown men hack apart defenseless goblins, I begin to wonder which outcome was truly the lesser evil. Throughout my life, I have always seen myself in the lead role. Center stage. But now I oft fear that I have become one of the villains instead. Was this truly the hard fought war drama of deposed Jarl, Gudmund son of Geirulf? Or was it the bitter tragedy of the great goblin unifier, Gahr¡¯rul the Chief of Chiefs?¡± Hjorvarth sat on a stone rise, his legs overhanging the edge. He looked down at the twin plateaus that flanked the main road into the mountains north of Horvorr. He saw the town as a circular shadow on the barren horizon, next to the silvery disc of Horvorr¡¯s Great Lake. Hjorvarth had been unable to sleep because of his worries, which were many, some small and some severe; some in harmony, others at ends. He had tried to tell folk that he had not slaughtered the goblins outside of the cave, to dissuade Bjorn from telling tall tales of how he had slain the Great Chief Ragadin. He told the villagers that he was no hero, not even close, that he wanted to go to Horvorr, but that didn¡¯t mean they had to accompany him, and in no way was he guaranteed a victory or backed by Brikorhaan. He was still glad to have over fifty fighters. Over a hundred if he counted the old folk and the women. But he didn¡¯t want them to throw their lives away in the false belief that they would be safe because he was blessed. As he studied the barren plain, he wasn¡¯t sure that their help would even be needed. There was no smoke, no great hosts, no signs of war. Only the few flames of men walking the walls of Horvorr. Hjorvarth wondered if the Sage had tricked them again, whether they had stumbled into a passing clan of a hundred and thought it a gathered army of a thousand. Perhaps the goblin named Dalpho wasn¡¯t truly as big as he appeared, or maybe it was some trick of the night. Engli might have walked straight to Fenkirk without incident, and bought himself a meal and some ale at a tavern. Maybe he would bring word of Sam back to Horvorr. Hjorvarth would come home to hear tales of how they had gone with the Sage on the quest, only to be rewarded with some fanciful weapons. ¡°Do you mind if I sit?¡± Bjorn asked in a tired tone. A chill silence had such a hold on the night that all words spoken seemed weighty and reverberative. He sat on the ledge beside Hjorvarth. They appeared close to brothers under the moonlight. Their well groomed hair and handsome beards seemed of a colour. They watched the night with the same serious set and hard lines to their stoic faces. Bjorn sat taller and Hjorvarth was bulkier, but they shared a stolid bearing. Bjorn grew more melancholy as time passed, while Hjorvarth appeared all the more determined. They heard growls and screeches, so distantly as to seem little more than imagined. Hjorvarth glanced sidelong at the mountaineer. ¡°You should go to sleep.¡± Bjorn laughed, and smiled wryly. ¡°Have you ever considered that you are often offering¡­¡± He paused, thinking he had misspoke his last words. ¡°That you are often giving sound advice, but rarely following it yourself?¡± Hjorvarth offered no answer. He raked at his thick beard. ¡°I have tried to sleep.¡± Bjorn rubbed at his own beard. ¡°But my mind is too busy with warring thoughts, so I decided to look upon the upon the plain before it is covered in corpses of man and goblin alike.¡± Hjorvarth shrugged. ¡°Man and monster might have been a better phrasing.¡± Bjorn sighed in disappointment. ¡°They are not monsters, Hjorvarth. Gudmund of Horvorr is the monster.¡± ¡°I¡¯ve no sense of humour, but Gudmund is often a man of questionable acts.¡± ¡°It was no joke,¡± Bjorn assured. ¡°Do you even know why all of this is happening?¡± Hjorvarth furrowed his thick brows. ¡°Because it is simply the way of things¡­? Men of the gods fights creatures of the Lady, and they wish to kill us because that is her will. That is how it is, and how it always will be. Until the day that Brikorhaan breaks through in the Final Battle.¡± Bjorn laughed a sad laugh. He turned back to look out on the barren plain of Horvorr. ¡°Do you see the ground ahead of us? No trees. No life. Would you believe that before Gudmund of the Low Lands arrived in Southwestern Tymir this was all thick forest? That tens of thousands of goblins lived in these lands, and offered no true threat to Timilir, or to the old men and women that are the true ancestors of The Landing? That they paid no mind, and caused no harm, to the many folk who lived hunter¡¯s lives in the forests that once stood in place of Fenkirk?¡± ¡°If my humour is bad, then my belief of things I cannot touch or feel is worse than that.¡± Bjorn met the sentiment with a curious glance. ¡°Yet you believe in the gods?¡± ¡°I do.¡± Bjorn heard the warning in his voice. ¡°All I mean to say, is that Southwestern Tymir was a more peaceful, and livelier place before Gudmund of the Low Lands came with his men, and carved a bloody path through all the clans.¡± ¡°That was well done then,¡± Hjorvarth said. ¡°There should be no safe place for the Lady¡¯s creatures to breed in great number. They are few now, and look at all the damage they have done. All they have burned. All those they have murdered for no reason at all.¡± Bjorn shook his head. ¡°Do you even know how Gudmund won his war?¡± ¡°I know only that it was a war of many battles.¡± ¡°Then let me tell you,¡± Bjorn offered. ¡°Before Gudmund arrived, Southwestern Tymir was ruled by over a hundred Great Chiefs, some greater than others. Most prominent of those were the warriors Gahr¡¯rul, Ragadin, Dalpho, and the shamans Braguk Moonbear and Mubrogg the Spirit Weaver. After Gudmund arrived those that were Great Chiefs in name only, came to serve under those most prominent. Gahr¡¯rul was the Great Chief of Horvorr, and his land neighbored Dalpho, so those two made a mutual agreement to protect one another should Gudmund and his men break through.¡± ¡°Ragadin had claim to all the land from the Snake Basin Path to the Eastern Pass,¡± Bjorn went on, ¡°and he was the first Great Chief to go to battle against Gudmund and his men. He was the first Great Chief to bloody Gudmund, and had begun to cause such losses that the other Great Chiefs thought the men would never make it further into the region. Then an outlawed hero named Grettir fled from Vendrick after eloping with the daughter of the Jarl he served.¡± Hjorvarth frowned, but remained silent. ¡°Grettir offered his help to Gudmund,¡± Bjorn continued. ¡°Which wouldn¡¯t have done much, but at the same time Gudmund received funding from folk he had never met in Timilir, and then a man named Brolli, whose own debts were cleared, arrived offering to join his brother¡¯s army.¡± ¡°Where did you hear the mentions towards coin?¡± Hjorvarth asked. ¡°Edda told that part of the story,¡± Bjorn explained. ¡°She also made mention that she believed a man by name of Isleif the Bard was the one who found Brolli, paid his debts, and brought him to Gudmund. That the coin Gudmund received was sent by Isleif, who at the time, and still is, outlawed from Timilir. Though back then it was because he had done much as Grettir had¡­ and eloped with the daughter of the late Jarl of Timilir. Sibbe the Snow Maiden.¡± Hjorvarth regarded him with severity. ¡°My mother was not a Jarl¡¯s daughter. And my father¡­ well, I have never heard mention that Brolli or Isleif had known each other before they met in Gudmund¡¯s army. That and besides you¡¯re starting to sound like Astrid with all this talk of what Edda told you.¡± Bjorn smiled. ¡°Edda told me this while she was still living. Your father was a favorite of hers when it came to telling stories.¡± Hjorvarth shook his head. ¡°There are no stories about my father¡­ beyond those of his trip.¡± Bjorn waited for him to admit his joke. ¡°Your father is a well known man in most the other regions. Perhaps you haven¡¯t heard them here because he doesn¡¯t speak of himself?¡± He shook his head. ¡°It is of no consequence. What I meant to say is that once Gudmund, Grettir, and Brolli were together, with new funding, they were able to carve through Ragadin¡¯s territory, and to force Mubrogg out of the land near where Fenkirk now stands. Ragadin had no goblins left in his own clan, but had managed to survive the battles, so he joined Gahr¡¯rul. Mubrogg did much the same, and even Dalpho decided to accept Gahr¡¯rul as the Chief of Chiefs.¡± ¡°And how does any of this make Gudmund a monster?¡± ¡°I¡¯ll get to that,¡± Bjorn assured. ¡°It came to a point where all the Great Chiefs, even Braguk Moonbear accepted Gahr¡¯rul as Chief. And Gahr¡¯rul began to crush Gudmund¡¯s army, even with Grettir and Brolli¡¯s best efforts. The goblins pushed them all the way back to Timilir, and had gathered in so great a number that Jarl Thrand grew afraid of them. He gave more coin and more men to Gudmund, and they began to fight their way back into Southwestern Tymir. It came down to both armies being gathered in The Blackwood, and both sides expected the war to end there. ¡°Only the night before the battle,¡± Bjorn added, ¡°Gahr¡¯rul and Mubrogg the Spirit Weaver were butchered in their sleep. Ragadin and Dalpho both accused Braguk Moonbear of the killings, which divided the gathered armies into three disorganised sides. Braguk fled before battle was ever joined, as did Dalpho. Ragadin slew dozens of men on the battlefield, but the goblins were slaughtered by the thousand. The truth of it was that Gudmund, Grettir, and Brolli butchered Gahr¡¯rul in his sleep, that Braguk Moonbear killed Mubrogg the Spirit Weaver to settle an old score.¡± This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon. ¡°So you would rather he waste men¡¯s lives on the field?¡± ¡°There was no honour in it,¡± Bjorn argued. ¡°Gahr¡¯rul offered to fight Chief to Chief to end the entire war. He offered to fight the Young Wolf, the Black Heart, and the One Swing one against three.¡± ¡°By your own account they accepted the offer. Gahr¡¯rul happened to be sleeping.¡± Hjorvarth laughed at his own joke, then offered a more somber stare. ¡°I see your meaning. But you act as if Gudmund did this to a man. When by all imagining this Gahr¡¯rul must have been some kind of unnatural thing to be able to handle three great fighters at the same time.¡± ¡°Dalpho realised what had happened.¡± Bjorn¡¯s proud face was weighed with disappointment. ¡°He and all his clan ripped up the trees that surrounded Horvorr, and hid behind the walls. When Gudmund reached them he called out, and offered them safe passage if they opened the gates. He swore it, and those inside knew him as the Young Wolf who was a respected and fearsome fighter, so they submitted despite the protests of Dalpho. And then Gudmund ordered the slaughter of the hundreds of goblins living in the town. Most who had no notion of how to even fight, or had any want to make war. He butchered them for no reason at all.¡± Hjorvarth upturned his heavy palms. ¡°They were goblins.¡± ¡°So all goblins have to die?¡± Bjorn scowled at the shadowed man. ¡°Then why didn¡¯t you kill those that offered to have you as their Chief? Why didn¡¯t you kill all those that stood waiting for your permission to leave, instead of waving them away? Are you any less an unnatural thing to them as Gahr¡¯rul seems to you? Yet you would hack them to pieces with no care for their harmlessness or fear.¡± Hjorvarth shook his head in frustration. ¡°You are the one who told these people they should fight for me. If you have such a love of goblins, why would you even help me? If you think me such a heartless bastard, why did you back me? Because I will not turn from this, Bjorn. Whatever Gudmund did to bring about this reckoning, he won¡¯t be the one who suffers for it. My father is in that town, along with hundreds of other people who have no urging to go to war with goblins either. Who didn¡¯t ask for this, or want this, but came simply to make some life for themselves.¡± Hjorvarth bit down on his anger, and let the uncomfortable silence settle. ¡°There are two hosts here,¡± Bjorn spoke quietly. ¡°The Western Clans are led by Dalpho, and I believe Braguk Moonbear has gathered those of the East. I came here to ask that we fight against those who serve Braguk¡­ because if we lose then I would rather Dalpho inherited these lands than a cruel heathen like Braguk Moonbear.¡± Hjorvarth stared down at the moonlit plain. ¡°I see no goblins at all.¡± ¡°That means that they are gathered. It means they¡¯re readying for an attack.¡± ¡°I am only of a mind to charge whatever goblin stands closest, and stands to fight.¡± Hjorvarth swung his legs above the ledge, and struggled up to his feet. ¡°If you can point me to one of importance, then I¡¯ll do my best to kill it. Beyond that, I can promise nothing. And I would not have you at my side if you¡¯re going to shy away from putting an end to goblins¡­ whether they had any choice in their charge or not. Perhaps you should return to your sisters and settle your own debts.¡± ¡°No need. I will meet them both in Fenkirk when all this is done. But I do wonder what you mean to do with those of Stonefell and Ilmkleif?¡± ¡°By your own word, those mad fools are hiding in their village. They are of no consequence lest they stand in our way.¡± Bjorn sighed. ¡°And if in this world there were no monsters or men ever opposing you?¡± ¡°Such a world does not exist,¡± Hjorvarth dismissed. ¡°But if it did, it would have no need for men like me. I was not born with an axe in my hand, Bjorn. I did not spend my early years praying for war and wishing to spill blood. I threw balls of snow at young girls and raced my friends across the ice. I lived a simple life.¡± Bjorn had risen. ¡°What changed?¡± ¡°The ice broke beneath my feet. My mother died trying to save me. My father stole her body and embarked on a journey to find a mythical hall in the hope that he might be able to revive her. The men with him all died and he returned alone, his health and mind failing. And I fought because I was no good at anything else.¡± ¡°Yet you say all this without emotion.¡± ¡°I speak plain truths plainly. I leave shifting tones to actors and charlatans. I leave falsities to false people.¡± ¡°It is a shame, then, that peaceful worlds have no place for people like you.¡± Hjorvarth gave no answer to that as he departed, resigned to the fight ahead, fully expecting to lose his life with the rising of the sun. *** Lazarus stared at the glowing embers of his brazier, his hunched shadow stretching back into crimson darkness. Dalpho sat across from him, still stuck by the snapped shafts of so many arrows. He appeared a malevolent thing in the light, his beady eyes glistening and malicious. ¡°I let him get the better of me. I let the Young Wolf bay in my ears, and nip at my heels, and then I ran.¡± He sighed a sigh that rocked the shadowed air. ¡°How many lives will be lost because of my failing?¡± The grimy hourglass lay silent on the small table, all the sand ran down to obscurity. ¡°You say that,¡± Lazarus spoke in a whisper, ¡°as if Gudmund of Horvorr was a man that ever held to his word. He had no mind to ever fight us. He wanted to play his trick, and he played it. At least, if Balluk is to be trusted, the One Swing and the Black Heart are dead.¡± He shook his skullish head. ¡°Still¡­ what cost have we paid for our victory? Aligning ourselves with goblins that would sell their honour to mankind. And how these three triplets ever managed the deal I¡¯ve no clue. How they manage not to kill each other as each second passed is a mystery. Unless Braguk Moonbear is the true leader of that clan, and he merely uses those as I use¡­¡± Dalpho stared down at his diminutive leader. ¡°Me?¡± ¡°Yes,¡± Lazarus admitted. ¡°As I use all of you¡­ though you are my greatest ally. Without you, I am nothing.¡± ¡°And before you I was content to live out my life in shame. You owe me nothing. I consider it an honour to serve, and a blessing to have been able to. Would that Gahr¡¯rul could know he was revenged, that Ragadin could know he did not die for nothing.¡± ¡°But he has,¡± Lazarus whispered in regret. He glanced up from the glowing embers. ¡°Our new allies are no less our enemy than the Young Wolf. Had Braguk Moonbear not murdered Mubrogg then Gahr¡¯rul would not have been killed. Our people would never have been broken at The Blackwood. And consider as well that he is a heathen. He may well win his victory here, against Gudmund, against myself. And he may well name himself not Chief of Chiefs, but simply King.¡± Dalpho grunted in refusal. ¡°He would have to kill us first.¡± ¡°And with a clan that numbers thrice ours, how hard will that be?¡± Lazarus asked. ¡°Were it you, against him, in a fair fight, I would not doubt you. But he has others. How many do you think he truly lost against Fenkirk? As many as he would have us believe? That the likes of Krakann Bonesipper, and the twins Mabaruk and Muburak found their ends at the axes of lumberers? Lazoor the Black will be in here and gone and leave no more trace than the smoke of my brazier. And do you think Balluk will hold to his renewed loyalty? After already having abandoned us once?¡± ¡°So we hold back in the battle,¡± Dalpho suggested. ¡°We wait while the Eastern Clans lose their Great Chiefs so that when the battle is done we are not outnumbered. If need be, I will challenge them myself. Those three brothers are no threat to me on their own.¡± ¡°Hold back?¡± Lazarus hissed. ¡°No. I will not hold back. I am going into Horvorr with the rafts, and I will seek out Gudmund the Wolf and give him the end that he deserves. I will not allow another to take him. Braguk Moonbear had his chance, and even you did.¡± He scraped flesh from his own cheek. ¡°I was not ready to fight when he came for us before, but I will have my revenge now. I will right his wrong, and I will avenge Gahr¡¯rul, and I will restore faith in The Small King.¡± Dalpho¡¯s beady eyes narrowed. ¡°You would rush in and risk your life on the rafts?¡± ¡°How could I even call it battle if I meant not to risk my life?¡± ¡°What good would your death bring us?¡± Dalpho demanded. ¡°None at all,¡± Lazarus answered. ¡°It is a selfish act, and one I will not turn from. If I die to a stray arrow, or drown in that lake it is of no consequence to me. The Young Wolf is mine. So I will skin him. Or I will die in the attempt.¡± *** Lazarus crouched against his cavern wall, slanted eyes alight with the golden glow of the roaring brazier. He had piled up all his gathered wood to burn, hoping never to have need of this place again. He would leave his brazier, and even his hourglass. He had loved them both just a month ago, but now they only served to remind him of a lifetime in bitter exile. Lazarus had turned the glass once more, and listened to the subtle hiss beneath the raucous pops of the fire. He had always loved the sound of the sand, but now it hinted at menace. Each turn felt more and more like grim deception. Smoke plumed from the brazier now a dread wind swept in, choking the air and blackening the cavern. Braguk Moonbear nestled his fur-cloaked shoulders under the rocky mouth, too tight to squeeze any further. ¡°Forgive me for the dramatics,¡± he grumbled, waving his bony hand through the darkness. ¡°I was stuck in the foot, and it has left me cumbersome.¡± Flames crawled up glowing tinder and the golden fire sprang back to life. Lazarus had not risen from his crouch. ¡°What do you want, shaman?¡± ¡°So many things. Why am I here? To make the real treaty. I had you speak with my three-headed bull, but now you¡¯ll speak to he who holds the reins.¡± ¡°Ah.¡± Lazarus smiled behind his brazier. ¡°I see you take quickly to phrases of men. Have you considered that you are no more a bull yourself, tied and throttled by a looming pink hand?¡± ¡°Stand up, and speak up, Lazarus,¡± Braguk grumbled. ¡°I would not deny you your wittery.¡± ¡°It matters not,¡± Lazarus assured more loudly. He pushed up to his clawed feet, bathed by firelight that made his green skin glisten gold. ¡°What terms? And be careful with them, because I am not above siding with the Young Wolf over one such as you.¡± Braguk chuckled. ¡°Yet you so readily judged me for my dealings.¡± ¡°I would take no man as my Chief,¡± Lazarus hissed. ¡°I would simply aim to kill you while the men of Horvorr did the same.¡± ¡°As to the terms, it is only a slight amendment.¡± Braguk bared his grimy teeth. ¡°I will give you all the lands north of Horvorr, but right to the town itself will be won by the goblin that kills the current Chief.¡± Lazarus scowled. ¡°Why?¡± ¡°Because I have already told my clan that is how it will be.¡± Braguk Moonbear¡¯s green eyes turned ponderous. ¡°I like this war not at all, Lazarus. I want an end to it, a quick end¡­ whether you make it, or one of them, it matters not to me. I had it in mind that I would take Horvorr from you, take it all from you, with no thought to what I had promised¡­ but then I began to realise that I have fewer and fewer Great Chiefs. And perhaps it would not be a loss, but a benefit, to have you as an ally¡­ to have you as a true ally.¡± Braguk grinned. ¡°So that is the offer I am making. A chance to win my allegiance. And also¡­ would you mind cutting this spearhead from my hand? My fingers are all too clumsy to get at it.¡± Lazarus gazed at the flames for a long while before ambling over. Braguk Moonbear laid both his huge hands flat on the cavern floor. He stared down in anticipation, green eyes gleaming at either side of his crooked nose, his uneven lips showing six grimy teeth. Lazarus stepped onto his hand without fear, appearing as a child, more so as he crouched down to get a better look at the wound. ¡°I will abide by your game.¡± He started to cut at the dark green flesh, paying no mind to the prodigious goblin¡¯s wincing. ¡°As to being allies, I could think of nothing that would sicken me more. It is bad enough that I must help you to break Horvorr. Bad enough that I must tolerate the presence of a huge fur-cloaked grotesquerie in my cavern. Look at his ugly face, and listen to his coward words. But you and I will never again be allied.¡± Braguk Moonbear scowled down now Lazarus prised the blade out along with a chunk of flesh. ¡°I could crush you now.¡± ¡°Perhaps you could.¡± Lazarus sneered up at him. ¡°Perhaps I would leap clean off your hand, be up your knee and at your crotch before you ever had the chance to work some magic, or crush me. It matters not to me, shaman.¡± He began to work his hind claws into the huge hand. ¡°I know what I am. And I know what you are. You have not the courage to take the risk. You make careful decisions in the darkness, and rely on brutes to do your work for you. You beg for scraps at the table of men.¡± Braguk slammed his hand into the cavern roof, smashing the blade back into his palm. Lazarus laughed a disappointed laugh while he walked back to his brazier. ¡°I would wish you luck reaching the Young Wolf first, but I know you have no mind or courage to risk yourself on the field.¡± ¡°You will regret this,¡± Braguk grumbled. ¡°When you are the scraps at my table.¡± Lazarus shook his head in answer, and crouched back by the cavern wall. He waited for the sun to rise, for the fire to consume itself, for the sand to run out. 56. Thrice Tried - Part One 55. Thrice Tried ¡°Horvorr¡¯s Great Lake is often seen as a peculiar mystery. It is thought to be near circular and the depth is sheer from the embankments. In my years here, I have seen no men swim in it, and those that fall in almost always drown. I have heard myths that the water is haunted, and those that fall are dragged in by spirits keen for company. Perhaps that is why the Godi disappeared all those years ago. I have heard as well that Gahr¡¯rul, or some older goblin leader, had the Lake made as an enormous spawning pool. The story goes that they tried thrice to breed from it before they yielded a clan¡¯s worth of enormous goblins. The Tales of The Landing would place the Lake¡¯s making long before Gahr¡¯rul, but I often wonder how he, or any other goblin, managed to breed the Great Chiefs.¡± Chief Gudmund stood atop the towering wall-walk of Horvorr. He overlooked the barren plain that encircled his town, watching as wind swept up writhing curtains of debris and dust. It was a dawn so blustering that it would have brought a tear to the eyes of Bruma Stormcaller. He wore his red armour and the matching helmet, though he had hacked the horns off. He had Grettir¡¯s iron-hafted axe, his father¡¯s gleaming sword, and even an ornate bow, which leaned against the parapet. Eirik stood behind him, blond hair topped by a dented helmet. He had clad himself in padded wool, reinforced with leather coverings for his knees, legs and chest, both bolstered by a muddy coat of mail. He held a painted shield that had been too battered and scraped to depict anything, but he had it in mind that it once bore a hawk plucking out the eyes of a goat; despite the vividness of his memory, he still had a hard time believing that a man would ever paint such a thing on the shield. ¡°I never did ask!¡± Gudmund made great effort to defy the wind, but didn¡¯t bother to turn. ¡°Why did you back me?¡± Eirik shook his head. ¡°You know I¡¯m not sure if it¡¯s funny or tragic that you¡¯ve managed to win loyalties by accident!¡± He sighed into the wind. ¡°You were the one who let me on Horvorr¡¯s Guard. I had to join because my father had died, and my mother had real no work of our own. Grettir said that I was too small, said I didn¡¯t know enough about fighting, that I would only ever get myself killed. And you said that it was fine, because I could serve in your household guard, where no man would ever think to raise a sword¡­ and that saved me a life working in the mines!¡± Gudmund slowly turned, eyes narrowed behind his visor. ¡°Did you say something?¡± He rapped knuckles against the broken horns. ¡°I can¡¯t hear a thing in this helmet other than the wind!¡± Malformed roars reached the walls of Horvorr, soon joined by wind-whipped whispers of shrill horns. Gudmund turned back to the parapet, and laughed a joyful laugh. The bone white and ash grey of the plain was flooded over by shades of filthy green. The horde of goblins flooded out from the snow-topped trees of The Blackwood Forest. They rippled out onto the plain like a creature of a thousand limbs, come to plague and consume men, women and children. Gudmund¡¯s momentary mirth that he was not, as he had begun to fear, both mad and paranoid was replaced by the realization that all his people were likely going to die. That this endless host must have left Fenkirk broken and burnt amid the distant trees. He had left his region to be swallowed up whilst he wallowed in grief. Horvorr was surrounded, soon to be overrun, and that fate would be gifted in turn to the fisher folk of Wymount. He could at least take some solace that this might well be the end of Tymir in entirety. The goblins wouldn¡¯t even have to conquer Timilir, they could march up the Midderlands Pass and strike the young son of Jarl Harrod on his blind side. ¡°Why would I take solace in that?¡± he thought, weighed by a sudden sadness. ¡°Is this the end of our people?¡± ¡°Gods above.¡± Eirik stepped forward, eyes wide in horror. ¡°Is Timilir really coming?¡± ¡°No.¡± Gudmund chuckled. ¡°We¡¯re on our own.¡± He was sure of that, even though he might have seen three more converging forces had he looked to the trees south of the goblin host, to the mountainous northern pass, and to the western valley that led to Wymount. He instead turned to look down on his excavated town. He had left only one clear way into Horvorr from the main gate, which led towards Brolli¡¯s place. The oxen pen had been dug up, replaced with a watery pit and a manned barricade that blocked off the Ritual House. The main road had been changed into a long ditch then partly staked. The embankments of the Great Lakes were much the same, and most of the town lay pocked by holes or blocked by barricades. He took a silver horn from his belt and handed it to Eirik. Gudmund frowned down, wondering how long it would take for the goblins to swarm the walls and pad the gaps with corpses. He watched the huddled figures of men and women, those preparing to die as the silver horn sounded down to them all. The Chief of Horvorr had done what he could. He knew it wasn¡¯t enough. *** The Western Clans swept down from the northern forests like a dark green sea, ferrying a latticework of rafts upon their hunched backs. A dozen or so were larger than the others, but for the main they were either chubby and porcine with stubby fingers, or wiry and bat-faced with bone claws. Dalpho stood apart by a measure of enormity, standing as round and as tall as most two-storey buildings. Lazarus alighted on his shoulder, as if a favored bird or a cosmic guide, though he was the one who would not be swayed. ¡°This is a mistake,¡± Dalpho bellowed. ¡°You need not do this.¡± ¡°Do not discourage them, my friend,¡± Lazarus insisted in a hiss. ¡°We are to go to war, and they do not need to be confused by your unhappy grumblings. Onward!¡± ¡°Onward!¡± Dalpho echoed. ¡°Set the wood into the water! Forward to Horvorr!¡± Goblins began to reach the banks and hurl themselves and their rafts onto the dark water. The efforts of the Western Clans sounded out with an endless splash and a enormous clonking of wood. Goblins that had been thrown clear of their vessels began to scrabble and gurgle in attempt to clamber back to safety, while others weathered the cold and only tried to cling to the sides, most crunched as rafts collided. The merry screeches of goblins who had better luck pierced through the chorus of chaos, and they made best effort to keep afloat while the crowded rafts began to bob forward on the choppy and windswept water. ¡°Paddle if you have to!¡± Dalpho shouted after them, overseeing the industrious and manic flotilla. He waited for the last rafts to go crashing into the water, then made a gentle effort with his huge hands to urge the discordant mass across the lake. The goblins glanced in confusion at one another, unsure where they would tread next, until some set keen eyes towards the embankments of Horvorr, which appeared both abandoned and unguarded, save for a sturdy barricade of boats and crates. Lazarus stood foremost amongst the flotilla and witnessed with muted excitement now the first raft smashed into the embankments, sending up a burst of spray. ¡°Charge!¡± he screeched. ¡°Destroy Horvorr!¡± ¡°Charge!¡± Dalpho bellowed from across the water. ¡°Kill manlings!¡± Goblins began a frantic effort of reaching solid ground. Vessels landed, smashing and clonking against each other, sinking some, others taking on water as their passengers scrambled onto safer rafts. Which made them less cautious when they all leapt onto a road that had been dug up, staked, and now lay slick with watery mud. Lazarus hesitated for as long as it took for another goblin to shove him forward. He twisted his body to narrowly avoid landing on a wooden spike. He landed with a soft splash, slipped between the stakes, and grimaced now goblins came splatting down after him. He heard flesh punctured and bones break, heard goblins trip and scratch and scream while they were crushed underfoot. He used his sleek claws to hack through the stakes that were reasonably sharp then made an attempt to clear the way for those soon to come, narrowly avoiding those that were making a mad splash in the muddy and bloody pit. ¡°Loose!¡± Ralf ordered from behind the embankment barricade. Bowstrings thrummed and arrows zipped into the ditch. Goblins screeched when they were skewered by shafts. Lazarus swiped an arrow mid-flight then rolled forward through the thick mud. He ripped into the ditch wall while more water and goblins came crashing down behind him. He ravaged the earth enough with his desperate effort that it crumbled into a ramp. He glanced back at the broken bodies, at dozens of muddied goblins now paralyzed by their idiocy and fear. ¡°Follow me!¡± Lazarus screeched. ¡°Follow me! I am Chief!¡± ¡°Follow Lazarus!¡± Dalpho¡¯s voice rolled through the air above them. ¡°Follow Lazarus!¡± ¡°Loose!¡± Ralph called again. ¡°Kill as many as you can!¡± ¡°I am Lazarus!¡± Lazarus declared. ¡°Follow me!¡± He clambered away without waiting for the goblins of his clan to follow, narrowly twisting his lithe frame clear of a young man¡¯s sword. He ripped out the manling¡¯s crotch, and ran forward, stopped by a staked ditch and fence between a pair of rundown fisher shacks. Lazarus clawed through the nearest wall, kept slicing through a scattered mix of fisher rods, through the skeleton of a fisherman¡ªwhose death had escaped all notice, despite constant mentions towards a bad smell¡ªthen he forced his way through the small room and hacked out the back wall. Lazarus rounded the shack, then took the fence out at the back, kicking the wood into the ditch to give a clear path for the goblins now clambering up from the slope he provided. ¡°This way!¡± Lazarus ordered, beckoning with his long claws. ¡°Hunt those that you can! Try not to waste your lives!¡± He studied the town ahead of him, swathes of churned earth and wooden structures. He recognised little beyond the imposing hall and the horizon of huge log walls. Lazarus snarled, shaking his head, then clambered up a nearby shack. He had view of the blockade of boats and walls where dozens of women and men hid with their arrows, loosing them at goblins still floating forward on their rafts. ¡°Lazarus!¡± a squat goblin, Dugg, shouted from below. ¡°Go which way?¡± *** Ralf and the other archers crouched atop an upturned boat, overlooking the ditch on the embankments. They aimed for a large porcine goblin, Dugg, who had the foresight to throw rafts down into the ditch, which crushed those who had slipped but helped those still to come. He had been bright enough to hold one up to shield himself as well, which made the arrows, along with others loosed, useless. Dugg set to work making a wonky wall of rafts along the ditch, meaning to shelter those on their way up the slope, where they would likely follow the path that Lazarus had cut through the line of huts and shacks. Lazarus himself then broke out from one dusty structure and into the open street, wood tumbling away to give him a view of a tall grey structure on his right and a street of abandoned shacks ahead. ¡°Follow me!¡± Lazarus veered to his left, heading back to the embankments, and gained sight of the barricade where men and women loosed arrows on unsuspecting goblins. ¡°Charge!¡± Ralf turned at the sound of the shrill screeching. He warned the two dozen plain-clothed folk with him and they dropped their bows and scrambled for an untidy pile of spears and axes. Ralf made a last effort, with the help of an old man, to move one of the boats and wall them in on all sides. ¡°For the Small King!¡± Lazarus screeched, leading the charge. ¡°For Gahr¡¯rul!¡± *** Arfast scratched at his bald head, scowling down at the embankments. He stood guard on the balcony of Grettir¡¯s house with his own group, with no way to reach the others in time. The ditch had been floored by rafts and dozens of goblins had already made their way up the ramp and into Horvorr. A few wandered aimlessly along the shore but the rest had come up behind Ralf and his band of volunteer fighters. Arfast could do nothing but watch the unchanging fate of the makeshift blockade. Metal clashed. Goblins roared and screeched. Men and women answered with their own cries. He sighed when a boat was pushed out from the blockade, expecting the goblins to come full circle, but a stout guard stumbled out instead then an old man scrambled up behind him. They set to work dragging people through the barricade by their hands. The rafts left had mostly been abandoned, but the larger goblin, Dugg, and a dozen others remained in the pit, digging up any kin that had fallen down but still lived. Dugg noticed the escaping manlings, and smashed down his own raft wall. ¡°Charge! Kill the manlings!¡± The old man and Ralf had only got a dozen folk through when goblins closed at both sides. ¡°Rush them!¡± Ralf ordered, leaping into the ditch. He cleared far less distance than he expected, missing his axe swing, stumbling close enough to be grabbed by the large goblin. The old man roared above though, hurling a fishing spear that punctured Dugg¡¯s head. The goblin toppled over dead, which discouraged the smaller kin with him, and sent them screeching and scrambling up and out the pit. Arfast watched with relief while Ralf and his remnant band slogged through the mud. They paid no mind to the goblins breaking down the barricade behind them. Lazarus watched the retreat as well, but had little luck convincing goblins of the wisdom of leaping into the dangerous pit that they had just escaped out of, so he cursed in anger and led them towards the tall grey structure instead. If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it. *** ¡°Lady take me,¡± Gudmund whispered, elbows resting on a window sill. He had view, obscured by his own imposing hall, of most of the town from Horvorr¡¯s Barracks. Wretched goblins had already cleared the embankments and destroyed the blockade. They now raided at random on their own or in scattered groups that smashed down doors and dragged screaming families out to be eaten. Gudmund tore his gaze away from the desperate efforts of people who had tried to survive on their own. He looked towards the single gathered mass of goblins that was on its way to Brolli¡¯s place, and hoped that the three old men would put up a better fight than terrified women and children. ¡°What is it?¡± Eirik asked. ¡°Ralf¡¯s dead.¡± Gudmund stalked back from the window. ¡°Along with dozens of others.¡± The benches and tables of the barracks¡¯ taproom had been broken or upturned to board the door and obscure the windows, allowing only enough of a view to loose a bow. Gudmund had Eirik with him, three other men of Horvorr¡¯s Guard who he didn¡¯t know the names of, and some women wearing mail and bows, which he considered bad company to keep, but not as bad as the lanky blond man who now wore a leather cap and had a bow ready as if he meant to hold the barracks from behind his bar. ¡°They¡¯ve broken the embankments,¡± Eirik spoke in a faraway voice. ¡°I thought you were joking about goblins on rafts.¡± Edgar blanched behind his counter. ¡°Are we dead, then?¡± ¡°Of course not,¡± Gudmund snapped. ¡°It doesn¡¯t matter if a few goblins swam in. Arfast will take care of it, and if not him, then there¡¯s those three other old bastards waiting at Brolli¡¯s. Our job is to¡ª¡± A massive blow rocked the huge gate, crushing wood and stressing hinges. ¡°Our job is¡ª¡± The gate shuddered under another strike. ¡°Is to¡ª¡± A deafening din of metal snapping and wood crunching sounded through the air, leaving the gate broken half open. ¡°Hold the gate!¡± Gudmund finished, to his own relief. ¡°So hold the gate!¡± Hinges burst loose under the force of enormous weight. The main gate broke apart and collapsed into a tumble of giant logs that rumbled against one another, crunching wood and hissing dust, slamming into the wall or the ground or each other with a shuddering impact, only to roll away or topple back onto a gathered mass of goblins. Clouds of dust went up, shrouding hundreds of figures in a brown haze while they were crushed outright or flattened after. The sound of grinding earth and hissing dust had a hold on the world until the broken logs stopped rolling. A prodigious creature loomed in the newly made entryway, taller than the barracks, draped in a dusty cloak of patchwork furs. Gudmund¡¯s desperate band voiced their fears and shouted questions, while their armoured leader laughed. He had never seen Braguk Moonbear before but this fit Brolli¡¯s description of an ugly crone in an ugly cloak well enough. It even had bright green eyes and a staff sized like a tree. Gudmund was as disappointed as his people were relieved when Braguk Moonbear stepped back from the town to leave a squatter gold-adorned goblin leading the charge. Grugg swept out his rounded green arms and bellowed loudly in encouragement now hundreds of goblins charged forward. They seemed not to notice or care that a great staked ditch had replaced the main road of Horvorr. They sprinted towards their deaths, screams unheard under the deep bellows of their gleaming leader. Grugg stood watching from the ruin of the gate, squinting in confusion as his clan seemed to sink into the earth. He looked a little further and noticed that the ground had been dug and trapped. ¡°Stop!¡± he bellowed, then decided that they had already travelled most the way. ¡°Charge! Charge! Find me the Young Wolf!¡± He squinted about the open streets but saw nothing but things made of wood. ¡°Find me manlings!¡± Pain began to prick at Grugg¡¯s cheek and shoulder, so he lumbered around to see what was causing it, then he noticed manlings inside of the big-and-black mud-encased hut. ¡°Destroy that!¡± Grugg swept out a great gold-spangled arm. ¡°Kill the manlings in the mud hut!¡± He grumbled when none bothered to heed his words then charged forwards on his own. He was almost of a size with the place, so when he shouldered into it the earth encasement broke apart, walls fissured or crunched inward, and almost all the folk inside were sent stumbling from their feet. ¡°Get back up!¡± Gudmund snarled, shaking his head. ¡°This is a waste of time! Eirik! Take them to Brolli¡¯s!¡± ¡°What about¡­¡± Eirik trailed off. Gudmund leapt out of the broken wall. He felt quite happy with his jump, but then the massive goblin stepped back. Gudmund had a slew of regrets competing in his mind, foremost among them that he was about to land and shatter his bones with the weight of his armour. He mainly hoped that he would have enough wits left about him to cut his own throat. Grugg roared, throwing all his weight behind a huge fist. He struck the wall and something shiny and heavy landed on his arm as he did, then pricked his skin. Gudmund laughed madly, burying his father¡¯s sword into green flesh before the goblin tried to shake him off, which dragged the blade down through the full length of the goblin¡¯s limb. Grugg staggered back, squealing in terror now dark blood spilled out all over the ground. He felt pricks in his feet at first, but then he was looking up at the pale sky instead, while more pricks buried into his back. It was all scary and confusing. Gudmund struggled to his feet, helmet limiting his vision to the sight of a massive goblin now skewered in the ditch. He thought to thank the gods, remembered he had no faith in them, then leapt on top of the rounded green belly. He hacked down with Grettir¡¯s axe, burrowing into the stomach before the goblin could snatch him. Grugg smacked at his own bleeding stomach with his one good arm, but he couldn¡¯t see the shiny manling. He tried to roll over, but the pricks had him stuck. ¡°Stop, please,¡± he cried. ¡°I don¡¯t want to fight no more. You win. You win!¡± Gudmund had started to drown in the blood. He could feel the reverberation of the goblin sobbing. He couldn¡¯t clamber up with the weight of his armour, so he held his breath and started to hack through the guts. Gudmund burst out from the flesh and into the open air, thankful again of something, of nothing. He waded through the muddy ditch, soaked in foul-smelling blood, hacking at any goblins he happened to pass. Gudmund laughed aloud, tears trickling from his blood-stained cheeks, thinking all the while that his brother would have loved this. *** The militia of Fenkirk and the hunters of The Blackwood slowed in their march now they saw the sea of enemies breaking against the walls of Horvorr. They had come up from the forest path, and had just begun to cross onto the plains, formed into a spearhead and led from the front by four men and one woman. ¡°Is it too late to turn back?¡± Ragi asked, with a wry smile across his hard, bearded face. ¡°For me it is.¡± Sam followed his words with a parting smile then readied his spear and broke into a charge. He appeared something of a mad man, running bare-chested and bandaged, wearing torn trousers and a scratched leather cap. ¡°For Horvorr!¡± ¡°For Horvorr!¡± Gunnar echoed, giving chase. He still wore his black-stained fur, and his feather-topped cap. He glanced back at the wary host, one green eye sparkling amid the poulticed wrappings of his face. ¡°For Fenkirk!¡± ¡°We are running for the south gate!¡± Engli declared, starting his own run. ¡°Goblins have no discipline! Stop for nothing! If you run without looking back then you will make it the town! You win your lives today or you lose them! There is no turning back!¡± The trio of eager men ran with childish abandon. They didn¡¯t bother to look back, though that was likely for the better, because the sight of the rooted and disheartened folk would have only discouraged them as well. The Trapper¡¯s men, who stood near the front, decided that the Trapper would have wanted them to fight for Sam. They decided, as well, that he was a man worth following, so they roared out cries for Fenkirk and for Horvorr, and for an end to the monsters at the hands of men. They started after the three leaders and then Ragi let out his own wordless cry and joined their charge. Ingrid smirked at those stood still, women and men of all ages, even young children. ¡°You¡¯re just as dead among the trees as you are in the field! The gods are watching!¡± She lifted her bow from her back, and ran after the Trapper¡¯s men. ¡°Don¡¯t disappoint them!¡± As a stone starts a landslide, the hunters of The Blackwood flowed into motion, and those that were scared were no longer fearful of rushing forward but of being left behind. The war cries and battle shouts of Fenkirk carried across the now windless plain, ferried with the song of sonorous horns. It was a chorus that reached the ears of Gudmund of Horvorr, who discounted it along with the ringing in his ears; Brugg, who decided he would wait near the northern pass and let his brothers risk their lives and clans for a wood wall and a town of fish; Grugg, who only then approached Horvorr¡¯s gate in his ill-fitting attire; Braguk Moonbear, who cursed his luck and urged Grugg and his clan forward, telling him to pay no mind to how his brother had been butchered; Hjorvarth of Horvorr, who heard it play back off of distant mountaintops and thought it some trick of the wind; and Sybille, who had other thoughts to busy her and discounted it in much the same way. Even Isleif heard the horns, the roar of war, and so he woke in the Ritual House of Muradoon, much his young self again. The gathered forces from Fenkirk had hundreds of goblins between their host and the southern gate of Horvorr. Sam led the spearhead with one of his own. He joined battle with a daring thrust that left him open to several counters and dozens of thrown stones, paying no mind to the fact that his nearest ally was a dozen yards away. Fortunately, Sam the Spearslayer was a manling well known as the Great Chief of Fenkirk, who had slain the twins Mabaruk and Muburak, so when he struck it was if he hit the whole host, because they recoiled and retreated and hissed his name. The chubby goblin that Sam punctured fell dead, allowing him to kick it free from his spear in time for the approach of a goblin twice as tall and broad. ¡°I challenge you, Spearslayer!¡± Urug declared, sweeping out his great arms. ¡°Know well that I lead a clan of over¡ª¡± ¡°I accept.¡± Sam hurled his spear through the air, stopping the smile that spread across the goblin¡¯s big face. It was by luck, and reputation, as well, that Urug feared the trueness of the Spearslayer¡¯s aim, so he desperately tried to leap clear, and instead threw himself into the spear¡¯s flight. ¡°For Brikorhaan!¡± Sam roared. The sturdy clan of Urug screeched in amazement and fear at the fatal throw, infecting the wretched goblins around them with panic. Sam lifted his second spear from his back. He swept his gaze across other large goblins, who now feared his uncanny ability to guess where they might jump to avoid his spear. The muted awe ended with an abrupt roar and clatter now Gunnar, Engli and Ragi each crashed into the goblin¡¯s fearful ranks. Ingrid and the Trapper¡¯s men came at a slightly slower approach, loosing arrows before they reached for their own blades. ¡°Charge!¡± Engli yelled. ¡°Keep forward!¡± A dozen Chiefs soon mastered their fear and shock, and growled command for their clans to fight. Hurled stones smashed into the Trapper¡¯s men, splitting open heads and breaking bones. They would have been bludgeoned to death had not the rest of Fenkirk¡¯s Militia caught up, sending the nearby goblin host into a fearful rout, stumbling into one another and clawing and fighting amongst themselves in their effort to get safe. Goblins were trampled, had their throats ripped out by their own kin, and were pushed back to drown in Horvorr¡¯s Great Lake. And as the Militia of Fenkirk reveled in that short-lived victory they never even considered whether anyone was actually manning the Southern Gate. ¡°Open the gate!¡± was a cry made by many of Fenkirk. The desperate words heard by no man or woman of Horvorr. *** ¡°Ilma weaves, and widows grieve, when she seals the thread,¡± sang the proud voice of a noble bard, echoing back off the many-roofed rafters of the Ritual House. ¡°Muradoon watches with an open eye, and open hands, for the dead.¡± ¡°I need a sword.¡± Isleif licked his lips, and rubbed his wrinkled hands together. ¡°Do any of you good people have a sword?¡± The fearful folk huddled around the many-candled stone altars of the Ritual House had no swords for the excitable old man. They offered only suspicious or angry looks then muttered amongst themselves. ¡°That¡¯s no song to sing,¡± a woman grumbled. ¡°No?¡± Isleif asked. ¡°No swords and no songs in here. I¡¯ll find one and make one as I go.¡± He lifted the bar from the Ritual House door despite the many complaints and threats. ¡°Wish me only the best luck!¡± The carved visage of the god of the Spirit World opened to a furor of hopelessness and violence. Small goblins clambered over a make-shift blockade of scrap wood, stakes and carts that had been raised on the other end of the corpse-laden crater which was once the oxen pen. ¡°It looks like we¡¯re about to broken.¡± Isleif smiled back at the shadowed and huddled folk. ¡°If I¡¯m remembering rightly you need to flee now, and regather at the southern gate. I¡¯m sure Lovrin knows all about it. He¡¯s involved himself in quite a lot of complicated plots lately, so I¡¯m sure he¡¯ll remember this one easily enough.¡± The hunched, purple-robed man scowled under his hood, and nodded his accord all the same. Isleif let out a satisfied sigh. He watched while Linden and Anna fought back to back amongst a dozen other bloodied folk, against a growing number of wiry and violent goblins. Isleif whistled a tune, noticing the pile of axes on the floor. He stood there for a while, picking up axes and hurling them at unsuspecting goblins, who seemed no less oblivious to his presence than those fighting for their lives. Trugg, his garish clothes stained brown, had finally labored through the oxen pen, and reached the make-shift barrier. ¡°Step back from that fence!¡± Isleif ordered with such a forceful and knowing tone that most followed his command. Trugg smashed his fist into a cart, sending it over along with loose planks and goblin corpses. It crushed a few folk, and the debris knocked down others, but not near as many as it might have moments before. Anna scowled, her blond hair red with blood. ¡°Isleif?¡± ¡°Have we met?¡± He wore only a tattered night shirt, but had two axes to hand. ¡°You should follow me. I fought in the wars at the Midderlands. I know what I¡¯m doing.¡± ¡°You¡¯re naked,¡± Linden argued, stepping back and cracking open a goblin¡¯s head with his hammer. ¡°What good are clothes or armour to a thing like that?¡± Isleif asked. Trugg clambered up from the broken barrier, his big face furious with the thought of how he had muddied his clothes, made all the worse by the fact that some goblin had ripped out his seamstress¡¯s throat. He smiled at the bleeding blond woman though, hoping that she might know how to sew. ¡°How odd,¡± Isleif said, humour in his aged voice. ¡°I suppose it sees the good in clothes more than I do.¡± Linden and Anna had forgotten the old man now they hacked and smashed at screeching goblins in a desperate fight for their lives. Behind them both, folk fled from the Ritual House of Muradoon and a once-hunched Godi had his hood back and made best effort to defend his folk with two masterwork knifes, fighting with the grace and skill of a practiced assassin. ¡°Great Chief!¡± Isleif gripped both axes, and stared up at the massive goblin. ¡°I challenge you!¡± Trugg laughed at the silly thought. ¡°With what name or clan, shrivelled manling?¡± ¡°I am Isleif the Bard!¡± the wispy-haired old man declared. ¡°Slayer of a thousand goblins and a hundred Chiefs.¡± Trugg, and all his clan, paused while he considered that for a long time. He stared down with beady eyes, not sure what to make of a manling who seemed so old and wore almost no clothes, who seemed as unlike Trugg as any manling had ever been. ¡°Isleif the Bard¡­ is dead?¡± ¡°Do you deny me?¡± Isleif called. ¡°That I stand here. That I use my own name. Kill me and claim it, or leave this place!¡± Dozens of ferine eyes watched the frail manling with a campfire curiosity. They knew to honour all challenges made to a Great Chief, but they would no more believe that they were looking at Isleif the Bard than they would think to meet Gahr¡¯rul, the Small King, or the Old Enemy. ¡°Trugg challenges Isleif the Bard,¡± the rag-garbed goblin declared. ¡°Chief to Chief!¡± 56. Thrice Tried - Part Two The gathered army of Wymount had marched onto the plains of Horvorr. There were twenty score men in all, though they had split into two groups. Roaldr led over half of them, the fisherfolk of Wymount, Salvik, Longhook, and Skarshaw; and he took them on a slow march towards the southern gate, not aware that Fenkirk¡¯s Militia had been backed against the lake¡¯s embankments, where they now made a desperate effort to hold out, making best use of dozens of discarded rafts. Bragi had led the four score men of Redstone on a much quicker pursuit of Dalpho. They had kept a demanding pace, but slowed slightly when Dalpho abandoned his former position. Kollkleif also accompanied Redstone, those folk having sworn themselves to follow Bragi until such a time that they could appoint a new Representative. Gorm had been found shrivelled to a husk in a tent that had been covered in hoarfrost. Those with spirit knowledge took it as the act of a vengeful ghost, and those with knowledge of Kollkleif knew well enough the rumors that Gorm had poisoned his father; so it came as little surprise, for some as considerable relief, that the boy¡¯s father had taken his revenge on a cowardly son. Bragi raised his hand to stop the men of Redstone and Kollkleif, most of them armoured in padded wool, leather, and armed with heirloom swords and shields, or simple spears made for war or for fishing. He was about to order a turnaround when a shrill horn sounded out from the towering forest to his left. Balluk watched from the shadow of those trees, having confused the shaggy red-haired leader with the reputed Fire Giant. ¡°Enemies West!¡± Bragi bellowed, gripping a cruel two-handed axe. ¡°Get together and ready yourselves!¡± The lean men of Kollkleif and the burly men of Redstone put their backs to the lake and readied their spears, shields and swords. They stared into the shadowed trees across the plain. Balluk snarled out his command for a charge and horns blared from the forest. He ran with them as they started forward, despite his own clan having no real advantage in numbers. Balluk tightened his bony grip around his great club of mangled iron, meaning to sacrifice as many of his clan as needed to bring an end to the Fire Giant. Bragi understood the feeble numbers of the scrawny clan charging his people, so he gripped his axe and rushed towards them. ¡°These lot are not worth the effort of standing still. Let¡¯s bring an end to these monsters! For Brikorhaan!¡± He glanced at the rag-wrapped man charging beside him, worried by how skinny he was and how out of breath he seemed. Bragi had little time to consider it further when stones were hurled at heads. Wretched goblins clashed with spear-wielding fisherman, most skewering their green-skinned foes with ease. The goblins nearer to Balluk were his Chiefs, bulkier and braver than the rest; they bulled into or over the men closest to Bragi. The shaggy man cleaved clean through a thick neck, then shifted his weight to rip it free and swing into a green shoulder. He had to leap back now a mangled iron club slammed down in the ground. Balluk shifted the weight of his weapon easily, swinging it rightways into Bragi, who leapt over it. Balluk laughed, drawing his club back and stepping forward. He pretended to swing, then leapt at the manling and kicked him over instead. Bragi tried to roll, but Balluk pressed down on his chest with a bony foot. Balluk stomped on him twice, not falling for the trick played on Ragadin. ¡°Time to die, Fire¡ª¡± Wood snapped and agony reverberated through his chest. Balluk saw grey ground pooling with dark blood. He didn¡¯t understand, then the pain came clearer, and the view. He scowled down at his own bony body, skewered by a spear, bleeding. Balluk scrambled up as a sword sliced at his arm. He managed to run. Another spear struck his shoulder and he staggered, but he bit down on his own tongue and kept running, not looking back, never looking back. Balluk the Burnt would not lose his name and life here for no sake at all. Sybille snarled now the monstrous goblin ran off, trailing black blood back into the shadowed forest. She lifted off her leather cap, and pulled away the rags that weren¡¯t needed for her bandage. ¡°Are you all right, Bragi?¡± Bragi smiled a bloody smile, barely shaking his head. ¡°Ribs¡­ broken. Nice work with¡ª¡± He choked out a laugh, grimaced, and contented himself with wheezing breaths as he grinned. ¡°Quick. He was¡­ quick. More¡ª¡± ¡°Try not to speak.¡± Sybille crouched down, holding him by the wrist. ¡°We¡¯ll find someone to help you.¡± Bragi furrowed his unruly brows, blinking up at her. ¡°Lady.¡± Sybille smiled, tears welling in her blue eyes. She stroked his shaggy red hair. ¡°I¡¯m not¡­ Bragi?¡± She shook him by his shoulder, seeing no life in his eyes. ¡°Bragi?¡± ¡°He is dead,¡± declared a gruff, sorrowed voice from above. ¡°That clan has scattered. Which way should we go, Sybille?¡± Sybille looked up to see the burly, bearded men of Redstone all around her, waiting in expectation. *** Hjorvarth, Bjorn, and Asgeir had crossed between the twin plateaus of the Northern Pass without drawing notice. They came with two carts that had both been reinforced with wood for defensive walls, one led by an oxen, the other led by mining men, both rolling between four score hardy folk, who gripped the antique weaponry that Asgeir had once meant to deliver to Brolli. They followed the main road to the northern gate of Horvorr, which had now been broken open. Green figures swarmed over the distant horizon, but they headed around the wall instead of inside the town. Dalpho would have already met the miners, and crushed them, had he not decided to finally settle an old score. He stomped down the field with the remnants of the Western Clans behind him. He strode with all the losses of his life burning inside of him, his beady eyes trembling with hate as his great weight shook the barren plains of Horvorr. The mining folk made no mention of the enormous goblin, both because they wanted to believe it was some trick of the distance, and because they had enemies closer to hand. Brugg had finally joined the battle, sighting well enough with one eye foes he could easily defeat. He had a clan numbered near to two hundred, comprised mostly of stout pig-faced goblins that often bore many scars and occasionally used weaponry. They rushed out from the trees, under the shadow of mountains, and towards the miners and fighters who followed the road. Hjorvarth could tell that they were outnumbered. That they would be overrun despite the carts or any attempt at defense. Men and women looked to him for guidance, but he truly had nothing of worth to suggest. ¡°You all,¡± he began loudly, ¡°abandon the carts and run for the forests or Horvorr! I will stay here and delay the attackers!¡± He worried that they might argue or fail to heed his words, but sure enough one man ran, then a woman, and soon they were all in flight. He stood between the two carts with Bjorn beside him. Asgeir and all his fighting band had also held their ground. ¡°Asgeir,¡± Hjorvarth said. ¡°You ought¡ª¡± ¡°Horvorr¡¯s broken,¡± he cut in. ¡°Look around, Hjorvarth.¡± He swept his arms to encompass the thousands of figures swarming among all along the plain and near the forests. ¡°We¡¯re all dead. So I¡¯m going to stand here and fight and die with the folk that I happen to respect. By the looks of it, so are all my men.¡± He smiled wryly as they answered with communal affirmation. He then turned to the dark-haired son of Jorund. ¡°Don¡¯t suppose you can challenge this one to a duel as well?¡± Brugg and his hundreds had grown so close that the ground shook underfoot and their shared snarling and cheering could be heard. ¡°There¡¯s no harm in trying.¡± Bjorn swept past the carts and onto the barren plain. ¡°I am the son of Jorund of the Hill!¡± he boomed, uncertain of the gargantuan goblin leader who now stomped towards him. ¡°By right of strength, I challenge the Chief among you to a duel! I challenge you! I challenge¡ª¡± He gave up when their leader slowed his pace to let his clan charge without him. ¡°Does this goblin have no honour?¡± ¡°We run towards them,¡± Hjorvarth decided, marching forth. ¡°Fight through until we can kill that monstrosity.¡± He took heart in the footfalls that followed after him, and soon enough they were all running to catch up. Brugg led his own clan from nearer the back, so when the gathered masses collided he was far from harm. Manling and goblin alike smashed into one another. Fists, clubs, and heads thumped into flesh, splitting skin and crunching bone. Blades buried into arms and legs and heads, hewed through limbs as goblins tried to bludgeon manlings to death. Men bellowed and screamed. Goblins snarled and roared, wrestling manlings onto the stony ground, where they scratched and bit and ripped at eyes and throats, staining the plain with dark red rather than ash grey. Hjorvarth and the fighting men had pierced well enough into the porcine goblins. The wings had folded though, leaving Hjorvarth, Bjorn, and Asgeir to wade forward with a dozen other wounded men, awash in a mass of jeering green flesh. Bjorn shattered bones and broke skulls with his war hammer, struggling with the length of it with men enclosing him on one side and goblins attacking from the other. Hjorvarth hacked forward with both runic axes still to hand, his wrists slick with dark blood, which made an extra effort just of gripping the handles. Asgeir slashed and thrust with his men shouting and dying beside him, trying to fight their way towards the mountain so that they had something solid at their backs. Hjorvarth suffered a stone club to the shoulder. He buried his axe into his attacker, only to see that he was now surrounded on all sides by chubby goblins. They watched with eager eyes, tusked teeth bared in ugly smiles. Bjorn stood much the same, though the goblins around him then parted ways. Brugg approached and his clan thought he had decided to crush the violent manlings who slew so many of his clan, but instead the one-eyed Great Chief avoided the conflict and headed towards the abandoned cart, hoping to eat some of the fleeing manlings before his clan reached them. ¡°Coward!¡± Bjorn shouted. Brugg turned back in outrage but Hjorvarth had thrown his axe after the Great Chief. The blade tore through the soft meat of the Great Chief¡¯s remaining eye. Brugg raised his hand, tearing free the weapon. He could not see. He had lost both his eyes. Green flesh bulged now he shook his head. ¡°No!¡± he roared, low voice trembling with rage and sorrow. ¡°No! No! No! Stop! Stop it!¡± Brugg¡¯s clan understood his words but not his intent. The porcine goblins backed clear of the fighting men, even while they lunged for the goblins. Brugg screeched wordless misery, throwing out his arms and stomping down, crushing his own kin in a maddened frenzy. ¡°Brugg?¡± a goblin voice ventured. ¡°We flee?¡± ¡°Kill!¡± Brugg ordered. ¡°Kill all the manlings! Kill them all! Bite out their eyes! Bite out all of their eyes!¡± Asgeir and half a dozen men had made their way to the mountain during the confusion. They paused to gather themselves, seeing Hjorvarth amid the mass of green, hacking like a man possessed at all the foes around him. Bjorn stood on his own as well, swinging his great hammer around in tired sweeps while he heaved in breaths. ¡°Fight forward!¡± Asgeir ordered, leaping towards a goblin. He side-stepped a club, then drove his sword into a green throat. A blow to the head borrowed Asgeir¡¯s sight, then he found himself staring at the blood pouring down a goblin¡¯s belly. ¡°Get up!¡± an old man growled, hauling him to his feet. Asgeir blinked as warmth poured down his head. He pushed the dying goblin over, then waded in to gut the rest. If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. Hjorvarth had only one axe, his hand slick and aching. He staggered forward from another blow to the back, then shouldered into the crowded goblins, hoping to come out onto clear ground where he could turn to fight them. Instead, another porcine goblin stood to meet him, wary and reluctant, but still ready to fight. Hjorvarth feinted then slammed his axe into a green head. The goblin toppled, ripping the handle from his slick grip. Hjorvarth wanted the weapon back, but had to twist clear of a spear, then a heavy kick sent him stumbling forward. The chubby goblins then began to play with him, laughing and spitting, meaning to save the Fire Giant for Brugg to make the Great Chief less angry of whatever troubled him. ¡°Fight me!¡± Hjorvarth demanded in a tired slur. He would not die like the white bear, trapped, hissed at, and baited. ¡°No.¡± A goblin scowled, shaking his head. ¡°We are not Chief.¡± Hjorvarth gritted his teeth, and thought to wait while their massive leader did come to fight. At least then he would have a chance to kill the monstrous thing, and maybe that would go some way to saving Horvorr. A dozen feet away, Bjorn lost grip on his hammer, scrambling for it as it dropped, stopped when a spear skewered his shoulder. Hjorvarth heard the cry of pain and his stony face twisted with hate. He stepped forward, deciding he would have to pummel the goblins to death. Hjorvarth had an urging instead to grip down on the air. He strode forward, lifting his hands as if around an unwieldy axe, then swept the imaginary weapon in an arc that would cleave through the goblins who watched him in confusion. The World Splitter appeared in his hands, weightless, runes glimmering amongst ancient metal. Huge blades hewed through throats and stomachs with effortless fluidity. It seemed to move of its own accord, bringing the huge red-and-black cloaked wielder around in a full circle, forcing him into an endless spinning rhythm that sent dozens of goblins screaming in terror now they were cleaved into halves, thirds and quarters. Brugg could not see his clans, only hear the panicked and terrified screaming. They cried for help, for mercy, for it all to stop. It was a fear that infected those still living of the clan, one that infected Brugg himself, who worried so much on the coming terror that he was not outraged by his blindness but only made to feel more fearful and helpless because of it. Hjorvarth stood amid a dark sea of glistening flesh and innards, of dead and wounded goblins. He had killed dozens in moments, obliterated them so bloodily that he was covered in the entrails, so that he appeared entirely black, his hair, his cloak, and his huge frame. The World Splitter remained grey, gleaming and runic even amongst that carnage. Hjorvarth lifted the weightless axe aloft, which seemed to glimmer and shrink to a weapon meant for throwing. He hurled it through the air so that it spun off towards the Great Chief of the East. The World Splitter struck with an earth shaking impact that utterly destroyed the goblin and showered gore across the bleak plain. Blood falling like rain, Hjorvarth searched the field to find himself standing alone. He managed a drunken step, fell to his knees, and started to retch. *** Horvorr had become a place of screams, smoke and death. Scattered families abandoned their homes now goblins broke through shutters and smashed down doors. Hungry creatures gave chase to folks in group or alone, jeering after them, clawing and dragging on their clothes until they tripped. They would hiss, and spit, breaking skulls underfoot, ripping out necks and thighs to suckle on the blood. Clans had begun to fight with other clans, and amongst themselves. They savaged each other over the broken corpses of manlings, with no regard for the calls of order from scattered Chiefs. Trugg had been slain by an old manling claiming to be Isleif the Bard. The manling had hurled an axe into the goblin¡¯s massive head, not fast enough to avoid being smashed back into the carved doors of the Ritual House; where the manling had crouched bowed and bloodied, too unmoving for any to count him as a threat, too ominous for any goblin to gather the courage to face him. That left no Great Chiefs in the town, which made for good chaos as goblins who considered themselves strong enough fought to bend others Chiefs under their will. Of those of Horvorr, there were three main groups, one led by back streets and between houses by Eirik, who had a bleeding head and a broken arm; another led by Arfast, who was as untouched and bald as his maddened group were bloodied; and a third larger group led by Anna and Linden and Lovrin, who had begun to open the southern gate, with the fear of hundreds of goblins soon to find them and no clear view of what awaited them outside the walls. Arfast and Eirik were both on their way to Gudmund¡¯s Hall, as was Lazarus, who had since leapt over the ditches surrounding Brolli¡¯s place, climbed up the walls, and brought an end to Odi and his two old friends, along with a dozen men and women who had broken the stairs to loose arrows from the shutters of the second floor. Arfast was the first to reach the towering and ornate hall, which had been staked, fenced, and stacked with crates, so that the entry yard was both unoccupied and well bolstered for defense. He supported the weight of Ralf, who had been bludgeoned across the head with a stone, stabbed in his arm and his leg, but still managed to have his wits about him. Arfast and Ralf led their groups into the hall, finding it open and empty. ¡°There¡¯s no one here,¡± Arfast muttered, though he smiled at his wounded dozen, who were all hurting and fearful. ¡°It looks like we¡¯re all going to die. So we might as well wait inside.¡± Despite his words a few folk took positions by the entryway, taking the spare bows laid there, and a share of the stored arrows. ¡°Arfast!¡± called a high voice. Arfast let go of Ralf, and swept his gaze towards Horvorr¡¯s broken gate. He could see nothing but corpses, smoke, and wretched figures scampering through clouds of dust, over churned mud, and amongst huddled houses. ¡°Over here!¡± Eirik waved his people out from amongst a courtyard of clustered homes. The group were covered in blood and dirt, having had to cut through the bottom floor of the barracks and crawl through the encasing mud. He had only five men with him, three women, and one lanky leather-capped bartender. ¡°Where¡¯s everyone else?¡± ¡°Dead.¡± Arfast fixed the blond man with a hard stare. ¡°Gudmund?¡± Eirik and his people hurried forward into the barricaded yard, offering their thanks to the blond man, then spoke of their horror and fear to Arfast¡¯s group. ¡°Last I saw he was jumping out of a window.¡± Arfast cursed, and shook his head. ¡°Knew he¡¯d get himself killed.¡± ¡°Says the draugr,¡± Gudmund snapped, wandering towards them. ¡°And I was jumping on a goblin, not out of a window. Happened to work as well, I¡¯ll have you know.¡± He rubbed at his hairy black-lacquered chest. ¡°I did have to take off my armour.¡± Eirik laughed, and tried to hug him. Gudmund stepped out of reach. ¡°I expected you both to keep your groups alive, not throw away half and keep a quarter.¡± He scratched at his inky beard. ¡°Where¡¯s Odi?¡± ¡°Dead,¡± Arfast answered. ¡°Almost all the goblins that landed went to Brolli¡¯s.¡± Gudmund grunted. ¡°Hopefully those at the Ritual House had better luck.¡± Arfast met his words with a slow nod. ¡°I¡¯m sure Anna¡¯s fine.¡± Gudmund frowned. ¡°We don¡¯t have enough people to hold the yard or the hall. So we might as well go in and close the doors.¡± They walked towards the hazy half-light of the abandoned hall, feeling the ground shake beneath their feet. Eirik regarded the men with hesitant eyes, his young face half-dark with dried blood. ¡°Shouldn¡¯t we wait for others¡ª¡± ¡°Dalpho challenges Braguk!¡± declared a distant bellow that rolled for miles, followed by a blow that sounded out like a thunderclap. *** Braguk Moonbear staggered back into the log wall of Horvorr, causing the whole of it to shudder with the impact. Dalpho and the prodigious shaman loomed above goblins and manling alike with their shared enormity, casting down massive shadows, crushing clans underfoot. Roaldr and the gathered folk of Wymount watched in fear while the two unearthly goblins stared at one another, both standing as tall as the huge log wall. Dalpho¡¯s roundness matched his height; his belly, arms and legs bulged with flesh. His chubby head appeared too small atop his blubbery shoulders, as did beady eyes above his many chins. Braguk Moonbear wore his great patchwork cloak of bear furs, poised like a crone with bony hands clasped on a tree-trunk staff. ¡°You swore me peace!¡± ¡°You murdered Mubrogg the Spirit Weaver!¡± Dalpho countered. ¡°And you have been challenged!¡± The Militia of Fenkirk turned their haggard gazes towards the prodigious shaman and the elephantine goblin. All the Chiefs and their clans forgot their conflict as well, and stepped away from the bruised and wounded mass of hunters and fighters huddled behind a makeshift defense of soaked rafts. ¡°Charge!¡± Roaldr distantly ordered, his men approaching Horvorr, and ran towards the spectating sea of goblins. Aerindis kept step, her fur cloak sweeping behind her, and the noble pair were soon followed by the over two hundred fisher folk of Wymount, Skarshaw, Salvik, and Longhook. They sounded off with a collective war cry, which was then eclipsed by Dalpho¡¯s huge fist thumping into Braguk Moonbear¡¯s belly. Braguk stumbled, sliding across the wall, dragging his staff through dozens of helpless goblins. He steadied into a back step now his enormous foe charged forward. He then swept up his cloak and shifted his weight so that the staff sliced through the air and crashed into his foe¡¯s knee. Dalpho¡¯s leg shattered under him. He roared his agony and lurched for the prodigious shaman. He caught a hold, dragging Braguk over, and slammed him into the barren plain, flattening dozens beneath the gargantuan pair, while hundreds of others were brought down and trampled. The Great Chiefs grappled with one another, spitting and cursing, rolling one way then the other, crushing scores more of their kin. Braguk Moonbear had his hood back, baring his ugly face, crooked nose and grimy fangs. Dalpho struggled atop of him, breaking ribs with his fists, so labored by his own weight that he had no real way to push up, or put full force behind his blows. Braguk Moonbear struggled to throw the elephantine goblin from him, but had no strength left in his bony limbs. He snapped his ugly head forward instead, and sank his grimy teeth into Dalpho¡¯s trunk nose, tearing it off and sucking it into his gullet. Dalpho watched in horror while dark blood fell from his nose in torrents, splashing and staining Braguk¡¯s ugly face. The grimy fangs sank in again. He tried to roll off his unwieldy belly, or kick, or swing, but he was floundered, and could do nothing now Braguk chewed through his rounded face, blinding him, killing him, eating him. Dalpho tried one more desperate effort to roll himself free, helped onto his back with the aid of the shaman under him. But he only had life left in his blubbery body to realise that he was about to die having failed all those he had ever sworn loyalty to. Amid the chaotic crowd of fleeing, shoving, desperate goblins, Sam held his footing long enough to hurl a spear that struck the prodigious shaman in the head. He felt somewhat disappointed when the blow caused no real harm, even more regretful when he was shouldered into by a pair of bulky goblins and thrown to the ground. Braguk Moonbear clawed at the earth, and hauled himself onto his huge knees. He reached for the tree-trunk staff and used it to push up to his feet. He had view of the maddened mass below him, so many goblins panicked and broken. ¡°Hold ground!¡± He turned to a din of cries and metal and flesh, realizing then that another manling army had joined the battle. ¡°Hold ground!¡± Braguk ordered, sweeping his green gaze across the plain, seeing no sign of Brugg or his boar-faced clan, only a sea of carnage and entrails and two armoured carts. ¡°Destroy Horvorr!¡± The prodigious shaman swept up his great bear fur cloak, now poked with bones, torn, and stained with gore. He stomped off at a mad panic towards the forests. The discordant host of goblins that was once the Eastern Clans stood to witness the flight of their last Great Chief. Those Chiefs with their wits about them ordered a retreat. Shrill horns blared out at an erratic and frightened chorus; and, as Roaldr and Wymount finally joined the battle, the wave of enemies he faced washed away of their own accord. *** Gudmund¡¯s Hall had succumb to a vengeful dormancy. Screeching, crying, screaming, crunching, breaking, and the roar of war came muffled through the blackened walls. The dark-and-silver banners loomed from sturdy rafters, lending a majestic appearance to the haggard folk stood staring at the ornate doors, waiting for them to burst open to hazy noon light and endless wretched enemies. There were no longer any feasting tables, only a single chair for furnishing that had been wrought wider than any man had need for, with a backing carved in the likeness of a wolf howling at the moon. Furs covered the seat and the remnants of torn cushions littered the floor. Muradoon¡¯s Altar stood behind the line of wary fighters, dark wood engraved with a scene of spirits, daggers and sacrifice. ¡°Do we have to wait like this?¡± Arfast asked, glancing at the folk arrayed at either side of him. He stood the only man there not wounded. ¡°Wouldn¡¯t it be better to make a stand in one of the rooms?¡± ¡°Goblins appreciate dramatics,¡± Gudmund explained, now garbed in his tattered fur cloak. ¡°They¡¯ll break open the door, and be too scared to approach, and then I¡¯ll wait for a Chief to come, and I¡¯ll say¡­ I challenge you!¡± ¡°Accepted,¡± Lazarus hissed. The lithe goblin leapt down from the altar, rolling forward, ripping out the legs of a woman with his sleek claws, twisting his body, slicing open the stomach of a man that tried to charge. He leapt clear of a thrown axe, and brought a quick end, dancing through and lacerating flesh, to half the folk in the hall before Gudmund, Arfast and Eirik had even drawn close. A woman loosed an arrow and the lithe goblin struck it from the air. Lazarus sprinted past, ducking under and leaping over weapon swings, bringing an end to the archer. He opened the throat of an old man who backed towards the blackened wall, then ran straight for Gudmund of Horvorr, sliding around his legs, and hissed laughter. ¡°Look at you, Young Wolf!¡± Lazarus sidestepped a hurled iron-hafted axe. ¡°You¡¯re helpless! Old and slow!¡± He made a quicker effort of finishing all those in the corners of the hall, sparing only a young girl, who sat within reach of a bow. ¡°Stop prancing about, coward!¡± Gudmund demanded. ¡°You challenged me! Leave the others be!¡± ¡°You are surrounded!¡± Lazarus hissed. ¡°These people will find far worse deaths if I don¡¯t kill them here. And I¡¯ve left you your friends, haven¡¯t I? Three to one, Gahr¡¯rul offered you, Young Wolf turned Old. Now I offer you four. And still you¡¯ll die here.¡± Arfast, Eirik, and Ralf gathered together by their fur-cloaked Chief. ¡°Corner it,¡± Arfast whispered, waiting while the lithe goblin ambled in a circuit around them. ¡°Once it crosses by the altar, force it into the right corner. Ralf and I left. You and Gudmund right.¡± ¡°I heard of the Black Heart¡¯s death.¡± Lazarus laughed sadly, strolling by the altar. ¡°Did you know that the One Swing is dead as well?¡± Gudmund stood stunned now Arfast, Ralf, and Eirik rushed to corner the lithe goblin. He charged moments later, only able to watch as Lazarus ducked under an axe swing, lashed out and ripped open Eirik¡¯s stomach, as Ralf lurched forward only to be sidestepped by the goblin and have his back slashed. Arfast thrust a spear that buried into the floorboards, let go of the shaft and reached for his dagger, leaping over one claw, shredded across the shins by the other. Gudmund roared his anger, slashing out, kicking and rushing, missing every strike. He then slowed, feinting, biding his time, using his father¡¯s sword to his every advantage. Only to realise that the ugly, skinny goblin was simply playing with him. Lazarus¡¯s slanted gaze held a disappointment that lent severity to his ghoulish face. ¡°I should have killed you myself outside of your walls, Gudmund the Betrayer. Spared your people the destruction that you were so eager to put upon the goblins. Now look at you¡­ old and useless. All the harm you¡¯ve caused, and I see no regret in your eyes. Is it anger? Are you angry that you have so failed?¡± He laughed in disgust. ¡°Do you truly think that you even deserve to live, Old Wolf? After all that you have done!¡± Gudmund bared his bloody teeth in a smile. He gripped his father¡¯s sword. ¡°All the savagery of an animal without the nobility,¡± Lazarus hissed. ¡°Then let me put an end¡ª¡± Lazarus flinched at the thrum of a bowstring. He smashed back into the floorboards. A great ache flooded into his head. Then a shadow stood above him, staring down with cruel and terrible eyes. Lazarus tried desperately to rise but his limbs denied him. He suffered cold terror and raw disappointment. ¡°Black Heart?¡± 57. Hollow Victory 57. Hollow Victory ¡°I asked Gudmund if he was relieved to have finally finished his conquest. He looked at me first as if he didn¡¯t recognise me, then as if he hated me, and then he said that this was a war that would never end. He knew that the day he met Ragadin. He had come here to brush aside disorganised animals and instead come into conflict with steadfast enemies. Gudmund told me that he left the High Lands because the neighbouring Jarls had banded together to murder him, and his greatest regret in this life is that he hadn¡¯t stayed to die. He later decided that it would have been good of Brolli to let him know that he wasn¡¯t actually dead, and then he wouldn¡¯t have needed to make so many enemies trying to revenge his young brother. Brolli laughed for the first time in a week when I mentioned it to him.¡± Asgeir and his men had been surrounded and broken not long after trying to fight through to Hjorvarth. Asgeir had his skull split open, but fought on until a goblin chewed through his throat. Bjorn had lain amongst the carnage of slaughtered goblins. He was soaked in dark blood, appearing almost unmolested save for the spears through shoulder and heart. Hjorvarth now strode across a barren plain scattered with crushed and trampled bodies, watching with hollow satisfaction as an army of men drove hundreds of other goblins into the forests, where Skorri and Ottar and dozens of other trappers waited to ensnare and slaughter them. Hjorvarth was wary of the goblins fleeing out of Horvorr, and fought off those that attacked him despite his wounds. They often ran off to the northern forests or fled East instead, thinking the manling too much of a threat even if he walked alone. Mugg staggered out from the broken gate, carrying half a broken raft, with the remnant dozen of his clan behind him. ¡°Black Heart!¡± he called both in fear and respect, and ordered his clan to run away. Hjorvarth barely noticed the big goblin. He stared towards the smoking wreckage of Horvorr with a glazed gaze. He thought that he should feel more, but mostly he felt sick and dizzy and tired. All his rage and disgust and fear had become frozen and muted. *** ¡°Here he is!¡± Gunnar called. ¡°Bad day when a man with one eye can see better than the rest of you.¡± He dragged a crushed goblin off of a man that wore grimy armour. Engli had lost his helmet, his blond hair stained red. Gunnar hauled him up all the same, surprised to see that a half-naked and bandaged man was lying beneath. Sam groaned in discomfort, then squinted up at the black-capped man. ¡°Am I dead?¡± ¡°No.¡± Gunnar shook his head. ¡°Looks like Engli covered you.¡± ¡°Oh.¡± Sam frowned. ¡°Is he dead?¡± ¡°Looks like.¡± Gunnar offered his hand. ¡°You want to help me carry him?¡± Sam swallowed his guilt, and grabbed Gunnar¡¯s arm. They spoke no more than that as they carried the man, floral armour and all, towards the southern gate. The folk of Fenkirk who had helped Gunnar in his search went back to look for their own friends and loved ones. Roaldr had led most the gathered fisherfolk into Horvorr, telling them to be mindful of goblins and ditches, while the rest remained to guard the open gate. Gunnar and Sam carried Engli past his mother, but Anna didn¡¯t even notice them. She couldn¡¯t see through her tears as she nestled her dead husband in her lap. Linden had saved her, had been struck by a stone as he paused to gloat. They passed Ingrid, as well, but she was busy tending to Ragi as he bled out, listening to him murmur about speaking to a man from Redstone so that he might make things right with his brother. Sam barely recognised his home now they took the safe path towards the Ritual House. Houses were smashed, burned and broken; people were splayed and dead along the dirt, whole families half-eaten. All the ground around the dead had been strewn with goblins, flesh savaged by claws and teeth, bodies ripped into pieces that lay in pooled black blood. Sam had lost something of himself in Fenkirk, and with each step he took and each scene of slaughter that he witnessed, he lost what little was left. He passed by his tavern to find the doors and walls untouched, beyond the door being crisscrossed by sprays of blood. He wondered if the Salt Sage had spared him the slaughter, or whether he and Isleif would be safe behind those walls. He had seen no sign of Horvorr¡¯s Guard, and had begun to dread each step for fear that he might would find them all dead. They came to a wary approach to the Ritual House, then froze at the sight of a massive goblin garbed in odd, dirty clothes. ¡°It¡¯s dead,¡± Gunnar assured, glancing at the axe buried in its head. ¡°A nice throw by whoever killed it.¡± Sam wondered if Hjorvarth had made a safe return to Horvorr. He hoped that his friend still lived and hadn¡¯t only made it back in time to die. Sam was beyond elation when he turned to the Ritual House, to see an old man in a night shirt holding vigil ahead of the carved visage of Muradoon. Isleif seemed to hold an unwavering gaze towards any enemies that might come. He crouched, axe to hand, as if ready to pounce. Sam watched his old friend for a long while before he realised he was not a man waiting but a man passed. *** Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more. Hjorvarth came upon the Ritual House, having had a short scare from seeing a massive goblin that he thought he had recently seen killed, only to realise that this one was dead as well. He smiled to witness what he thought was Sam and his father talking, what he saw as Engli reclining in his fanciful armour against the wall. Hjorvarth stepped into the yard of the Ritual House. He knew within a moment that his father was dead, if only by the absolute certainty in the old man¡¯s milky gaze. He stumbled forward while something close to everything sought to crush his spirit and bring him to his knees, but then he took a steadying breath and slowed to a stop near the gathered men. ¡°I¡¯ll carry him in.¡± Sam startled at the deep and sorrowed voice, then turned to see a huge black-lacquered man. ¡°Hjorvarth?¡± Hjorvarth nodded slowly, his hard face shaking with emotion. ¡°Engli is dead, too?¡± ¡°No.¡± Engli coughed in pain, having been woken by a familiar voice. ¡°Not yet.¡± Hjorvarth let out a long sigh. He bent down to scoop his father up from a fighting crouch. He shouldered open the door, and strode through the many-candled altars of the Ritual House, most still burning and filling the air with bitter smoke. He ducked under the doorway and into the cluttered room where Lovrin had once bound Gudmund, then turned towards a curtain of bone strings and small beads. Hjorvarth remembered the way to the place where wooden cots lay, ready with blankets for those who were wounded or already dead. He had slept there himself after freezing in the lake, both when dragged by Brolli and when his mother had jumped in to push him out. There was no fire now though. Sunlight leaked through warped boards to make the gloomy air seem choked by dust. Hjorvarth laid his father on the blankets of the cot closest to the hearth, where his mother had laid before she succumbed to the cold. ¡°Look after him,¡± he remembered her words. ¡°Swear to me, you¡¯ll look after him.¡± He only then considered she might have thought she was speaking to Isleif, that she had never meant to ask the son to look after the father. ¡°Hjorvarth?¡± Alrik croaked, turning his scarred face to look up at the huge man. ¡°What¡¯s happening¡­? Are you here to end me? Ivar¡¯s already dead. He died last night¡­ kept screaming and shivering, until Lovrin cut his throat. The other people didn¡¯t even care. I tried to stop him, but he had the knife.¡± He stifled a cough. ¡°Hjorvarth¡­?¡± He coughed in earnest. ¡°Is Brolli really dead?¡± Hjorvarth regarded his frail father, untouched and unbloodied. He paid no mind as the young man struggled out of his cot and onto his feet. Alrik staggered over in a temper, but his anger vanished when he understood. ¡°I heard screaming. I thought they were dreams or part of the fever¡­ but I was feeling better this morning. ¡°A lot of people are dead,¡± Hjorvarth spoke in a faraway voice. ¡°Most of Horvorr. We were broken by goblins that brought slaughter. Brolli is dead. He died the night we fought. He took me out to the Lake to drown me, and we both fell in. I think everyone in Horvorr might be dead¡­ except for you two.¡± He squinted at Ivar. ¡°Except for you. I didn¡¯t see anyone living on the way in.¡± ¡°So we¡¯re going to die?¡± Alrik asked. Hjorvarth shook his head. ¡°Fenkirk and Wymount are here.¡± He raked a hand through his blackened beard. ¡°I need to go back out and fight, and then collect the bodies of those who stood with me. Would you watch over my father¡¯s body while I¡¯m gone?¡± *** The Chief of Horvorr sat on his imposing chair, while the young black-haired girl who had slain Lazarus with a bow hid behind the backing. Gudmund had considered killing her out of mercy, but then he¡¯d heard the horns and shouts of men, so decided instead to wait and see who came through the door. Arfast and Ralf leaned on either arm of the chair, both men gripping their weapons and keeping watch despite their wounds. For whatever reason, Gudmund had lifted Eirik up and sat him against Muradoon¡¯s altar, so that the dead blond man seemed to look up on his former Chief in judgement. Gudmund, truthfully, had no preference to whether he would live or die, but he thought he should apologize to the men who had given him such unearned loyalty, so cleared his throat to get their attention. ¡°Well¡­ that didn¡¯t go as I¡¯d hoped. Good to see that you two survived so far, I suppose.¡± ¡°I wouldn¡¯t worry.¡± Arfast stared straight towards the ornate doors. ¡°A wood witch cursed me with a long life. Whoever comes through won¡¯t be here to kill us.¡± Gudmund frowned, his proud face almost scratched clean of black blood. ¡°You say that as if you¡¯re not ancient.¡± ¡°True.¡± Arfast met the sentiment with a half smile. ¡°But it¡¯s a little more complicated than that.¡± Outside, Sybille ordered the men of Redstone and Kollkleif to break down the ornate doors of her father¡¯s hall. Gudmund hadn¡¯t actually barred them though, so they struck the wood and the doors swept inward with ease. ¡°Is anyone alive?¡± a man yelled. Hardy fighters crept into the hall with weapons ready, seeing the maimed corpses of folk spread about the floor. The fisherfolk looked about the hall for whatever monster caused the carnage, unable to believe that the small dead goblin on the floor had managed it all with his sharp claws. Gudmund thought about the question of whether he was alive more than he should. He had almost decided that he wished he wasn¡¯t, when a young woman ran at him, clad in leather armour and padded wool, her red hair cut short as if with a blunt knife. Sybille paused in the half-light. ¡°Father?¡± ¡°Sybille.¡± Gudmund sighed, then rose to his feet. ¡°Is Grettir really dead?¡± Sybille reached an answer she must have known all along, but lost all the courage and hardness she had held so tightly to when she did. ¡°Yes,¡± she murmured from wobbling lips. ¡°He tried to save me.¡± ¡°Succeeded.¡± Gudmund wrapped his fur-cloaked arms around his daughter, squeezing now she sobbed into his shoulder. ¡°Had he not then we would all be dead,¡± he whispered. ¡°I only wish that he had lived to see me be less of a bastard.¡± He sighed again, and tightened his grip. ¡°I am no great father, or even a man, but I do love you, Sybille. Never doubt that.¡± He wrestled with his doubts and his fears and his failing for only a moment, before an endless rage burned them away, leaving him with a singular desire for revenge. ¡°But this war came too sudden, and I need to find out why. I need to know who did this, and I need to make them pay. If I live through that then maybe I can be the father you deserve¡­ and if not, then at least you had Grettir.¡± ¡°I think Agnar is alive,¡± Sybille murmured, her words reverberating through fur. ¡°I saw him.¡± ¡°Whether he lives or not,¡± Gudmund spoke in a calming voice. ¡°He is lost to us. But we have each other, and that will have to be enough.¡± 58. Aftermath 58. Aftermath ¡°It seems grossly unfair for Gudmund to have fought so hard for this region only to be left with the title of Chief, and ownership of a small town. Jarl Thrand has assumed stewardship of Southwestern Tymir, in exchange for dismissing the unwieldy debts that Gudmund had owed for the men, weapons, and supplies provided by Timilir. Gahr¡¯rul¡¯s clan of Great Chiefs was not so much defeated as it was scattered. The Trapper arrived in Horvorr the other day asking for more help to track down Braguk Moonbear. It is almost as if nothing has changed, and yet I feel the loss all around me. I hope that Sibbe and Hjorvarth will be here soon. Once I find the Hall of Hrothgar, I can leave this place and it will become yet another piece of my troubled history. I must admit, there is a part of me that doesn¡¯t want to leave. Did I not swear service to Gudmund? Should I not help him take revenge against his enemies? And what of Brolli, do I leave him out here to die? Of all of us, only Grettir seems to have gotten the ending he deserves. Never have I seen a man and woman so happy or suited to one another. They are soon to have a child. I pray to the Midwife that is the first of many to come.¡± A thousand goblins were burned in great piles, or left to rot on the plains, bringing in flocks of carrion, enticing wandering trolls with a fetid stench that carried for miles. Four hundred men, women, and children had been laid out on great pyres constructed from the wood of war works that offered little avail to the folk who burned. Dalpho lay dead and decaying outside the walls of Horvorr. Birds pecked at his back. Maggots festered in his skin. The gathered folk had no fuel to burn him, and not the will to cut him up and carry him off. There were those that believed he was not a goblin at all, but some odd monster that had hated goblins and so sought to destroy them. Gunnar recognised the Great Chief of the East and considered it an awful irony that the elephantine goblin had waited so long for revenge only to die a worse death than he ever could have found at The Blackwood. He lamented it as a great shame as well, both that he had died and that Braguk Moonbear had fled with his life. He worried for the day when the shaman would return, but part of him almost believed the tale that Sam the Spearslayer had struck the goblin in the head, which had wounded the prodigious goblin badly enough that he died after his flight. Sam himself had not stayed for the mass funerals. He had stood with Hjorvarth as they burned Isleif, but had not been able to stand the son¡¯s silence. He had considered staying, and even managed to get the deed for his tavern back from Gudmund without any complain at all, which he thought a peculiar oddity. In the end though, Sam couldn¡¯t suffer his old home, so led a group of over a hundred folk towards Timilir in the hopes that they would cross the Eastern Pass before full winter. He might have been misled about the urgent need to save his son, but the truth was that he did want to find Dan, and Mardis, as well. This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there. Hjorvarth had been called to audience and honors by Gudmund, by Roaldr, by the men of Redstone who offered to make him an honorary member of their village and install him as their Representative. He had not answered the summons and instead sat at the newly-filled embankments of Horvorr¡¯s Great Lake. He waited for the last raft to sink and for there to be no trace left of the war, beyond scratch marks on the walls and doors of vacant homes. Engli had visited him often, as had Sybille, but never had they gone together. Hjorvarth spoke no words to either of them, and only nodded to acknowledge the visits. Engli had answered his own summons, but found himself overshadowed by the rumors of the huge and brooding hero, and of the barkeeper who had survived and slew countless goblins despite risk to his own life. As the goblins had, folk had begun to attribute Sam with the acts of Hakon, who was a name soon forgotten and rarely spoken, beyond when it came from Sam¡¯s own mouth to explain that those deeds, and the defense of Fenkirk, were all the work and efforts of the scarred man, or the Trapper, or anyone else. Engli forwent his floral-wrought armour, which meant few folk recognised him as the man who helped to save Fenkirk; Ingrid was too wounded to do much but grieve and return to her people; and Gunnar managed to make any honest commendation of Engli sound like biting sarcasm. So Sam, Ragi, the Trapper, and even his brother Abbi, took most of the honour for rallying the Militia of Fenkirk to fight for Horvorr. Of the Salt Sage¡¯s quest, none thought to question how one man had ended up at Fenkirk and how the other had come down from the mountains, or to even attribute the Sage¡¯s words with the outcome of the battle, most knowing that if Tomlok were truly looking down on them then he would have done more than spare three score people. The Ritual House had become forever busy with the fallen, or those grieving their dead, which caused trouble for the hunch-backed Godi, who was never mentioned or questioned about his stalwart defense of those he sheltered. The stories told of Sybille were muddled, whether she had rode alone to Wymount to ask for their help, whether Fromund of Wymount had died before she ever arrived, or whether he had fallen from the sea cliffs, or been strangled in his sleep. It was bad luck to speak of a man who died such an auspicious death; none touched him or even witnessed his funeral beyond his own son, because it was feared that his body and his very spirit had been corrupted. With the news of Gorm¡¯s death, and of Bragi¡¯s, worse still of Grettir¡¯s, it became clear that good men were dying wherever the daughter of Gudmund went. But in the end the Chief of Horvorr ordered the tale told so that Grettir had never left Horvorr. Rather that five men had been sent to kill Gudmund in the night and burn his hall to the ground; Grettir had fought heroically and held them all off, but suffered grievous wounds, so both Gudmund and Eirik had, had to carry him to the Ritual House where he soon died. Balluk the Burnt, had he heard the tale, would have been sorely upset, but he was busy telling any goblin he could find that he had slain the One Swing, which not was not a story that spread because he would almost always kill and eat those who stopped to listen, who were few indeed with his wounds festering and his temper worsening. A dozen men from Redstone and Kollkleif had each volunteered to stay on Horvorr¡¯s Guard. Gudmund had decided to disband the force though, keeping only Arfast and Ralf in his household. Most those from Wymount, Salvik, and Longhook made the return journey to the mountainous fishing villages, leaving only a small group of the fisherfolk, led by Roaldr and Aerindis, to attend a feast that Chief Gudmund had planned for Landing Day. 59. Ripples 59. Ripples ¡°After the funeral, Gudmund invited Brolli and I into his hall. I don¡¯t know who raised the idea, but we spent the night senselessly drunk on stolen fishing boats. I remember little more than laughing on the embankments and, after we had accidentally sunk one craft and procured two more, vomiting into the lake and watching the ripples. I could almost see hands reaching up to grab me. Brolli seemed so happy that night, until the two brothers started to spit and curse at one another. Grettir then separated the two boats with an oar. Brolli and I floated for a good while in bitter silence before we hit the embankments. I wondered what the pair of them had argued so violently over. But then, after we had left our boat in the darkness, Brolli asked me if I ever wondered whether it was my bastard that had killed Gudmund¡¯s wife. The short walk home felt terribly long.¡± Braguk Moonbear stood amid a mountainous rise not many miles from Timilir. He had his huge cloak pulled tight about him in defense of thick falling snow and great gusts of wind that served more for force than noise, though they did echo back off of grey and distant mountains like the enormous flutter of ancient wings. He had a crate of iron by his bony foot, where a young man resided, shivering and hungry, one arm withered and the other severed by a sword and sealed with fire. Braguk feared the weather would delay the rider. He was wroth with the thought, and wanted to crush the iron cage. Jarl Thrand owed him this much, after all Braguk had done, gathering an army, bending those three foolish triplets to his will and bringing together all the other disgraced Great Chiefs of Gahr¡¯rul¡¯s once mighty clan. Braguk Moonbear would have to do it again, whether he borrowed goblins from the Midderlands or bred his own. He would find Izzig the Worm and force the wretched shaman into rearing a less cowardly army. He wondered if Lazarus had already done the same, whether there was a cavern full of monstrous goblins all waiting to be hatched and led. ¡°Yes,¡± came a piping shout through the snow. ¡°I¡¯ve taken it as my own!¡± Braguk gripped his staff, shifting his weight and squinting through the snow. The small goblin waved a clawed hand and the wind died. ¡°I¡¯m here!¡± ¡°Lazarus?¡± Braguk grumbled, then realised the goblin was too small, smooth-skinned and round-eyed. ¡°Who are you?¡± ¡°To you?¡± The goblin bared twin fangs. ¡°I am a myth. To others¡­ a god.¡± Braguk Moonbear noticed another goblin, nearly as tall as the shaman was, but wrought from muscle in an almost manling way. He gripped a huge runic axe in both great hands, but let the weapon rest in the snow when he came to stand beside his smaller kin. ¡°I am Orog the Mountain,¡± he announced in a voice like thunder. ¡°You are in audience with the Small King. Kneel!¡± Braguk managed a wry laugh. ¡°I am in no mood for jokes. Wherever you came from¡­ however you came to be here, you should leave or make me an offer. Because big as you are, Mountain, I am bigger. And I have killed bigger. And I will crush you with my staff.¡± ¡°If it comes to fighting,¡± the Small King piped, ¡°I¡¯ll stand for myself. As to why I am here, I¡¯ve come for the man hidden under your cloak, and I¡¯ve come as well to settle a blood debt to the goblin responsible for the deaths of Gahr¡¯rul and Mubrogg the Spirit Weaver, who were both adamant in their devotion and faith to me¡­ which I found confusing and surprising, given that I never actually spoke with them¡ªnonetheless, I find I¡¯m getting out and about again and I¡¯d like to at least¡ª¡± He waved a clawed hand about as if searching for a word. ¡°I want to do¡­ something.¡± Braguk Moonbear felt sick with the possible danger he now faced. He tried to turn, but found himself still staring down into the round eyes of the small goblin. ¡°I should probably say,¡± the Small King mentioned, ¡°that the rider arrived. I cut him to pieces and put him in a box, which I will send to Jarl Thrand¡¯s estate soon enough. Hopefully that will make it clear, at least for now, that he has no business in this land, or in any land, when it comes to making deals with goblins.¡± Braguk Moonbear collapsed to his knees, almost crushing the iron cage. ¡°I swear loyalty to you, Small King!¡± ¡°My name is Agrak,¡± he replied. ¡°And I don¡¯t want the loyalty of whatever you are. Table begging scum that would sell its species to mankind for its own sake, for no sake at all. You disgust me, shaman. Your associations and your leanings disgust me. You have dishonored our people and you have dishonored yourself.¡± Braguk Moonbear had never felt so alone and powerless. He could see no aid, no escape, only endless tundra becoming darker and darker with the setting sun. ¡°I have power,¡± he insisted. ¡°I can aid you. If you mean to conquer this land then there is no one better to help. I will repent! I had no choice but to deal with the manlings! You were gone. They were all gone! We were left to our own, please¡­ King Agrak. I ask only for a chance at redemption.¡± Agrak stared up without inclination. ¡°Give me the cage, shaman.¡± Braguk managed to nudge the iron cage out from his cloak and onto the snow. The wretched one-armed man squinted behind the bars. ¡°Agnar, is it?¡± Agrak asked. ¡°We¡¯ve quite similar names.¡± He laughed a piping laugh. ¡°You¡¯re with me for a while now. And when I cut you loose. I want you to be sure to tell your new master that I¡¯m a goblin who pays his debts.¡± The Small King grinned up at Braguk Moonbear. ¡°As to you, shaman. Gahr¡¯rul already gave you a chance at redemption when you tried and failed to murder him. But this is about more than petty revenge, you huge and foolish thing. It is a principle. I will never tolerate those who make dealings with mankind. Or those who betray their masters,¡± he pointedly added. ¡°So, in memory of Mubrogg the Spirit Weaver, I challenge you.¡± Braguk Moonbear wanted so badly to snatch out. He grinned when his bony arms finally obeyed. He shoved the wretched goblin into his mouth, chewing down, laughing, hurting his teeth on a thing as hard as stone. Pain burned in great lines under his nose. Blood flooded onto his tongue. Braguk tried to scream, but choked instead. He clawed into his own face to try to stop the suffering. This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there. Agrak tore his way out through a large green eye, wreathed in black gore now he leapt onto untouched snow. Braguk Moonbear remained on his green knees. Grimy teeth still bared in a snarl while blood pooled onto his patchwork cloak. He stared off at nothing as his prodigious frame sagged, toppled, then thudded into snow and stone. Orog grunted his distaste. ¡°Did you have to kill him like that?¡± ¡°Shouldn¡¯t you be happy that I killed him at all?¡± Agrak shrugged his bony shoulders. ¡°I couldn¡¯t think of an easier method. In any case¡­ we should bring our Three Paw back to the caves.¡± Orog straightened, searching the darkening mountains. ¡°Who?¡± Agrak waved towards the ragged man that cowered in the iron cage. ¡°This is the son of the Young Wolf. He has three limbs¡ª¡± ¡°I understand now,¡± Orog assured in his deep voice. ¡°I still question your choice to save a man when you just spoke of never dealing with mankind. Is Three Paw not a man, or at the very least, was he not?¡± ¡°I was being dramatic,¡± Agrak dismissed. ¡°Our old friend won¡¯t shy away from dealing with goblins.¡± Orog lifted both man and cage. ¡°He is the Old Enemy.¡± ¡°He is.¡± Agrak nodded, green face growing solemn. ¡°He proved that when he stole from me. And now I mean to make him, along with the wider world, regret the act,¡± he coldly assured. ¡°But Chance is more than adversary enough for us without being indebted to an entity as elusive and as powerful as Muradoon.¡± ¡°If he is so elusive and powerful, why would he care for a broken man?¡± ¡°As I understand it, those are the only kind he cares for.¡± *** Ke¡¯ra Ke had shed his mantle, jewelry and weaponry to accompany the brown-robed man he knew as El¡¯ma Re. So the yeti wore only his natural fur, which covered all his great frame, save for scars, the padded flesh of his palms, and a ring of flesh around his wild, blue eyes. The yeti towered at twice the robed man¡¯s height. They both stood within the mouth of a glacial cavern, beneath icicles that lanced down and glistened with the remnants of distant light. They gazed past the twin plateaus of the North Pass, at the huge bonfires that raged outside the log walls of Horvorr. ¡°I begin to doubt your character, El¡¯ma Re,¡± Ke¡¯ra Ke mentioned in the slow spoken tone of his language. ¡°Why is that?¡± the Sage asked, not looking up at the huge yeti. ¡°I gave you opportunity to honour yourself. Instead you bowed to cowardice. Gave the abomination what it wanted.¡± ¡°It was he that bowed,¡± the Salt Sage reminded. ¡°Is there no honour in mercy?¡± Ke¡¯ra Ke growled in irritation. ¡°Is the mountain of flesh not dead? What end has your mercy¡­ beyond allowing your enemy to be slain less honourably by another?¡± ¡°I was actually hoping Dalpho would win.¡± ¡°Speak in my tongue,¡± Ke¡¯ra Ke warned, stretching his clawed hands. ¡°I do not understand.¡± ¡°I expected the mountain of flesh to claim victory. He was fated to die. By his foe or by the band of men.¡± ¡°Men,¡± Ke¡¯ra Ke spat. ¡°I thought you sought to guard them? And yet they burn tribes and tribes of their fallen.¡± ¡°I made best effort.¡± The Salt Sage sighed into a cold and lonely night. ¡°It is not about one tribe, or a dozen, but about all of them. Foes of all kinds gather and ancients are awakening. I was almost captured¡­ delayed. I will not let it happen again.¡± ¡°Debt settled.¡± Ke¡¯ra Ke straightened, and turned towards the cave. ¡°Snow preserve you, El¡¯ma Re.¡± ¡°No.¡± The Salt Sage¡¯s denial hung in the air. ¡°No?¡± asked the yeti, fur bristling on his muscled frame. ¡°No to your no.¡± ¡°No,¡± the Sage added a warning edge. Ke¡¯ra Ke rounded on him, snarling fangs an inch from his nose, breathing mist into his face. ¡°Debt settled.¡± ¡°No.¡± The Salt Sage shook his brown-hooded head. ¡°Turn your back on me and I will turn my back on you. A debt is owed. A debt will be settled. Soon. Not now.¡± ¡°A debt eternal is what you think is owed.¡± Ke¡¯ra Ke steeled his sapphire gaze. ¡°A debt paid is what it is.¡± ¡°Are your people of so trivial mention? Are your people so insignificant? Without me there is no you. Your ancestors respected that. Honoured the debt.¡± ¡°You seek to wisdom me?¡± Ke¡¯ra Ke growled, stalking back under trembling icicles. ¡°Why accompany me if the debt is settled?¡± the Sage asked. ¡°What great deed did you do for me that I could not have done for myself? Stand atop a mountain and roar?¡± ¡°You belittle us?¡± Ke¡¯ra Ke ran at him, swiped for his face, stopped when he held ground. ¡°You are a provoker, and a trickster!¡± ¡°Yes,¡± the Sage agreed. ¡°I am also El¡¯ma Re.¡± ¡°My people will not live in eternal servitude.¡± ¡°Servitude?¡± The Salt Sage smiled. ¡°Twenty years have passed since I asked last.¡± ¡°Ask last, then.¡± The yeti glared down at the brown-robed man. ¡°What does it take to settle this debt?¡± ¡°One more favour.¡± Ke¡¯ra Ke leaned close to him. ¡°Only one?¡± ¡°Two.¡± ¡°And on to a hundred?¡± Ke¡¯ra Ke growled laughter, and stalked away. ¡°I¡¯ll give one.¡± ¡°One, then.¡± Ke¡¯ra Ke turned back. ¡°Speak it¡± ¡°Take me to Jorund¡¯s Hill.¡± ¡°Risk war with the Small King?¡± Ke¡¯ra Ke shook his head. ¡°To even consider would require full gathering. Years in deliberation.¡± ¡°Gather the tribes. Deliberate.¡± Ke¡¯ra Ke scowled down at him. ¡°It is simpler to walk.¡± ¡°I¡¯ll travel to Jorund¡¯s Hill on my own.¡± The Salt Sage nodded. ¡°There¡¯s a candle I need to snuff out. I would still like you to ask support for a raid of my choosing.¡± ¡°Where will you choose?¡± ¡°The Steam Caverns.¡± Ke¡¯ra Ke¡¯s feral stare spoke to disappointment. ¡°That is a thing I will never ask.¡± ¡°You will ask it.¡± Icicles began to shake, tinkling in harmony. ¡°You will settle the debt. Or suffer war with me.¡± ¡°Your pride weighs more than a hundred tribes?¡± the yeti demanded. ¡°A hundred?¡± the Salt Sage asked. ¡°I would kill every thing living, that has ever lived, or will ever live. I would lay waste to existence itself if needed.¡± ¡°Why don¡¯t you?¡± Ke¡¯ra Ke asked with impatience. ¡°Is it as the mystics say¡­ that you are weak? A bright burning fire burnt low. Would you truly be able to stop us? All of us?¡± he pressed. ¡°Before we tied you up and buried you in the snow? How long would it take before a Jorund found you?¡± The Salt Sage laughed, and wistfully sighed. ¡°I only ask that you ask, Ke¡¯ra Ke.¡± ¡°You speak of ancestors,¡± Ke¡¯ra Ke whispered. ¡°You speak of history shared. Yet not once do you recognise what we have done for you. You cast us aside in favour of men, and expect us to be ready and waiting for your word. I will ask. I will ask last. Yet I would warn you not to press us when you are met with emphatic refusal. Or we might have to settle the ancient riddle of who is worse. The Old Enemy or The Small King.¡± The Salt Sage chuckled. ¡°If you want the answer to that you need only ask.¡± Ke¡¯ra Ke grunted at words he did not understand. He glanced suspiciously back at El¡¯ma Re, then began his return journey. The Salt Sage pulled back his hood, and ripped away the rags. He stared down at the flames raging around Horvorr, his golden hair and charming face barely etched by firelight. Then he gazed up at the stars as if in affinity with their cold remoteness. ¡°Are you watching me, Watcher?¡± he asked, but I could not answer. ¡°Or am I truly alone?¡± 60. Landing Day - Part One 60. Landing Day ¡°Landing Day commemorates when our ancestors came to Tymir. Some believe that they first settled in Horvorr. In that way I suppose we have reversed our ancestor¡¯s ways. They moved on to more fertile regions that were not populated by goblins and we all followed a man who was set on conquering a barren land plagued by innumerable clans. My wife and child have finally arrived in Horvorr. They joined me at the Landing Day feast, though I wish I had never taken them. It was snowing, and bitter, and miserable. Sibbe already hates it here. Hjorvarth was at least glad to see me and Brolli, but I think the novelty of the snow wore off when he started to shake with the cold. I suppose I can take heart that none of us will be here for long.¡± Engli sat in his narrow room, still bruised and bandaged from the battle. He had always thought his home too small for three people. Cluttered with useless things. The table enclosed by cupboards, the pot, and the stove. But now it seemed too big. He watched his mother doing as she always did, cooking and cleaning, but her determination seemed more conscious, as if this was something she forced herself into so that she didn¡¯t have to look at the empty seat at the table. Engli gazed at the plain boards of the wall, then pulled on an itchy shirt, dyed black and woven of wool. He paused in the archway before stepping into the kitchen. ¡°Maybe we should move to a warmer region?¡± Anna paused so briefly that he wasn¡¯t sure she heard him, then she stared at him as if forlorn. ¡°I am exiled, Engli.¡± She shook her head. ¡°Why else do you think I would live in a place like this?¡± Engli smiled in confusion. ¡°I murdered a man that raped me,¡± Anna spoke with a quiet venom. ¡°Your real father. And to think all those years you put the myth of him above the man that raised you¡­ and yes, he was a fighter. But by the gods do I wish you had the calm or humility of Linden, or that he¡¯d had the sense to wear a gods-damned helmet when he so laughed at Gudmund for his own.¡± Engli stared dumbfounded, trying to master the sickness broiling in his stomach. He shook his head, and staggered towards the door. ¡°My real father was a blacksmith. As he always was and always will be. But you have my thanks for telling me of a man that had no more part in my life than the making of it. And my gratitude for sparing me that truth as long as you did.¡± He opened the door to a chill night, and sucked in a calming breath that made his lungs itch. ¡°Son¡­ I¡ª¡± Engli pulled the door closed behind him, listening to squealing hinges that Linden had always spoke of oiling. He wandered forwards down the shadowed streets, deciding he would go and sit at the embankments with Hjorvarth. *** Hjorvarth sat with his legs crossed at the embankments of Horvorr¡¯s Great Lake. He sat where he had often sat, putting creaking fisher shacks behind his back. He sat in his place. Yet it did not feel the same. Earth had been relaid to bury goblin corpses, which left the embankments humped and uneven. Hjorvarth himself did not feel the same. He was not the man that had sat these shores in the seasons past. He would never again help old fisherman bring their boats from land to water. They were all dead. Their small vessels had been replaced by a scattering of abandoned rafts that floated aimlessly atop the dark expanse. This place was not Horvorr. No more than a corpse was a man, a friend, or a father. Food for trolls that could not be eaten, beyond by the slow encroach of the elements themselves. Horvorr¡¯s Guard had been disbanded. Because the town did not stand to be guarded. It had been hollowed out like the ribs of an ancient beast. Grettir¡¯s home, looming to his left as a rigid shadow in a darkening night, lay unclaimed. Walls broken through, stairs missing, so that only the upward half of the fighter¡¯s life remained. He had died outside the walls of Horvorr, in defense of Sybille. They had left the town on the very same night as Engli and Hjorvarth. Hjorvarth wondered if they, the town, would have been better served by all four folk traveling together. He dismissed the thought. Things that did not happen, would not happen, were beyond consideration. He could convince himself of every choice made, bad as each may have been, save one. Hjorvarth had attacked his foster father without good reason. And it was that one act that had lead to all else. Scores of miners slaughtered within sight of the walls of Horvorr. Asgeir¡¯s band dead to the last man. Bjorn dying for a cause in which he had no faith. Hjorvarth should have lead Asgeir¡¯s band straight to Horvorr, been ready for the defense, instead of turning back to save villagers trapped in the mountains, because in the end all he had done was lead them from one bad death to another. Yet he could not have known that. What he did know, what he should have known, was that Brolli would not be so rash, so tactless, as to force a confrontation. The Autumn Trip had been canceled. Hjorvarth would have had no choice but to agree to go back to working for him, to lead a caravan into the Low Lands. Or perhaps the true mistake was not paying the debt in the first place. Hjorvarth had paid the death price owed by Ivar. He had given four winters of coin to the wife of that guard who died outside the walls of Timilir. A woman, Frida, who had openly admitted her suspicion that Hjorvarth was the murderer, for why else would he want to pay the debt. She had said, as well, that Hjorvarth had made no great change in deciding to work for Brolli¡¯s brother. But there were good men in Horvorr¡¯s Guard, Hjorvarth was sure of that, and they held to stricter standards than those of the Black Hands. The Snake Basin Path had exposed cowards among them though. Had shown men that ran to a young woman, instead of defending the elder son, in the hopes of gaining favour. Hjorvarth had so wanted them to admit their fault. He had beaten them senseless while watched by the dead gaze of Geirmund, by a son trapped in the maw of a troll, his mouth open and hands reaching as if he screamed for aid in his attempt at escape. But the body beneath that grim scene had been shredded by hundreds of teeth. It was a sight that Hjorvarth would never forget. He still dreamed of Geirmund¡¯s struggle, of his screams. How stoic and silent the oldest son of Gudmund had seemed. How that cruel death had stood so far apart from the man¡¯s quiet life. Yet that was another choice that could be justified. Geirmund had eight men with him. Engli had been struck across the skull, bleeding and pleading and netted as he was dragged towards shadowed trees. Hjorvarth had saved his childhood friend. He had saved the man who had no chance to survive. He could not be blamed for the lax action of those that stood with Geirmund. Those same men who stood idle by Sybille¡¯s side and watched while Engli was captured. Hjorvarth rose slowly to his feet. He stepped closer to the embankments. A gentle wind urged him forward, caressed his ears and cheeks. Cold water seeped into his shoes and the black expanse wrinkled. He had been in that darkness before. He had kicked and fought as hands grappled at him. He had sealed his foster father¡¯s fate. Hjorvarth could not abide that, nor could he change it. Brolli¡¯s body would languish at the bottom of the water for all the winters to come. None that drowned had ever floated up from Horvorr¡¯s Great Lake. Those that went below the surface never rose to swim to safety. The fishermen had to row out in boats because they claimed that no life, no catch, was to be found near the embankments. Fish were afraid of spirits. Isleif had said that. Fish were kin of Tomlok the Helmsman. He who had betrayed Muradoon the Spirit Talker. He who had fled in fear of the One-eyed God only to be brought down in a maelstrom conjured up by Bruma Stormcaller. Hjorvarth was no fish. He did not believe, or fear, malicious spirits. But he knew, as all men did, that one could not be truly freed from the waking life unless their body was burned. He could not allow his foster father to be trapped as all winters passed, as the folk he knew turned to ash. Hjorvarth had built the pyres for Arnor and Isleif. He had watched them burn. Brolli would have wanted, deserved, a chance at being judged by the gods. Even the Lady¡¯s Shadow had an end. One way or the other, he would find company among old friends, so long as someone dived into dark water to drag his body up from the Lake. ¡°You¡¯re standing a little close to the edge,¡± Engli¡¯s words were edged with worry. ¡°Hjorvarth¡­? Are you listening to me?¡± Boots scuffed now he drew close. ¡°You should step back. The Lake is spirited. You know it is.¡± Hjorvarth stared down at blackness. ¡°I need to save the man who raised me.¡± ¡°By taking your own life?¡± Engli asked. ¡°You¡¯ve done all you can. Isleif didn¡¯t die from wounds. I¡¯ve told you this. Lovrin was sure that he would have passed whether war had come or not. He was an old man. You could not have saved him. And I don¡¯t see how you drowning in the Lake is going to bring him back from the dead.¡± ¡°You misunderstand me.¡± ¡°Then explain,¡± Engli rebuked. ¡°You have sat on these embankments for days. You have spoken no words. And now you talk only to justify why you mean to take your own life. You voice reasons that I find lacking beyond measure.¡± Hjorvarth glanced back in anguish. ¡°I have failed. My oaths and vows shattered like ice.¡± ¡°You swore to protect me and I still stand. Had you not saved me I never would have reached the gathered hunters. They would have never saved Fenkirk. Sam, who you also swore to protect, would have likely died. You did all that you could.¡± ¡°I have done that all I can,¡± Hjorvarth echoed, his words low and sorrowed. ¡°There remains but one last task.¡± ¡°Isleif is not in that Lake!¡± Engli¡¯s words thundered through the night. ¡°Isleif did not raise me. He is my father, and I love him, and I mourn his passing. But I was raised by my mother until she died. By Sam after that. Then by Brolli and Arnor both. Those same four served to help me care for my father. Sam is safe. My mother has long since passed from the waking life. Arnor burned alongside Isleif. Only Brolli remains,¡± Hjorvarth added in a trembling voice. ¡°In an eternal torment of my making.¡± Hjorvarth gazed up at a bronze-hued moon, choked by clouds of iron. He stepped forward. ¡°Wait!¡± Engli shouted. ¡°What will you do if you die?¡± ¡°Nothing at all.¡± ¡°What will Brolli do? How does your death serve him? And how do you know that he is trapped? He might be having grand feasts with all the other drowned men and women.¡± ¡°I expect then that I would try to take a seat at the table,¡± Hjorvarth answered at length. ¡°Though it must be a pain to pour ale at the bottom of a lake.¡± ¡°Do you think is a joke?¡± Engli snapped. ¡°You¡¯re going to die, Hjorvarth! There¡¯s no coming back from that.¡± ¡°My friend, I have nowhere else to go to. I am a man without purpose¡­ beyond this last task that calls to me.¡± ¡°So find a new purpose, then,¡± Engli insisted. ¡°Or at the very least get a gods-damned rope. Decide whether you¡¯re trying to free Brolli or whether you simply want to die. Because I¡¯ve seen men try to swim the Lake before, and I¡¯m sure as Broknar¡¯s wise that you¡¯re going to see their rotting faces when you get down there.¡± Engli paused. ¡°Why don¡¯t you make it your purpose to have someone else fish the lake? You can break up the whole feast. You can spare them all.¡± Hjorvarth grunted in consideration. ¡°And what if I die before I manage that?¡± ¡°Have I not just been saying the very same thing about your planned dive?¡± ¡°There is no shame in failure, Engli. I would have at least then made best effort.¡± ¡°You speak like a man gone mad.¡± ¡°I speak as I always have. You should make a better effort to listen.¡± ¡°Well, listen to this. If you¡¯re worried that you¡¯re going to die before you have a chance to¡­ take the bodies, then I¡¯ll swear to you that I¡¯ll do the same in your stead. And I will find any men I can to make the very same oath. So that one day, one of us, will come back here and do just that.¡± Engli sighed. ¡°But if you jump in that Lake¡­ I swear, Hjorvarth. I swear by the all the gods, I¡¯ll let you rot. I¡¯ll let them all rot just to spite you.¡± Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author. Hjorvarth regarded him with a level gaze. ¡°I do not believe you.¡± ¡°Then your choice is clear. You can jump in. Prove me a liar. Curse me to the Lady¡¯s Shadow. Or you can show some sense.¡± Hjorvarth¡¯s brows furrowed. ¡°How will you convince men to swear to such an odd pact?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡± Engli upturned his palms. ¡°We could form a fighting brotherhood and have a rule of shared oaths.¡± ¡°A fighting brotherhood¡­?¡± Hjorvarth pondered. ¡°It was only a suggestion. My point is, is that you haven¡¯t thought this through.¡± ¡°A fighting brotherhood.¡± ¡°Is is really that unlikely? There are plenty of men in Southwestern Tymir that spent the past season fighting monsters and now have no work. I still know the way back to that lodge in the mountains. If we could gather enough coin, then maybe we could use the place to house those with us.¡± ¡°There is coin already there. A room full of treasure.¡± ¡°Treasure?¡± ¡°As I said.¡± Hjorvarth nodded. ¡°But I begin to think we risk stepping into shoes ready made for us.¡± ¡°Better that than dive into spirited water,¡± Engli replied. ¡°Is there enough treasure to hire a dozen men?¡± ¡°I would guess at over a thousand.¡± Engli raised his brows. ¡°We¡¯ll found a brotherhood, then.¡± ¡°That sounds like a lot of responsibility.¡± ¡°You won¡¯t have to do anything. Unless you want to come up with the name. I¡¯ll handle everything else.¡± ¡°That sounds simple enough,¡± Hjorvarth conceded. ¡°As to the name¡­ Brotherhood of Brikorhaan?¡± Engli smiled. ¡°Are you sure people won¡¯t think that¡¯s a bit presumptuous or arrogant? What about Hoarfrost Heroes?¡± Hjorvarth shook his head. ¡°They would think we¡¯re frozen old men. And it might be worse to call yourself a hero without doing anything heroic.¡± He shrugged, thinking for a name that might make him reconsider the first. ¡°The Golden Men are the most renowned¡­ so we call ourselves the Men of Silver. That way folk know we¡¯ve humility.¡± ¡°Maybe we should stay with the Brotherhood of Brikorhaan.¡± Hjorvarth nodded in consideration, then upturned his heavy palms. ¡°If you¡¯re sure.¡± He looked out on the walled settlement of Horvorr: dilapidated shacks and huts that creaked with the night wind; rowed sheds and clustered homes shrouded in darkness. Gudmund¡¯s Hall, Brolli¡¯s place, and Grettir¡¯s home towered amid the shadowed structures; one scarred, one rotting, one broken. Distant flames painted the furthest corner of the log wall, where loomed the many-roofed Ritual House of Muradoon. Hjorvarth remembered his thirst and hunger. ¡°I suppose we should go to the feast.¡± ¡°You go on ahead,¡± Engli said. ¡°I need to speak with my mother.¡± ¡°Ah.¡± Hjorvarth nodded. ¡°My sympathies for your loss. Linden was a good man, worthy of respect.¡± ¡°He was,¡± Engli agreed in a quiet voice. ¡°I only wish I could have told him that.¡± Hjorvarth¡¯s brows furrowed. ¡°I think a man that truly is, would truly know.¡± ¡°And are you a good man?¡± ¡°With a certainty, no, but I hope one day to change that. For now, I will simply aim to become no worse.¡± Engli smiled in confusion. ¡°You are the best man I know.¡± ¡°Then I must endeavor to find you better friends,¡± Hjorvarth replied, strolling off down the uneven embankments. He waved without looking back. ¡°Ilma¡¯s Heart, Engli. I will meet you at the feast.¡± *** Sybille wore a thick dress, with fur trimmings on the skirt, wrists and hood. It had all been stained black, but the dress was once red. Her hair retained that colour, but it was short and boyish. She pulled at the ragged ends of it as she watched herself in her silver mirror. Sybille had only noticed how symmetrical her face had been when she took the bandage off, when she saw how her cheek and jaw had healed out of alignment, leaving her with a permanent appearance of cocking her head. She had the thought that she had sat here so often before. Her room was the same slew of browns, broken by colorfully woven blankets, by her own hair, and by the deep colour of her black dress. Despite the similarities, the room, and her own face, felt strange and unwelcoming. Cold had a hold on the air, which still ferried scents of dried blood and burnt wood. ¡°You know what I regret?¡± Arfast asked in his old, graveled voice. Sybille startled and he laughed. He stood by the open door, so silently that she had all but forgotten him. ¡°All the hours I¡¯ve spent looking at myself.¡± Arfast rubbed at his bald head. ¡°Seeing if my hair was falling out, or if my skin had turned too wrinkled. Seeing if I was still pretty¡­ and you are, from one old man to one young woman, you are.¡± He shrugged, scarred and sinewy under his thin shirt. ¡°I don¡¯t know about you but I think days can be better spent doing things other than hiding in rooms and staring at mirrors.¡± ¡°I stare more for appearance than vanity.¡± ¡°Those are similar words to my mind.¡± ¡°How I appear to other people. Would you not think me more odd if I were to stare off at the wall?¡± ¡°I take your point.¡± Sybille frowned up at him. ¡°Who are you?¡± Arfast met the question with a grin. ¡°I¡¯m either a man that folk forgot. Or the unknown guard of a well known woman. I suppose which I end up being is up to you.¡± Sybille turned back to her mirror, then laid it flat against the desk. She sighed, and pushed up from her chair. ¡°Do you believe in ghosts?¡± ¡°Your father¡¯s made mention I¡¯m a draugr.¡± Arfast grinned, then narrowed his grey eyes. ¡°An honest answer would be that I think folk who don¡¯t believe in ghosts are fools.¡± Sybille nodded thoughtfully. ¡°And do you think they can talk to the living?¡± ¡°I¡¯ve heard of it happening¡­ mainly when folks are in haunted homes. Or of the dead trying to talk in dreams, but then that might just be wrought of grief.¡± Arfast regarded her with his steady gaze. ¡°You mean in the open day, in an open place? I would worry for the man that claimed to do that, but I¡¯ve heard that done, as well¡­ mainly from folk who are mad or who¡¯ve been cursed. I¡¯ve also known others to claim to see their loved ones for a while, only to realise they had dreamed them up to cope.¡± He studied her for a long while. ¡°Have you been seeing your brothers?¡± Sybille swallowed, and shook her head. ¡°You asked me who I am, Sybille. I¡¯m the loyal man. I was loyal to Gudmund and he swore me to watch over you.¡± Arfast straightened, and smiled in apology. ¡°Not that I mean to accuse you of lying, but¡ª¡± ¡°Yes.¡± Sybille winced at her own admission. ¡°I saw them after I got hurt.¡± She probed at her own unfamiliar cheek. ¡°I didn¡¯t think that they were real. Geirmund told me that he wasn¡¯t. And Agnar¡­ well, he was Agnar. But then I had a dream that a man tried to rape me, and Geirmund grabbed him and killed him¡­ but it wasn¡¯t Geirmund,¡± she added worriedly. ¡°It was a man with a corpse face and green eyes, that only had his voice. Then he sent Agnar away, and he touched me, and I woke. I woke in the same tent, only it was dawn and I was alone.¡± Arfast nodded slowly, his aged face taut. ¡°Which man was it?¡± ¡°Gorm of Kollkleif¡­ they found him in his tent.¡± Sybille shook her head. ¡°All black and shrivelled and surrounded by hoarfrost.¡± Arfast grew more relaxed. ¡°Well I was never one for interpreting dreams.¡± Sybille looked at him with conspiratorial eyes. ¡°I don¡¯t think it was a dream.¡± ¡°I gathered that, Sybille,¡± Arfast kindly answered. ¡°And I¡¯ve no reason not to believe you¡­ I did hear whispers of what happened to Gorm, after all. Still, there are people that would kill you if you spoke openly of that,. Or worse, they would press you into the service of Muradoon. All I can suggest is to keep in mind any warnings they gave you, but beyond that to treat it as a dream.¡± ¡°Oh.¡± Sybille nodded in defeat, but then leapt up from her chair. ¡°Agnar told me to read his journal.¡± ¡°Before, or¡ª¡± ¡°After he died.¡± Sybille swept towards the door. ¡°Let¡¯s go look for it.¡± Arfast stood blocking her way. ¡°Gudmund wants you at the Landing Day feast.¡± He held her frustrated stare, before relenting with a shrug. ¡°I suppose finding a journal won¡¯t be too long of an effort.¡± *** Gudmund sat in his fine black shirt, his white cloak long lost to him. He had left his bronze circlet at home and hadn¡¯t bothered to comb his unruly red hair which made it more a match for his bristling beard. He still had the same proud face, but now held to a sobriety that made him appear more noble and solemn in the firelight. He had ordered and helped to array a mismatched gathering of furniture ahead of the Ritual House. He could seat up to a hundred, which he would readily admit was an optimistic effort. He sat at the very same table where they had found Odi and his two old friends, all three of them long dead, torn and bled out as if Lazarus had been through the place. Gudmund wondered whether one of them had lived and lifted two old men to the table as a final gesture of friendship, or whether they had all ambled into their seats out of a long established habit. He found it odd either way, because the rest had more or less died where they stood, even Arnor, though he had slumped forward onto the bar. ¡°Something wrong?¡± Ralf asked. The stout guard sat opposite, his bulbous nose and chubby cheeks redder with the firelight. ¡°I was half mad at that trial.¡± Gudmund scrutinised his own worn hands. ¡°I had this thought that I was living in a town full of hollow people¡­ and now I¡¯m living in a town that¡¯s hollow.¡± He frowned. ¡°I don¡¯t think that was an answer to your question. What did you ask?¡± ¡°There¡¯s not many people coming,¡± Ralf noted as an aside. He searched the empty tables around him, each warmed by the glow of two blackened braziers that had been dragged out from the hall¡¯s yard. ¡°Maybe a feast wasn¡¯t a good idea.¡± Gudmund glanced up at the Ritual House roofs. Carved crows stared back at him. ¡°Isn¡¯t that what Landing Day is about? The first folk didn¡¯t exactly have an easy time of it. Most of them were dead before they ever got to the anniversary of their landing.¡± ¡°Agreed,¡± Hjorvarth¡¯s low tone startled both men. ¡°They had lost most to monsters or the cold before they were ever settled within the safety of walls. People will come. I¡¯ve seen them in the streets.¡± Gudmund squinted up at the grey-cloaked man. ¡°Aren¡¯t you meant to be holding to a vow of silence?¡± ¡°Not to my mind.¡± ¡°Oh.¡± Gudmund nodded. ¡°Then why didn¡¯t you come to my hall? You missed out on all the back clapping.¡± ¡°Mostly because I didn¡¯t want to.¡± Hjorvarth shrugged his huge shoulders. ¡°And because I barely fought in the battle. By the time I crossed into Horvorr there were only scrawny goblins left.¡± ¡°Didn¡¯t you kill two huge ones? One not far from the walls, and another¡ª¡± Gudmund waved his hand towards the darkness beyond the flames. ¡°Somewhere over there?¡± ¡°By the throw, and by the fact that none other claimed the kill, I would swear Isleif did it. As to the other, I do not truly know what happened.¡± Gudmund narrowed his eyes. ¡°That old ghost killed one, did he?¡± ¡°He was a man living before you let your gate be broken.¡± Hjorvarth met his suspicion with no humour. ¡°And, yes, as I said, I would swear to it. If I ever had a mind to lie, I would have done it when you talked, and talked, and talked in your trial.¡± He raked at his thick beard. ¡°Speaking of words¡­ I would like to give a speech, after you have offered your own. I would think that much is owed me. By truth of you being a bastard, or by myth of me being a hero.¡± Gudmund chuckled. ¡°I think I can manage that much. Though I doubt there will be many folk to hear it.¡± Hjorvarth walked away to find another table, watched all the while by carved crows and the wooden visage of Muradoon. *** Arfast squinted into the dark, dusty, once resplendent room that had belonged to Agnar. It had been neat when they¡¯d found it but now looked close to ransacked. Clothes lay strewn across the bed, chair, and desk; they covered the twin lounging seats opposite the door, those that took up a full corner. Sybille was bent under the dark-curtained bed, which had been layered in clothes and blankets before they arrived. ¡°We should be going,¡± Arfast said. ¡°We¡¯ve checked the cupboards, draws, and desk. And you¡¯ve been under the bed for a while now¡­ I don¡¯t see¡ª¡± He cut himself off, and walked towards the bed. He reached up to the fabric roof, fingers brushing against leather. ¡°My mistake. Found it.¡± ¡°Wh¡ª¡± Sybille thudded into wood. ¡°Ow. Really?¡± She crawled out from under the bed, almost thankful that she had cut her hair so short, because now she wouldn¡¯t have to comb it. ¡°Let me see it.¡± Arfast considered the misused journal. ¡°So long as you understand that you could have guessed he had a journal, without him bringing you word after he died.¡± ¡°I know that,¡± Sybille assured, prying it from his calloused hands. She sat back on the mattress, flipping through the pages, seeing scrawled letters in inks of red, blue or black. ¡°Would you like me to read aloud?¡± ¡°Would you like me to read in silence?¡± Arfast countered. ¡°He may have written things that you aren¡¯t meant to hear.¡± ¡°He was the one that asked me to read it.¡± Sybille cleared her throat. ¡°¡®Brother, I can only hope that it is you reading my words. I doubt that I made mention of my intent, but know that it was not my mind to embarrass our family, or to make things difficult with Jarl Thrand. I had to kill Thorfinn¡­ because he murdered the woman I loved,¡¯¡± she read in a voice made ponderous by confusion, ¡°¡®and he murdered her little boy. And I was sworn to her.¡¯ ¡°¡®I¡¯m sure you¡¯ll ask me about the ring on my finger and I¡¯ll tell you that it¡¯s nothing, and you¡¯ll accept that nothing answer. But it was a token of my love. And Thorfinn took that love and he twisted it into a hatred I cannot contain. So I can only hope that it is you reading my words. I can only hope that Thorfinn is dead, and that you and Sybille and Grettir and Gudmund are safe. Have I succeeded then I will have taken my own life. But I want you to know that I was left with no true life when he took her from me.¡¯¡± Sybille blinked tears from her eyes. She let the journal drop to the dusty floorboards. ¡°He meant to murder Thorfinn and end his own life.¡± ¡°What a man means to do,¡± Arfast stressed his words, ¡°and what he does do, are two very different things. I was not with you or your brothers at Timilir¡­ but if I truly wanted a man dead then I would run him through as we shook hands. And if Agnar was set on this course, then he had golden opportunity to kill Thorfinn in the duel. Is that not so?¡± ¡°I suppose that¡¯s true,¡± Sybille said with surety. ¡°I¡¯ll read the rest of it.¡± ¡°No.¡± Arfast shook head. ¡°If your brother claims some sort of blood feud with Jarl Thrand or one of his family, then your father is the one that needs to read the journal.¡± Sybille scowled. ¡°Did you not just say that you were loyal to me?¡± Arfast held her gaze for a long moment, then looked away. ¡°I humbly suggest that you take this to your father, and, being loyal to you, I would remind you that Gudmund means to give a speech at the Landing Day feast he has arranged¡­ and he might feel a man abandoned without his only blood relative there to witness it.¡± ¡°True.¡± Sybille bent down for the book, and tiptoed to place it back on the fabric roof. ¡°Lead the way.¡± 60. Landing Day - Part Two Gudmund sat at a full table, surrounded by full tables. Hjorvarth and Engli had brought the ale barrels and any food that they could find from Sam¡¯s Tavern. They had taken wooden plates as well, for the fisherfolk who had meant to prepare a small meal for the small gathering. Those cooks now sweated by a large fire pit, slicing meat from a boar, divvying the cheeses, biscuits, and bread that had been brought. They filled borrowed cups and mugs with stolen ale. It was not a hopeful gathering, rather dozens of miserable folk that had chosen for one night to mutually enjoy their loss and grief. To drink and eat and be happy, if only for now, and speak not at all of what had happened and who they had lost, but rather to speak of simpler things or of happier times when those who were absent were still among them. It was with that in mind that the Chief of Horvorr rose from his chair, clad-in-black, knowing that what he had to say would please none of them. ¡°Evening!¡± Gudmund declared, loudly enough to be heard, but not quite so loud that he was shouting over shared conversation. ¡°I would like to thank you all for coming. And I would like to say some words, if you¡¯re all happy to hear them.¡± He gazed out at the crowd, seeing Engli and Hjorvarth farthest back, seeing fisher folk that he didn¡¯t know, barely recognising the remnant dozens that survived his defense of their town. Gudmund rubbed his hands together. ¡°I¡¯m not sure how many of you know this¡­ but Horvorr was built by goblins. And when I came here ten winters ago, I offered those inside safe passage in exchange for their surrender¡­ and they accepted. I was glad,¡± he added. ¡°But I was worried, as well, that if I let hundreds of goblins run off into the wild they would only gather together under another banner and come back¡­ and back, making an endless war. So I slaughtered all of the goblins in Horvorr, except for Dalpho, and a few others who escaped. Dalpho being the giant corpse outside of our walls who fought against the giant shaman.¡± The gathered people of Horvorr and those of Wymount and the fishing villages stared in confusion, their ponderous eyes glistening with the flames of twin braziers. ¡°What I mean to say is that I swore to protect Horvorr,¡± he went on, ¡°and in the end the people here still paid. You paid coin to live here, while others paid to trade. I made Horvorr¡¯s Guard with that¡­ Brikorhaan welcome them with open arms. And I also forged an agreement with the Jarl of Timilir in exchange for a share of your coin. He swore to me, should we ever come under serious threat, that he would help to protect you people. Yet in the end it was not Jarl Thrand that offered aid¡­ it was the giant goblin that I had tried to butcher. Dalpho was a goblin¡­ a simplistic monster. But I cannot shake the anger I feel in knowing that Jarl Thrand took coin from every family in this region, and when the time came he did us no more favours than a goblin.¡± Tinder crackled in the braziers and in the fire pit, beyond that there was only stillness in the gathering. ¡°So in honour of Landing Day, of those that made an undiscovered region their own without help from others, I will write to Jarl Thrand to inform him that his stewardship is no longer valid. I will declare myself Jarl of this region.¡± Gudmund smiled as if disappointed. ¡°I know that many of you think I was no good as a Chief, so I¡¯ll be no better as a Jarl, but I will make best effort to restore some of what we have lost. The homes that are now unowned will be free for any that wish to live here. And those that wish to stay will only pay a small tax for some men to keep order. In the season to come, this will change nothing. In the winters that follow, I can make decisions to better our region without worrying about the coward Jarl of Timilir.¡± Gudmund watched the tired gathering, listened to them mutter dissent about Jarl Thrand. He tried to stand tall and proud in his black clothes, though the truth of it was he had no coin. No real way to do anything beyond let the region wither and die. ¡°And now if you¡¯ll permit him, Hjorvarth of Horvorr would like to speak some words.¡± Hjorvarth pushed up from his chair, and weaved through the tables. He realised that Gudmund had spoken from his seat and there was no chosen place to stand, so he stood in the shadow of the many-roofed Ritual House. Folk spoke amongst themselves, watching the huge man in expectation. ¡°I mostly wanted¡ª¡± Hjorvarth shivered despite the fur that covered him and the nearby brazier that painted his face. He could feel a presence behind him, something more than the carved visage of Muradoon. ¡°I mostly wanted to clear up some misunderstandings. Firstly, I took no vow of silence¡­ I was simply in no mood to speak. And those that pressed the matter when they saw me by the Lake will attest that I was all too happy to shout. Secondly, claims have been made that I killed some monstrous goblins, when I have killed none at all¡­ beyond perhaps one when I was on my journey with Engli, and even then I may have dreamed it.¡± Hjorvarth frowned. ¡°Gudmund killed one of the monstrous goblins, the one covered in gold. The men that followed Asgeir killed the other, who was blind¡­ or had one eye. And my father, Isleif, killed the third with a thrown axe. So by my own account, I did very little to be worthy of praise beyond to find my father dead before I could save him. I do know a man who did a great deal, and that is Engli of Horvorr, who travelled alone to the hunting villages north of Fenkirk, and rallied them to break the siege of the town. Had he not done that, and convinced Fenkirk to come to our aid, then Horvorr would have been destroyed. It was also the hunters he rallied that laid traps in the forest and made best effort to kill the goblins that made for escape as well.¡± Those that had watched with admiration and expectation now looked at him in irritation and confusion. ¡°I raise this for the simple reason that reputation is a fickle thing,¡± Hjorvarth explained. ¡°My father was a man much disgraced for his whole life, but I believe he would have been very happy dying in an attempt to save people. He was an old man losing his mind, but that does not mean that I didn¡¯t want to save him, or to help him protect this town. I would have liked to have been here to help all those that died in the defense. Fenkirk may have bled for us, but Horvorr suffered the most. Whether that is because Jarl Thrand did not meet his commitments, I do not know. But I have no problem backing Gudmund, a man who risked his life and his daughter to protect this town, over an old and wrinkled coward like Jarl Thrand.¡± He paused. ¡°Eleven Elders watch over us all.¡± *** Engli sat abandoned now the feast took on a more sober mood. He watched Sybille from afar, hoping that she would at least smile at him, thinking she might walk over and explain why it was that she had barred him from seeing her. Sybille sat with her back to him though. She even wore a hooded cloak. Engli felt all the more frustrated when she went to sit and joke with the fisher folk, though they all seemed in a worse mood after having heard the plans of the new Jarl of Horvorr. Engli felt no better watching Hjorvarth leave the gathering in the company of Ralf and Gudmund. Sybille rose from her seat and Engli pushed up from his own. He watched from the gloomy table as she shook her head at offers of escort, though that didn¡¯t stop the bald, hawk-faced man from following her like a shadow. Engli had an odd thought that this man was probably a much better guard than he ever was or would ever be; even so, he made his best effort of slipping from the feast unnoticed, which he achieved with great success. Engli followed Sybille from afar, feeling relieved when the bald man departed. He rushed towards the hooded figure of Sybille, but then his view of her was ripped away. Arfast shoved the blond man into the wall, holding a dagger against his throat. ¡°You want to tell me what you¡¯re about, lad?¡± Engli¡¯s eyes widened. ¡°Sybille!¡± ¡°If I had meant you any harm that would have been the end of your life. If I have a knife to your neck the last thing you want to do is shout. I can see and feel your throat tense, and I can cut it upon before you ever get to call out. Understood?¡± Engli nodded. ¡°I didn¡¯t think¡ª¡± ¡°We¡¯ve never met.¡± Arfast scowled, letting him drop. ¡°Don¡¯t think to know a man¡¯s heart before you know his name.¡± ¡°Arfast?¡± Sybille asked. ¡°Are you all right?¡± She kept a tight grip on an emerald hilted dagger as she rounded the corner. ¡°Engli?¡± Her eyes widened, then narrowed. ¡°Engli.¡± Arfast stepped back now Sybille swept around and strode away. ¡°Sybille?¡± Engli gave chase. ¡°Sybille! What is wrong with you?¡± He shook his head. ¡°Did I do something to offend you while I was out of town fighting for my life? Why are you running away from me?¡± Sybille reluctantly slowed. ¡°I was wounded¡­ and so I look different. I am different. And I had no mind to meet you only to see the disappointment in your eyes.¡± ¡°I saw you at the feast, Sybille.¡± Engli walked around to face her. ¡°You look the same. Beautiful as you always are.¡± He squinted through the darkness at her cloaked figure. ¡°Would you just lift your hood? Surely after what you¡¯ve been through, you don¡¯t need to make things worse by worrying about your face?¡± ¡°It doesn¡¯t matter what I¡¯ve been through, Engli,¡± she answered, her tone bitter and angry. ¡°I might be someone else, but I don¡¯t want look like someone else. I was my mother¡¯s daughter before, and now what am I? I used to look like a girl with a family, and now I look like the girl who lost everything other than her father. Her father who lost everything as well,¡± she bitterly added. ¡°Your father still has his daughter, Sybille.¡± Engli wrapped his arms around her. ¡°You can keep wearing a hood, but your face is always going to change, by age if not by wound. And when I say you¡¯re beautiful I don¡¯t mean that your face is beautiful. I could meet another woman with your face but it wouldn¡¯t be you. And whether you have nothing you will still be you. Still the same kind, charming girl. Still clever, and witty, and brave enough not to worry about whether your face looks different or whether it looks the same. I look just as I did before I left Horvorr, but that doesn¡¯t make it any easier when I wake knowing that Linden died¡­ because I came too late. Because I didn¡¯t force a march for fear that people would abandoned me,¡± he added, anger rising. ¡°Because I ran them into a closed gate, and let them get bludgeoned to death by gods-damned stones.¡± ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± Engli said, remembering himself. ¡°We are who we are, Sybille. And you are the woman that I love. Whether you like your face or not it will always be beautiful to me¡­ because it is just part of what makes you, you.¡± *** Hjorvarth stood where the Sage had once stood in the black-and-silver counsel room. Gudmund sat in the same chair he had, his table of Broknar the Elder now righted. Ralf sat to his left, and all the others seats lay empty. ¡°I am here as requested.¡± Hjorvarth appeared out of place wearing tawny furs in a room of black banners, black chairs, and black-clad men. ¡°Say what you have to say.¡± Gudmund waved his hand towards the chair opposite. ¡°Would you just take a seat? You¡¯re making me feel uncomfortable. I don¡¯t like how still you are, or how big you look when I¡¯m sat down.¡± Hjorvarth raked at his thick beard, then pulled out a chair. He sat down with some care, as if worried the seat would give way under his weight. ¡°Well? What is it you had to speak of that couldn¡¯t be said at the feast?¡± Gudmund started to drum his fingers against the table, but stopped when he noticed the huge man¡¯s irritation. ¡°How can I put this?¡± he asked lightly. ¡°I have no sons, and you have no father.¡± ¡°My father is no less my father for having died than is my mother¡ª¡± ¡°Let¡¯s not argue over meaning, Hjorvarth.¡± Gudmund shook his head. ¡°I understand that. You think I don¡¯t grieve my sons or my wife? I do¡­ but in terms of inheritance, I have no sons. So how would you feel about being my son?¡± ¡°At a guess?¡± Hjorvarth asked. ¡°Badly. But then Geirmund didn¡¯t seem to mind it, and I suppose he was a little like me. Though a man becomes accustomed to his burdens, so I would still guess at badly. To be clear though, you do know that you can¡¯t just make a man your son? Even if you found someone that wanted you as a father.¡± Ralf chuckled. Gudmund smiled in uncertainty. ¡°Maybe I need to explain myself more clearly. I have no wife, and I have no sons. And even if I wanted to remarry by the time my son had grown to age, I¡¯d be an old or a dead man. What I need is a man who is already grown, and who can¡¯t be won over by bribes, or sweet words. I need a man, as you say, like Geirmund. Now I¡¯m short of coin, and I¡¯m really not sure how I¡¯m going to make this region any better, or how I¡¯m even going to manage to stop it becoming worse. But I need someone I can rely on, and I need a strong husband for Sybille¡ªwho isn¡¯t the son of Jarl Thrand or any other bastard wanting to steal this region out from under me. And I think that man could be you.¡± Hjorvarth nodded, his stony face giving no hint towards his confusion. ¡°So you want¡­ so¡­ you want me to marry Sybille?¡± Gudmund scowled. ¡°No need to be so enthusiastic, Hjorvarth.¡± ¡°I just wanted to be sure,¡± Hjorvarth offered as apology. ¡°And you think that I would be a good husband because I¡¯m loyal¡­ and not the son of a Jarl?¡± Gudmund spread his worn hands across the black tabletop. ¡°Among other things.¡± ¡°Then I would suggest you ask Engli, as by my own understanding he has more loyalty to Sybille than I would ever have to you. And I might not be won over by coin or charm, but by the same token I would be no easier a man for you to use. Brolli wanted me to fight for him for years, and in the end it did neither of us any good.¡± ¡°Engli?¡± Gudmund¡¯s answering laugh was disgusted. ¡°And what good is he to me? You¡¯re the best fighter in the region, and he¡¯s close to the worst. You¡¯ve a reputation as the son of Isleif the Bard, and I¡¯ve no clue who his¡­¡± He reined in his own rhetoric. ¡°As much as I respected Linden, I also know that the man is not his birth father¡­ and I know as well that Anna is an outlaw.¡± Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author. ¡°As were many people in this town,¡± Hjorvarth replied. ¡°As was Isleif in some regions. As was your own brother, in every region. As am I myself in Timilir. You want to marry your daughter to an outlaw, whose father is most famous for leading hundreds of men to their deaths with no explanation as to what happened or why it happened? You want to marry your daughter to the man who was the death of your own brother?¡± Ralf cleared his throat, his chubby face quite stern and serious. ¡°He wants to marry his daughter to a man who speaks so openly at his table. Engli may have helped to save this town. He may have even done more than you, Hjorvarth. You might have done nothing at all. But to most folk that doesn¡¯t really matter. What does is that you have the look of a hero¡­ and Engli bears more semblance to a handsome farmhand. If Gudmund marries Sybille to a man like that, he will seen as a joke who has given up all ambition.¡± Hjorvarth sighed. ¡°Then it is a fool¡¯s world we live in. And I do thank you for your offer, Gudmund. As it is by my own reckoning the best that I¡¯m likely to have when it comes to making a life for myself¡­ but my answer is no.¡± ¡°No?¡± Gudmund doubtfully asked. ¡°You don¡¯t even want to consider it?¡± Hjorvarth shook his head. ¡°If I left here without giving answer, the only thing I would be thinking on is how long I should wait until I come back to say no¡­ which would only be a waste of your time.¡± He pushed up from his chair, dipped his head in respect. ¡°I mean to kill Jarl Thrand,¡± Gudmund said through gritted teeth. ¡°If you accept my offer then we can work together to achieve that. And say what you will about Engli, but it was your father who had cause to hate Jarl Thrand, and it was he who made your father hated times over in Timilir. Jarl Thrand offered a reward of gold for his head. To any man, and directly to me. Had he gotten his way, your father would have been carted off to Timilir and executed in celebration. As you would have, when I received a similar offer for your own thick skull.¡± Hjorvarth regarded the stout guard. ¡°Is any of that true?¡± Ralf nodded. ¡°All of it.¡± ¡°My father was not a man of revenge.¡± Hjorvarth turned to Gudmund. ¡°If you agree to let Engli marry Sybille then I will help you as best as I can. Beyond¡ª¡± ¡°No.¡± Jarl Gudmund had no doubt in his blue eyes, his unruly red hair seemed only to strengthen the hard defiance of his proud face. ¡°I know the man¡¯s heart. And I will never, not for the want of all the gods, marry my daughter to Engli. He might have earned your loyalty, but in this I will not move. So if your only reason for denying an offer that is, as you say, the best you¡¯re ever likely to get, then you ought to come up with a better reason. Because even if I died, I would rise from the grave and throttle the man before I ever let him wed Sybille.¡± Hjorvarth¡¯s hard face grew ponderous. ¡°May I ask why?¡± ¡°Why?¡± Gudmund glared, shaking his head as if he wouldn¡¯t answer. ¡°A winter ago I was of a mind to allow them to marry, Sybille and Engli, if they so chose to. I raised this with Grettir and Geirmund, who both convinced me that she would be better off married to someone else. It would take only one of them to oppose an idea for me to dismiss it entirely, but they both did. And were that not enough, Agnar came to me the morning they left for Timilir. He told me that he had a suspicion the marriage proposal was going to go awry, but he asked me¡­ he made me swear to him that if it did go wrong that I should make sure she married anyone other than Engli. I respected Geirmund the most of my sons, but Agnar has never been wrong about a man. And I won¡¯t break the only oath he ever asked me to make.¡± ¡°Oh.¡± Hjorvarth frowned, and very slowly nodded. He thought of the promise he had sworn to both brothers, that he would do his best to make sure their sister had a happy life. ¡°So Agnar and Geirmund did not want Sybille to marry Engli?¡± ¡°Is that not what I just said?¡± Gudmund asked. ¡°They didn¡¯t mind the man, but they didn¡¯t think him a good match.¡± Hjorvarth let out a long sigh. ¡°I will go and consider your offer.¡± Gudmund dismissed him with a wave of the hand. ¡°I want your answer before dawn.¡± *** Hjorvarth had expected it to take a while to find Engli, but then the blond man stumbled out from a nearby hay shed. ¡°Engli?¡± Engli startled, pulling door behind him to a close. He had the look of a man who been sleeping restlessly, his blond hair and his weapon belt eschew, his dark clothes poorly fastened and buttoned. ¡°Hjorvarth!¡± Hjorvarth frowned. ¡°Is something wrong with your ears?¡± Engli smiled, and glanced to the hay shed. ¡°I was slow to recognise you is all. It took me as a surprise. What are you doing out so late?¡± ¡°I need to know whether or not you love, Sybille,¡± Hjorvarth answered. ¡°And whether you would hope to marry her one day.¡± Engli narrowed his eyes. ¡°Why do you need to know all that¡­ exactly?¡± ¡°I would ask you to trust that I have good reasons, and that I need to know the answers.¡± Hjorvarth upturned his heavy palms. ¡°Beyond that, I can offer no real explanation.¡± ¡°Right¡­ well, that¡¯s fair, I suppose.¡± Engli nodded more than he needed to. ¡°Can we talk a little down the road?¡± Hjorvarth stared without enthusiasm. ¡°I am in a hurry.¡± ¡°I do love her,¡± Engli said. ¡°Without question, I do. As to whether I would hope to marry her, yes. But whether Gudmund would ever allow it¡­ it seems unlikely, though I would make best effort to convince him, or else elope.¡± He flinched at his own admission. ¡°Only if she wants to, of course. It¡¯s all up to her. But as to my own hopes, yes. Did you need any more answer than that?¡± ¡°No.¡± Hjorvarth shook his head, and clapped Engli on the shoulder. ¡°I¡¯ll meet you at the Lake in the morning, and we can speak of how best to make a brotherhood worthy of Brikorhaan.¡± Engli met his solemn gaze with all severity. ¡°I¡¯ll see you then¡­ brother.¡± Hjorvarth withdrew his hand. ¡°I think it would best if we stuck to given names.¡± ¡°Of course. If I¡¯m honest, I felt a bit silly even¡ª¡± Hjorvarth strode away without further word. Not long after, the door to the hay shed creaked open. Sybille crept out with her hood up, her black dress covered in hay and dust. ¡°What do you think all that was about?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡± Engli bent to one knee, sweeping a sleeve down her dress. ¡°But I trust he has good reason.¡± *** Gudmund strode into a large dirt courtyard formed by the curved backs of long wooden houses. There were three roads into the place, newly packed with earth that had been dug up to keep goblins at bay. Those folk who had lived in surrounding houses found their deaths in the battle, and the smell of their blood and bile still lingered in the air. Dust sifted through the fenced yards with a hiss, dragged along by a chill night breeze. The weather whistled eerily in the distance, broken by the rattle of closed shutters. Gudmund thought of folk trapped in their homes, where he had told them to hide, struggling to escape their fates. His wild hair rippled with the weather. His frustrated breaths misted into darkness. He felt angry for so many things. Hjorvarth had refused him. Brolli lay drowned and dead in the Lake. Geirmund had been half-eaten, likely barred from Brikorhaan¡¯s Band. Agnar had never been found, and were it not for a maddened dream in the night, Gudmund would have thought him lost to the Lady¡¯s Shadow. He kept his hollow gaze towards his brother¡¯s home, which loomed ahead, enveloped by the night. Shadowed and bleak. Gudmund set his foot on the middle step of the stair, boot plunging through broken wood. He stumbled over and thumped into the porch. He lay prone on the steps, aching and seething, almost laughing at what a miserly bastard his brother had been. He let out a long sigh before struggling up from the broken stairs, only to notice the carved archway above the door. Gudmund had seen it once before, but he now realised that the dead wolf was Grim. He wondered if his younger brother had really envisioned the past years between them as two beasts savaging one another. Gudmund saw it more as two wolfs with a river of blood between them, both being too stubborn or scared to swim. He swallowed his grief and frustration, and then shoved on the ornate doors, sending them screeching against the floorboards. ¡°You fucking skinflint.¡± Gudmund remembered a time when his brother had been rich, pissing his money away on whores, gambling, and anything else he could drink, chew, or smoke. Their father had always said that practice made a man better in all things, save for games of chance, which only made men mad or poor. Brolli had ended up as both. Gudmund swept his gaze across the vacant taproom, thinking it odd that a thing so cold and lifeless as a chair could help to make a place feel homey and warm. He laughed when he saw the gambling tables, standing abandoned amid the gloom, as if ready for ghosts to come and roll their own bones. He considered saying his brother¡¯s name three times, but thought better of it. He might tell himself that he was mad that words went unsaid, but even if he could summon his brother¡¯s ghost there wouldn¡¯t be any speech or phrase to settle all the things between them. And what if Brolli did appear, only to say what he had always said, that he didn¡¯t really care, that the mutual animosity had not been some falsity of life but a truth taken to the grave. Gudmund made his way up the stairs. The creaking and the cold made him feel exposed, as if he might attract attention of restless spirits waiting amongst the shadows. He wondered if those three old men sat amongst spectral seats facing a timeless table, whether Arnor tended to a rack of spirits and kept eternal watch at the bar, whether that one-eyed boy rolled dice to himself, reminiscing on the time when he had been let onto Horvorr¡¯s Guard. ¡°That was all you,¡± accused a distant whisper. Gudmund froze on the landing, reaching for his father¡¯s sword. He put his back to the wall, and glanced from one dark corridor to the other. ¡°If someone is in here, then you ought to step out now and announce yourself.¡± He swallowed, straining his ears to hear anything more than the lonely whistle of the wind. ¡°I am warning you,¡± Gudmund declared loudly, ¡°step out now, or I will search each of these rooms and find you.¡± Wood rattled as four doors swung inward; iron screeched as they stressed their hinges. Gudmund sniffed, proud face tense with suspicion. He knew the worst way to deal with a spirit was to call out to it, but could only think of one man who had lived in the place and hadn¡¯t been burned. ¡°Is that you little brother?¡± He bided the silence. ¡°Brolli¡­ Brolli.¡± The shadowed corridor remained silent, four doors outward so that they almost met in pairs. ¡°Brolli.¡± Gudmund flinched now the doors slammed shut. ¡°I suppose I should have expected that. Had to deal with those kind of theatrics after you murdered Grim.¡± ¡°That was all you,¡± came a whisper closer to hand. ¡°Grim must have thought the same, because he tried to throttle me in my sleep.¡± Gudmund laughed a disappointed laugh. ¡°Whereas I always told myself it was more his fault, or yours at the least.¡± He gritted his teeth, nauseated by a flood of wrath and disgust. ¡°What kind of man would ever do that to his brother?¡± ¡°That was all you,¡± a calm voice murmured in his ear. Gudmund shook his head, wondering for the thousandth time whether he could have spared both his brothers by raising their disagreements with his father. He let go of his axe, and upturned his palms. ¡°I regret it often enough. Maybe that¡¯s why I didn¡¯t stop you when I saw you out for revenge. Because you had the right¡­ because you had every right. But what I don¡¯t understand is why you killed a man for his black acts, and then spent the rest of your days making yourself into a man even worse than him. You tried to rape my wife, little brother,¡± he angrily reminded. ¡°How the fuck could you ever think to do that after what Grim did to you and that girl?¡± ¡°The Great Chiefs are back,¡± Brolli¡¯s voice sounded out like a timeless echo. ¡°Ragadin¡¯s back. And they¡¯re coming for you, for your children, for your town. And they¡¯re coming for me. For everyone.¡± ¡°If you were so sure,¡± Gudmund said, ¡°then you should have convinced me. What good¡¯s a warning after the fact?¡± The door beside him creaked open, followed by the wooden scrape of a desk draw. Gudmund smiled in skepticism. ¡°You know the Mad Men of Muradoon say never to go in a room that a ghost opens for you.¡± He startled when the door slammed into its frame, laughed, and opened it for himself. Gudmund stared into a shadowed room furnished only by a wide desk, then strode forward across bare floorboards. He felt the cold more keenly with each step, shivering as he approached the desk. He glanced back to check he was alone, and opened the shutters to little effect. Gudmund sniffed, and reached into the opened draw. He plucked up a scrap of parchment, squinting at the ink, and barely recognised his own name. So he walked over to the adjacent room, and opened the shutters; moonlight flooded in to illuminate the straw mattress, mammoth wardrobe, and ornate desk. ¡°You¡¯re no good at writing.¡± He held the parchment up to the moon, reading aloud the scrawled message: ¡°Gudmund¡­ a¡­ man maimed? Named. I didn¡¯t catch his name. A fat man came here. Asked me to be a Chief. And wanted to¡­ kill you. Hallstein sent him. Alrik, give to Gudmund if I die. I think I might die. Am I going to die?¡± Gudmund closed his eyes, and dragged both hands through his unruly hair. He sighed through gritted teeth, and rubbed at his proud face. ¡°I am sorry, Brolli. Sorry that I was glad when I thought you were dead. That I was disappointed when Isleif the Bard brought you back. I¡¯m sorry that I didn¡¯t leave when our father banished you. And maybe you were right when you said that we should have just accepted Gahr¡¯rul¡¯s duel.¡± He opened his eyes, and stumbled back to the open window. He caught himself on the wall to stop from falling. Brolli stood opposite, fine clothes sodden, flesh bruised and swollen, dark eyes glistening with lunar light. He drew his onyx-pommeled sword, and took a squelching step forwards. Gudmund waited for his brother to swing or to speak, but the drowned man only dropped his weapon and disappeared. ¡°Is that it?¡± He scrutinised the shadowed corners of the room. ¡°I already have a sword.¡± He bent down to one knee, hoping that this wasn¡¯t a trick, and noticed that the blade was pointed towards the mammoth black wardrobe. He gripped the hilt, slick with cold water, and struggled up to his feet. He checked the shadows once more, and strode forward, pulling open the patterned doors of the empty wardrobe. ¡°And here I thought you were going to show me where Isleif hid his treasure,¡± Gudmund mused. ¡°I¡¯m ruined, you know. I¡¯ve barely got enough to keep Ralf and Arfast paid, and I¡¯ve no coin for anymore oxen to pull my leftover carts.¡± He searched the darkness, turning the onyx-pommeled sword over in his hands. ¡°So it¡¯s really just the sword, then?¡± Gudmund drew his father¡¯s sword, and placed it at the bottom of the wardrobe. ¡°I¡¯m not sure how I feel about taking a cursed blade.¡± He sheathed his brother¡¯s sword, closed the wardrobe, and turned to face the moonlit room. ¡°I¡¯m tempted to burn this place to the ground, but I¡¯m worried it might just let you walk about the open streets.¡± He sniffed. ¡°I¡¯ll see if there¡¯s some way to drag your body out of the Lake, or ask Lovrin if he knows how to put all the bodies in there to rest.¡± He waited for an answer that didn¡¯t arrive. Gudmund dipped his head to the shadows, and walked to the door. ¡°You know I never did understand why Hilda was so set on me forgiving you.¡± The patterned doors rattled. Gudmund frowned, and listened to the silence. ¡°Hilda?¡± A sound like paper rasping began at the shadowed writing desk. Gudmund felt a sudden sweep of nausea, but he swallowed to settle his stomach. He glanced into the gloomy corridor, making sure that the door opposite was still closed. ¡°I¡¯m not sure exactly what you¡¯re trying to say. But I think I¡¯ve pushed my luck enough without calling the dead twice in one night.¡± He turned to leave, but his drowned brother blocked the corridor. Brolli smirked, and dipped his swollen head in invitation. ¡°You¡¯re the gambler, Brolli, not me,¡± Gudmund countered. ¡°And as much I might want to take the chance, I don¡¯t know what happens when I say the name thrice. I don¡¯t even know why her name would mean enough to you for it to have any power at all.¡± He stared at his brother. ¡°Unless you loved her?¡± ¡°Who?¡± Brolli whispered, his blackened lips unmoving. He gripped the hilt at his belt, and drew the sword of their father. ¡°I¡¯m not scared of illusions, little brother. And you¡¯ve not been dead so long that you¡¯ve got strength to strike me.¡± Brolli narrowed his dark eyes, sweeping their father¡¯s sword through the air. Gudmund leapt back before his brother thrust mid-sweep, but the blade still sliced through his chest. He reached for the sword at his belt, only to find it missing. Gudmund tried to step back into Isleif¡¯s room, but the door slammed shut. He raised his palms in surrender, backing towards closed shutters at the end of the corridor. ¡°And here I thought we were bonding!¡± he chided. ¡°I trusted you, Brolli. I said I was sorry. And now you¡¯re going to murder with my own sword?¡± Brolli charged down the narrow corridor. Gudmund tried to pry the shutters open, but they refused to move. He dived to the floor and a sword hewed through the wood above, showering him in debris. A cold point pressed into the back of his neck. ¡°Who?¡± ¡°Hilda!¡± Gudmund roared into the floorboards, wondering why he had been so fool as to come here, challenge a ghost, and pick up a cursed sword. He felt furious that his own, dead, brother was going to murder him, his anger quelled by the guilt and regret of leaving his last child an orphan. ¡°You¡ª¡± A cacophony of wood, weapons, paper and jewelry drowned his words, thumping and clanking, rasping and clinking, as if a treasure horde had been poured out from a massive sack. Gudmund probed behind his neck as the noise worsened, then waved his hand in the open air. He glanced back to see an abandoned corridor, then struggled to his feet. Gudmund looked down at his chest. He found no wound, but did notice his brother¡¯s sword hung back at his belt. He glanced back at unbroken shutters, and laughed. He very nearly strode by the open door, too relieved to notice the lessening din, but caught sight of something shining. The straw mattress had been buried in gleaming weaponry, piled upon in turn by coins, jewelry, and gems. An extensive collection of ink pots lay arrayed atop the writing desk and the floor beneath, around several bowls of pristine quills; all of it walled by stacks of expensive paper, most appearing well used, written upon in smooth script. The materials stood surrounded by a scattering of broken quills and cracked glass, by the torn and blotted discards of barely used pages. Gudmund had never seen so much wealth in his life, so he closed the door and strode away, knowing full well that he was being baited into giving his brother¡¯s spirit even more power than it already had over him. He had almost made it half way down the stairs before he turned back and started pocketing the treasure. 61. Unexpected Ends 61. Unexpected Ends ¡°Hilda is dead. The gods would not even allow Gudmund the happiness of a family. Grettir had fetched us so that we could take turns keeping a watch, only for us to walk in as he was about to take his own life. I didn¡¯t know a man could cling so tightly to a sword. In our effort to save Gudmund, we nearly beat him to death. We have bonded him in his room and Kata has taken his children into care. During my watch, Gudmund swore, spat, and cursed at me, until his throat grew too hoarse to speak. I am glad I only had to suffer it the once. I do not know what Brolli said to his brother, but whatever it was it restored Gudmund to a shadow of his former self.¡± Loffi had checked and sniffed many times before turning to his cave. It had took him a long time to find a mountain goat, and he hoped that his clan had not been fighting. He dragged the bleeding animal into a rocky wall covered in long vines, his clan¡¯s cavern being hidden behind there. ¡°¡­I did,¡± came a strangled snarl. ¡°I bested the One Swing¡­ and the Fire Giant as well! So you should all come with me. I demand you come with me! Or I¡¯ll eat you all. Get down from those holes, and come here to praise me!¡± ¡°Balluk,¡± muttered a worried Moonkin. ¡°Balluk,¡± agreed the other. ¡°Balluk.¡± ¡°Balluk.¡± ¡°Help Loffi.¡± ¡°Loffi Help.¡± Loffi had forgotten his goat, and crept carefully into his cavern. All of his clan slept along high ledges of the rock, which meant that Balluk had no real way to grab at them, especially with the wounded stink that billowed off from him. ¡°Loffi?¡± Balluk spat. ¡°The pet of Lazarus? Is he your Chief?¡± The monstrous goblin tried to laugh, but only coughed in agony. ¡°I need help! Can¡¯t you see? Help me, and I¡¯ll help you. I¡¯ve got a bit of metal stuck in my chest, and I need one of you to cut it out for me¡­ and then you won¡¯t need Loffi. You¡¯ll have Balluk the Burnt. Great Chief of the East! No, wait. West¡­ Chief of Chiefs¡­ of everywhere!¡± ¡°Stay in cave,¡± Moonkin ventured. ¡°Stay in cave,¡± they all echoed. ¡°Balluk leave,¡± Moonkin added in whisper. ¡°Balluk leave,¡± several quietly agreed. ¡°Leave?¡± Balluk snarled. ¡°Why don¡¯t you come and make me?¡± Loffi had slowly crawled vines and moss on the cavern roof, and was almost above the wounded, monstrous goblin. Balluk swept his uneven feline gaze about the darkness, desperate for something to eat. ¡°I am getting very angry,¡± Balluk growled. ¡°All of you need to come here, before I jump up and grab¡ª¡± He stepped out of the way of a falling goblin, and swatted it into a cavern wall. ¡°What was that? Trying to jump on my back like some coward, is that it? Don¡¯t you know that I killed the One Swing?¡± Loffi groaned, and pushed up from the floor. ¡°You killed Moonkin.¡± ¡°Moonkin?¡± Balluk stalked forwards. ¡°Half the goblins in this world call themselves that. Of course I¡¯ve killed a Moonkin, and I¡¯ll kill a thousand more. As to you, you little worm, I think it¡¯s about time I had a good meal.¡± ¡°I challenge you!¡± Loffi decided. ¡°Loffi the Throat Ripper challenges Balluk the Burnt!¡± ¡°Throat Ripper?¡± Balluk reached for his own neck. ¡°You¡­? You did this to me!¡± He laughed a mad laugh, forcing it through the pain. ¡°What a day this is. I accept your challenge, little worm.¡± Loffi rushed forward, light on his feet, stepping one way then the other, slicing at the monstrous goblin¡¯s leg, rolling away from a stomping foot, raking his crotch, rolling clear once more. The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation. Balluk kicked the goblin mid-roll and sent him tumbling across the cavern. ¡°Loffi loses. Loffi dies.¡± ¡°No!¡± Moonkin screamed. ¡°Not that! Not do that!¡± All of Loffi¡¯s clan began to screech and clamour from their high hiding places. Balluk shook his misshapen head in disgust. He walked over to the groaning, bleeding goblin on the floor. ¡°Fight!¡± Moonkin screeched. ¡°Save Loffi!¡± ¡°Go ahead,¡± Balluk growled. ¡°I¡¯ll happily eat you all.¡± He raised his foot, meaning to stomp on the small goblin, but he staggered when a stone smashed into the back of his head. ¡°Fight! Fight!¡± ¡°Do that,¡± Moonkin agreed, throwing another stone. Balluk snarled, and raised his foot, but a goblin jumped onto his back, scratching and biting. He tossed it off, turning now another stone struck him fully in the eye. Claws ripped down his thigh. He roared, half-blinded, swiping out and kicking as more small goblins leapt on him, clawing into his flesh, dragging him to the floor, beating at him with their bony knuckles. ¡°Stop!¡± Balluk demanded. He struggled against the hard stone. ¡°Get off of me!¡± He searched with his one eye for some hold or leverage he might use for escape, but there were too many hands grabbing and holding him. Balluk lifted his misshapen head to see orbish amber eyes staring down in judgement. ¡°Better that you¡¯re dead,¡± Loffi said. *** Sam sat facing a tavern counter, feeling out of place. The walls were stone and metal-worked instead of plain wood. The folk of Timilir were all rounder and more expensively dressed than those of Southwestern Tymir. Worse still, he was on the wrong side of the bar. A green-clad man that looked not much different from Arnor tended the counter, chubby and pleasant in his own way. Sam had long found large crowds uncomfortable though, ever since his wife and son had left, and now he found them close to unbearable. It was as if all the death and slaughter he had seen made him no fit company for ordinary folk. He laughed aloud, realizing he was bad company to begin with. ¡°Something funny, Horvorrian?¡± asked a gruff, armoured guard beside him. Sam glanced around the stone-wrought tavern, seeing that the fanciful folk had turned their gazes and conversations. He stared into the dark eyes of the bearded guard. ¡°What makes you think I¡¯m from Horvorr?¡± The guard shrugged, his metal armour rattling. ¡°You¡¯ve got that stink about you, and the half-starved look of most folk from Southwestern Tymir.¡± He refused to look away. ¡°What¡¯s your name, stranger?¡± ¡°Sam.¡± The guard sniffed. ¡°Odd name is that.¡± ¡°Sam the Spearslayer?¡± the green-garbed barkeeper asked. Sam struggled not to cringe. ¡°Sam Longarrow.¡± The armoured guard staggered back, his stool clunking into the stone. ¡°Longarrow?¡± Fear and intrigue rippled through the richly clothed folk at the tables. A group of five more guards stood up at the corner table. ¡°Did one of you say, Longarrow?¡± a stentorian voice demanded. Sam watched in confusion now all the guards drew sword or spear and came to surround him. It reminded him all too much of the gates of Fenkirk when Hakon had come with his men and they had screamed and spat at him, only this time he had no weapon and posed even less of a threat. Sam bared his palms in surrender. ¡°I¡­ that isn¡¯t my name. I didn¡¯t¡ª¡± ¡°On your knees, Longarrow!¡± a hoary guard captain roared, brandishing a spear. ¡°Or by the gods, I¡¯ll skewer you where you stand!¡± Sam swallowed, and slowly got to his knees. ¡°Under the authority of Jarl Thrand you are to be arrested and tried for the murder of three men, for the wounding of a dozen others, and for the robbery of gold from Jarl Thrand¡¯s own estate.¡± ¡°I did none of that!¡± Sam shouted. ¡°I swear to you, this is a mistake!¡± The guard captain paused, and nodded to the barkeeper. ¡°Hand me that notice.¡± Sam didn¡¯t struggle as they forced him onto his stomach. He had only enough room to lift his head to look at the warrant when the guard captain dangled it ahead of him. ¡°A mistake?¡± the guard captain demanded. ¡°What part? That you attacked and killed Jarl Thrand¡¯s own men? That you stole from him? Or are you saying that we¡¯ve made a mistake, and that you just happen to have the name and face of the man on this notice?¡± Sam stared in stupefaction at a drawing of him that looked months old, yet still detailed wounds and scars which had only just healed. ¡°The Salt Sage did this!¡± ¡°Salt Sage?¡± The guard captain barked laughter. ¡°You¡¯ll be lucky if the next holy man you see isn¡¯t a Godi of Muradoon.¡± Epilogue It is Landing Day. I am drunk, on ale, on optimism, on life. This night restored in me my faith. It reminded me why I have come to this inhospitable place, and burdened my wife and son with a life so cold and bleak as this. We lived. Sibbe had invited Anna and a young man named Linden. Hjorvarth and the other boy, Engli, had played the day away and fallen asleep by the fire. The four of us had gathered by the hearth with the sleeping children. Anna and Linden sat enraptured as I recounted my discovery of the Dwarven Treasure Horde. When I was finished, as we laughed, as Linden stole the kiss from Anna that he had waited all night for, I looked across at my wife, my beautiful wife, and I saw in her eyes, for just a moment, a look of deep content and happiness. She had loved me for that moment, as she used to, and then I watched as her fear and doubts manifested. This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version. She remembered her illness. She remembered that this wouldn¡¯t last, not the night, but me. Who I was pretending to be. If only she understood that this was all for her. It is all for her. I will find the Hall of Hrothgar, and I will live that night again. I will save Sibbe. I will save my wife. I will not let her die. I will live a life where I see love in her eyes. I hope one day my son will come to love me as well. THE END Prologue Prologue The Trapper kept his arms under his cloak, and his hands resting on his knives now he swept into the nondescript shack. Straw, once gone stale and soggy, had a renewed icy crunch owing to the bitter winter. He¡¯d never understand why a former Jarl of Weskin had wasted so much blood and gold on conquering Southwestern Tymir. But then he wasn¡¯t a Jarl. He didn¡¯t own any land, let alone a region. And all he¡¯d ever wanted was to serve Laykia the Huntress. The door rattled to a close behind the Trapper. The cramped shed ahead smelled of piss and mildew. A bulky man, head and beard shaven, hunched over a small stool. Brolli the Black they called the brother of Gudmund. While the goblins had named him, with awe and fear, Black Heart. He was a foul omen to all living things in Tymir. ¡°Trapper.¡± ¡°Brolli.¡± The bigger man sniffed, his smirk baring teeth that gleamed slightly in the gloom. ¡°What¡¯s this about?¡± the Trapper angrily demanded. He was a fair fighter, but he knew that Brolli had never lost a duel in his life. He¡¯d heard grim stories of his many victories. But even so the Trapper would put up a fight. ¡°I ain¡¯t shutting up about the Moonbear.¡± The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement. ¡°The Moonbear?¡± Brolli chuckled. ¡°Gudmund wants you to deliver something. Well¡­ to bury it,¡± he decided, hefting a small iron box in the mud. ¡°Take it to a place where no one will ever find it. And then never speak a word of it again.¡± The Trapper scowled. ¡°Why would I do that?¡± ¡°¡®Cause then Gudmund will give you the men you need to hunt down the Moonbear.¡± ¡°Hm.¡± The Trapper bent down, clutching up the iron box, which was locked and had a modest weight. He heard a faint scratching, raised it to his ear, and then shook it up and down. The weight shifted within of its own accord. ¡°What¡¯s inside of here¡­?¡± ¡°That¡¯s not for you to worry about.¡± ¡°I ain¡¯t helping you and your brother with some foul ritual,¡± the Trapper snarled, kissing his pendant of the Huntress. ¡°Burying living things in iron boxes.¡± ¡°It¡¯s not an animal, if that¡¯s your concern. And as dead as a man can be.¡± ¡°Haunted¡­?¡± Brolli simply shrugged, rising from the stool. He brushed dust from his dark trousers. Standing at his full height, he towered over the Trapper. When he offered his hand, the Trapper flinched. ¡°So do we have a deal¡­?¡± The Trapper hesitated. He thought this seemed like work for a Godi. And he was sure that Brolli was hiding something. Metal shuddered to the right, and he realized that there were other iron boxes, varied in size, all stacked atop one another. ¡°What about them?¡± Brolli sniffed. ¡°¡®Many hands make light work,¡¯¡± he answered. ¡°You¡¯ve got yours,¡± he added with a mocking smile. ¡°Unless you don¡¯t want to kill the Moonbear, after all?¡± The Trapper shook his hand, calloused and grimy, which felt fit for a foul killer. He would do whatever it took to slay Braguk Moonbear. His girls deserved their vengeance. 1. Delivered 1. Delivered ¡°The Small King has had writing implements delivered. Parchments, and journals of human make. For reasons I cannot understand, he wishes me to keep a record in their tongue rather than in our own. Though the purpose of a journal that none of our people can read eludes me, I have decided to yield to Agrak¡¯s wisdom. Rather than suffer the wrathful impatience borne of an inevitable future anguish.¡± Hjorvarth woke to thoughts of confusion. He squinted at the hazy light above, suppressing a shiver as a wintry chill seeped into his skin. He took in a long breath, then sighed it out. He felt a latent wrongness, but struggled to place it in his groggy mind. Hjorvarth then recognized the tavern ahead of him, chairs missing from the tables because they had been brought out to the Ritual House of Muradoon. The wrongness built to dread now he glimpsed the hearth beside him. He brushed dust from the cold stonework and knew that the fire had been long idle, that none had been here to light it, because there had been no old man to light it for. Hjorvarth leaned back into the unforgiving wall, suffering again the weight of his father¡¯s death. He sighed, more desperately than before, and struggled up to his feet. Filth and dust clung to bruised skin that smelled of sweat and alcohol. Despite his wounds coming close to healed, each morning he felt each ache and pain anew, and each morning he stumbled through his tired mind to the unchangeable facts of his life, to the grief, and to the slaughter he had not managed to stop. Yet today, there was another thought, that he had made a promise soon to be broken. Hjorvarth had something to do beyond suffer the sickness of drinking too much ale. He had agreed to meet Engli out by the lake, but thought he would have no need to leave when a triple knock sounded at the door. *** Saxi stood waiting outside a modest tavern, trying to keep his eyes towards the hoarfrost door. He shivered both with the cold and with the thought of the dead that would have laid all around him. He had come to Horvorr in the belief, or the hope, that the rumored goblin war had been little more than a skirmish. Instead, the town felt like a place for ghosts. He thought the huge gates were open, only to see that they had been broken altogether; burned for the dead most likely, but he could still see the ruts of wood. Claw marks were everywhere, as well as old stains of blood. The Ritual House of Muradoon had been arrayed with empty tables and chairs, as if all the spirits of the former residents passed had gathered in attendance. Saxi had promised to come here though, to deliver a message. And he was, if anything, a man of his word. He could only pray that Muradoon had spared the one he was looking for. Soon enough, he heard the labored steps of a man newly waking. Saxi swept both hands down his rough spun cloak, and scrutinised leather boots, once thinking them warmly lined, now wondering if they were far too thin. The steps stopped, wood rattled, and hinges squealed now the door swung inward to a shadowed taproom. Saxi cleared his throat, straightening to his full height. ¡°Good morning to you.¡± He paused at the sight of a man bigger than the door frame. ¡°My name is Saxi, and I have been tasked with delivering a message to a hero named Hjorvarth the Red.¡± He paused, thinking that this man seemed more of a brute. ¡°Would that be you, friend?¡± The wind sighed by to fill the cold silence. The huge man stared down at him. Saxi blinked. ¡°Friend¡­?¡± ¡°Hjorvarth the Red?¡± the brute asked in a deep grumble that spoke to deep drinking. ¡°Is that you? I¡¯ve brought a¡ª¡± ¡°Who gave you the message?¡± Saxi struggled not to step back. ¡°I¡¯m not allowed¡ª¡± ¡°Hooded? Face wrapped in rags?¡± Saxi swallowed. ¡°I was paid for discretion.¡± ¡°Fair enough.¡± The brute stepped forward, squinting despite the overcast sky. He wore a handsome red beard, his long hair tailed. He seemed more exhausted than menacing in the hazy light. ¡°The message¡­?¡± ¡°Written,¡± Saxi said, reaching into his cloak. He pulled out a rolled parchment, which rasped as it came unfurled. ¡°Would you like me to read it?¡± He took the huge man¡¯s tiny shrug as assent. ¡°Hjorvarth. If this letter reaches you then I have outdone myself. I expect Horvorr is looking¡­ livelier than ever. Alas, I can leave you little time to celebrate as I bring news most troubling. It would seem that our mutual friend, Sam, has run afoul of the law in Timilir and as such has been convicted to fifty winters in the mines.¡± Saxi squinted at the message, struggling to settle worry that now clawed at his throat. He swallowed once more. ¡°I find myself otherwise engaged, but I thought you should know in case you¡¯re interested in saving him. I suspect that Dan might be there as well¡­ perhaps in my absence you can reunite them.¡± Saxi risked an upward glance, only to see a stony visage that remained unchanged. ¡°Is that all?¡± Hjorvarth asked. ¡°No.¡± Saxi furrowed his brows. ¡°Signed¡­ a man made of falseness and cruelty.¡± Hjorvarth stood in silence for a long while, then rubbed at his face with both hands. He sighed into his palms, and growled laughter. Saxi thought for a moment that the man might start screaming or breaking things, but then he seemed to sink into himself instead. Saxi would have already left were it not for his hunger and the hanging sign of etched bread. Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. ¡°You can come in,¡± Hjorvarth then offered. ¡°And have food and drink if you find it.¡± Saxi was surprised to see the man had already passed under the door. ¡°Is this your tavern?¡± ¡°Sam owns it.¡± He turned into a distant room. ¡°He was given it by my father some years before.¡± ¡°Oh.¡± Saxi paused near the counter¡¯s end, too wary to wander into the darker half of the tavern. He waited while distant sounds of rummaging and packing began. ¡°Are you leaving for Timilir?¡± ¡°Yes.¡± ¡°Not that you asked for my thoughts,¡± Saxi said, ¡°but Jarl Thrand isn¡¯t well known for changing his mind on sentencing. I doubt you¡¯ll have any chance of freeing your friend from the mines.¡± ¡°I mean to join him.¡± Saxi chuckled in uncertainty. ¡°And what crime would you commit? Hjorvarth strode back into the taproom. He now wore a thick fur jacket that made him seem even larger and a leather pack that appeared dainty on his back. ¡°None. I already murdered the son of Jarl Thrand.¡± ¡°Say again?¡± Hjorvarth bent down beside the hearth, shouldering a fur-rimmed shield that was cracked and battered. ¡°I had not meant for it to happen, but he rushed to stab Geirmund in the back and I had no mind to risk him slipping from grip or tackling a man that would have punched me full of holes. So I hit him,¡± he plainly added. ¡°And then he landed on stones that broke open his skull.¡± ¡°Oh.¡± Saxi realised he was staring at a man well known as a violent ruffian, as a murderer, a law breaker, and as the foster son of Brolli the Black. The son of Isleif the Disgraced. Hjorvarth wrapped himself in a thick cloak. He strode forward, appearing as a great grey wraith. Saxi tried to step back, but thudded into the bar¡¯s counter. ¡°I¡­¡± ¡°My thanks for your message, Saxi,¡± Hjorvarth said, passing slowly by him. ¡°Safe journey back to Timilir. And as I said there¡¯s food and drink if you can find it. In here, if not by the Ritual House. I would only ask that you close the door as you leave.¡± He dipped his head, and marched out into the bitter morning. *** Saxi had started a fire and boiled snow into water. He switched between drinking that and a musty bottle of bitter liquor. He had found some hard cheeses and some harder bread, and now chewed on his last husk. He then sat watching the flames, wondering what he was doing. He had managed to make a living, but not a life. Saxi needed to work for a real messenger company, or get himself hired by a Jarl or a rich household, so that he wasn¡¯t risking his life for small coin that barely kept him fed. And it wasn¡¯t as if he was even eating well. Worse still, he had the sinking feeling that he had just sent a man off to his death, or, more likely, unleashed a murderer who was on his way to cause the deaths of dozens of other men instead. ¡°You¡¯re about the¡ª¡± Saxi startled. Hands pressed down on his shoulders, holding him to the chair. The pressure loosened and a middling man strode past, settling on the seat opposite. He had red hair and a thick beard, darker and unruly. He appeared quite old, his posture lazy, his face both proud and sour. ¡°You¡¯re about the worst thief I¡¯ve seen¡­ is what I was going to say, before you screamed.¡± Saxi frowned. ¡°I didn¡¯t scream.¡± The bearded man scratched at the mottled flesh of his scarred neck. ¡°But you are a thief?¡± ¡°No.¡± Saxi shook his head. ¡°I¡ª¡± ¡°Well you¡¯re definitely not Hjorvarth. Unless I got a lot bigger. And he got a lot¡­ you¡¯re more like Engli with black hair. Only I think even he might notice if I strolled up to him. I suppose what I¡¯m saying then is that you¡¯ve got black hair. And that you¡¯re a thief¡­ and that you¡¯re not Hjorvarth.¡± Saxi was at a loss for words. The bearded man yawned and squinted off at nothing. He then swung his gaze back. ¡°Who are you?¡± ¡°Saxi¡­ who are you?¡± ¡°I am looking for Hjorvarth.¡± Saxi noticed the man¡¯s fine shirt, half-hidden beneath his tattered fur cloak. ¡°Are you Chief Gudmund?¡± The man blinked as if immensely tired. ¡°Answer my questions first.¡± ¡°I already¡ª¡± ¡°The ones I didn¡¯t ask!¡± The man¡¯s eyes were suddenly wide. He snarled, and upended the table. Saxi kicked back, still seated in his chair, only to find the fur-cloaked man stood over him with a drawn sword. ¡°Hired dagger, lad?¡± the man growled, his voice much sharper than before. ¡°Am I going to find Hjorvarth dead in his bed if I look? Should I just open your belly now and be done¡ª¡± ¡°I¡¯m a messenger!¡± ¡°Oh,¡± the man muttered. He sniffed, then turned away, then wheeled back with his sword leading. He stopped short of skewering Saxi¡¯s throat. ¡°Do you think I¡¯m a gods damned fool? Well? Did Thrand send you?¡± Saxi wanted to answer but he had no words. He shook with fear and struggled to breathe. The bearded man cocked his head. He sniffed more forcefully than before. ¡°Have you just pissed yourself?¡± He grunted, sheathed his sword, and raised his brows. ¡°I suppose that¡¯s almost my fault for shouting. I happened to mean it in good humour¡­ and I wanted to be sure. That you weren¡¯t, well¡­ never mind. Where¡¯s Hjorvarth?¡± ¡°Gone,¡± Saxi stuttered. ¡°To Timilir, I think¡­ to save a man called Sam.¡± ¡°Sam, Sam, Sam,¡± the mad man spoke the name as if it troubled him. ¡°You bring him a message?¡± He nodded in answer to his own question. ¡°Who sent it? A man in a hood? Face wrapped with rags?¡± Saxi swallowed. ¡°I¡¯m afraid I can¡¯t say.¡± The mad man nodded. ¡°What if I cut your cock so that you¡¯re pissing until you¡¯re dead? Would that help?¡± He smiled kindly. ¡°More good humour¡­ you already gave it away with your face. So you¡¯re heading back to Timilir, are you?¡± Saxi managed a nod. ¡°I need a message delivered to Thrand¡­ if you come with me I¡¯ll find you some fresh leggings and I¡¯ll have the parchment and payment for your good service.¡± The bearded man sighed a sigh that seemed to leave him thoroughly exhausted. ¡°I am Gudmund, if you hadn¡¯t figured that out.¡± ¡°Oh.¡± Saxi¡¯s heart still thumped in his chest. ¡°A pleasure to meet you, then.¡± ¡°Careful.¡± Gudmund¡¯s stare turned violent. ¡°I thought I¡¯d judged you as an honest man.¡± ¡°Alright.¡± Saxi scowled. ¡°Then you¡¯re a mad bastard that frightened me half to death.¡± ¡°Hah.¡± Gudmund smiled. ¡°Now was that so hard? Come on, then.¡± He walked away from the warmth of the small fire, towards the cold light of the world outside. ¡°You deliver this message to Thrand, and I¡¯ll hire you as my household runner. How does that sound?¡± ¡°Questionable,¡± Saxi decided aloud, following him out of the tavern all the same. He looked once more at the tables and chairs standing abandoned in the gravel yard of the Ritual House. ¡°What happened to your town?¡± Gudmund glanced back at him without enthusiasm. ¡°I saved it.¡± 2. Crossed Paths 2. Crossed Paths ¡°I crossed paths with a strange human today, seemingly a magus, who wished to barter for one of my journals. He had somehow translocated an ornate cart into the tunnels outside of Grorgin. When I refused, he informed me that he would simply steal the texts instead and as such suggested I keep dual recordings. When I countered that keeping zero would also avoid such theft, he appeared dismayed. He then claimed he was still happy to pay and that no price was too high. Fine, I decided, I would do as he instructed for whichever divine elixir had granted Agrak his immortality. To my surprise, a flask was produced on condition I never drink three of the kind. Who knew my short foray into authorship would gather such a formidable following.¡± Fenkirk¡¯s gates had been left open for those traveling the main road. Hjorvarth had almost strode straight through the lumbering town. He had seen little more than creaking structures and churned earth, but stopped when greeted with the fetid smell of rotting corpses. The ravaged killing ground where Sam and Hakon had fought with the rest of Fenkirk¡¯s militia lay covered with goblin corpses, blanketed by a black shroud of crows that cawed and plucked at flesh. A huge troll sat cross-legged amid them, as if in a sated repose. Hjorvarth scowled, reaching for his axe. He walked towards the gap in a sprawling makeshift fence. A small woman emerged to block him. She wore a hooded cloak, woven of two shades of grey. She struck an ominous visage ahead of the rotting dead and the black carrion. Hjorvarth¡¯s pale eyes flickered with fear. ¡°Stand back, Lady of Shadows. I¡ª¡± ¡°What?¡± Astrid pulled back the fur-lined hood, revealing ruffled raven hair. She squinted in defense of noon light, her raw cheeks speaking to recent misery. ¡°It¡¯s me¡­ Astrid.¡± ¡°Oh.¡± Hjorvarth relaxed, then furrowed his brows. ¡°You are a long way from Jorund¡¯s Hill.¡± ¡°Jorund¡¯s Hill no longer,¡± Astrid whispered, scrutinizing the earth. ¡°My father is dead. My mother has taken her own life. Dagny is with me, should be¡­ soon.¡± She glanced up at him. ¡°You¡­ Hjorvarth.¡± ¡°Yes?¡± Hjorvarth asked with a concern that he had once reserved for Isleif. Astrid shook her head in frustration, brushing away tears that trickled down her cheeks. ¡°I can¡¯t think,¡± she hissed. ¡°Edda is dead¡­ rent, and I can still hear her screaming. The Sage has set things out of order, awry, brought vengeful forces down on us.¡± She stared up at him in desperation. ¡°I made matching cloaks.¡± Hjorvarth stepped forward, having to kneel to hug her. He held her now she sobbed into his chest, but then she struggled free from him. ¡°You did this.¡± Astrid¡¯s dark eyes glistened with anger. ¡°I told you this would happen, but you still wanted to leave. I told you he would die. I told you, and you told me you would protect him. Why did you lie to me?¡± Hjorvarth stared at her as if sorrowed. ¡°I have no answer that will comfort you, Astrid. Now¡ª¡± ¡°Now, what?¡± Astrid snapped. ¡°¡®Mind out of the way why I kill this troll?¡¯ To what end, Hjorvarth? What harm does it do by eating the rotting goblins? The folk of Fenkirk left this place with the very hope that trolls would wander here and clear the town of death. So what gain is there in killing it?¡± ¡°It is¡ª¡± ¡°Lady¡¯s creature. Ah, yes, because all the strong men of Timilir are terrified of a woman in the shadows.¡± Astrid shook her head. ¡°A belief for fools if ever there was one. And even if it were true, all of the men here have already been burned. So what would be your hope, beyond getting yourself sent to the Lady¡¯s Shadow?¡± ¡°Words!¡± the troll called in a high-pitched voice. ¡°Man words!¡± ¡°It speaks in a child¡¯s voice,¡± Hjorvarth growled. Astrid scoffed. ¡°It speaks in a troll¡¯s voice.¡± The wax creature seemed to watch without eyes from amid the sea of crows. Hjorvarth frowned. ¡°I¡¯ve seen that troll before¡­ killed it, even.¡± ¡°All trolls look the same. And they all speak in the same high voice.¡± ¡°No.¡± Hjorvarth shook his head. ¡°It is dark green instead of black.¡± ¡°And such a grand distinction that is,¡± Astrid said. ¡°I remembered what I came here¡ª¡± Hjorvarth gave her a gentle shove so he could pass. ¡°Troll!¡± ¡°Man?¡± the troll shouted. Crows scattered skyward now the wax creature lumbered to its feet. ¡°Man!¡± Hjorvarth saw then that the wax creature was far larger than he had remembered. He drew his axe as the troll closed, shaking the ground with its massive weight. Astrid saw the scene as though a grey-cloaked child stared up at a rounded wax giant. ¡°I suppose it is dark green!¡± ¡°I is Fragor!¡± The troll leaned forward as if to look down on Hjorvarth. ¡°I think your face sees me before? No, yes? Yes, no?¡± Hjorvarth nodded, struggling to understand why he had been so foolish as to call for the monster. He pictured the hundreds of teeth inside the troll¡¯s maw, remembered how badly a similar set had mangled Geirmund. ¡°Lost mouth?¡± Fragor asked. ¡°I fight you too hard?¡± Astrid walked up beside Hjorvarth. ¡°Have you seen this man before, Fragor?¡± ¡°Him?¡± Fragor shrieked. ¡°Yes! Greedy man. Run man. Cave hider man. Big bad man. And you?¡± Astrid smiled. ¡°He acted much the same in my company.¡± Fragor¡¯s dark face creased, dribbling wet wax. ¡°Man words? I not know them. Friends, now?¡± ¡°Friends,¡± Astrid agreed. Fragor prodded Hjorvarth¡¯s head. ¡°Friends?¡± Hjorvarth frowned. ¡°What are you doing here, troll?¡± ¡°Me?¡± Fragor hummed in outrage. ¡°What doing you here, man? This my cave. This my bigger cave.¡± ¡°This is the open world.¡± ¡°No.¡± Fragor seemed to look skyward. ¡°This my blue roof cave¡­ friends?¡± ¡°How many men have you eaten?¡± ¡°I eat gob gob gobins. Men¡ª¡± He hummed disagreeably, face creasing. ¡°Bad taste.¡± Hjorvarth gripped his axe. ¡°Yet you tried to eat me.¡± Fragor shrieked laughter, then lumbered around them, crouching as if to hide behind Astrid. The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. ¡°Fragor.¡± Astrid turned. ¡°I must speak with the bad man. Could you go and wait in the trees?¡± Fragor paused for a long while in consideration. ¡°We journey?¡± ¡°Yes,¡± Astrid gently answered. ¡°If you wish¡­ I need to travel to the Midderlands.¡± ¡°Know not. I wait at trees for pointing.¡± Fragor¡¯s face creased. ¡°Bad man journey?¡± ¡°No,¡± Hjorvarth said. ¡°And¡ª¡± Fragor hummed sadly, then thundered away. Hjorvarth scowled. ¡°Have you turned mad, Astrid?¡± ¡°Yes,¡± Astrid said, her gaze crestfallen. ¡°I believe that my grief has remade me. I will leave without Dagny¡¯s company. But¡ª¡± ¡°I will not allow it.¡± Astrid¡¯s pale face hardened. ¡°Be glad that Fragor has mistook your aggression for a greeting for now.¡± She swallowed. ¡°I only came here to warn you. Sam¡¯s imprisonment is a manipulation. The first rung on a ladder that leans against nothing and is due to fall.¡± Hjorvarth upturned his palms. ¡°How does it stand if it leans against nothing?¡± Astrid narrowed her eyes in irritation. ¡°You are still being led by the Sage.¡± ¡°Oh?¡± Hjorvarth asked in mock. ¡°And have you not just chosen a troll for your company? A troll who I met with, when led to a cave by that robed bastard. It seems of all of us, you are the one most eager to follow.¡± ¡°I came here to save you from Fragor,¡± Astrid angrily explained. ¡°By your own word, the troll is harmless.¡± ¡°I have travelled for days to come here, to help you,¡± she snapped. ¡°You who brought death to all my family!¡± Hjorvarth furrowed his thick brows. ¡°You cannot play at grief and cruelty both, Astrid. You claim I walk to the tune of the Sage¡¯s lute, but offer no other stride. What matter is it to me whether he would want me to save Sam? Does the seed worry that the wind blew it this way and that, or is it only hoping to land some place where it can plant? I would not care whether the Lady herself is cheering for me to save him. I swore an oath to Sam, and I mean to uphold it. I have had more than enough of men dying around me.¡± ¡°This did not go as I had hoped.¡± Astrid sighed. ¡°I am sorry that your father died.¡± ¡°As am I,¡± Hjorvarth assured, ¡°but I will feel no better when you walk off to your death. The Midderlands Pass is too dangerous a place for anyone traveling alone. And the Midderlands themselves are little better.¡± Astrid took in a slow breath then shook herself. ¡°I will be fine. I happen to have drawn myself as an old woman, and I expect the troll Fragor will quite enjoy my company¡­ better that than burden Dagny by forcing her to be my guardian. At least this way the harmless troll will be safe from men¡­ well, men like you.¡± ¡°I fear your choice will be the death of you.¡± ¡°Ah.¡± Astrid smirked. ¡°So we are of a mind then, because I fear that yours will be the death of you.¡± ¡°And do your drawings of me as an old man offer no safeguard?¡± Astrid laughed. ¡°Yes¡­ but death of the soul doesn¡¯t always require the rending of flesh.¡± Hjorvarth stared in all severity. ¡°I pray to all the gods that it does not take rent flesh to shake your faith in worthless prophecies.¡± He shook his head. ¡°Your plan is reckless beyond imagining,¡± he added. ¡°Accompany me to Timilir, and I will have a friend take care of you in my stead.¡± ¡°A life of selling myself is all that awaits me in Timilir, Hjorvarth.¡± Hjorvarth stood silenced by her cold delivery. ¡°Wish me luck,¡± Astrid suggested, pulling up her hood now she turned away. Hjorvarth took a step forward, then hesitated. ¡°Joyto¡¯s Luck, Astrid!¡± ¡°Kragor¡¯s Strength, Hjorvarth!¡± Astrid waved without turning back. Hjorvarth felt uneasy with the heathen blessing, watching while the grey-cloaked woman made her way through the strewn corpses. The murder of crows fell to a wary silence, studying her as she approached, returning to their meals as she departed. Hjorvarth considered chasing after her, but was held back by a mix of certainty, confusion and fear. He swept his pale gaze across the abandoned settlement around him and wondered whether he had wandered into yet another realm of the dead. *** ¡°Where go?¡± asked Fragor, towering over Astrid many times over. ¡°We need to find something,¡± she kindly answered. ¡°Hidden by the Young Wolf.¡± ¡°Bones?¡± Fragor reasoned. ¡°Not a real wolf,¡± she explained, wrapping her cloak about her. ¡°Gudmund of Horvorr. A manling. He sent a man called the Trapper out to the Midderlands Pass long ago.¡± Fragor ponderously hummed. ¡°Not understanding. We friends¡­?¡± ¡°We are friends, yes.¡± ¡°This good!¡± ¡°It is indeed. But our journey will be quite dangerous. Will you protect me?¡± ¡°Yes!¡± Fragor enthused. ¡°Fragor protect friend. I fight so hard.¡± ¡°Thank you, Fragor.¡± Astrid smiled up at him. ¡°I will lead the way, but you are much faster and larger than I am. So you will have to wait for my little legs.¡± ¡°Hm. Yes. I am. Friends,¡± he said, humming happily to himself. The cloaked woman swept forward, out through the broken walls of Fenkirk and into the towering, black trunked, trees of the Blackwood. Her gaze kept straight and resolute despite the countless bodies they passed, and the stench of rot and filth and death. ¡°So much food!¡± Fragor declared with awe, plucking up bodies as he went and bundling them under his great arms. ¡°Why did they fighting?¡± ¡°For many reasons. Greed, pride, and survival. The goblins were running out of places to live. To find food. But there are a great deal less of them. So the issue resolves itself.¡± ¡°Oh¡­ for food.¡± ¡°Yes.¡± ¡°What we finding¡­?¡± ¡°I am not entirely sure,¡± admitted Astrid. ¡°Edda tells me it is buried. That I must unearth it or else all will be undone. But I can no longer hear her¡­¡± ¡°Oh. She gone?¡± ¡°Yes¡­¡± ¡°Oh.¡± ¡°This way,¡± said Astrid, turning eastwards, and leaving the ruins of Fenkirk behind them. Fragor¡¯s huge feet made for thunderous footfalls at her side, but he soon rushed too far ahead and had to wait, and then waited too long, and so rushed ahead again. ¡°Where go¡­?¡± ¡°The Midderlands Pass.¡± ¡°Ah,¡± said Fragor in his piping childish voice. ¡°Is good¡­?¡± ¡°Not really,¡± she answered. ¡°The goblin Chiefs who refused to follow the Moonbear still reside there. And there are many other monsters besides.¡± ¡°We are fighting them?¡± ¡°If they wish to fight us, yes.¡± ¡°This is¡­ good. Agak says it is bad. But I¡­ am wronging him. I fight so hard.¡± ¡°That is good,¡± she echoed. Fragor excitedly hummed, stomping off into the distance, shouldering into tree trunks and crushing bushes and branches with his great weight. When he got so far that Astrid could not see him she was both relieved by the quiet, and worried he would not return. Her parents were dead. The last plaintive words of Edda¡¯s spirit had been for her to set out in search of whatever was buried. It had felt fated when she had set out, but now it did not seem as simple. She was not Hjorvarth. Or Fragor. Or even that smiling blond man, Engli. Astrid was a young woman, small and feeble, and if a man, or a goblin, were to attack her she would be hard pressed to defend herself. Yet she was acting with the same rigidity as the huge warrior, without the bulk to back it up. A giant troll might come in useful, unless he accidentally crushed her underfoot, or decided she was better as food. How much simpler life would be if she were Hjorvarth. She could have beaten the Salt Sage bloody and locked him away before he ever had a chance to kill her father. ¡°The Old Enemy,¡± she murmured. ¡°And now I travel with the oldest friend of The Small King,¡± she thought. ¡°Perhaps it is fated,¡± she said aloud. A great wave of grief threatened to drag her under, but she softly sighed and smiled defiantly to herself. ¡°There¡¯ll be time for sorrow later,¡± she reminded herself. Stomping sounded out in the distance, amid the great hissing of leaves, and the huge childlike figure of wax bounded forward from between the black trunks of trees. ¡°You are slow!¡± Fragor declared. ¡°How long to middle lands?¡± ¡°A long while,¡± admitted Astrid. ¡°You will have to be patient.¡± ¡°Hm¡­¡± Fragor let out a short, disagreeable hum. ¡°This what Agak says.¡± ¡°I can always go on alone.¡± ¡°No!¡± Fragor insisted, almost apologetically. ¡°Fragor protect friend. I will patient!¡± ¡°You can call me Astrid, Fragor.¡± ¡°Ass¡­id. Acid! Yes. Acid is friend!¡± Astrid quietly laughed. ¡°What laughing?¡± ¡°Well¡­ because you are made of acidic wax¡­¡± She trailed off, realizing her meaning would be entirely lost. ¡°We are friends. And that makes me happy.¡± ¡°Yes,¡± Fragor agreed. ¡°Hah!¡± Nearly a score breaths passed with the giant troll lumbering along beside her. ¡°How long, Acid¡­?¡± Fragor hopefully asked. Astrid had begun in no mood for talking, but she managed to smile in answer despite her patience already wearing terribly thin. ¡°A very long while indeed.¡± 3. Second Best 3. Second Best ¡°As the years blend together beyond counting, I begin to resent my own achievements. No shaman has ever achieved more than Izzig. And yet it is not enough. My kind, in their innumerable thousands, all know the name Small King. Yet precious few know my own. Perhaps this unhappiness will only ever worsen until I step out from Agrak¡¯s shadow. There has to be more to existence than this. Propping up the Grorginite Empire until it topples, bloodily, and then beginning anew.¡± Gudmund leaned back in his black chair, watching confusion twist the chubby face of Ralf. The Chief of Horvorr and his stout guardsman both sat in the counsel room. They were surrounded on all sides by grey-and-black banners, woven with wolves that seemed to howl in silence. ¡°So you went to find Hjorvarth?¡± Ralf asked, scratching at his bulbous nose. ¡°But you found a man named Saxi instead. And now you¡¯ve sent him to deliver a message to Jarl Thrand¡­ because we¡¯re all going to go to Timilir?¡± Gudmund nodded. ¡°As simple as that.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t like it.¡± ¡°What¡¯s that supposed to mean?¡± ¡°Gonna get us killed, then, for no gain that I can see.¡± Ralf frowned. ¡°What is the gain meant to be?¡± ¡°I¡¯ll tell you the truth, Ralf, because I trust you¡­ I don¡¯t have food to feed us. And I don¡¯t have coin to pay for more. So¡­ let¡¯s say we¡¯re going for free meals.¡± Ralf narrowed his eyes. ¡°You just told me that you found a treasure horde.¡± ¡°Did I?¡± Gudmund¡¯s mirth lapsed. He shook his haead. ¡°It¡¯s been a long night. I¡¯m going because I want to go. And, even if I did find a treasure horde, I can¡¯t buy grain that isn¡¯t there to be sold, now, can I? We need to go to Timilir to buy carts, so that we can load grain onto those and bring them back.¡± ¡°Right.¡± Ralf nodded. ¡°So you¡¯re making peace with Thrand?¡± Gudmund smirked. ¡°That¡¯s about what it said in the message.¡± ¡°So we¡¯re not blaming him for your son¡¯s deaths, then?¡± Gudmund upturned his palms. ¡°Goblins did that, Ralf. No man¡¯s beck and call, and all that.¡± Ralf wasn¡¯t sure what he meant, so shrugged. ¡°What about the town, then?¡± ¡°I¡¯ll let it sit for a while. Anyone that wants to stay can stay. Anyone that wants to come can come.¡± ¡°So why wait here?¡± ¡°I¡¯m expecting a guest.¡± The doors to the main hall clunked in the distance, followed by the faintest flutter of the wind. ¡°Thought you said Hjorvarth left?¡± ¡°He has. Bad timing on his part. I was going to offer him half the treasure.¡± An oaken note echoed now the doors came to a close. Ralf scratched at his nose. ¡°You mean you would have only stolen half of it?¡± Gudmund sniffed. ¡°He owes it to the town. Call it a wealth tax, or an inheritance tax. Or just a debt settled for what he owed Brolli. I happen to think if I had asked him, he would have given it without complaint. I could have not told him¡­ there was always that choice open to me. How much coin can a man really even spend?¡± He shook his head. ¡°I¡¯ll pay him back, then. Happy with that?¡± Ralf met the words with another shrug. ¡°Didn¡¯t have a leaning either way.¡± Gudmund smiled without enthusiasm, then started rubbing at his tired face. ¡°What¡¯s taking him?¡± ¡°Who is it?¡± ¡°Hello?¡± a third voice shouted. ¡°Gudmund? Chief¡­ Jarl Gudmund?¡± ¡°Is that Engli?¡± Ralf asked. ¡°Do you want me to send him away?¡± ¡°We¡¯re in here!¡± Gudmund called. ¡°Eight wolves for company!¡± ¡°Nine for me, then,¡± Ralf muttered, grinning at his own joke. Gudmund¡¯s face hardened to a regretful set. He stared at the stout guard. ¡°Something wrong¡­?¡± ¡°They¡¯re all dead and we¡¯re the only ones left.¡± Ralf¡¯s smile faltered. ¡°There¡¯s always Arfast.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t know the man,¡± Gudmund said. ¡°I met him for the first time when I was half mad and you brought him to my Hall. Where exactly did you find him?¡± Ralf opened his mouth to give answer, only to realize he had none. ¡°I don¡¯t remember, but I could always ask¡ª¡± ¡°No.¡± Ralf thought to press further, but then Engli crossed through the purple curtains. He slowed to a stop not far from the octagonal table. He wore all black and looked like he had been sleeping in a hay shed. ¡°Went in the wrong corridor,¡± Engli mentioned. ¡°Had the thought that there were two ways into the place.¡± Gudmund met the blond man with a disappointed stare. ¡°There¡¯s only the one.¡± Engli met the words with a nod. He seemed to grow uneasy standing between the wolf banners. ¡°Where would you like me to sit?¡± ¡°I¡¯ll be sure to tell you when I do.¡± Gudmund sniffed. ¡°Engli, is it?¡± Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences. Engli met the words with a doubtful frown. ¡°Do I look different?¡± ¡°To me? No. Any other man might see that you¡¯re leaner. Might see that¡ª¡± Gudmund waved his arm through the air. ¡°That false air of a man that¡¯s seen death, caused death, and lived to tell the tale. But, no,¡± he repeated. ¡°I¡¯ll always see that same little coward who failed to protect my sons.¡± Engli stood in silence, heat rising to his cheeks, wanting to rebuke the arrogant bastard sat watching him. ¡°And, now,¡± Gudmund began slowly, ¡°I hear you¡¯ve done me an even greater wrong.¡± Ralf knew they¡¯d had no word of any wrongs, but he had seen the man flinch. ¡°Care to admit it, Engli?¡± Engli started to sweat as the pair of veterans stared at him. He knew that they knew what he and Sybille had done. He could see it plain in their weary eyes, but he had no clue why Gudmund hadn¡¯t already leapt up from his seat with a drawn sword. Gudmund had ran out of patience. ¡°Last night I had a man standing where you stood, but I gave that man a chair. He was a big man, some might say huge, and a much better man than you. So I made him an offer. I told him plain as day, or black as night, that he could marry Sybille. He could marry her if he so chose to.¡± Engli blinked. ¡°What did he say¡­?¡± ¡°Something other than yes¡­ or else why would you be standing here?¡± Gudmund chuckled in mockery, but meant it more for himself than anyone else. ¡°Hjorvarth, as it turns out, is on his way to Timilir. Sam, as it turns out, has been sent to the slave mines¡­ and so that leaves you, second choice. Only choice, really.¡± Engli considered the words for a while. ¡°To marry Sybille?¡± ¡°What?¡± Gudmund grinned. ¡°Gods no¡­ well, perhaps, but not quite. I intend to travel to Timilir to make peace with Jarl Thrand.¡± He made no mention that he intended to use Engli to make the offer. ¡°Smile,¡± Gudmund thought. ¡°Smile, smile and smile. Kick over the sacrificial lamb and start opening throats while they smile back at you.¡± ¡°I¡¯m an outlaw in Timilir¡­¡± ¡°As it turns out, I¡¯ve gold to clear that death debt. But I need a man that I can trust, to protect my daughter.¡± ¡°You don¡¯t trust Arfast?¡± Engli asked. ¡°I do,¡± Gudmund thought, ¡°with my life, with her life, and that¡¯s exactly while I¡¯ll be having him bring her back to the Low Lands. Back home. Back home without her father, without her uncle, without her brothers. Back home, a girl abandoned by the last man alive that should have cared enough to keep her safe with his own two hands.¡± ¡°Gudmund¡­?¡± ¡°Two,¡± Gudmund began unsure of what he meant to say, ¡°hands are better than one. So four¡­. are better than two¡­ naturally.¡± He scowled. ¡°Unless you happen to disagree?¡± ¡°No.¡± Engli upturned his palms. ¡°Not at all. I just wanted to be sure. So, you want me to accompany you to Timilir while you make peace with Jarl Thrand? And do my best to look after Sybille?¡± ¡°Ah, see, now you¡¯re showing promise,¡± Gudmund happily answered. ¡°Go and pack your things, then. I¡¯ve¡­ things to discuss.¡± Engli bowed, taking his leave. Gudmund and Ralf sat in silence until the hall¡¯s doors swung closed. ¡°It¡¯s not right,¡± Ralf spoke with something close to disgust. ¡°Not to him. Not to anyone.¡± Gudmund kept his gaze towards the twin wolves on black banners. ¡°Guard work?¡± ¡°Trading a man¡¯s life for your own gain. Leading him to slaughter.¡± Gudmund sighed. ¡°I suppose I told you all that as well?¡± ¡°No.¡± Ralf shook his head. ¡°I can just see it in your eyes. You look desperate. More desperate than you were when you had goblins running over your town. You look like a man who¡¯s made the wrong choice, but wants to stick with it because he¡¯s set on getting himself killed.¡± Gudmund glanced at the stout guard. ¡°Never known you to be so brave with your words.¡± Ralf stared without sympathy. ¡°Never known you to be so cowardly with your actions.¡± ¡°Hah.¡± Gudmund smiled despite himself. ¡°What is it you expect me to do? I can¡¯t live in the shadow of Thrand. Not after everything that¡¯s happened.¡± ¡°And why not?¡± Ralf asked. ¡°It¡¯s hardly a darkness that grows thicker by the day.¡± ¡°I¡¯m not sure how to explain this without sounding like a bloody fool¡­ but, I had a bad dream.¡± ¡°Sounds foolish.¡± ¡°And in that dream,¡± Gudmund continued, ¡°I saw Agnar, Geirmund, and Sybille. I won¡¯t go into the particulars, but Sybille was in trouble. And I was asked, arm twisted really, to sell my soul to save her. I did¡­ because, why not, it¡¯s only a dream. But after that, Geirmund told me some frightening things. He told me that Jarl Thrand had made a deal with that giant shaman, Braguk Moonbear. ¡°A deal to capture Geirmund and Agnar on their journey back from Timilir,¡± he added. ¡°And then to lay waste to Southwestern Tymir. So I woke, dismissed it all, fairly sure that Braguk Moonbear was long dead, but then that giant shaman paid us a visit. And I heard not long after that a tale about a desiccated man in a frozen tent. Which happened to be the outcome, for the rapist, of me selling my soul.¡± ¡°So we¡¯re taking revenge on Thrand on the basis of a god-given vision?¡± Ralf held up his palms to stave a rebuke. ¡°I¡¯m just asking¡­ it all sounded worrying enough to me.¡± Arfast cleared his throat. ¡°I¡¯m not sure if you¡¯ve not seen me¡­ or if you¡¯re both ignoring me.¡± He nodded in consideration. ¡°The former, then. I thought I¡¯d mention that Sybille told me a similar story, save for the talk about the Moonbear.¡± He stepped forward now a black-dressed young woman swept in through the curtains. Sybille set a journal down on the table, sliding it towards her father. Gudmund rested a hand on the leather cover. ¡°Aren¡¯t you a little old for stories, Sybille?¡± ¡°It¡¯s a journal, father,¡± Sybille said with a tight smile. ¡°Written by your youngest son.¡± Gudmund¡¯s proud face settled into sobriety. ¡°Oh.¡± He held to stolidity now he lifted the journal. Gudmund flipped through the pages, witnessing with muted pride the slow improvement of his son¡¯s lettering. He remembered his wolfish boy sat beside him, quill shifting with each flourish, curses whispered for mistakes made. He sighed with a grief that sank into his skin. ¡°¡®Funny¡ª¡®¡± Sorrow weighed the word, so he cleared his throat. ¡°¡®How all my happy memories now bring me misery.¡¯¡± Sybille and Ralf mused on the sentiment with guilt and sympathy. Arfast nodded in full understanding. ¡°You do all know I¡¯m reading Agnar¡¯s words?¡± Gudmund asked with a scowl. ¡°That wasn¡¯t me baring my thoughts aloud.¡± The disparate trio shared irritated glances while their wild-haired leader began to read more slowly, mouthing words as he scoured the pages. Gudmund¡¯s proud face twisted into a flushed grimace. He kept his gaze towards the yellowed vellum, towards inked script that grew lazy and erratic, while the thoughtful light in his blue eyes darkened to disgust. He lifted the covering, let it slap back, then pushed the journal further onto the table, so that it rested in the crossed lap of wood-etched Broknar the Elder. All eyes, including Broknar¡¯s own, rested on the journal. Then the three living looked up at Gudmund. ¡°Well?¡± Sybille asked. ¡°Gudmund?¡± Ralf pressed. Gudmund eyed his black-dressed daughter. ¡°How much of this have you read?¡± ¡°Enough to know that Agnar thought Thorfinn had killed the woman he loved.¡± ¡°Ah.¡± Gudmund nodded in masked relief. He would burn the journal before the day was done. He would pray that someone had done the same for his untold grandson. ¡°There¡¯s not much more to know than that. Unless you¡¯re of a mind to read pages and pages of what a bastard I am.¡± He managed a convincing smirk, despite his hands shaking under the table. He struggled to steady his breathing. ¡°Father?¡± Sybille asked in concern. ¡°Is something wrong?¡± ¡°Beyond the obvious?¡± Gudmund asked before shaking his head. He then scrutinised the carved visage of Broknar the Elder. God of Knowledge, all the words in the world unfurling into his lap until they rolled off the table¡¯s edge. A fall to darkness and oblivion. ¡°We¡¯re leaving for Timilir,¡± Gudmund spoke in a faraway voice. ¡°I meant to tell you sooner, Sybille, but you¡¯ve got till midday to pack your things.¡± He regarded her bald, hawk-faced guardian. ¡°Arfast¡­ would you let those in the town know that we¡¯re departing, and invite any along that want to come.¡± Arfast frowned, having already done just that. He nodded all the same. ¡°You¡¯re with me, Ralf.¡± Jarl Gudmund rose to his feet. ¡°We¡¯ve a few things to attend to before we leave.¡± 4. City Affairs 4. City Affairs "The Small King insists on pursuing his goal of a grand settlement for the Grorginite Empire to rally the likes of human cities. But all goblin settlements I have seen that extend beyond a single clan invariably end with tribal in fighting. I have tried to tell our immortal leader that this can not be managed by will or ambition but by studying the Pools, and manipulating them. So that they yield a form of youngling with a keener, more malleable kind." Jarl Thrand had chosen a small space for his counsel room. One wall for the ever-open double doors of white stone. Two walls for mirrored rows of squat drawers, each made from grey marble and wrought with old and finicky mechanisms that allowed the weight to roll. A long window served as the last wall and opened onto a wide balcony, fenced by a balustrade that had been etched with swords, stars, shields, and flames. Jarl Thrand¡¯s entire estate had once housed all together more royal company, but he, like his ancestors, had made no qualms about claiming the holdings of those long dead. The Jarl of Timilir sat at an octagonal table with his three most trusted advisers, each of them facing him, so that two empty seats separated Thrand from his lessers. It had been wrought of white marble that matched the walls; and layered in ledgers, papers, and drab blankets to stop painful reflections. It was rare that light found the room though, so several lanterns burned atop the drawers and table, lending hues of red, yellow, and orange to the shades of marble. The light lent ghastly shadows to the four somber faces at the table as well. A fifth man stood in the room, behind and to the side of Thrand, silent and motionless, his polished armour gleaming with firelight, while his grizzled face remained shadowed. ¡°Must you stand, Atsurr?¡± Ekkill asked. A plump man, he sat opposite Thrand, clad in a white-trimmed red-dyed robe that was thick-woven for the winter weather. Atsurr¡¯s shrug caused a rasp of metal. ¡°My Jarl?¡± Thrand raised a withered hand, gesturing his assent. Atsurr strode forward to take the chair at his master¡¯s left. He pushed further back from the table, and drew his sword to lay it across his armoured legs. Ekkill¡¯s round face pinched in distaste. ¡°Is all this precaution truly needed? I would rather you stand than have your blade ever readied.¡± Atsurr grunted as he rose. He returned both chair and sword, and moved to stand behind the Jarl of Timilir. ¡°What is it you expect to happen?¡± Ekkill pressed. Atsurr didn¡¯t bother to look at him. ¡°The unexpected.¡± ¡°If the chickens are done clucking,¡± Fati ventured with a youthful smile, ¡°I would like to give my report.¡± He sat to the left of Ekkill, opposite the green-robed spiritualist known as Dragmall. Fati himself wore plain black clothes that closely fitted his skinny frame. ¡°Am I free to proceed?¡± ¡°Go ahead,¡± Jarl Thrand rasped. ¡°As a whole, the income from trade tithes remains steady¡­ as do most of the other taxes.¡± Fati smiled in apology. ¡°Alas, it would seem that the Low King has decided that the Low Lands would be best served paying less coin to Timilir, and as such they have requested exemption or a return of revenues gathered. It should also be noted that our own cropland has yielded less than expected, so we were more reliant upon purchasing grains¡­ which the Low King saw fit to raise the price for. Coupling that with the diminishing yields from our mines¡­ mostly brought on by the persistent abductions from the kobolds¡ª¡± Jarl Thrand raised his hand, then turned his spiritual adviser. ¡°Dragmall. What course of action, if any, do the gods suggest we take with the kobolds?¡± Fati and Ekkill exchanged impatient glances, both surprised when the spiritualist quickly cleared his throat. ¡°None.¡± Dragmall cupped his fleshy fingers on the table. ¡°They assure me this issue will resolve itself.¡± ¡°And what do they make of this new criminal element, the¡­¡± ¡°Crooked Teeth,¡± Atsurr finished for Thrand. ¡°Ah,¡± Dragmall sighed. ¡°Now there is a simple question that begets muddled answers. That alone would leave me to believe that they are not ordinary criminals.¡± ¡°Is that really your answer?¡± Atsurr snapped. ¡°They are snatching folk off the open street by day, from guarded homes at night, without warning or witness¡­ leaving behind bags of bloodied teeth. Who here is so deluded as to believe that we have been dealing with petty thugs?¡± ¡°Merely a preamble,¡± Dragmall murmured. He reached under his green hood, scratching at his head. ¡°There is a shared fear among the stars and spirits, but I see and speak to them as if through a haze. I can hear only one answer clearly, that of Muradoon¡­ not words but echoing laughter.¡± Atsurr stared down at the spiritualist. ¡°You expect death then, Dragmall?¡± ¡°We have already had death¡­ but, yes, I do not expect it to end soon¡­ or ever.¡± ¡°So,¡± Thrand¡¯s voice dripped with venom, ¡°the Low King wishes me to bow at his feet lest he nip at my heels. The kobolds are beneath the city itself, stealing our miners, and now I have a band of lunatics on the open streets, exchanging tax payers for teeth.¡± He sighed in frustration. ¡°What news from the Midderlands?¡± Fati spread his palms across the table. ¡°Your step son has requested more¡ª¡± ¡°More,¡± Thrand echoed with hate. ¡°What a waste of a daughter to get a son such as him. What news from Vendrick?¡± He waved his hand in dismissal. ¡°Forget it, I can see it plainly by your face.¡± He took a long breath. ¡°Before we discuss answers to unpleasantness¡­ is there any good news?¡± He narrowed his sunken eyes. ¡°Any at all?¡± ¡°We have arrested a messenger,¡± Atsurr said. ¡°He came to the gates wishing to deliver a message, but refused to tell it to anyone other than you. I planned to press him into giving answers rather than granting an audience.¡± Jarl Thrand turned to the armoured man. ¡°Is there some reason this was not raised with me?¡± ¡°It happened not long ago.¡± Atsurr sighed. ¡°You were on your way to this meeting.¡± ¡°I see.¡± Jarl Thrand faced his counselors. ¡°You can all take a short break.¡± Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon. *** Saxi kept at a close step behind his armoured escort. Jarl Thrand¡¯s Estate was even larger than it appeared from the city streets. He had a hard time telling the marble rooms and corridors apart. He feared that he would end up lost and, when someone finally found him, that he would once again be mistook as a threat. Saxi had very much come to regret his promise to deliver the message face to face. He should have passed it on at the gates instead of pressing the guards. He thought that they would be elevated and honourable, for they stood guard on the loftiest structure in Timilir and served the venerable Jarl Thrand. But there was an unsettling mood of oppression to the place, and Saxi understood when he arrived that there were violent men standing behind the ornate gates, cruel faces hidden behind gleaming visors. Saxi had paid little notice to where he was going, but he had crossed into darker corridors, those closer to the huge rock that jutted over the stone city, leaving all the shacks of the slums and the southern sides of richer houses in shadows. He realised his hand was resting on the knife at his belt, so let his arms swing at his sides. The guard ahead of him remained silent, metal rattling with each brisk stride. Saxi slowed to a stop now they came to a small lantern-lit room of marble. ¡°Wait here.¡± Atsurr glanced back. ¡°I will call you in.¡± Saxi smiled, dipping his head. He dreaded delivering his message, but assured himself for the dozenth time that he was a messenger and as such safeguarded by the gods. Sweat trickled down his neck, remembering being hauled through the estate gates, at sword point, and being locked in a room. ¡°¡®Isolated enough for a long stay,¡¯¡± Saxi thought. ¡°What did he mean by that?¡± He frowned. ¡°Was he threatening torture?¡± ¡°Come in!¡± Atsurr ordered. Saxi hurried forward, realizing this wasn¡¯t the first time the man had asked. He bowed low as he came into a room of white marble walls and grey marble drawers. A gaunt old man sat straight-backed at an otherwise abandoned eight-sided table, his posture the only thing about him that spoke to wealth or position. Saxi took a moment to reconcile the living corpse as the Jarl of Timilir. He offered a second, deeper bow. ¡°Your audience humbles me, good Jarl. I am the messenger Saxi, and have never before stood in such honourable company.¡± The Jarl of Timilir scowled. ¡°Stand straight and deliver your message.¡± ¡°I bring word from Jarl Gudmund¡ª¡± Jarl Thrand raised his hand. ¡°Say again?¡± ¡°I bring word from Jarl¡ª¡± ¡°Once more¡­ just the last word.¡± ¡°Jarl¡­?¡± ¡°Yes.¡± Thrand nodded. ¡°There is no Jarl Gudmund. So who sends this message?¡± ¡°Gudmund of Horvorr,¡± Saxi offered. ¡°His Jarlship is addressed in the message.¡± ¡°Oh.¡± Jarl Thrand grinned, his sunken eyes turning hateful. ¡°Atsurr¡­ throw this fool from the balcony.¡± Saxi confusedly smiled, but his mirth lapsed when the armoured man strode forward. ¡°I¡­ I am a messenger!¡± Jarl Thrand yawned. ¡°Yes¡­ the messenger Saxi as I recall.¡± ¡°Forgive my humour, good Jarl,¡± Saxi said, ¡°but this jest sits poorly with me.¡± He stepped backwards now the guard approached. ¡°I simply wish to deliver my message and leave in peace!¡± He thudded into an unyielding drawer, wishing that he had fled straight through the main doors. ¡°Jarl Thrand!¡± ¡°Yes¡­?¡± ¡°I¡­¡± Saxi¡¯s words failed him. He sat cross-legged on the floor. Atsurr stood above him. ¡°You have soiled yourself, messenger.¡± ¡°Again?¡± Saxi hissed, embarrassment mixing with terror to leave him bewildered. ¡°I am a messenger! You must allow me to deliver my message, by laws of all the regions, the cities, and the gods!¡± ¡°Ah,¡± Jarl Thrand muttered, ¡°but then you have brought a message from a man who does not exist. And so those protections become equally insubstantial.¡± ¡°Jarl Gudmund does exist!¡± Saxi insisted, even as Atsurr dragged him across the floor. ¡°He has thrown off your stewardship on the grounds that you failed to support him during his war with the goblins. He is coming here, to Timilir, to tell you that to your face. He demands compensation,¡± Saxi pressed. ¡°And he will accept no less than your youngest daughter¡¯s hand in marriage!¡± Atsurr dragged the messenger up, shoving him against the balcony doors. They shuddered open to a bright and bitter noon. A shrill wind whipped into the small room, causing a mad chorus of rasping and flapping as papers and ledgers stirred to life. ¡°Wait!¡± Saxi was thrown onto the hard marble. ¡°He swore to the gods that he would avenge me! Jarl Gudmund will avenge me!¡± ¡°If he comes here,¡± Atsurr growled, ¡°he will follow you.¡± He hauled the messenger up, and twisted his head to avoid the smaller man¡¯s knife. The blade screeched against steel and snapped. ¡°Muradoon guide you, messenger.¡± ¡°Please¡ª¡± Saxi¡¯s legs struck the balustrade. He glimpsed a pitiless gaze, a lantern-lit room of marble, and etchings of battle in stone. The wind whipped him now he fell, his clothing snapping about his flesh, beyond the wet patch that clung between his legs. Saxi wanted to think, to say or do something, but he all he managed was a stifled scream. He closed his eyes, thinking the fall would be long, but then he smashed into something that almost seemed to yield. He waited with a breathless fear for the agony to come, for Muradoon to take him, but all he felt was a rocking motion while rough lines pressed into his aching skin. ¡°Greetings!¡± came an enthusiastic call. Saxi slowly opened his eyes. He could see bottom of the balcony above him. He rolled to face slums below, rickety shacks and desperate people walking among constant shadows, seen between the bristling lines of thick rope. A gust swept into his side. Terror gripped him now he started to swing. ¡°I hadn¡¯t meant it for a bed,¡± a melodic voice mentioned. ¡°Here, take my hand.¡± Saxi raised his eyes to see a glove reaching from darkness. ¡°Am I dead?¡± ¡°Netted, by the look of things. I suppose you owe your life to whoever rigged it.¡± Saxi only then understood his surroundings, hanging preciously in a robust net, beside a shadowed window. He managed a confused murmur before he retched. Tendrils of bile and chunks of flesh twisted down through the ropes, soon to land on the heads of folk in the shaded slums a hundred feet below. The robed stranger frowned down at his gloved hand, newly traced by spittle. He laughed a laugh that doused the messenger with cold fear. ¡°What do you want?¡± Saxi managed, grimacing. He sniffed and coughed. ¡°Nothing at all.¡± The man¡¯s bright blue gaze did not waiver. He lurched forward, grabbing the messenger under his shoulders. He hauled him up from the net, without care or concern for the man¡¯s wriggling and screaming. Saxi still struggled even after he had landed on the hard ground. He stopped, composing himself while he took deep breaths. ¡°I am sorry,¡± he said quietly. ¡°I¡­ thank you. You saved me, but I was worried I would fall. They threw¡ª¡± ¡°From the balcony, yes, I suppose they must have. I didn¡¯t save your life¡­ as I said it was the work of whoever rigged the net. I was simply here to clean this room.¡± ¡°Oh.¡± Saxi squinted at his surroundings. The room was small, shadowed, and pocketed with cobwebs. A single set of tracks led across the stone floor, miring a thick layer of dust that had been blown clear near the windy window. ¡°You don¡¯t seem to have made much of a start.¡± The robed man chuckled. ¡°I don¡¯t deny it. Would you like me to show you the way clear of this place?¡± Saxi searched the shadows, his youthful face creased with concern. ¡°There are tunnels¡­ ways to leave without the guards seeing you. You need have no fear of Jarl Thrand.¡± ¡°Oh.¡± Saxi seemed to calm somewhat. He frowned up at the robed man. ¡°Your name?¡± ¡°Soon to change.¡± The robed man offered his hand. ¡°We should hurry.¡± 5. Unexpected 5. Unexpected ¡°During the time of the Elder Races, the rise of the humans was viewed as unlikely and as such unanticipated. Yet looking back it should have been all too obvious that a people who could reproduce at an exponential rate¡ªlimited perhaps by food and their own wars¡ªwould easily overtake the Dwarves and Elves despite any technological limitations. In the same way, our people¡ªgiven enough resources¡ªwould easily sweep aside every human kingdom. Though I wonder if the goblins would be so adept at salvaging and adopting what their extinct foes had left behind. Or whether they would simply trod upon the ashes oblivious to what once was.¡± Atsurr strode away from the balcony, and closed the doors. Jarl Thrand had turned in his seat at the octagonal table. He scowled at his most trusted guard. ¡°You are aware that I had not meant that as a genuine request?¡± ¡°Yes,¡± Atsurr spoke in a careful voice. ¡°Yet he had delivered his message and served no further use. It would not surprise me if the entirety of what he said was a lie. He fondled his knife the whole way here, and refused to offer his message despite threats and temporary imprisonment.¡± ¡°An assassin, then?¡± Thrand asked. ¡°An assassin that soils himself. An assassin that you let enter my company with a weapon to hand.¡± The Jarl of Timilir shook his head. ¡°You are unhinged, Atsurr. The Crooked Teeth have you jumping at the wind. If you do not rein your suspicions in, or at the very least temper them with sense, then I will find myself a guard who is not so easily rattled.¡± Atsurr belatedly bowed his helmeted head. ¡°I will consider your words, my Jarl.¡± ¡°Good.¡± Jarl Thrand turned back in his chair, eyeing his absent company. ¡°Since the situation has raised itself, what news is there from Southwestern Tymir? And why was I not made aware of this development sooner?¡± ¡°I knew nothing of it until now.¡± Atsurr started to search the small room, then forced himself to stand still. ¡°There has been no real news since the group led here by the man named Sam the Slayer, who we have been unable to find¡­ though some suggest he has gone off to join the Golden Men. Those that journeyed with him gave reports of war with goblins¡­ reports that you have already heard.¡± He took a breath. ¡°It does not strike me as impossible that Chief Gudmund would be so foolish and arrogant as to declare himself a Jarl¡­ but nor do I think him so witless that he would come here to flaunt his rash action.¡± Jarl Thrand massaged his narrow chin with withered hands. ¡°Perhaps the man is ready for his death?¡± ¡°Perhaps,¡± Atsurr echoed without conviction. ¡°He has lost his sons. He has lost his oldest friend. He has even lost his dear brother.¡± Atsurr remained silent. ¡°Well?¡± Jarl Thrand asked. ¡°I have no need of mutes.¡± Atsurr¡¯s armour rattled as he straightened. ¡°You know my thoughts on this. I believe that Southwestern Tymir has suffered losses, but the idea that all those closest to Gudmund have died feels¡­ unlikely. Untrue.¡± ¡°I would disagree. In all cases, save for Brolli. Murdered by his own foster son in a way that hides his body from sight.¡± Jarl Thrand shook his head. ¡°This should have never happened. If Braguk¡ª¡± He cut himself short, knowing that Atsurr, or any man, would not approve of his dealings with the monstrous goblin shaman. ¡°Never mind. Onto¡ª¡± ¡°My Jarl,¡± Atsurr interrupted in a thoughtful tone. ¡°Did you say Braguk?¡± Jarl Thrand kept his gaze towards the cluttered tabletop. ¡°Yes¡­ I suppose I did. Why?¡± ¡°We received a delivery¡­ I kept it closed for fear that the true senders were of the Crooked Teeth.¡± Jarl Thrand¡¯s sunken eyes narrowed. ¡°Oh?¡± ¡°A large dwarven strongbox,¡± Atsurr explained. ¡°It arrived outside the gates¡­ marked with the name Braguk.¡± He stepped forward. ¡°Would you like me to collect it?¡± ¡°Yes,¡± Jarl Thrand decided. ¡°And bring the others back¡­ Fati claims to have some talent at opening locks.¡± ¡°My Jarl.¡± Atsurr turned, bowed, then continued on down the white corridor. Jarl Thrand sighed. He closed his eyes and kneaded his aged face. He considered this a bad day. A bad week, even. A bad month. A bad year. Perhaps, he decided, that time worsened all things and so there was never going to be a day better than the last. He knew for certain that this delivery was not what he expected. He had wanted the sons of Gudmund alive, pieces to trade, or to use, or simply to dismantle. At best they would arrive as pieces in earnest, while at worst this was some simplistic trinket meant to placate for failures. Jarl Thrand could not afford another enemy at his door. He could hardly manage what he had already suffered. Braguk Moonbear should have ravaged Southwestern Tymir to establish a fear for the goblins that Tymirians had not known for winters. Instead, Thrand had been gifted with the worst outcome. A crippled region that yielded no coin and no fear of goblins that he could leverage. Timilir¡¯s walls were, would ever be, an ostentatious decoration. A city of stone seen as nothing more than an oppressive leech, sucking blood from regions that supported themselves. ¡°And yet they hail Vendrick,¡± he hissed inside his own mind, ¡°because the buildings are made of wood, because the ground is warm earth and not cold stone. What good is Vendrick? A city of fools and braggarts. Exemplified by the Golden Men. By Godfrey Golden himself. Timilir had been here since the beginning. The beginning. And these young pups bark at me from all sides, crying foul, lamenting taxes that are owed. Taxes rightfully earned.¡± Jarl Thrand laughed in derision and desperation. Timilir had become so isolated that the petty plots of Chief Gudmund might well be the end of it all. Jarl Alfgeir sat atop a pile of gold in Vendrick. Gold ripped from the mines of the Low Lands, sent with a smile by the Low King. Jarl Thrand worried that the would-be monarch had grown too bold. The Low King would soon lay claim to the southeastern region if not Timilir in entirety. Thrand wondered for a moment what Jarl Alfgeir would do then, but decided that the coward would quickly bend his knee. The Jarl of Timilir realised that his issue had been in his choice of allies. He had married his daughter to the son of Jarl Harrod. A man that proved less than a quarter of his father¡¯s worth. A man that lost acres of ground by the day, despite all the coin spent in his efforts of defense. Even Gudmund of Horvorr had been a sounder investment. Thrand had his friends in the High Lands, but they were too busy fighting among themselves or living in fear of the Low King. That left the Eastland Plains which was no better than the High Lands, only they were plagued by monsters and worse instead of flesh-and-blood men. Jarl Thrand glanced up to see his counselors seated at the table, making a small effort to pay him little mind. ¡°My Jarl,¡± Atsurr spoke behind him. ¡°Are you well?¡± ¡°I will be better,¡± Thrand answered, ¡°when this strongbox is opened.¡± Dragmall and Ekkill turned their attention to Fati. The skinny man scrutinised a large strongbox, wrought from black stone, worked with a multitude of brass mechanisms. The two dozen lines of brass could form hundreds of symbols or shapes on the strongbox¡¯s face. The lock would release when arrayed in the correct pattern. Fati scratched at his head, then started fiddling with the movable switches. If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. ¡°How long will this take?¡± Dragmall grumbled. ¡°Anywhere from a second to a season¡­ but I¡ª¡± Fati twisted a horizontal plate and a hollow clunk sounded from the strongbox. The lid released, sweetening the air with the fetid scent of decay. ¡°Ah, see. I thought I¡¯d seen this like before.¡± He frowned. ¡°Does anyone else smell that?¡± ¡°Thank you, Fati.¡± Jarl Thrand hid his discomfit. ¡°You are all free to leave. We will meet as normal tomorrow.¡± Fati narrowed his eyes, his hands hovering by the barely open lid. Atsurr¡¯s armour rattled as he stepped forward. ¡°Do you need to be escorted?¡± ¡°No.¡± Fati smirked. ¡°Of course not.¡± He pushed back from the table. ¡°I¡¯ll see you all in the morning, friends.¡± Ekkill followed his example and the two men left together, muttering among themselves. ¡°Dragmall?¡± Jarl Thrand asked, more concerned than annoyed. ¡°Do the gods speak?¡± The green-robed spiritualist rose slowly to his feet, his gaze never leaving the strongbox. He shook his hooded head, then hurried into the shadowed corridor. ¡°This bodes ill,¡± Atsurr muttered, standing over the strongbox. ¡°Shall I open it?¡± Jarl Thrand nodded his assent. He leaned forward in his seat now the armoured man lifted the lid. Atsurr coughed, staggering back. ¡°There¡¯s Lady¡¯s work in this.¡± Jarl Thrand grimaced, but showed no hesitation. He walked over to inspect the grim contents. He did not recognize the man who appeared to have been crushed to better stuff him into the metal confines. Flesh had begun to rot, bundled together around broken bones, submerged in a mix of blood, feces and bile. A prodigious eye had been placed amid the remains, lifeless black encircled by faded green. Jarl Thrand saw his own withered face in the mired reflection and understood why Braguk Moonbear had not brought word. *** Izzig¡¯s laughter was tired and dry, rattling out of his wrinkled green neck. He sat cross legged on layered rugs, surrounded by sour smoke, his eyes closed. He had cast his mind elsewhere, watching an old manling open a dwarven chest to find the giant, rotting eye of Braguk Moonbear. The old shaman now blinked his ferine eyes open, coughed, and scratched at his long nose. He had always hated Braguk. Because he was a coward. But, more importantly, because he had never had any need to be one. In all the Moons Izzig had known, Braguk was the only goblin to be born with both potent magic and prodigious size. Before The Pool had birthed him, Izzig had not believed such a combination of traits was even possible. And, when he had been birthed, he had hoped he might be the best of them. But the hugest shaman of all had proved the biggest disappointment. It was Mubrogg the Spirit Weaver, stocky and hunched, who had impressed Izzig in all respects. And, Braguk, along with that accursed Lazoor, had slaughtered him. He had taught all three of them. And in that sense, Izzig knew himself to be a disappointment as well. Though back then he had used a different name, as he often had need to. Other than The Small King, Izzig was the longest lived of their kind. And it was better for he, and for others, not to know that. The shaman suspected that their immortal monarch knew about his monikers and meddling, but he seemed not to care. That was the way of immortals. Even Izzig fell prey to bouts of intractable hopelessness. It was much easier for an old, lesser known, shaman to escape them though. Izzig did not shoulder the weight of being a living god. Even if he had been an instrumental part of one or two failed attempts to form a just and venerable empire. The old shaman¡¯s thin lips curled up into a wry smile. The goblins had risen and fallen so many times, and it was always such a struggle to keep an empire from collapsing. The humans on the other hand seemed to carry on despite whatever they suffered. While the goblins had in them an unstoppable desire to reproduce, to birth more and more from The Pool, the humans seemed to love to build. To take. To keep rising and rising. They did not need to rely on the singular will of The Small King. Izzig grunted disagreeably to himself. He crossed out of the small chamber in which he seered, getting clear of the sour smoke, and crossed into a larger cavern full of a dozen deep, perfectly circular, pools of luminescent green. They would¡¯ve looked to most goblins no different, other than in their enormity, to other spawning pools, but these had been made channeled so that the acrid pool water could be safely drained once the birthing sacks had reached fruition. In the old days, Izzig would use his hooked bone staff to haul each egg up from the water, taking care not to tear the protective lining, but the creatures he now made were far too large and unwieldy for any goblin, at least those still living, to consider lifting. Those with gigantism, like Dalpho or Braguk, might have managed an attempt. Izzig stepped over to the nearest pool, peering down through the murky green liquid to the enormous birthing sack below. There were identical unborn goblins resting at the bottom of each of the other pools, and they would each grow to a size not dissimilar to the recently fallen Great Chiefs. Izzig had been impressed by his own consistency when it came to sizing, but all his previous attempts had either never sparked to life, or, if they had, swiftly suffocated. If this last batch failed, he would need to move on from mixing in giant beetles. Izzig sighed, trudging over to the bone plate that held the pool¡¯s water. With great effort, and using his bone staff as a level, he managed to prise it up enough for the acrid liquid to begin quietly draining. Time passed him by as he pondered what he might try next, or whether to simply be satisfied with growing larger goblins and not forcing them into chitinous hybrids. The level of the luminous pool beneath him slow dipped lower and lower, revealing the glistening fleshy sack which barely contained the huge dark figure growing within. When the last vestiges of acidic liquid had finished draining, the ancient shaman stood staring at the enormous sack left sitting at the bottom of the perfectly circular hole. He knew this would end as the others had, but knew as well he couldn¡¯t leave the hatchling much longer. Sighing, Izzig leaned forward with his staff and began to slice away at the fleshy webbing of the birthing sack, worrying he lacked the strength to cut through. Revealing the chitinous red skin of a giant shoulder, the great weight of the hatchling then did the rest of the work as the goblin, hunched in on itself, unfurled and burst out from the sack, eventually collapsing in a sprawled mass amid the glistening earth. Eyes closed, unmoving, the creature looked more like a bipedal giant beetle, with great mandibles, than a goblin. Izzig scowled down at the creature, willing it to shudder, or at least try to breathe, but it remained indelibly still. The old shaman muttered indistinctly to himself, expecting disappointment but still greatly disappointed, and tried to summon the effort to drain the rest of the pools. ¡°Izzig.¡± He turned, not having heard the lithe, bat-like, goblin approach. ¡°Loffi.¡± The goblin¡¯s conical ears twisted as he cocked his head. ¡°Oh. Big beetle.¡± ¡°Yes¡­¡± His large ferine eyes were wide and confused as he studied the hatchling. ¡°Sleeping¡­?¡± ¡°Dead.¡± ¡°Oh.¡± ¡°Yes.¡± ¡°It is time to leave.¡± Izzig frowned. ¡°I am not ready to leave.¡± ¡°So says Agrak,¡± explained Loffi. ¡°King says. Do that.¡± ¡°For what reason?¡± ¡°War,¡± declared Loffi happily. ¡°Need new caverns. Bigger. Better. Hunt the manlings.¡± ¡°Oh¡­¡± Izzig closed his eyes, and bit down on his own fangs. It had taken so long for these caverns to be made, along with all the pools, and there was no chance at all that his scrolls and reagants and etchings weren¡¯t going to get destroyed by careless carriers. But, he supposed, at least he could start fresh at some other cavern. ¡°I will need help.¡± ¡°Yes. Moonkins will help you carry. Izzig has many things.¡± Izzig had been about to open his eyes, but he sighed instead. ¡°Different help, Loffi. Your clan is¡­ too boisterous. They will break of all my things, or merely forget them.¡± ¡°Hm.¡± Loffi cocked his head once more. ¡°Izzig is friend. So I do this for Izzig.¡± ¡°Thank you, Loffi,¡± said Izzig, managing to smile. ¡°Was there anything else¡­?¡± ¡°No,¡± said Loffi. ¡°How is Izzig? You seem¡­ not good.¡± Izzig thought that, that was an odd question. Loffi had been an able talker, but it was rare for any goblin to inquire about how another goblin was feeling. Or to note it at all. He would¡¯ve thought on it further, but then he heard a great, wolfing breath. ¡°Oh,¡± said Loffi with evident surprise. ¡°Beetle was sleeping!¡± Izzig did not turn right away, waiting for the breathing to give out as suddenly as it began, but then the cavern rumbled instead now the giant hybrid began to rise. ¡°So it seems,¡± he said, looking up at the enormous goblin that soon towered over them both. The great chitinous head and mandibles nearly scraped the roof. ¡°I will need many diggers,¡± Izzig then realized. ¡°We must quickly widen the tunnels for our new friend.¡± 6. Tall Tales 6. Tall Tales ¡°I have heard some strange stories of late of goblin heroes from far afield. Legends of great warriors are common enough, but what made it peculiar was that the goblins¡ªunintelligent runts for the most part¡ªwere speaking of regions which certainly do exist, but which the story tellers have never visited. There is also no way that a visitor from those regions has come here and spread the tall tales through our ranks. I have long known that our people share an almost ancestral memory, given to us by the Pool, doled out most often sparsely and other times amply. But I now suspect that the minds of our people remain somehow interlinked even after we are birthed into hatchlings. Is that why all goblins know the name Small King?¡± It had only taken one day for Astrid to grow entirely tired of Fragor¡¯s constant questions. Of his impatience. Of his stomping. Of his humming. Of his piping, childlike words. And then, just as she was sure that she could bear no more, she had begun to feel glad instead. She had gone to sleep hoping he might have simply abandoned her in the night, or else eaten her while she rested, but he had remained by her side. He had nudged her gently to waking each time she slipped into terrible nightmares, and had kept the fire burning so that she did not go cold. And when she woke he had even brought a wild boar, wild and squealing, which soon died¡ªadmittedly horrifically¡ªin his acidic embrace as it tried to thrash free of waxy green skin and only managed to free fresh and burning liquid instead. Astrid had managed to eat some meat that wasn¡¯t ruined by the wax, which helped to sate her terribly empty stomach. And while Fragor sat silently watching her as if she were some wondrous thing, she began to remember all the times when she had been full of questions. When she had been impatience, and childlike, and would whistle and sing. All to the ever growing annoyance of her older siblings, who tried their best to evade her. Ironic it was, then, that she was the one without patience, while her sister would no doubt be trying to track her. But she had asked Fragor to stomp over her tracks, so she hoped that Dagny would head towards Timilir instead. Or else guess that Astrid was dead. Eaten by the troll who had been running back and forth through the Blackwood Forest. ¡°What are you telling me, Acid?¡± Fragor then asked, his featureless wax face creased into what could be generously interpreted at a curious smile. ¡°I did not speak,¡± she answered. They had been sat silently around a forest clearing, where a clan of goblins had set a camp not long ago, evidenced by their corpses still strewn about the thorny bushes, long grasses, and blood stained tree trunks. Fragor had been studiously plucking up the corpses, and consuming them, but he now seemed to have had his fill. ¡°Oh¡­. yes! But¡­¡± He studiously hummed. ¡°You would like me to speak?¡± Astrid ventured. ¡°Ah.¡± His wax smile widened, and fresh green liquid pooled out from cracks. ¡°Yes!¡± ¡°What about¡­?¡± ¡°Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm¡ª¡± ¡°Please, stop,¡± Astrid kindly requested. ¡°Oh. I was¡­ thinking. I thinking¡­ Fragor live in cave. For longest time. Three holes. Too small. No go. Agak and Ogog come. Agak and Ogog go. Long time. Speak not long.¡± ¡°Then Hjorvarth and Engli arrived?¡± ¡°Yes. Much fighting. Very exciting!¡± he exclaimed. ¡°So strong is that one. Very much stronger than the other mans! And small one. Also¡­ not weak?¡± ¡°You have fought with other men?¡± Astrid asked, slightly worried despite herself. ¡°Oh. Yes!¡± Fragor emitted a sharp, high humming sound, which she had begun to think meant that he was overjoyed. ¡°I have fought them all. Man. Draw. Elm. And then¡­ other things. Yeti ¡ª also very strong! Dracon ¡ª very not taste. Have to spit it out!¡± ¡°You¡¯ve eaten a dragon¡­?¡± ¡°Hm?¡± Fragor made a shrill laughing sound. ¡°Not drag on! Dracon! Is follow drag on. Yes? Like gob gob gobins follow Agak.¡± ¡°Oh,¡± said Astrid. ¡°I¡¯ve never heard of those. And you fought with elves and dwarves?¡± ¡°Yes! Draw¡­ also strong. Elm¡­ hm. Fast. But¡­ catch and¡ªsnap. Very tasty! But, also¡­ strange that Elm and gobin tasting very same. But elm is best. Sad they go is Fragor.¡± ¡°You must have been alive a terribly long time to eat them. Edda said the elder races all died out scores upon scores of years ago.¡± ¡°Long time in cave,¡± Fragor happily agreed. He made a discordant and disagreeable humming sound, and what sounded like a sigh. ¡°Long time in cave,¡± he slowly repeated. ¡°But you are free now. Out in the blue sky cave, as you called it.¡± ¡°Very true!¡± the giant troll declared. ¡°You are good friend, Acid. I must protect you.¡± His face creased. ¡°Though¡­ I think not cave at all! Yore yar says, ¡®widing world.¡¯ Is this?¡± Astrid frowned for a moment, unsure sure of who he was speaking of, but then remembered his conversation with Hjorvarth in the ruins of Fenkirk. ¡°It is, yes. The blue above us is not a cavern ceiling at all, but a great shield of air called the sky. Though Yore yar would no doubt say it is the outer limits of one of Ouro¡¯s great eyes.¡± Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site. ¡°Or oh¡­?¡± ¡°He was¡ªor perhaps, is¡ªThe World Wyrm. Long ago, he tried to eat all of the planets, and all the people, until Joyto the Trickster cajoled Ouro into eating his own tail. And he opened his jaw so wide that he could not pull himself free.¡± ¡°So greedy!¡± Fragor chided. ¡°Then the Eleven Elders cut out his great eyes, and replaced them with the two worlds that remained. This world, Chordus, and another, Primus. Though most Tymirians have different names. And they believe that a fighting god, called Brikorhaan, waits in the stomach of Ouro where all great fighters will go in death, and then begin a glorious conquest down down from gullet to tail, until they reach their hated goddess, Pandor.¡± ¡°Oh. Why hating¡­?¡± ¡°She spawned¡­ well, that isn¡¯t quite right. They blame her for Ouro. For hatching him. She was given a mystical egg by Broknar, her father, told not to let it get close to heat, and then left alone for a great stretch of time¡ªa very long time¡ªon a planet full of rivers of magma and lava. Because her father reasoned it as the last place any enemies might suspect he¡¯d hide it. But time wore on. And on. And on. And on. And the girl, who had been promised of her father¡¯s return, dropped the egg into a volcano herself. Which hatched into Ouro, a slithering worm of black scales, and grew into The World Wyrm.¡± Astrid found she was scowling. She¡¯d always hated the story, and always despised Broknar for it as well, who had so clearly forced his daughter onto that path. What else would a person do after being abandoned for eons with no company or hope of escape. ¡°Hm.¡± Fragor hummed quietly for a long while. ¡°I am thinking¡­ Broknar is bad. Not want fire. But¡­ fire. Say back¡­ but not back. Who is joy toe?¡± Astrid pushed up to her feet, brushing off her black dress. ¡°He was a minor god,¡± she said, pulling her grey cloak about her shoulders. ¡°So much so he wasn¡¯t even invited to fight in the first stand against Ouro. But then nearly all of the gods were eaten, and they had no other choice. The World Wyrm had lost one eye, and Joyto decided that all they need do is blind him in the other. Then, if they were to cover the great serpent¡¯s tail in all the food that remained in the worlds, they could trick him into eating himself.¡± ¡°Oh. Clever! It working¡­?¡± ¡°Yes. Although, none of that ever actually happened.¡± ¡°Oh. Why not?¡± ¡°It is just one of many creation myths, Fragor. The very existence of The Old Enemy, who is a God of Chance from a completely different pantheon, discounts the tale. There are many, many stories just like that all giving different reasons for how we came to be.¡± ¡°Hm¡­¡± ¡°It isn¡¯t important.¡± ¡°Hm¡­¡± ¡°Let¡¯s set off now,¡± Astrid suggested. ¡°Edda warned that I needed to be swift.¡± ¡°Hm¡­¡± said Fragor for a third time. ¡°I am thinking, I am thinking. Yes, yes. We go!¡± *** Astrid had been surprised when half the day had passed in near silence. Fragor had not rushed ahead, smashing through branches and crushing bushes underfoot, but had instead walked slowly beside her, often trailing behind. He had still, at least, walked headlong into the occasional towering trunk. By the bark on the trees, more often pale or dark brown than black, she thought they would soon leave the Blackwood behind them. They would then need to cross by a wide, inhospitable plain of stone and snow that bridged the forest and the Midderlands Pass. The Midderlands Pass itself was more like a swamp. Edda had said that The Small King had done all that. Long ago, he¡¯d tried to make an island where many disparate peoples could leave in peace. And he had used one of the Ten Tomes of Divine Magic to split The Quiet Isles into different regions with contrasting climates and varied fauna. But Astrid was not sure if that were true or not. Her grandmother had been born with the gift of speaking with ghosts. And their home, which was once an old dwarven trading post, had been full of those. Long lost, terribly lonely, souls who would tell as tall a tale as they could to keep Edda¡¯s ear and attention. Though Astrid supposed that they¡¯d have no reason to fabricate such a thing about The Small King. He had been their greatest foe. Unless you counted pride, according to Edda. ¡°What is Agrak like, Fragor?¡± Astrid then asked, stepping over a jutting root. ¡°Hm?¡± Fragor¡¯s rounded featureless face scrunched, sheeting over with fresh green wax. ¡°Long time¡­ very happy. Much fun. Best friend! Then¡­ very sad,¡± he added with disappointment. ¡°Not visit Fragor. Keep in cave. Long time¡­ very long time.¡± ¡°I see. How did you meet?¡± ¡°Meet?¡± he ponderously asked. ¡°I also in cave. Stuck again!¡± He made a shrill hum. ¡°Foolish. But¡­ Agak comes. Digs me out. Very kind,¡± he added fondly. ¡°Then I protect.¡± ¡°How did you end up in the cave?¡± ¡°Hm¡­ I am thinking, I am thinking. I¡­ am¡­ thinking¡ªoh! Arelon,¡± he said as if he were just remembering. ¡°I am thinking, Arelon has put me in a cave. How strange!¡± ¡°Arelon¡­?¡± ¡°Yes. First friend!¡± ¡°He was a human?¡± Astrid ventured. ¡°A man?¡± ¡°He was a man,¡± Fragor happily agreed. ¡°How know you this?¡± ¡°Did he have magic? Powers? Like Agrak does?¡± ¡°He was having magic. That is very true. He had so much magic!¡± Fragor declared. He then ponderously hummed. ¡°How knowing this, Acid? You and Arelon is friends?¡± ¡°Arelon is the name of the God of Wisdom in the same pantheon of Lucius Chance,¡± answered. ¡°Edda believed that they were the deities of Primus. But Chance, or The Old Enemy, has had oversize influence on this world. Whereas Arelon is hardly mentioned at all,¡± she added. ¡°Did you ever see him again after he put you in the cave?¡± ¡°Fragor did see him,¡± he declared as if surprised. ¡°He was¡­¡± ¡°He was¡­?¡± ¡°Dead. I ate him.¡± ¡°Oh. But you can¡¯t eat a god, Fragor. Not a divine god.¡± ¡°Oh. But I did, Acid. Not very tasty. Arelon was very, very old.¡± ¡°Did you kill him¡­?¡± ¡°No,¡± Fragor refuted, as if baffled by the notion. ¡°He had been¡­ arrowed. Dead. Bleeding too much blood. I needed more wax. And this way, I carry friend with me.¡± ¡°I see,¡± said Astrid, more worriedly than she had before. ¡°Do not do that to me.¡± ¡°I do not need to, Acid,¡± he kindly dismissed. ¡°I ate so many gob gob gobins,¡± he declared. ¡°I am very full of wax.¡± ¡°But we will be traveling over barren ground,¡± said Astrid. ¡°There will be no food for a long while. What will you do if you run short of wax?¡± ¡°Hm.¡± He slowed to a stop, looking at Astrid for a long while, then began trudging forward again. ¡°I am thinking¡­ I am thinking¡­ I am thinking.¡± 7. A Wanted Man 7. A Wanted Man ¡°Despite controlling vast swathes of the overland and the underland, The Small King¡¯s search for Lucius Chance, or The Old Enemy, proves fruitless. By all reckoning, we should have located him times over. Which confirms to me what I have long thought. That not only is Chance not of our world, but he must visit other worlds as well. To what purpose, I have yet to gather. So far he seems only intent on destabilization and an ancient vendetta against Agrak. But surely he must have some purpose other than meddling and malice to drive him.¡± Alrik sat in the back room of Sifa¡¯s tavern. He shifted on his stone stool, his posture made uncomfortable by the aches and pains he had suffered since being beaten by Hjorvarth. Those gathered had fell to a silence of lifting mugs, slurping ale, and clearing throats. Despite the heat in the air, the close stone walls gave a sense of foreboding cold. Alrik had taken meeting with one rough woman, Sifa, and three men, no less rough, ranging from youth to infirmity. Arrayed on the stools opposite as they were, and being kin, it seemed a deliberate scene of generations, or the same man growing older from left to right, with Sifa an oddity in the middle. Alrik had been here for almost two weeks, bringing news of Brolli¡¯s death, but he still felt a stranger. He could see the doubt and distrust in their eyes, most their gazes glazed by ale, reflecting the steady flame of the brass lantern between them. He wasn¡¯t convinced that the three men all shared the same name, Afi, but he was certain that they all shared similar ambitions, of cutting his throat and claiming leadership for themselves. He was glad that they still thought him a capable fighter, even though he struggled not to wince with the effort of sitting upright. ¡°Well?¡± Sifa pressed. Alrik scratched at his pocked cheeks, scarred flesh rough to touch. He buried the anguish that he always felt when he remembered his mired face. ¡°Carry on as we are. We don¡¯t know¡ª¡± ¡°What?¡± the oldest Afi rasped. ¡°Our people are being stolen from their homes¡­ and you want to carry on as we are? Until there¡¯s nothing left of all us but bags of teeth?¡± Alrik struggled with his anger. ¡°The slums are huge. We don¡¯t know where these Crooked Teeth are hiding, or who they even are. Until we have some clue as to¡ª¡± ¡°We should be grabbing them from the streets,¡± the youngest Afi snarled. ¡°Cut at them until they give us answers. It¡¯s either that or we go about our business until the Crooked Teeth put a bag over all our heads and drag us away.¡± He shook his head. ¡°What about the Gem Cutters?¡± ¡°They murdered Dyri,¡± Sifa hissed. ¡°Dumped him outside the tavern with two rubies punched into his eyes. It would seem that Coalhair¡¯s daughter is blaming Brolli for murdering her father.¡± ¡°On what grounds?¡± Old Afi grumbled. ¡°Brolli hated Coalhair,¡± Alrik said. ¡°The body was left, and there was no bag of teeth. We brought word that he died after Brolli did, but it seems a lot of folk aren¡¯t ready to believe that Brolli¡¯s actually dead.¡± Fear flickered through each of the Afi¡¯s gazes. Alrik wondered then if the only reason he hadn¡¯t been murdered was because they all thought this was a twisted test of loyalty. Sifa kept her gaze towards the lantern. ¡°Is he dead?¡± Alrik chose the truth he thought would serve him best. ¡°I¡¯m as sure as I can be without having seen his body.¡± A surprised murmur rippled through the adjoining taproom. A man began to speak in a deep voice that rumbled through the air and rolled through the barely open door. ¡°Company,¡± all three Afi¡¯s muttered. ¡°You expecting someone?¡± Sifa asked. A second voice started to shout, which Alrik recognized as belonging to the barkeeper. The stone door groaned open on old hinges. He blinked at the huge grey-cloaked figure standing in the doorway. Hjorvarth swept his gaze across the table, settling on the youthful man with scarred cheeks. ¡°Alrik¡­ I¡¯m here to speak with Alf.¡± Alrik grimaced. ¡°Alf¡¯s dead, Hjorvarth. I found his wedding band near a scattered camp on the Snake Basin path.¡± Hjorvarth furrowed his brows. ¡°You¡¯re in charge, then?¡± ¡°Actually,¡± Sifa said, ¡°if we are indeed going by Brolli¡¯s wishes, you are in charge, Hjorvarth.¡± Alrik nodded without hesitation. ¡°That¡¯s true, but you told me you had no mind to come to Timilir.¡± Hjorvarth recognized unease. He studied the rough men at the table, saw resentment in faces young, middling and old. ¡°Has Alrik done poor work in my absence?¡± If you come across this story on Amazon, it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it. Young Afi seemed eager to speak, but was silenced by the shaking head of Old Afi. The middling Afi cleared his throat. ¡°No¡­ but we would of course welcome the foster son of Brolli.¡± He narrowed his eyes on Alrik. ¡°Gods know we need a leader who understands what it is to fight.¡± Hjorvarth¡¯s hard face remained unchanged. ¡°Sifa?¡± Sifa glanced at Alrik, and shrugged. ¡°Seen worse. Seen better.¡± Hjorvarth nodded, turning to the rough men. ¡°You three can leave.¡± Old Afi scowled. Middling Afi raised his brows. Young Afi scoffed in disgust. ¡°Say again? We were having a private¡ª¡± ¡°Were having,¡± Hjorvarth echoed without sympathy. ¡°I don¡¯t recall ever seeing a man talk back to Brolli.¡± He shifted his cloak, resting a hand on his runic axe. ¡°But I could make best guess at how he would respond.¡± ¡°No need,¡± Old Afi rasped with a servile smile. ¡°My son¡¯s son was ever a rash man.¡± Hjorvarth stood in a scowling silence while the three men muttered under their breaths and departed. He sighed, and pushed the stone door to a close, leaving the room bathed by the hazy glow of the lantern. He took a seat opposite Sifa. ¡°I have no interest at all in pecking at the rotting corpse of the Black Hands.¡± Alrik faced them both, smiling in confusion. ¡°Then why the hard words?¡± ¡°The taproom is empty and it¡¯s not even late. I had trouble getting by the man at the door, and the barkeep made best effort to stop me from coming into this room. Add to that, the two men I had view of were belting knifes as I walked through the door¡­ and I would guess that they meant to murder you.¡± Sifa had paled and her gaze shifted between both men. ¡°You meant to murder me?¡± Alrik hissed. ¡°I mention it for their sake.¡± Hjorvarth shrugged under his grey cloak. ¡°They should be glad that I was the first to arrive. You can leave now, Sifa, but if I suspect further betrayal I¡¯ll have to mention all this to Brolli. Though in honest truth, I think you¡¯ve more to fear from me if Alrik ends up with a cut throat.¡± Alrik was both gladdened and chilled by the hate-laced words. Sifa swallowed. ¡°I thought¡ª¡± ¡°Brolli doesn¡¯t pay you to think, Sifa. You had clear word to follow me, or to follow Alrik in my stead.¡± Sifa scowled at Alrik. ¡°Why was I brought word that Brolli was dead?¡± Hjorvarth roared a false laugh that spoke to disgust. ¡°I think you¡¯ve offered proof enough that you can¡¯t be trusted.¡± He shook his head. ¡°You can leave¡­ but if you mention any of this to anyone, anyone at all, then I¡¯ll make sure your children end up as little more than ornamental corpses.¡± ¡°To think,¡± Sifa spat, ¡°I used to think you were a better man than Brolli.¡± Sifa wobbled up from her chair, walking over to open the door. She glanced back at both men, earnestly considered stabbing the huge brute in the back of the neck. Hjorvarth turned to meet her eyes as if he had plainly read her thoughts. Sifa bowed her head, pulling the door to a close behind her. ¡°Ornamental corpses?¡± Alrik worriedly asked. ¡°I had hoped to shock her.¡± ¡°Right¡­ so you¡¯re not¡ª¡± ¡°It would strike me as odd if our conversation isn¡¯t already overheard.¡± Hjorvarth shrugged his huge shoulders. ¡°I¡¯m happy that you now have things in hand¡­ so, as agreed, I¡¯ll continue with my part of the plan. I can only hope that you¡¯ve learned a lesson here, because I¡¯ll be busy enough without carrying your weight on my back.¡± Alrik stared in all severity. ¡°You have my thanks, Hjorvarth.¡± ¡°If you want to thank me, keep the carrion at bay. And put an end to the mad men taking people¡¯s teeth.¡± Alrik rose as he did. ¡°You heard of that?¡± ¡°Without pressing my ear against a wall,¡± Hjorvarth said. ¡°But I think we both know that rumors are soon to abound. Keep the faith, and I¡¯ll be back before you know it.¡± Alrik dipped his head, knowing with cold certainty that he was on his own. ¡°It¡¯ll be done.¡± ¡°Good luck to you, then.¡± ¡°And you.¡± Hjorvarth pulled his grey cloak tighter about him, and marched out the door. Sifa stood with five other men at the end of the narrow stone taproom. He stared at the gathering without inclination, even when they reached for their weapons. ¡°I¡¯ll expect a gift on my return, Sifa,¡± Hjorvarth said. ¡°In exchange for the trouble I¡¯ve spared you.¡± Young Alf glared. ¡°One day someone is going to stab you in the back.¡± Hjorvarth sniffed. ¡°Wouldn¡¯t be the first time I¡¯ve snapped a coward¡¯s neck. If there was any doubt, Alrik¡¯s words should be heard as my own. You all have my leave to return to your meeting.¡± The rough thugs stood as if restless, waiting for one or the other to lead a charge. Hjorvarth thought for a moment that he had overreached, talked too tall, and that he was about to fall. He strode forward in spite of his fears and the men stepped clear. He kept walking, expecting to stabbed or slice by a knife, but no blade came. He sighed in deep relief when he crossed into the cold darkness of stone streets. Hjorvarth glanced back at the narrow tavern. He had come there hoping to learn what he could of the mines from Alf, but had managed to spare Alrik instead, for the night at least, and he would not trade that for a chance at small knowledge. He strode along the shadowed cobblestones, becoming ever more certain of the path ahead. He would save Sam, he was sure of that, whether it led into danger or darkness. A cloaked figure emerged to block the paved street. ¡°That¡¯s far enough!¡± Hjorvarth heard a soft step behind him, then a sudden thud as an iron bar smashed into the back of his legs, driving his knees down onto the hard ground. Two men ran past with rope, binding his arms under his cloak. Hjorvarth tried to struggle but a blow took him in the back of the head. He frowned drunkenly at the gloomy street as the running pair ensnared him, as the lead man strode forward with a sack in hand. He barely heard the thump of the third strike. 8. Faceted 8. Faceted ¡°The Small King invited me, though there was no way I might decline, to visit the ruins of one of the old dwarven cities. Hewn into the earth itself, the underground settlement was as vast as it was impressive. Their storefronts and armories of a bygone era were still well stocked by arms and artifice the likes of which humans and goblins are never likely to replicate. I had the sense that Agrak meant to kill me there, suspecting that I might not be as loyal as I once was, and then leave me to the shadowed silence of a people long dead. ¡®This was a mistake,¡¯ he had whispered in that strange piping voice of his. ¡®The trip?¡¯ I had reasoned. He glanced at me as if he had forgotten I was there and then showed me a smile that he had never worn before. It was a broken expression of profound sadness and regret. So much so I almost pitied him.¡± Ruby of the Gem Cutters had made her way as quickly as she could to their eastern warehouse. It had been built of grey stone, wide and broad, so that any clumsy step echoed back from the expanse of darkness. Though that gloom was often broken by looming stacks of crates, barrels and a sundry of supplies. She knew the place held equipment for the miners, whether in Timilir or in a region further afield. Ingots, raw ores, and gemstones. She crept past an unbroken block of marble, then a small statue carved of white stone. She paused to frown at the cold visage of a young boy, and found herself reminded of Hjorvarth. ¡°If ever there was man made of stone,¡± she whispered. The lithe man behind her frowned at that, but she carried on without paying him notice. Six members of the Gem Cutters crept in pairs of two down three warehouse rows. They had heard word of the Crooked Teeth operating in their territory. Ruby hoped that it wasn¡¯t true, or that it wasn¡¯t an attempt in earnest, because the eastern warehouse was the least exposed of their holdings, standing in the richest area of the stone city, where the guards were less likely to take small bribes, because they had already been paid by the Gem Cutters. If the Crooked Teeth could strike here then they could strike anywhere. The three rows opened into a main square clearing, where materials, tools, and smithed goods were arrayed all around them, along with a few massive blocks of stone. Ruby smiled tightly in relief, and gestured for the five thieves to search the other side of the warehouse. ¡°Good of you to join us¡­ six, is it?¡± a cold voice asked from above. ¡°A reasonable response. Oh, no. Don¡¯t run, Ruby of the Gem Cutters.¡± Ruby paused, glancing back at the clearing now a dozen lanterns flickered to life. A dozen dirty strangers stood atop the blocks of rock and the stacks of crates, reclining or crouched, watching with lazy gazes as if they owned the place. A huge grey-cloaked man knelt amid the clearing, his sagging head covered by a bloodied sack. Ruby didn¡¯t recognize the man as one of her own. She had the thought that he was almost as big as Hjorvarth. ¡°Ah.¡± The man who had spoken before sat on a worn barrel, which had been stacked atop a precarious column of five others. He wore his black hair short and a smile that mirrored the coldness in his dark eyes. ¡°Recognition flickers in your eyes, dear, and your fear sparks alive. And, yet, I expected a different reaction to this gift.¡± Ruby straightened, keeping a grip on twin throwing knifes. ¡°You would offer me a corpse?¡± ¡°A corpse?¡± the man pitched a high laugh. ¡°Hjorvarth the Red is merely sleeping.¡± Ruby looked to her own people, their eyes hard, bodies tense beneath black clothing, whereas the leather-clad members of the Crooked Teeth appeared close to careless. She decided that the Gem Cutters must be severely outmatched. ¡°If you¡ª¡± ¡°Threats beget threats!¡± the man roared. ¡°Only I make good on mine¡­ but then I am not here to threaten. I am here to make peace. I am here, as I have said, to bring a gift.¡± He swept a mad gaze across his own people, then stared down at Ruby. He shifted on his barrel, this way and that, as if hoping it would collapse. ¡°Do you accept the gift I have offered, Ruby of the Gem Cutters?¡± Ruby felt slick with sweat despite the cold. ¡°On what terms?¡± ¡°Peace, peace¡­ peace!¡± The man grinned down at her, his teeth grimy. ¡°Enough blood is blood enough.¡± ¡°Is it?¡± Ruby asked. ¡°From where I stand there¡¯s more to come. Rivers of it. Coursing down the streets of slums that you claim to protect. My father spent the better part of his life trying to avoid the attention of Jarl Thrand.¡± She smiled without sympathy. ¡°Yet you seem to have a nasty habit of abducting those he relies on.¡± ¡°Who am I to judge who has crooked teeth? Who am I to judge whose need to be relieved¡­ released.¡± Those of the Crooked Teeth chuckled in chorus, but there was no true mirth to be heard. ¡°You all follow a mad man, then?¡± Ruby asked. ¡°Ah¡­ I see I have been misjudged. Allow me to explain in cold certainty.¡± The man bared his teeth. ¡°I want peace. I want quiet. A truce, then. My rivers of blood are mine to drink and swim in¡­ and I don¡¯t want you splashing around.¡± Ruby scowled up at the man atop the barrels. ¡°The Gem Cutters have not, and will not, cross into your territory. But if you interfere in my business¡ª¡± ¡°Threats beget¡ª¡± Hjorvarth groaned, his head twisting as if trying to see through the bloodied sack. ¡°The bear stirs!¡± the mad man declared. ¡°You should kill him! Quickly!¡± His eyes widened in alarm. ¡°What stays your hand, Ruby of the Gem Cutters? Is not this man your enemy? Foster son of Brolli the Black! Interim leader of the Black Hands! Murderer of Thorfinn, son of a man, Thrand, whom you seem to hold so dear¡­ dear.¡± He thumped his own thighs in frustration. ¡°Shall I kill him, then?¡± Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere. Ruby shared her gaze between a hard face hidden by a sack and wild eyes brightened by insanity. ¡°Hjorvarth is not a member of the Black Hands¡­ has not been since last winter. Why would you want him dead?¡± ¡°Hjorvarth the Red¡­? Dead?¡± The mad man frowned, then beamed. ¡°Ha! Not a thing I would ever want, I assure you! He is here for your killing or for your keeping. A gift¡­ did I say that already?¡± ¡°Many times,¡± Hjorvarth said, his deep voice muffled. ¡°And I am no gods damned animal to be kept as a pet. Whoever holds me should kill me or cut me loose, because I will offer no favour to cowards that attack me in number during the blackness of night.¡± ¡°Cowards?¡± asked the only man of the Crooked Teeth who wore a hooded cloak. ¡°You hardly put up a fight.¡± ¡°Cowards,¡± Hjorvarth echoed. ¡°I would have thought you hear the word often enough to think it your name.¡± The hooded man laughed in contempt. ¡°You¡ª¡± ¡°I would ask you to challenge me to a duel, but I fear you lack the courage even tied as I am.¡± The hooded man looked to his leader. The mad man shook his head. ¡°Silence,¡± Hjorvarth muttered, turning his sacked head. ¡°The easiest fall for a man to make.¡± Ruby blinked and the grey-cloaked man was standing, his boot slamming back into a stack of six barrels. The mad man tried to leap clear, but his footing toppled away. Hjorvarth flattened him while the barrels crunched down around them, hissing out streams of sands. The Gem Cutters and the Crooked Teeth watched in stunned silence, rolling barrels obscuring the struggle. ¡°Get off¡ª¡± ¡°Are you the man that cuts out people¡¯s teeth?¡± Hjorvarth roared. Ruby drew closer, realizing he had gotten his hands free and now had a masterwork axe pressed against the mad man¡¯s throat. She slowed to a stop when dozens of leather-clad figures emerged with readied knives or drawn bows. The mad man grinned. ¡°Who am I to judge who has crooked teeth?¡± ¡°Put the axe down,¡± the hooded man growled. ¡°Stand clear¡­ or I will order the death of these Gem Cutters. I will then, for good measure, have men collect five score women and children and murder them all in your name.¡± Hjorvarth kept his axe against the man¡¯s neck, but he lifted his pale gaze to the hooded man. ¡°Five score¡­? Do you swear that by the gods?¡± Ruby charged forward and a trio of arrows loosed in answer, shafts snapping as heads scraped against stone. She tackled the man with the cloak when he began his answer. Hjorvarth¡¯s axe whirled through the air and they tumbled onto the hard floor. ¡°Fates reversed!¡± the mad man now pressed a dagger against Hjorvarth¡¯s throat. ¡°Get off! Off, off, off! Or I¡¯ll kill a thousand rats¡­ insignificant fangs falling and falling like tinkling rain. Is the threat a success? Yes!¡± Hjorvarth shifted his weight to let the man free. He didn¡¯t manage to evade the man¡¯s diving slash, but it only tore through the sack, gifting him with a ragged line of sight. ¡°Ruby had nought to do with this,¡± he spoke in a steady voice. ¡°I wish to make no habit of killing men¡­ but then I see you more as a vile monster.¡± ¡°Conveniences when convenient,¡± the mad man mused. ¡°Weapons away!¡± ¡°Ease off,¡± the hooded man ordered, rising to his feet. ¡°It¡¯s time to leave!¡± The mad man strode over to Ruby. He shook his head, smiling in apology. ¡°You have taken my gift. And so my peace. And so my truce. And so my rivers remain unsplashed. Good! But the gift was a bad one¡­ evidenced by evidence. I promise next time we meet, here, I shall bring you the son of Brolli¡¯s father¡­ how does that sound?¡± Ruby watched with ware now most of the Crooked Teeth departed. A dozen leather-clad members lingered in wait for a leader that unsettled her beyond measure. ¡°I am glad of your peace, and your truce¡­ but I want no more gifts.¡± ¡°And, yes, that is why you shall have them!¡± The mad man bowed low, still smiling, and spun on his heel. The lantern flames faded to leave the warehouse in a pronounced darkness. The Gem Cutters put their backs to each other or to stone until their eyes adjusted to the gloom. They waited for surrounding footfalls to grow distant then silent. ¡°Ruby?¡± the lithe man asked. ¡°I need to speak with Hjorvarth,¡± Ruby answered. The lithe man nodded, then left to lead the four Gem Cutters on a search the rest of the warehouse. Hjorvarth let out a slow sigh. ¡°I¡¯ve no words for you.¡± ¡°You just risked all of our lives,¡± Ruby hissed. ¡°What fault is it of mine if the Gem Cutters stand scared when they should be fighting?¡± he demanded. ¡°Or if you yourself leap in the way of an axe to save a man who wishes to murder children by the masses?¡± Ruby scowled in disbelief. ¡°Have you lost the little wit that you had, Hjorvarth? What do you think happens when you hit the man with the axe? That the rest scatter?¡± ¡°By my guess?¡± Hjorvarth asked. ¡°The man beneath me would have tried to use his knife, as he did, only I would have still had cause to catch his wrist. I would have held the blade against his neck as I walked out of here, then cut the man¡¯s throat when I left.¡± Ruby blinked. ¡°As easy as that?¡± Hjorvarth shrugged his huge shoulders. ¡°Or perhaps an arrow punctures my skull and leaves me dead. Those men were followers¡­ had I killed the two I meant to, this nightmare of slaughter and bloody teeth would have been at an end, which seemed good enough reason for me to take the risk.¡± He tugged at the sack, plastered to the back of his head by blood, until it came loose. Ruby barely recognized him. He looked years older, gaunter, his broad frame diminishing to better suit his lifeless gaze. He had not shaved his beard or combed his tailed hair. ¡°What has happened to you, Hjorvarth?¡± Hjorvarth pawed at his swollen flesh. ¡°I would guess they hit me on the head.¡± ¡°I didn¡¯t mean that,¡± Ruby snapped. ¡°I know¡­ I offered one answer to avoid the other.¡± Hjorvarth strode forward, studying her as if she were cattle. ¡°You seem unwounded¡­ and I take it that the Gem Cutters are not of a mind to harm me. So I¡¯ll be on my way.¡± Ruby¡¯s mouth twisted. ¡°Do you even know where you are?¡± ¡°You yourself told me that Jarl Thrand¡¯s Estate can be seen from every part of the city. It should be simple enough to find my way.¡± ¡°Of course¡­ because you¡¯ve come all this way to¡ª¡± ¡°Answer for my crimes,¡± Hjorvarth finished. ¡°I murdered a man.¡± Ruby narrowed her eyes. ¡°You were just about to murder two more.¡± ¡°Crimes I would have gladly told to Jarl Thrand.¡± Ruby stared at him in silence, her lungs and heart pressed by an unexpected fear. ¡°There¡¯s little need for that,¡± Hjorvarth said. ¡°The time for pretending you care is long passed.¡± Ruby considered saying she had never pretended. ¡°You have the look of a man who wants to die. Is that why you¡¯re going to Thrand? In the hopes that he¡¯ll murder you?¡± ¡°Jarl Thrand will send me to the mines. Sam is there, and I think his son is, as well.¡± Ruby frowned. ¡°Then who is taking care of Isleif?¡± Hjorvarth¡¯s stony face lapsed into sadness. ¡°Brikorhaan, I hope.¡± ¡°Oh.¡± Ruby stepped forward but the grey-cloaked man strode away. ¡°I am sorry, Hjorvarth. He was a good man.¡± ¡°Why be sorry of that?¡± Hjorvarth asked, not looking back. ¡°Of the men I knew, I can count those who have ended their lives as good men on one hand. He died fighting and protecting people¡­ and I can only hope to do the same.¡± 9. Reviled Arrival 9. Reviled Arrival ¡°The Old Enemy has reportedly reappeared in the Quiet Isles. How did we note the arrival of a single human? Because he emerged with a middling clan of seemingly harmless, mercantile dwarves. Which begs the question of whether the original dwarven empires were ever of this world to begin with. And yet more questions of whether they can travel worlds at will, or if they were brought here by the God of Chance? Surely if they possessed a way to translocate themselves then they would have done so when they were backed into a corner by humans and goblins alike? This event bothers me to no end. I have asked for permission to travel to the wintry mountains in which they appeared but Agrak has denied me. He wants the new dwarven people to be left entirely alone. But I cannot abide this. By fang or by claw, I will leave Grorgin and find answers.¡± Jarl Gudmund crossed through the southern gates of Timilir¡¯s monolithic walls at the head of a modest procession. They had reached the city of stone not long after dawn, waiting till noon for the gate to be opened. They trudged forward with four oxen and two carts, one half-laden with sacked goods and caged livestock, the other stacked with crates and chests that housed expensive possessions. Gudmund had expected a large number of guards to greet him, but there were only a dozen, and they paid little mind to the two score visitors. The people of Horvorr appeared tired, lean like their beasts, most eager to ply their trades or at least to come to a place where they might not starve or freeze in winter. They spoke among themselves, grumbled while they gathered their possessions, clapped shoulders and shook hands before departing. Those that remained stood in an paved square fronted by three main structures, each separated by a paved street, facing the southern gate so that the buildings half-enclosed a grey fountain that served as ornate centerpiece. A large tavern of white stone loomed opposite. Leftmost, a storefront squatted beside an expansive forge; while a tall wooden structure, home to Matilda¡¯s Finery, towered to the right. Metal rang out into the square, punctuating hissing water as steam wafted up from the domed forge¡¯s three circular chimneys. A small bell tinkled now a portly man in garish dress squeezed through the open door of Matilda¡¯s Finery. Gudmund was watching him struggle with the descent of a three-step stair. ¡°Business?¡± the guard captain growled. Gudmund sniffed, smiling at the arrayed dozen that had come to greet him. The guards grew more wary the longer he held to silence, each grasping tighter to the shafts of their spears. ¡°Business?¡± Sybille asked. ¡°This is Jarl Gudmund of Horvorr, and I am his daughter, Sybille. We are here to see Jarl Thrand¡­ and more than expected an escort.¡± The guard captain¡¯s well-worn scowl held firm. ¡°You look like a band of passing mercenaries to me.¡± He turned to study the Jarl of Horvorr, making no effort to mask his contempt. Gudmund had been beaten by the weather, his proud face weighed by missed sleep. ¡°Blind as well as deaf, then?¡± ¡°What was¡ª¡± Arfast stepped forward, his sword half-drawn. ¡°Mind your tone, friend¡­ and learn your place before you find yourself groping for purchase in the Lady¡¯s Shadow.¡± The armoured guards stood in a wary silence, readying weapons. Ralf wrapped thick fingers around his axe. ¡°You all seem eager for a fight,¡± Gudmund muttered. ¡°But it would probably be better odds for you all if you lead us straight to Jarl Thrand¡¯s estate.¡± He rested a hand on Brolli¡¯s sword. ¡°Unless you¡¯re set on death? War, even. I doubt my Jarldom will take too kindly to the death of their well-loved leader.¡± The guard captain blinked. ¡°What business do you have with Jarl Thrand?¡± ¡°Diplomatic matters,¡± Sybille answered. ¡°He should have already received word from messenger.¡± The guard captain searched the worried eyes of his dozen men. He turned back, taking a slow breath. ¡°Forgive my rough manner¡­ as you¡¯ll soon learn, the city is in trying times. I¡¯m sure Jarl Thrand has been busy with other matters, but me and my men will be happy to escort you in his stead.¡± Gudmund glanced back at the helmeted guard sat on the wagon¡¯s seat. Reins cracked and oxen clopped forward. Arfast had not stopped staring at the guard captain. He sheathed his sword when the hoary man turned away. The guard captain waved his men forward and they took easier grips on their spears. ¡°It¡¯s up this way.¡± *** Jarl Gudmund, his daughter, and his three guards had taken their two carts and four oxen as far as they could go. They had followed the paved roads between storefronts and small square-built homes, each wrought from chalky hues of stone, and passed by the wide plazas that served to house the wooden stalls of the markets. Despite the bright hour and the mild weather, most of those had been closed due to lack of custom, allowing view of the stock on offer: sliced meats both salted and smoked from neighboring regions, fresher cuts that glistened wet in the hazy weather; fish caught from rivers or brought up from the sandy beaches of the Low Lands; thick bolts of cloth from the High Lands, dyed to bright hues or not at all; simple spices that sat in dry bags, or exotic herbs that were displayed in wooden boxes or brass pots. Gudmund stared at the pots as the carts carried on without him. He recognized the grey herbs that had so poisoned his brother¡¯s mind. The old trader that tended the stall smiled. Gudmund gripped his brother¡¯s sword, and stepped forward. ¡°Gudmund.¡± Ralf¡¯s voice broke the murderous reverie. ¡°You didn¡¯t come here for that.¡± Gudmund had a sickly pallor when he turned. ¡°For fish? No, I suppose not¡­ we had plenty of those at home.¡± ¡°The road¡¯s blocked.¡± The helmeted guard strode to meet them both. ¡°Folk are out in the streets by the hundreds, gathering outside of Jarl Thrand¡¯s Estate. They¡¯ve all come to watch a public trial.¡± Gudmund turned his gaze towards the stalled cart, recognizing his daughter¡¯s panic as she stared back at him. ¡°Engli¡¯s managed to get himself caught already?¡± ¡°No,¡± the guard answered, more worried than annoyed. ¡°It¡¯s Hjorvarth.¡± *** Hjorvarth had walked through the stone city, gathering guards like a corpse to carrion. They had done little more than shout warnings, only to realize that he was already going where they wanted him to go. He had glimpsed the marble walls and ornate gate of Jarl Thrand¡¯s Estate, and looked back to see crowded hundreds. The estate rose atop a jutting promontory that overlooked the sea of poverty and filth that was the city slums. That filth often provided in form of rain by emptied chamber pots and slop buckets from the rarefied elite. The marble gate had vantage of the northern third of Timilir. It opened out both to the paved road that sloped down to the rest of the stone city, giving access to an elevated gallery beside the gate, which housed its own benches and overlooked a raised octagonal platform that had found use for the pronouncements of messengers, but would serve well enough as a podium for the accused. Hjorvarth had found his place there, his elbows resting on the stone railing. He could feel and hear the seething mass of humanity behind him. He could see the vengeful gazes of the dozen rich-garbed men looking down at him. Jarl Thrand¡¯s serpentine gaze scrutinised his very spirit. Ekkill and Fati both sat to the Jarl¡¯s left, as if arrayed in size from withered to skinny to excess flesh. Dragmall sat to the right of Thrand, an empty seat between them. Hjorvarth saw the dozen elevated spectators as one man with a dozen faces. A man that had little sympathy, who entertained mild amusement. They all appeared thoughtful, deliberate, but he saw behind the steeled gazes a shared confusion of not knowing what to do with a man who had so presented himself for justice. In truth, Jarl Thrand had no such dilemma. He had sat biding time, judging the mood of those who had come to witness this momentary spectacle. Unwashed fools gawking and jeering at the filthy brute who murdered the noble son of a respectable man. This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there. ¡°Has he not spoke at all?¡± Fati whispered. Ekkill shook his head. ¡°Perhaps he¡¯s taken a vow of silence.¡± ¡°Thrand,¡± Dragmall murmured beyond the pair¡¯s hearing. ¡°The gods and spirits answer not at all. But I hear, as if so very far in the distance, a woman¡¯s sorrowful keening. I can¡ª¡± The Jarl of Timilir surged to his feet, belying old bones and ancient aches. ¡°Jarl Thrand of Timilir!¡± Hjorvarth announced before the withered man could speak. ¡°I declare myself as Hjorvarth, son of Isleif the Bard, and have come here to admit to the murder of Thorfinn, coward son of a coward Jarl. I would have it known that I meant not to bring death upon him, but I do not regret his death. And Brikorhaan knows that Thorfinn the Coward meant to violate the sanctity of a duel in the Shield Brother¡¯s honour. That he meant to stab the son of Jarl Gudmund, Geirmund, in the back.¡± Jarl Thrand could only stare in mute disgust. ¡°I expect no thanks for sparing your son from the Lady¡¯s Shadow.¡± Hjorvarth¡¯s hard visage did not at all hint towards the sickness and fear writhing within him. ¡°And though I would take it as a grave insult should you wish to press punishment upon me for the slaying of a man that deserved to die, I must admit that I do not have the copper needed to compensate you for his death. As such, I have come here to volunteer myself to work in the slave mines of Timilir,¡± he added. ¡°Though I would fully understand if you saw fit to reject my gracious offer.¡± Silence descended atop, beyond, and ahead of the marble gates. The dozen elevator spectators watched in open-mouthed surprise. The crowd that covered the slope had not spoke, and that tact carried as the murmurs of what had been said passed back to those further into the stone city. Jarl Thrand¡¯s gaze wandered, sunken eyes widening in unbridled hatred. Hjorvarth turned to the crowd behind him, gathered together in a snaking mass of colourful clad folk that stood all along the slope and spilled out onto the stone streets below. A single man stood ahead of them all, his isolation leaving him exposed. He had wild red hair and wore fine black clothes. Hjorvarth recognized the proud visage, but had never seen it weighed by such profound regret. Gudmund wanted nothing more than to speak out, to offer to pay the death debt owed by Hjorvarth. ¡°Gudmund, son of Geirulf,¡± Jarl Thrand announced. ¡°I welcome you to the city of Timilir. Have you come to lay judgement against a man sent from your own lands? Do you have words to speak for or against him?¡± He grinned. ¡°Perhaps you would like to cough up the coppers that he seems to feel owed.¡± ¡°Or,¡± Gudmund wanted to say, ¡°You could compensate me for the deaths you brought to hundreds of my people. To the deaths you brought to my own sons. To the death you brought to Agnar¡¯s own. You could come down here to discuss it in private and I¡¯ll happily¡ª¡± He straightened. ¡°I am afraid,¡± Jarl Gudmund declared, ¡°that this man is well known to me. And it was by an ill-fated judgement of a charlatan that he was spared judgement for the murder of four men. That said, I hold myself responsible for the actions of all my people¡­ and so I would gladly settle the debt in silver, if not gold. Whether you choose to punish Hjorvarth, son of Isleif the Ghost, or not.¡± Hjorvarth nodded, not turning back to Jarl Thrand. ¡°It seems the truth of my character is on full display. Yet I would ask again to be sent to the mines, where my violent nature might best be put to use against the kobolds that so harass the city of stone.¡± Jarl Thrand¡¯s aged face held no sympathy. ¡°Hjorvarth, son of Isleif the Disgraced, I have your judgement.¡± Hjorvarth turned back to back to face the marble gallery. ¡°I would be glad to hear your swift wisdom.¡± ¡°In my power as the Jarl of Timilir, as head of The First Family, as ruler of the City of Stone, with the wishes of the gods and the people close to mind¡­ you shall spend twenty winters in the service to our city for murder, working in the northern mines with the rest of your ilk. You have murdered five men, so you will serve a hundred winters in sum. For the insults paid to me and my fallen son, you will be made to pay your own weight in copper, a debt I expect to be covered by the man before us, Gudmund, son of Geirulf.¡± Jarl Thrand took in a slow breath. ¡°Know that the city of Timilir wish you well in your service, Hjorvarth. And let your mind be at ease with the thought that your name will well be recorded against your own father¡¯s. A man so reviled that his equal will likely not be seen until your full sentence has ended. The gods may never forgive, and the Lady may well take you, but the stone city accepts your penance and wishes you naught but peace.¡± The Jarl of Timilir settled slowly into his seat. ¡°Thank you,¡± Hjorvarth answered in all severity. ¡°I had ever expected the people that served under Jarl Thrand of Timilir to be a forgiving, peaceful, and forgetful people.¡± ¡°With crooked teeth!¡± a man screeched, which sent a fearful ripple through the crowd. ¡°I only wish I could say the same for those of Horvorr,¡± Hjorvarth finished. ¡°Stinking Horvorrians don¡¯t have any teeth!¡± another voice shouted. Atsurr, stood behind Jarl Thrand, signaled his men to disperse the crowd. Chains rattled now the steel gate groaned open. A chorus of heavy boots, jingling chain, and ordered commands began as grey-liveried guards marched out from the marble archway. The colourful crowd began to shrink back while a dozen leather-clad and rough-faced members of the Crooked Teeth strode forward, drawing bows. Terror gripped the rich-dressed spectators of the gallery. The guards, once in formation, broke out on their own, readying spears to throw. Gudmund turned with his brother¡¯s sword leading, cleaving through shaft and cheek. He stepped forward, bringing the swing back into an old man¡¯s neck, then shoved him into an aiming archer. Bowstrings wobbled and missiles took to the skies. Atsurr stood ahead of Jarl Thrand¡¯s seat, serving as a wall of metal and flesh. Those around him had already fled, were stumbling in flight, or collapsed to their knees. Dragmall lay flat on his rounded belly while both Fati and Ekkill had took to the tact of hiding behind the squat backing of their stone chairs. Arrows struck with a muffled thud. Screams split the air. A spear crunching through a young man¡¯s head offered answer, as did Gudmund¡¯s sword as he cleaved through those around him. A bulky man had come up behind him, ready to cleave the Jarl of Horvorr in two, but a thrown knife took him in the throat and Gudmund side-stepped the blow. Ruby fell back among the horrified spectators, and called the rest of the Gem Cutters into a careful retreat. Those of the Crooked Teeth still standing loosed another volley of six arrows, one skewering Dragmall through robe and stomach, another striking Ekkill in his exposed shoulder. A pair punctured Atsurr¡¯s armour, causing him to fall to his knees and the remaining two flew clean over the gallery, one killing a hurrying man who was late for work, the last planting in the eye of a seamstress that sat weaving by an open window. Gudmund narrowly avoided the spears hurled from the approaching guards. He watched most porcupine a single man while four other leather-clad men and women fled back into the crowd, parting the way with knifes. The gathered folk stumbled into one another in a panicked flight, trampling those fallen, sending others tumbling from the slope. Hjorvarth charged out from behind the marble platform, his axe and shield ready. He slowed to a stop now the crowd convulsed in a cacophony of shoving, cursing, shouting and screaming. ¡°Clear the slope!¡± Atsurr ordered, struggling to his feet. ¡°No man in or out. Kill all those that approach.¡± He scowled down at the armed pair of Horvorrians. ¡°Disarm the visitors and bring them both to me!¡± Hjorvarth and Gudmund stood side to side. The guards shouted warnings and threats at either side of them, faceless behind their helmets. Jarl Gudmund frowned down at his own hand, weighing Brolli¡¯s sword. Hjorvarth dropped to one knee, offering his runic axe. He eyed the withered Jarl of Timilir now Atsurr led him across the gallery. ¡°Are we fighting, Jarl Gudmund?¡± Gudmund knelt as well, placing his brother¡¯s sword on the paved ground. ¡°That was a mad thing you did,¡± he complained. ¡°They¡¯re going to murder you the first chance they get. Though I¡¯ll admit I did like your words¡­ even if they were costly for me.¡± ¡°The Crooked Teeth are going to abduct you,¡± Hjorvarth mentioned before the guards urged both men to rise. ¡°I would be wary of walking in the dark if you live out the day.¡± Gudmund smirked, and started to trudge forward. ¡°Oh?¡± ¡°They did the same to me,¡± Hjorvarth explained. ¡°I missed killing them by a small margin. I expect they will tread with more care.¡± ¡°Careful deeds like an open attempt at murdering Thrand and his counselors?¡± Hjorvarth shrugged. Both men crossed under the shadow of a marble archway. Jarl Thrand¡¯s Estate lay arrayed before them. A twenty-stall stable of stone stretched to their left, where horses watched without enthusiasm or busied themselves with nets of hay. Two rows of five outbuildings squatted on the left, walls wrought of grey stone, adorned with bands of brass; doors single slabs, beaded curtains, or newly-hinged wood. The main structures stood ahead, where the paved path forked three ways, to a four-story barracks towering on the left, to a low-roofed and expansive workshop opposite, and to the columned entrance of a once-monumental temple that served as Jarl Thrand¡¯s home. The occupation had caused much bad blood over the years between the ruling family of Timilir and those that served the Eleven Elders. Of all the complaints, those loudest came from the Muradooners, whose own imposing temple rose to the same monumental height as the stone city¡¯s monolithic walls. The dozen guards split into two groups at a crossroads. ¡°Joyto¡¯s luck, Gudmund,¡± Hjorvarth shouted. ¡°You¡¯ll be the one needing that!¡± Gudmund stopped but an armoured shoved him forward. ¡°If you make it back, your father¡¯s things are waiting for you in Brolli¡¯s tavern!¡± Hjorvarth slowed. ¡°What¡ª¡± A gauntleted hand clouted him across the head. ¡°Words are a privilege, prisoner,¡± a woman growled. ¡°One easily removed with a dull knife.¡± Jarl Gudmund was escorted into the grand entrance of Thrand¡¯s home, while Hjorvarth was forced down the descent that led to the Estate¡¯s dank dungeons. Approaching after them, Atsurr led a disgruntled Jarl of Timilir with the rest of the surviving counselors while those badly wounded were carried to the barracks. Beyond the gates, Dragmall lay where he had fell, his stomach punctured, his intestines shredded by a shattered arrowhead. He had been cursed by his weight to be left abandoned, by his ominous reputation as a spiritualist to suffer a slow death. Fati had walked back for him though, and used his belt knife to answer the man¡¯s plea for mercy. Further into Timilir, three guards of Horvorr conferred without fruition about the way to proceed until Sybille ordered Arfast to lead the carts forward to Jarl Thrand¡¯s Estate. Beyond that group and their two carts, far into the shadowed shacks of the city slums, word reached the ears of a mad man and a hooded man of a costly failure. The leaders of the Crooked Teeth discussed, argued, and planned while Ruby led her small group from the Gem Cutters to their nearest haunt. Alrik sat, unaware of this all, in Sifa¡¯s tavern, talking at length to a handsome blond man, while beneath the city a father and son struck stone in the hopes of avoiding a cruel whip. Under even their feet, King Rubinold the Fifteenth prepared for yet another raid on Timilir¡¯s mines. 10. Odd Kindness 10. Odd Kindness ¡°With the outworlder dwarven settlement now established, they are hewing a stone city into the wintry mountains along the southernmost ranges of the Quiet Isles. Though my planned journey to see them was discovered, The Small King acquiesced and allowed me to visit them despite what might be seen as my undermining him. Unfortunately, I learned nothing of use from the dwarves. Though they seemed unfamiliar with the goblins, they were nonetheless as prejudice and suspicious as were their forebears. And I do not know if they had hidden the females of their kind, but I saw among them only men. That is if the histories are true, and, like the humans, the dwarves were gendered. Despite their animosity, disrespect, and attempted violence, Agrak has bid us leave them in peace. Though I suspect, integrating with the humans as they are, they will not last long.¡± Jarl Gudmund had been taken to a narrow room with a long table and two chairs. He sat with his back to one wall and faced what looked like another, but he had seen the unbroken stone open and close. Gudmund had no weapons, not even a knife at his belt, so he spent the past hour pressing his palms into the long table, inching it back and force to test the weight. He was almost certain he would be able to shove it right into the serpentine old bastard. Hopefully with enough force to cause crushed ribs if not sever his spine. Jarl Thrand would only need to be in the seat with the stone door closed behind him. Gudmund¡¯s thoughts shifted from rational to irrational fears, to desperate hopes and likely outcomes. As he grew more certain his plan would kill Thrand, he lost faith that he would ever have the opportunity. He began to wonder whether his three guards would have had the good sense to hide Sybille in Timilir. ¡°Muradoon,¡± he murmured in his own mind. ¡°Muradoon¡­ God of the Spirit World. Don¡¯t let me die like a man walked into his own trap. Don¡¯t let the sons of Geirulf end up as a story and a sword and a young woman with no family or joy. Don¡¯t let this end with Jarl Thrand rasping out tall tales about how he slew the brothers Brolli and Gudmund.¡± He shook his head. ¡°I¡¯ve come here on the backs of scores of dead and now I¡¯m about to join the pile. I should have just let those archers take their aim. I should have helped them along. I¡¯m a bad joke. A bad brother. A bad son. I should have kept us all together in the Low Lands. I should have just cut Grim¡¯s throat before he ever had chance to hurt Brolli. Been like half the other bastards in the throne and carve flesh to make my family of my own liking. What did I get out of the life I chose? Short-lived everything. Best friend a man can have and I betrayed him. I sent him marching to his death. I had the love of a good woman, had good children, and now they¡¯re all taken from me. My son had a grandson that I never had the chance to meet, and now I¡¯m in the power of this bastard, a place I put myself in, because I wanted revenge. Well where¡¯s your revenge, Gudmund? You bloody fool. You¡¯ve got your back to the wall. You¡¯re trapped. And your daughters out there with your last three friends¡­ all running panicked in a great stone maze. What have you done? By the gods, what you have done? No wonder Muradoon asked for my soul. Everything I touch turns to death.¡± ¡°I suppose I better touch Thrand,¡± Gudmund muttered aloud, then sighed out a laugh. He brushed his palms across the cold grey of the stone table. ¡°Can anybody hear me? Is anyone there? Is this how I die? You put bastards in here for a season and then send a man in to drag out the soiled corpse?¡± As if in answer, stone shuddered and the wall opposite slid open. A tall, broad, armoured man strode in first. He covered his face with a helmet, but Gudmund knew he was old and bald and ugly. Atsurr pulled out a chair, then moved to stand at the corner of the narrow room. Jarl Thrand¡¯s black cane clacked as he entered. It had a black shaft and a serpentine silver head. He wore all black and looked all the more older up close. Straggly grey hair had been combed over his liver-spotted pate. Gudmund realised with a bitter smile that he had come he to murder a man who was soon to succumb to time, then he remembered Jarl Alfgeir of Vendrick, who had been expected to die of old age for nearly twenty winters. ¡°Better to be sure,¡± he decided. ¡°Sure of what?¡± Atsurr demanded. ¡°Thinking aloud,¡± Gudmund answered in the lightest voice he could manage. ¡°I was thinking it¡¯s better to be sure of my loyalties what with the history between us. An off-hand commendation, you might say.¡± ¡°Or I could speak the plainer truth that Jarl Geirulf of the High Lands was well known as a treacherous liar,¡± Atsurr said. ¡°As were all his sons¡­ thank Muradoon for taking two of them, or was it just the one?¡± Gudmund managed a benevolent smile. ¡°It warms my heart that you would expect Brolli to end up anywhere other than the Lady¡¯s Shadow. Though I suppose that place awaits most of us here.¡± ¡°In this room?¡± Thrand asked, settling into his seat. ¡°I wouldn¡¯t change the phrasing for the city, or Tymir in entirety.¡± ¡°Ah.¡± Jarl Thrand smirked. ¡°And that is an unfortunate truth honestly spoken. Perhaps you¡¯ll offer us more genuine insight¡­ and then you spending your days in shadow might be made less likely.¡± He rested his serpentine cane across the table. ¡°Why have you come here, Gudmund?¡± Gudmund showed no hint of the numb fear seeping through his veins. He seemed a man sitting at his own table. He leaned forward, resting his hands ahead of him, then raised his brows as if in forethought. ¡°Ever for the same reason. I sent my sons before to marry my daughter to your youngest son. Now I have come in their stead.¡± ¡°I see,¡± Jarl Thrand¡¯s rasping voice had no warmth. ¡°That would explain why she arrived at the gates, then. Does she not take issue with being married to a corpse?¡± ¡°I had meant your namesake,¡± Gudmund said. ¡°Young Thrand¡­ once husband to a recently deceased young woman.¡± Jarl Thrand met the sentiment with a thoughtful murmur. ¡°And do you think me fool enough to dishonour the bonds so hard fought for with a rushed marriage? To marry my son to a new woman while his dead wife is not yet cold?¡± Gudmund shook his head. ¡°I am in no rush at all, friend. Not for my daughter to marry, but the offer will still be there when your son has finished grieving. I do find myself in a worrying haste to find a wife. If I grow any older, I doubt I¡¯ll be much good at pleasing a woman or giving her a child.¡± ¡°I had no idea you longed for a new son, Gudmund. Indeed¡­ that is a plight with which I can well empathize.¡± Jarl Thrand smiled in regret. ¡°I¡¯ll have Atsurr escort you to a whorehouse. I hear high praise of a place named the Toothless Grin. Though that¡¯s for women¡­ and I remember you were always so close with Grettir. Is there anywhere else you¡¯d prefer?¡± Gudmund upturned his palms. ¡°Wherever Luta works would please me best¡­ that is your daughter¡¯s name?¡± If you come across this story on Amazon, it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it. Jarl Thrand¡¯s stare turned baleful. ¡°I am afraid she is due to be married.¡± ¡°To Jarl Adelsteinn.¡± Gudmund nodded in appraisal. ¡°An old man though, known to drink and gamble and pay high prices for goods of low quality. A man older than me¡­ not likely to give her a child. Which might make things difficult when the Low King moves to steal his land. Though I¡¯ve been away from the Low Lands for a long while, so who can really say what that mad bastard¡¯s planning to do? Still¡­ it seems to be a match that would be short-lived, and perhaps shorten your daughter¡¯s life as well.¡± ¡°I¡ª¡± Thrand glanced at Atsurr, then narrowed his eyes on Gudmund. ¡°I had no idea you were so well informed.¡± Gudmund laughed a soft laugh, but his gaze turned hateful. ¡°Is the Low King not the man who stole my own lands?¡± he asked with venom. ¡°Is he not the man that murdered my first wife¡­? My first son,¡± he pointedly added. ¡°An old enemy, is the Low King to me. As he was to my father, as was the Low King before him a foe for my ancestors. And, yet¡­ they succeeded where I failed. They held ground where I gave it away, and I fear that Adelsteinn will do the same.¡± Jarl Thrand nodded. ¡°I forgot you were once a man of import in the Low Lands.¡± ¡°Well¡­ that is one thing that I will never forget. And were there open opportunity, I would take my revenge against the man that took everything from me.¡± Jarl Thrand took interest in those words, not seeming to understand that the description well fit him. ¡°Yet in all these years, you never mentioned it to me. You seemed happy enough to spend your life in a place of no worth, known only as a disgraced fool. Why¡­?¡± Gudmund smiled through awful grief as he remembered his happy life. ¡°I had conquered Horvorr and fully intended to pay my debt to you¡­ as soon as possible, in any way possible. I had two sons, healthy sons, and I was expecting a third child. I had no mind to spend my life in Horvorr. I can tell you for fact my wife was not best pleased with her new arrangements. And then¡­ she died. I tried to end my life that very night. I would have, had Grettir and Brolli not wrested the blade from me. I still would have¡­ had Brolli not threatened to murder Grettir, his wife, and both my children should I take my own life. And so I lived, as a draugr of a man, without the heart to murder my brother, who I did not doubt would happily deliver on his threat.¡± Gudmund paused, and sniffed. ¡°I recovered slowly over the winters¡­ came to love my children. And I did, as it happens, raise my sons and daughter with a mind to force my way back into the Low Lands. And I promised, as well, that I would help Grettir take his revenge against Jarl Alfgeir who had so sullied his name and reputation. What you see is not a man who had no plans, but a man that failed to enact them.¡± Gudmund regrettably sighed. ¡°Had Sybille married Thorfinn as I desired¡­ well, perhaps you would have heard of my plans before now. Perhaps the Low King would not be nipping at your heels. Perhaps Jarl Alfgeir would have more respect for the city that stood as a bastion to allow his town¡¯s survival.¡± He spread his hands across the table. ¡°I can see it plain that the prospect of me marrying your daughter does not appeal to you. But even if you think me an unlikely match, I would advise finding someone else, anyone else, other than red-faced Adelsteinn.¡± ¡°This man is a snake,¡± Atsurr muttered. Gudmund frowned. ¡°Is your own symbol not serpentine?¡± ¡°The World Worm did not slither on his belly through grasses.¡± ¡°Say what you will.¡± Gudmund shrugged, not bothering to look at the sentinel. ¡°Questions asked have been answered.¡± Jarl Thrand studied the fearless man opposite, his proud face still colored by old bruises, his bear-fur cloak torn and muddied as if he had been both using it to sleep on and to catch blades. ¡°Did I not give that cloak to Grettir?¡± ¡°You did. But he was set on burning it, so I traded him for an axe.¡± ¡°And I have heard news that he is dead,¡± Thrand mentioned. ¡°Along with your sons, and your brother. Yet for all that you sit there defiant. Asking for more, making offers of compensation that you cannot afford to pay.¡± ¡°I have coin enough to pay you this day.¡± Gudmund stared at the tabletop. ¡°As to why I¡¯m not weeping¡­ loss is something I have long had to suffer and long since grown used to. My own mother died in child birth. My eldest brother when he had only just become a man¡­ my father not long after that. Most my oldest friends found their ends in wars with neighbors. So I was a man alone until I met my first wife, and then I was a man alone again. Hilda, and her sons, did not enjoy a long life. I have lost, and I have suffered, but I will not weep because if I begin I might never stop.¡± He sniffed. ¡°My daughter is still living. And I am here to safeguard her future.¡± Jarl Thrand nodded in understanding. ¡°And what of Hjorvarth?¡± Gudmund met the sentiment with a knowing smile. ¡°No blood of mine.¡± ¡°Nor of mine,¡± Thrand rasped, ¡°I assure you that.¡± He paused in thought. ¡°Why offer up coin on his behalf?¡± ¡°Purely as a gesture of good will between us, with the knowledge that you may have took my message with offense unintended.¡± Gudmund¡¯s gaze hardened. ¡°You did meet with Saxi?¡± ¡°Yes, I did. A pleasant enough messenger.¡± Jarl Thrand rested his withered hands on the table. ¡°As to the son of Isleif the Disgraced¡­ if you did not pay for his sake, what would you recommend I do with him?¡± ¡°How honestly would you have me answer?¡± ¡°As honestly as you please.¡± ¡°Then as we sit here word spreads of what happened outside not a stone¡¯s throw from your own gates.¡± Gudmund drummed his fingers. ¡°I arrived in Timilir today, but have already heard word of worrying troubles. So, and perhaps I¡¯m mistaken, I would guess that there is unrest in the stone city. Unrest soon to fester and flourish when rumor is left to fill the panicked silence. In that sense, you could keep the son of Isleif here¡­ torture him, and make him suffer for the insult he paid you. Or¡­ you could march him down the streets naked. March him down the streets in disgrace.¡± Jarl Thrand measured his words. ¡°And what gain would there be in that?¡± Gudmund upturned his palms. ¡°A day to make good use of rotting food? Or a spectacle to turn the words on people¡¯s lips away from the events at your gates. Perhaps Atsurr could use the opportunity to lure out members of the Crooked Teeth.¡± Atsurr grunted. ¡°And why the Crooked Teeth risk themselves for a man sentenced to a life in the mines?¡± ¡°They abducted him once before, or so he told me. He seemed to think that he had come close to killing their leaders. So in that sense they might be out for revenge, and in another they might simply want to lay claim to killing the foster son of Brolli the Black and the new leader of the Black Hands.¡± Jarl Thrand narrowed his sunken eyes. ¡°The man that murdered your brother?¡± ¡°As much a shock to me as it was to anyone,¡± Gudmund dismissed. ¡°Of all the battles Brolli had won. Of all the times he had striven to hold onto his life¡­ only to end up drowning not a stone¡¯s throw from the embankments of the Lake.¡± He shrugged. ¡°But then the gods were never known for being fair.¡± ¡°True enough,¡± Thrand acceded. ¡°And if I were to ask you to stab the man in his heart? Or to cut away his limbs and torture him for days? Would you flinch at any of that?¡± ¡°Flinch? No.¡± Gudmund shook his head. ¡°I would reject the request outright.¡± Atsurr chuckled in derision. ¡°And here he shows the worth of his loyalty.¡± ¡°Indeed.¡± Gudmund nodded. ¡°Loyalty to my brother when I swore I would best protect a man he saw as his own son.¡± ¡°The man that killed him,¡± Atsurr added. ¡°Perhaps the irony would be more clearly seen if you knew that Brolli murdered our own father.¡± Jarl Thrand smiled. ¡°Why then put the son of Isleif forth for a public disgrace?¡± ¡°It seemed the only outcome that satisfied both your needs. My brother¡¯s foster son believes that he must serve in the mines of Timilir. And you rightly deserve to see him suffer for the wrong he has done you.¡± Jarl Thrand stared as if displeased. ¡°I see.¡± Gudmund wondered whether he could push the table all the way through the open door and into the marble wall behind it. He decided that he could, but feared for his daughter and guards too much to take the risk. He was not so brave or foolish to think that he could best Atsurr in a narrow room without sword or armour of his own. ¡°Jarl Gudmund,¡± Thrand began in a kind tone, ¡°I must take some time to consider what you have told me. In the meantime, I will have a guard escort you to your daughter.¡± He smiled. ¡°Three guards are also in her company¡­ did you bring no one else with you? Or should I have the city searched to collect those waiting for word?¡± ¡°No need.¡± Gudmund rose from his chair. ¡°I brought as small a party as could be spared. There is still much rebuilding to be done in Fenkirk, and even in Horvorr itself.¡± ¡°Ah, of course,¡± said Thrand doubtfully. ¡°But then are you sure you can afford the compensation you¡¯ve offered to pay?¡± Gudmund¡¯s answering smile was kind and magnanimous. ¡°I would not waste your time with falsities, Jarl Thrand¡­ and I am nothing if not an honest man.¡± 11. Near Misses 11. Near Misses ¡°Unbeknownst to me, Agrak has been tracking Lucius Chance and successfully lured him into a trap, which should have ended with him frozen in ice for an eternity. Somehow, the Old Enemy conjured fierce magics the likes of which I had not only never seen, but had previously considered impossible. And instead of being frozen in an eternal prison, he was suddenly blasting forth amid chunks of ice and boiling steam. Hundreds dead outright, others crushed or left to freeze, the Old Enemy has vanished without a trace. By merely clicking his fingers. I cannot tell if the outcome is evidence of his good fortune or ours. Perhaps wandering gods, no matter how meddlesome, are best left to wander.¡± Atsurr kept a step behind Gudmund and Jarl Thrand as they ambled through the marble corridors. The pair ahead spoke of politics and history with a hollow enthusiasm, but Atsurr thought they seemed as old friends, which sent restless anger coursing through his veins. He knew Gudmund for a liar, for a false facer, for a coward waiting for the right moment to stab the Jarl of Timilir in the back. He knew the measure of Geirolf¡¯s sons. Brolli or Gudmund it was all the same, brother much like wolfs, little good for ought else but howling loudly, snarling, and savaging outnumbered prey. But here Gudmund was outnumbered, his cub exposed, protected only by three guards that looked too fat and old to hold their own for any more than a dozen breaths. Atsurr turned a white corridor to have full view of the grand marble reception hall, so big that you could hardly hear a man shouting from one side to the other. A young black-dressed woman stood at stark contrast to the white surroundings, her three mail-clad guards at either side of her as if readied to make a stand. Atsurr watched as they less than subtly broke apart to form a line in greeting of the approaching Jarl of Timilir. He dismissed one guard outright now he had a better look at him. A man perpetually red-faced, overweight, ripe for his heart to burst. The other two stood more ably than he would have expected. The tallest was bald and ancient, but looked ever ready to kill a man without blinking. The third, shorter than most men Atsurr had known, was fully covered by armour, no flesh or hair showing, just shadowed eyes behind a visor. Atsurr decided he should end this now. He gripped his sword and moved to run Jarl Gudmund through. As he did, Arfast strode forward to cleave his own Jarl in half, forcing Gudmund to leap clear. Atsurr¡¯s thrust struck air, and his blade was driven into the stone floor by the old guard¡¯s sword. Arfast slammed his heel into the hilt, forcing the sword from the Atsurr¡¯s grip. ¡°Jarl Thrand of Timilir,¡± he grated, ¡°this man has tried to thrust a sword through your guest¡¯s back. I would ask permission to kill him.¡± ¡°Arfast,¡± Gudmund spoke in a clear voice despite his heart-thumping anger. ¡°There is no need for further violence. But I would ask that Atsurr compensate me for his attempt at murder. To make things simpler, I will no longer be giving you the coin owed by Hjorvarth. And thus I will consider us even¡­ but I would also expect that this man be taken away from my presence to avoid further conflict.¡± Jarl Thrand stood amid tumultuous silence while a dozen guards closed around those in Gudmund¡¯s service. They all looked to Atsurr, who was yet to retrieve his sword. ¡°My Jarl,¡± Atsurr began, ¡°this man cannot be trusted¡ª¡± ¡°Trust, Atsurr?¡± Jarl Thrand scowled, raising his hand. ¡°This is the third time in one day that you have moved to undermine me. To act without my counsel or consent. The city¡¯s foundations rumble beneath my feet and you seek to make me misstep. You seek to spill the blood of guests in my own home. And you dare speak of trust?¡± He shook his head. ¡°Return to your room, Atsurr. Get some rest. Act without my instruction again and you will live in regret that you were never taken by the Crooked Teeth.¡± Atsurr glanced at bald-headed Arfast. ¡°I will not leave my sword.¡± ¡°It is yours to take.¡± Arfast had not moved. He stepped back, lowering his weapon. Atsurr lifted his sword from the floor, then turned to the Jarl of Timilir. Seeing no sympathy in the withered man¡¯s sunken gaze, he strode off down the expansive marble hall, past the marble statues of all Eleven Elders. Arfast sheathed his sword, and bowed low. ¡°Apologies for drawing my weapon in your home, Jarl Thrand. I knew of no other way to warn my master of the coming blade. I would like to offer my thanks, as well, for your swift wisdom.¡± ¡°None needed,¡± Thrand muttered. He nodded towards the nearest guard captain, who seemed, as all the spear-wielding guards surrounding, uncertain of what to say or do. ¡°Captain¡­ please lead Jarl Gudmund of Horvorr, his daughter Sybille, and his three guests to one of the dining halls, then show them to suitable rooms.¡± He steeled his gaze. ¡°They are each my guests and should be accorded as such. You or your men will not be afforded a second chance.¡± The guard captain bowed. ¡°Of course, my Jarl.¡± He straightened, then offered a shallower bow to the Jarl of Horvorr. ¡°Jarl Gudmund, I would invite you and your companions to accompany me. Drink and food will be arranged, and your possessions will be moved to your rooms while you dine.¡± Gudmund stared for longer than he needed to, disappointment and relief both flooding through his mind. He turned back to Jarl Thrand. ¡°I would have you know that I fully understand Atsurr¡¯s mistrust of me, and I have not forgotten the history between his family and mine in the Low Lands. But I am here with the hopes of forming an alliance, and I cannot manage that without some measure of safety.¡± Jarl Thrand nodded in all severity. ¡°Atsurr will never again strike you without my ordering it.¡± Gudmund smiled, dipping his head. ¡°That is all I ask.¡± He turned to his black-dressed daughter. ¡°Come on then, Sybille. Let¡¯s see if we can¡¯t try to enjoy these most hospitable accommodations.¡± The guard captain signaled his guards to move forward. As Gudmund followed after them, he met eyes with Arfast, and wondered once more who the man was. ¡°You have my earnest thanks. Words cannot express my gratitude.¡± Arfast fell in alongside him. ¡°Gratitude, Gudmund?¡± he whispered. ¡°If you want to thank me, stop strolling around blind and deaf. You should have heard the sword drawn, and seen the shock on our faces. Had I stood anywhere else in our line, you would be dead. Remember that,¡± he added. ¡°Consider how your daughter would have fared. This is no child¡¯s game. I have had friends fall foul of Jarl Thrand¡¯s justice¡­ friends who ended up as disfigured, dismembered corpses.¡± If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it. ¡°Yet you had your chance to kill them both.¡± ¡°As did you,¡± Arfast reminded, ¡°but you were too busy smiling wide about whatever petty deceit you had achieved. I say again, Gudmund, open your eyes and ears or we will all end up as yet more rotting meat to feed the city¡¯s rats.¡± Gudmund frowned, contemplating the grim words. Sybille looked back in concern at her father, but he managed a hopeful smile. *** Hjorvarth sat in darkness, cold stone walls pressing against his shoulders. The rugged ceiling was too low for his head so he had adopted a perpetual hunch. He breathed slow breaths, through his teeth, but he could still smell, and taste, the sour scent of streams of urine, the fetid stench of piled, or thrown, refuse. A guard with a blinding torch had come twice a day with hard bread and a bucket of sour water. He poured that into a bowl that each of the guests seemed to possess, then contributed his own spit for good measure. Hjorvarth had only been there three days, but he feared he was soon to break. He was not even certain that he would be able to rise if they allowed him to. He wondered if winters would pass and they would find his cramped corpse still lodged between the confines of a narrow cell. ¡°Well?¡± asked a rasp, followed by a hacking cough. ¡°Well¡­? Well? Well? Well¡­?¡± Hjorvarth sighed. ¡°Can you not speak of your own life?¡± ¡°Heard that.¡± The man in the opposite cell wheezed laughter. ¡°Heard that once before. Tell me more¡­ well? Well¡­?¡± ¡°A moment to think,¡± Hjorvarth muttered. ¡°My thoughts grow more muddled as my thirst worsens.¡± ¡°Thirst?¡± the man rasped with excitement. ¡°I could tell you of thirst. I could tell you for days of thirst.¡± ¡°No need,¡± Hjorvarth assured. ¡°I doubt it would encourage me.¡± The man started to laugh, then hacked. Hjorvarth felt sorry for him. He had glimpsed the man once in the passing firelight, rib bones pushing against a filthy and emaciated chest, wrinkled eyes squeezed shut in defense of the brightness. A grin of three black teeth bared into a pained snarl. ¡°After my mother¡¯s death, and after my father¡¯s trip, I was taken into care by my father¡¯s friend, Sam. Sam had a wife named Mardis, and a child named Dan, four years younger than I.¡± ¡°Fast friends?¡± the man asked. ¡°No. I was an unruly child, quick to anger, cold to those who approached me. I expect that I made his life something of an unpleasant experience. In any case, I had begun to calm over the course of a year, and settled into an odd normality when Isleif was found not far from the town¡¯s limits.¡± ¡°Ah! Isleif the Bard. Gone for a year with three hundred men. A body hidden each day. Returned with a blizzard on a cold, cold night¡­ with little left to say. Is that the one?¡± ¡°Yes, and no. My father was not himself. He was panicked, and quicker to anger than even I was. He began to drink, as if addicted, and caused trouble for all those who tried to care for him. Despite that, he had a love of singing and playing instruments, so was quiet on the nights when he played. Mardis grew tired of us in any case, and the next I knew we were moved to live with Brolli.¡± ¡°The Black? Brolli of the Black Hands?¡± ¡°Yes.¡± ¡°Yes? Yes, yes¡­ of course. Ah, boy, I know you. Son of a disgraced bard. Son of a hated criminal. You¡­ you were the one that killed Jarl Thrand, yes? No, wait, no¡­ no, not Thrand.¡± ¡°His son,¡± Hjorvarth offered. ¡°His youngest son, Thorfinn.¡± ¡°Yes, yes,¡± the man rasped. ¡°I remember now. A man sitting where you were. A long time that feels now though. He told me of what happened. He told me that. Is that why you¡¯re here, then¡­ finally been caught?¡± ¡°I submitted myself to the justice of the Jarl of Timilir.¡± ¡°Did you? Did you, now?¡± he asked, sorrow coloring his tone. ¡°Justice. Justice¡­ now that was a fool thing to do. Don¡¯t you know, boy? Don¡¯t you know that there¡¯s no¡ª¡± He hacked a cough. ¡°No justice. Not here, boy. Not in this darkness. Not there, not in the city above. Not in the wider world. Didn¡¯t Isleif ever teach you that¡­? Or Brolli? Didn¡¯t no man ever tell you about justice, boy?¡± Hjorvarth wasn¡¯t sure of an answer. ¡°My friend is in the slave mines.¡± ¡°Oh¡­ oh! So¡­ so you were hoping to be sent there? Then I¡¯m sorry to be the one to tell you this, but this isn¡¯t a place where folk leave. They don¡¯t bring you here for a day¡¯s holding. That food, and that water. It¡¯s just to trick you, boy. It¡¯s to make it slow. I never ate it. I never sipped a drop. Not in all my winters.¡± ¡°What do you mean?¡± ¡°Boy¡­ didn¡¯t anybody ever tell you not to talk to ghosts?¡± Hjorvarth heard the warning in that rasping voice. He tried to inch back despite the barriers between them. He assured himself that he was safe even though terror lanced down his spine. A man snarled. A woman screeched. The cavernous dungeon erupted in a cacophony of painful wailing. Those prisoners still living started to groan, cry, and murmur in fear. Sobs echoed down the confines of the darkness, misery pierced by crazed screams. Then wood shuddered in the distance. Iron clunked and whined. Firelight bled into darkness to shade it crimson. ¡°What kind of Lady¡¯s work is going on in here?¡± a man yelled, his fearful voice echoing into an abrupt silence. ¡°Well¡­ is any of you law breaker¡¯s going to answer me?¡± He sighed disagreeably as he stepped forward. Hjorvarth sat frozen despite his curiosity. Fear pressed against his chest. Firelight approached, pushing back the shadows. The withered man opposite was not living, not starved or snarling, but desiccated with his lips parted into a death¡¯s grimace. Despite that, his rotting eyes seemed to stare straight at Hjorvarth. The armoured figure of a guard obscured the view. A young man frowned down at him. ¡°You¡­ are you, Hjorvarth?¡± Hjorvarth blinked up at him, flames making his eyes ache. ¡°I am.¡± The young guard grunted, setting his torch in a sconce, then began sifting through a rattling ring of keys. He tried a few, cursing to himself, before he got the lock to turn. ¡°Now you listen to me, big man. There¡¯s a whole score guards waiting outside this place. So there¡¯s no way you can escape. Don¡¯t try and fight me¡­ I¡¯ll admit I¡¯m not of a size, but I¡¯ve got a knife and a dagger if I don¡¯t get to draw my sword.¡± ¡°I swear by Brikorhaan and Broknar that I will make no attempt to hurt you.¡± ¡°Yeah?¡± The guard narrowed his eyes. ¡°Well, that¡¯s good, then, isn¡¯t it?¡± The iron gate screeched open. He stood watching the huge man trying to push his shoulders forward. Skin had started to bleed and the guard wondered how they had ever managed to get the prisoner in there to begin with. Despite his better judgement, he offered his hand. ¡°I¡¯m Fleinn.¡± ¡°My thanks.¡± Hjorvarth gripped his arm, managing to struggle free with the man¡¯s help. He thudded into iron bars and pain pulsed through his bleeding shoulders. He sighed through his teeth. ¡°Where are we going?¡± Fleinn led him forward. ¡°I¡¯m staying here, but you¡¯re on your way to the mines.¡± Hjorvarth followed after the young guard, squinting in defense of the torch. He glanced back to the encroaching darkness and could almost see the withered man, standing, smiling, waving in departure. 12. City Stroll 12. City Stroll ¡°I have made my second visit to the so called stone city of this new dwarven peoples. Like the last, I was met with hostility, suspicion, and what must have been revulsion. But this time they at least tried to hide their ill feelings. No doubt when we had first met they assumed that goblins were a savage people, who posed no threat to the humans or the dwarves. But now it seems they have learned more of The Small King and the sprawling Grorginite Empire. And understand that we might snuff them out at will. Good wishes and well wrought gifts were offered us. I was taken for a guided tour through the stone streets, where I saw male dwarves coupled up with female humans. It would seem that my prior suspicions were right, and these travellers have arrived without any breeding partners. As such perhaps they were honest when they claimed that their relocation was happenstance and not preplanned. Height not withstanding, perhaps their similarities will allow some crossbreeding. As was rumored to be the case with exiled elven folk before they went extinct. I am ever grateful for the Pool.¡± Ruby stood with her back to the wall of a shaded alley. ¡°This is an odd sort of cruelty.¡± ¡°I would not disagree.¡± A lithe man waited beside her, wearing a coat of mail under his green jacket. ¡°But I fail to see what business it is of ours. Would your father have openly involved himself in such an affair¡­ for the sake of a member of the Black Hands?¡± ¡°He is an old friend, Ragni. That and besides, this is an opportunity to ruin the plans of the Crooked Teeth.¡± ¡°And to what end do we do that?¡± Ragni asked. ¡°They offered you a truce, and your first act after that was to slay one of their members. Do you wish to bring us into an open war? Blood staining every street of the city?¡± He shook his head. ¡°Not even the Black Hands would risk that.¡± ¡°A snake without a head,¡± Ruby dismissed. ¡°There is no way that Brolli would suffer this. The Crooked Teeth does not want power or coin. They want to murder Jarl Thrand or else bring the city into an uprising that will achieve the same thing. That is why we are here¡­ because if we stand idly by and let these mad men do whatever they please then there will not be business left for us to profit from.¡± He grunted. ¡°I yield to your wisdom.¡± Ragni held out his hands to stand on, helping Ruby climb onto the angular stone roof. He followed after her, using the ledge of a closed window for footing. They both had sight of the city below, their ears assailed by the din created by hundreds of folk speaking, shouting and jeering. The gathered crowds stretched from the promontory of Jarl Thrand¡¯s Estate and down the stone city¡¯s main road that led towards a smaller path which ended at the northern mine. The mine could be seen from any place of height, nestled into the northwestern corner of mountains that surrounded Timilir. A wooden compound with dirt floors and tall palisade walls fenced off the rocky maw that served as the mine¡¯s entrance. The leaning wooden structures stood apart from the sturdy stone homes of the rest of the city, but seemed a good match for those of the shadowed slums, where two more mountainous corners opened to mines ran by paid labor and not slaves. The tunnels of those were once considered as much safer, but more recently kobolds had abducted dozens of miners without distinction. ¡°It¡¯s a wonder,¡± Ruby spoke over the gathered voices of the scores in the stone street below, ¡°that folk have been so easily made to hate a man they don¡¯t even know.¡± She lifted her gaze to the sloping approach of the marble estate where a huge, naked man trudged forward ahead of a dozen armed guards. Stalls had been wheeled forward full of rotting vegetables, eggs, and fruits, which was hurled at the prisoner as he passed. Ruby could not hear the words of the crowd that closed on his approach, but she could see hate in some faces, derision in others, unfocused anger or cruel humour on the rest. They shouted, hurling what they could, spitting what they couldn¡¯t. One old man whipped out his cock to piss a puddle along the paved street. Hjorvarth strode through it as if it didn¡¯t bother him at all. Ruby watched his unerring stride, even as rocks and loose bricks struck him, one splitting open his brow, as wet vegetables broke apart on his shoulders, as slop buckets layered him in slime and filth. A rotund butcher walked forward to douse him in offal. Ruby thought she could almost see him laugh, smiling beneath the red and brown liquid that now masked his stony face. ¡°You would think Brolli or Jarl Thrand walks that street¡­ or even the leader of the Crooked Teeth.¡± ¡°Or Isleif the Bard.¡± Ragni shrugged. ¡°It is not so hard to have a crowd committed to blaming a man for the crimes of others¡­ particularly when he is the son and foster son both. I¡¯ve heard those who think he¡¯s to blame for the Crooked Teeth. They did, after all, begin not long after Thorfinn¡¯s death¡­ and since his arrival the attacks have become more and more common.¡± A skinny woman hurled a brick at the filthy prisoner¡¯s back. Ruby gritted her teeth. ¡°They¡¯re going to kill him.¡± ¡°What more could he expect when he threw himself to the mercy of Jarl Thrand?¡± Ragni asked. ¡°He declared Thrand and his son as cowards, and offered no real apology at all. It was¡­ foolish.¡± Ruby glared. ¡°He does not deserve to be stoned to death.¡± ¡°I would never suggest that he did.¡± Ragni¡¯s lips twisted in distaste. ¡°He won¡¯t die. He hasn¡¯t even slowed. And it¡¯s a hundred years in the mines for whoever kills him.¡± Further behind the naked prisoner, guards had begun to break apart the crowds and pull people out for beatings. Ragni raised his brows. ¡°They¡¯re taking those throwing bricks is my guess.¡± Hjorvarth stopped now four leather-clad folk leapt out of the colourful crowd heaving around him. Ruby watched wide-eyed while they tried to butcher the huge man, while Hjorvarth made best effort of twisting and stepping back on slick stone. A black-clad young man entered the fray, burying a dagger in a woman¡¯s neck, shoving her into an older man. He swept forward, taking a wide slash across the side of his shoulder, then stabbed a second man in the collar bone, and dived amid the folk gathered opposite. Hjorvarth had struck the older man down. He managed to trip the fourth attacker, and kept wide of the man who still struggled with the blade in his chest. The guards put an end to those still living now they followed behind the huge prisoner. ¡°Was that one of ours?¡± Ruby asked. ¡°No,¡± Ragni answered. ¡°It looks like this is a day of rash interventions¡­ although no one seems too eager to knock on the door of The Stone Sons.¡± He nodded to a wide street where an ornamental fountain stood untouched between two towering rows of gold-banded structures. ¡°I would have thought they¡¯d be out in force.¡± Hjorvarth strode towards the fountain unimpeded, and started to wash his face and hair in the running water. He had been hurt, badly, and blood ran from a few wounds. He eyed the paved ground around him, then swept his gaze about the abandoned street. Crowds jostled at either end, pushed back by waiting grey-liveried guards, but none ventured into the shadow of the buildings. Hjorvarth then turned to the sound of stone clunking. The three-storey structure ahead had four colour-glass windows on each upper floor. The ground level was reached by a wide, squared stair, and on through ornate stone doors wrought wide enough for two passing carts. Hjorvarth sipped from his cupped palms while the doors groaned open. ¡°Are you well, friend?¡± asked a slow voice that reminded him of heroes of old. The sturdy man that spoke appeared much the same, with a handsome and hard-boned face, framed by a mane of black hair that had begun to grey. He stood amid a line of a score. Eighteen men and three women. They had the same hard features and weathered faces and appeared as if they had outlived some past age of honour and bravery, now living in a place and a time they despised. The Stone Sons wore armour of iron, mail and leather, covered by a uniform shirt that had been dyed blue and woven with a white boulder. Their shields, for those that carried them, bore the same device, and all their weapons showed the same wear and age as their faces. Hjorvarth felt a sudden longing to belong, and understood why his father had wished him to join the fighting band of the stone city. ¡°I only paused to wash the filth from my face. I meant no offense.¡± If you come across this story on Amazon, it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it. The Stone Sons descended the stair in unison. The sturdy man nodded in consideration. ¡°I assure you, there was none caused. Even so, we have taken it upon ourselves to escort you from this sanctuary.¡± Hjorvarth stepped back from the well now the fighting band approached. ¡°I am happy to leave of my own accord.¡± ¡°Oh.¡± The man raised his brows. ¡°That was no veiled threat, son of Isleif. Your father was long a friend of mine, and I will not see his son brought down by filth and hail¡­ or murdered by cowards in the open streets.¡± ¡°You have my honest thanks, but¡ª¡± ¡°Then I will take that as your tacit approval as well.¡± The Stone Sons split into two groups to form a hollow column. The sturdy man walked forward, dragging Hjorvarth between the blue-clad fighters before the formation closed into a square around him. The grey-liveried guard ahead closed ranks to block the streets, and readied spears. The guard captain, marked by his grey-painted helm, stepped forward. ¡°This brute is in our care, Ulfsteinn. The Stone Sons should move no further.¡± Ulfsteinn raised his hand to call a halt, striding ahead of those surrounding Hjorvarth. ¡°Five knife-cuts, a split brow and dozens more small wounds as scratches and bruises. Your care has been found lacking, guard captain.¡± He unslung a runic two-handed warhammer. ¡°Further, you are in no position to make requests of me. Step aside.¡± ¡°You would threaten Timilir¡¯s guard?¡± the captain asked in disbelief. ¡°You have lost your wits, old man. Move further and this ends in blood.¡± ¡°Your blood,¡± Ulfsteinn answered. ¡°Do you I think I weigh your life as a commodity of import, stranger? By threatening The Stone Sons, you have broken the ancient tenets of The Stone City. Your lives are forfeit. Lower your weapons and retreat before we move to claim them.¡± The guard captain looked to his score men. Each had started to shrink back. The colourful crowd behind them had fallen to a watchful silence. ¡°Jarl Thrand will abolish your order¡ª¡± ¡°Abolish?¡± Ulfsteinn roared. ¡°It is I that have the power to disavow him! I have suffered his slights in the past, when he refused to allow me to settle the death debts of three hundred. But that leaves me gold to spare for you men. Now I will say again, once more, for the sake of women and children that might rely upon you¡­ stand aside.¡± Ulfsteinn marched forward with his war-hammer readied and all The Stone Sons kept step behind their leader. From the same rooftop, some distance away, Ruby sighed with relief when the city guards parted. Beside her, Ragni murmured in surprise. ¡°Timilir is soon to tear itself apart.¡± ¡°Perhaps,¡± a cold voice mused behind them. ¡°Or perhaps we¡¯ll dig up the bad meat before it seeps the rot into the lot of us.¡± ¡°And which party is the bad meat?¡± Ragni asked, almost idly, then realised who had spoken. Ruby had drawn a short-sword, and gripped a fan of knives behind her back. They both turned to see a round stone chimney, blackened by long use. The mad man appeared to be climbing out of it, his face matching the discolouration, his cold eyes turned upwards in a curious smile. ¡°Ah, hah. I¡¯m quite stuck! No, wait¡ªthat was a lie! Come no closer, I¡¯ve knives hidden behind my back! No, wait¡­ no, wait. Why did we meet here?¡± he finished ponderously. Ruby narrowed her eyes. ¡°Are you alone?¡± ¡°Alone? Yes, no, no¡­ how can a man be alone with all those voices yap, yap, yapping in his head?¡± The mad man started to fall down the chimney, grunted, and heaved himself higher on his elbows. ¡°Would one of you lend me a hand¡­?¡± A tinkle of metal began, ending in a metallic crash. ¡°Ah, there go my knives, but never mind. Has anyone a hand to lend me?¡± Ragni crept forward, letting go of his own knives. ¡°Hold out both your hands.¡± He grabbed a hold of the mad man¡¯s extended arms and pulled him up and out of the chimney. The mad man sprung off the chimney and tackled Ragni to the floor, a knife already pressed against his neck before Ragni reached for a blade. ¡°Hah!¡± the mad man shouted. ¡°As easily had as that.¡± His arm tensed, tightening the grip on his knife. ¡°Don¡¯t!¡± Ruby warned. ¡°Oh?¡± The mad man frowned. ¡°Is that not what we¡¯re doing? Gem Cutters waiting in the streets to cut apart the Crooked Teeth. Isn¡¯t that the game we¡¯re playing? Slash, slash, slash. Hack, hack¡ªah, ah! Hands away from that blade, my friend, or you¡¯ll be gripping this one with your throat.¡± He chuckled. ¡°Ruby, of the Gem Cutters. Please deliver to me compensation for the lives taken¡­ or else I¡¯ll come for the price in teeth.¡± The mad man smashed his dagger¡¯s hilt into Ragni¡¯s head. He rolled forward while Ruby tried to slash across his back, then leapt quickly onto the chimney. ¡°Further word, shall be shared!¡± Throwing knifes glittered in the air, narrowly missing the man before he dived into the stone home below. Ragni groaned. ¡°Hit him?¡± ¡°No.¡± Ruby knelt beside the black-clad man. ¡°Are you badly hurt?¡± Ragni shook his head, grimacing. ¡°I didn¡¯t think that he would be quite so quick.¡± He studied her for a long moment. ¡°Do you intend to pay the compensation?¡± Shouts, screams and laughter rippled up from the street below. Ulfsteinn and The Stone Sons had strode close to unimpeded amid the spectators. They had barely suffered interruption and only a dozen thrown stones, but had now been stopped amid a narrow paved street by a pair of overturned carts. They had moved to clear the way while an order was given by a hooded man. The docile crowd of colorfully clothed folk had revealed hidden blades. Leather-clad archers on the rooftops had stepped forward and begun to draw. ¡°Hold!¡± came the stentorian command of Ulfsteinn. The Stone Sons tightened their formation, kneeling to better cover themselves behind sparse shields. A few knife-wielding women had already gotten into the square, but Hjorvarth disarmed one and Ulfsteinn¡¯s hammer crunched into the remaining pair. Arrows loosed, puncturing mail and flesh, scraping off of helmets, snapping against the hard stone of the road. The Stone Sons grunted their pain and held their ground. The unarmored attackers leapt onto the fighters as if they cared not at all for their lives. One woman got her knife under a visor, digging into a man¡¯s throat even as he disemboweled her. Two others of the Stone Sons, those that had ventured forward to clear the carts, were surrounded by cheering attackers, brought down in a flurry of stabbing, scratching and biting. The folk that surrounded The Stone Sons proper had suffered worse luck, most having their blades turned and their legs hacked out under them. On the rooftops, Alrik and Ruby had leapt across a divide and now fought with a group of four archers, while those atop the homes opposite continued to draw and loose on the fighters below. The Stone Sons had their own bows, or throwing axes, and managed to slay archers that stayed too long in line of sight. Wounded men and women now littered the blood-slick ground around them, clutching at wounds or trying to struggle away on stumps. ¡°Clear the street, but venture no further!¡± Ulfsteinn ordered. ¡°Ware of friends on the roofs!¡± He waited while the bloodied attackers retreated back into shadowed alleyways. ¡°Form together!¡± Hjorvarth still stood unclothed amid the well-armoured blue-clad fighters. He watched with a wary confusion, not wanting to step forth to kill men and women even if they had meant to murder him. The Stone Sons stepped forward to envelop the carts, righting one, loading with care three dead and one badly wounded, then split into two groups of twelve and eight. The twelve led the cart back the way they had come, while the eight, seven with shields, marched forward, closer together than before. They followed the stone streets, growing more abandoned, in a tense and ready silence, but no members of the Crooked Teeth came to challenge them. Timilir¡¯s folk had lost their heart for senseless displays of anger as well, which meant that the spectators of the procession dwindled until the The Stone Sons walked through empty streets. The paved road they followed grew into a greater state of disrepair until they trod across worn earth. The wooden gate of the mining compound lay open ahead of them, where more grey-liveried guards waited, standing alongside the dozen brown-clad staff of the northern mine itself. The Stone Sons slowed to a stop far from the gate. Ulfsteinn accompanied the huge prisoner for a more dozen steps. ¡°My thanks for your help,¡± Hjorvarth spoke in a troubled voice. ¡°I had expected the journey to be simpler.¡± ¡°As had I.¡± Ulfsteinn nodded, his weathered face tense with regret. ¡°With that in mind, perhaps I should have made this offer sooner, but I have the power to invite any man sentenced to the mines into the ranks of The Stone Sons. For a hundred winters, in your case, but I would expect the life would serve you better. It is not often used, not for forty winters, and may well be contested, but the offer is made in all severity.¡± He took a slow breath. ¡°Jarl Thrand be damned if he thinks to move against The Stone Sons.¡± Hjorvarth kept his gaze towards the dusty compound. ¡°Your offer puts me beyond gratitude, Ulfsteinn of The Stone Sons.¡± ¡°But¡­¡± ¡°But I come to this place with a purpose in mind. My friend has been sentenced, and I am sworn to protect him. It is my belief that his son serves in the mines as well.¡± ¡°Ah,¡± Ulfsteinn sighed. ¡°I wish you your father¡¯s luck, then, son of Isleif. He is the only man I know who truly escaped his service in that place.¡± He rested a hand on the huge man¡¯s bruised shoulder. ¡°The offer remains open, then¡­ should you one day return to the open air.¡± He dipped his head, and turned to leave. The Stone Sons stood waiting for his approach, showing no sign of ill will towards the huge prisoner who had cost them three of their own, or to the leader that had ordered them towards the cause. Hjorvarth strode forward as the city guards drew close. Wounds throbbed and burned all along his aching back, shoulders and chest. A chill seeped into him despite the sun overhead, growing keener now he crossed into the shadow of the ragged mountain that sheltered the wooden compound. A plump man with a friendly, dirt-smudged face led the procession of city guards. ¡°On your knees, prisoner!¡± Hjorvarth¡¯s legs responded all too readily. He thudded into dirt. Pain reverberated through his bloodied body. ¡°Ah.¡± The plump man smiled. ¡°You look ready for a day¡¯s work.¡± His nose furrowed. ¡°Or a bath in cold water.¡± He gestured to the brown-clad men further back. ¡°Get this man washed, then dry him in the dirt and fetch him something to cover his cock.¡± He turned to a grey guard. ¡°As to you, Atsurr¡­ I fully understand the good Jarl¡¯s wishes. You can both be at ease with the thought that this prisoner will be shown our fullest care.¡± The plump man bent to one knee. ¡°And you, big man, I expect you¡¯ll come to regret The Stone Son¡¯s protection.¡± Hjorvarth struggled to keep his eyes open, while the fear, panic and excitement fled his wearied mind to leave him hurting and exhausted. ¡°I¡­ mean¡ª¡± Atsurr¡¯s heel struck him in the side of his head. The plump man frowned up at the armoured sentinel. ¡°Was that needed? Now we¡¯re going to have to drag him.¡± 13. Deaths Shadow 13. Death''s Shadow ¡°With the advent of new dwarves, I have learned that their ancestors hadn¡¯t quite faded from the world as much as I had imagined. The Old Enemy is once again missing, while Agrak is set on finding us new foes. He has informed me that the snuffed out dwarven settlements of old have become places for the sentient dead. Physical spaces where the barrier between spirit realms has faded, so that all those who he had killed still wander, answering to a desiccated dwarven king. The new dwarves are erecting a vast monument to this God of Death, who they name Muradoon the Spirit Talker. Strangely, I have heard the name Muradoon before. There is a tribe of island dwelling manlings, black skinned, who worship ocean deities. Their God of Drowned Men is named Muradoon as well. Though I guessed that they were one in the same, it seems they are instead vying for the same throne. The dead dwarven king demands our allegiance, on threat of war, while The Small King readily refuses. It is unclear how he plans on defeating a God of Death.¡± Sybille had found her new home not so different to her old one. The nights were just as cold, stayed by a fire that was started each morning by an industrious old woman. She spent as much time sat about, thinking, trying not to think, or staring idly at a wall. She had been granted opportunity to walk through the estate after the second day, and she was thankful of that, but she had to be accompanied by two guards, none of which ever seemed to get along with Arfast. She sat on the edge of her bed, blankets stuffed with feathers, frame made from wood that seemed at ends with the lifeless walls of stone around her. Arfast crouched in the corner, as if lying in wait, belied by his snoring. Sybille found it hard to sleep because of the noise, but she decided she would fare no better if she was on her own. In some ways, Arfast¡¯s presence reminded her of Wymount, when Geirmund had stood guard in his own corner of a small room. Though this room was large, too large for Sybille¡¯s taste, and she would have preferred something cozier. ¡°It is a cold morning,¡± she said as idle mention. Arfast rose as if he had never been sleeping, striding from the corner to a pile of cut wood, placing three blocks atop the glowing ashes of the grandiose stone hearth. A soft knock sounded at the stone door to the old guard¡¯s left. Sybille smiled, expecting the old woman to be displeased by Arfast¡¯s intervention. ¡°Come in!¡± The door groaned open, allowing a view middling man wearing bright clothing: shirt and shoes of sky blue, cloak and trousers winter white, each piece worked with silver finery, buttons, and clasps. The only thing Sybille recognized as belonging to her father was his well-worn weapon belt and the onyx-pommeled sword that belonged to an uncle she never really knew. ¡°What was wrong with Brolli?¡± she asked. Gudmund frowned, eventually stepping into the room. ¡°Who said that there was anything wrong with him?¡± ¡°You never let us see him even though he only lived down the road. Or is it that he didn¡¯t want to see us?¡± ¡°He wanted to see you.¡± Frown deepening, Gudmund closed the door behind him. ¡°I wouldn¡¯t allow it, because he was¡­¡± ¡°Sybille,¡± Arfast said. ¡°This is not a question for an early morning. And I assume your father brings news?¡± ¡°I do¡­ but, as to Brolli, he had done a thing that I had never forgiven him for. And I had blamed him for other things because of that. I considered him a bad influence¡ª¡± Gudmund thought of Hjorvarth. ¡°But that was a misjudgment.¡± He sighed, staring at the fledgling fire in regret. ¡°He had a hard life, Sybille. Trying brothers. A cruel father. He fashioned himself into a man that he thought would best deal with the world around him¡­ which made me wary.¡± Gudmund turned to his black-dressed daughter. ¡°Does that answer the question?¡± ¡°It does.¡± Sybille nodded. ¡°And why are you dressed like that?¡± ¡°This.¡± Gudmund looked down at his blue-and-white clothing. ¡°Winter style, or so I¡¯m told.¡± He shrugged. ¡°There¡¯s an old woman with a dress waiting outside¡­ but I closed the door on her. I came to say we¡¯ve been allowed to stroll the streets of the stone city.¡± ¡°A show of force?¡± Arfast asked, still stood by the hearth. ¡°Or a dangerous effort at seeing the sights?¡± ¡°By my own request, as it happens.¡± Gudmund smirked. ¡°I¡¯ve decided I need to pay my respects to Muradoon at the Eternal Sanctuary. And Jarl Thrand¡¯s son has arrived in the city¡­ so he¡¯ll be guiding you by the hand, Sybille.¡± Sybille narrowed her eyes. ¡°If we¡¯re guiding by hands, can you tell me why it is we¡¯re here? And explain how you can both assure me I¡¯ll choose who I marry, while offering me up as a new wife to yet another of Jarl Thrand¡¯s sons? Gudmund upturned his palms. ¡°Can we pretend I¡¯ve told you a convincing lie?¡± ¡°Meet the man,¡± Arfast suggested. ¡°And perhaps Jarl Thrand¡¯s son and the man you want to marry will become one and the same. I have met him, and know young Thrand by reputation to be the kindest of his brothers.¡± Gudmund mirrored his daughter¡¯s scrutiny of the guard. ¡°You seem to know an awful lot, old man.¡± Arfast smiled. ¡°You answer your own suspicions with the word old. If your luck holds, you¡¯ll live to know as much.¡± ¡°How many men have you killed?¡± Arfast¡¯s aged face darkened for only a moment. ¡°I would guess at two thousand.¡± Gudmund sighed out a laugh. ¡°See, Sybille. We¡¯re all tellers of half-truths and lies. I didn¡¯t lie about the dress though, so be sure to put that on and be ready to leave within the hour. I expect a pair of faceless guards will come and collect you soon enough.¡± ¡°They all have faces,¡± Arfast assured. ¡°Mouths too, by my measure,¡± said Gudmund. ¡°Jarl Thrand has already asked me to dismiss you from my service.¡± ¡°That would be a mistake.¡± ¡°It would, Arfast.¡± Gudmund nodded more than he needed to. ¡°But the time may come when you would best serve beyond service.¡± He smiled. ¡°Perhaps you might even end your days faceless.¡± ¡°Understood.¡± Arfast dipped his head. ¡°We will be ready to meet you outside, my Jarl.¡± ¡°Good enough,¡± Gudmund said. ¡°But don¡¯t call me Jarl again. Gudmund is fine¡­ best, even. Call me the Young Wolf turned Old if you want to.¡± He laughed at his own joke, then remembered the lithe goblin lying dead in his hall. Gudmund hoped he wasn¡¯t making the same mistake as Lazarus. He could have killed Jarl Thrand all the days passed. But each day he waited, for a marriage to be approved, for forces to align, so that he could take everything. And, as he did, he risked everything in turn. *** The Eternal Sanctuary of Muradoon had been carved into mountain, wrought of stone hued from white to black. It was hard rock carved to a maker¡¯s liking. Grand columns seemed to support an enormous triangular roof, which of itself had been worked with a scene of daggers, spirits, and sacrifice. The carvings and adornment were so macabre that it had appearance of a passageway to the Spirit World. If it was, then the one-eyed god had trapped his head in an attempted escape. All the stone beneath the roof had been worked into an enormous likeness of Muradoon the Spirit Talker. One eye open. One eye closed. A bearded mouth with a full set of teeth laying gaped so that visitors had to enter through the maw of a half-dead god. Gudmund stood in the courtyard of the Eternal Sanctuary. He stared at the stone visage, in awe of the enormity. ¡°Jarl Gudmund?¡± a young voice ventured. The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. Gudmund turned back to the city, squat homes of stone ever shadowed by death. He had crossed through an archway that appeared as two skeletal arms linking, and stood behind the modest stone wall that encircled the courtyard. ¡°I wish to proceed alone.¡± The young man, hiding behind a full set of armour, glanced to the three guards with him. ¡°We have been told to follow¡ªto accompany you wherever you may go. The Crooked Teeth are¡ª¡± ¡°Of no concern to me.¡± Gudmund made an effort to appear angry. ¡°I will pay respects to Muradoon in privacy. You have no right or reason to accompany me. You will wait here for my return.¡± ¡°And if you do not¡­?¡± ¡°Then we¡¯ve spared the acolytes a trip.¡± Gudmund smiled. ¡°If I¡¯m not back by midday, feel free to look for me.¡± He spun on his heel before the man could reply. The cobblestone path he walked was marked by stone posts on each side, diminutive monuments etched with odd swirls. Two carts stood to his right, one large, one small, both stained with streaks of brown and red. The clearing opposite lay bare, save for another marker stone that squatted alone. Gudmund took in a slow breath before he ascended onto the stone-wrought tongue that served as the stairway into the Eternal Sanctuary. He came into a wide room with a dividing wall that halved the already short length. He walked around the divide, glancing at the hangings of grim paintings and tapestries woven of death. He paused before a grand archway, worked in the same skeletal fashion as the gate outside. Thick curtains and stringed bones had been hung to block the passageway. A small table stood before the precipice, supporting a bone bowl that had been filled with gemstones, coins, a dozen bloodied teeth, and a single severed finger. Gudmund cut away a lock of his own hair, and sprinkled it onto the bowl. ¡°An interesting decision.¡± Gudmund turned, nearly staggering back. A purple-robed man loomed over him. ¡°You¡¯re flight footed, Godi.¡± The large man grunted. ¡°I am a Spirit Seeker. And we have met before. I helped to exorcise your brother¡¯s spirit.¡± He raised a hand to halt reply. ¡°I have business, son of Geirulf. I will pray my god keeps both eyes on you.¡± ¡°My¡ª¡± Gudmund had to step back when the purple-robed man shouldered forward. He nearly upended the bowl, but turned to steady the table. Gudmund was almost certain he heard a sigh of disappointment. ¡°My thanks for your blessing.¡± The curtains shifted and hissed after the Spirit Seeker¡¯s passing. Gudmund stepped through after him, cloth and bone cold against his flesh. He emerged into an enormous cavern, grey stone painted by the wavering flames of a thousand candles. He had view of the rugged ceiling in entirety, but the modest space ahead had been separated by walls taller than he was. A tiered altar dominated the room, draped with cloths, pooled with wax, stacked with untidy rows of mismatched candles. There were chairs and side tables stood against the walls, but they were stacked with candles and ornate candelabras. Gudmund noticed burn marks all across the floor and wondered how the place would fare had it not been made of stone. He looked once more at the expansive cavern above, and had a sudden urge to shout loudly, but decided against it. He walked to the candled altar, blowing out five candles, relighting them with a prayer for those he had lost. Gudmund realised he needed more candles. He decided it would be simpler to offer up a blanket prayer for his town, his family, and any of the other folk he happened to care about. He stood waiting for a moment as if expecting an answer, but the only response that came was an old weeping woman crossing through the thick curtains. He smiled in sympathy and she scowled in answer. ¡°Left,¡± Gudmund muttered, turning that way. He crossed into a square room, layered in rugs, curtains and tapestries that had been made by hands of those both with and without skill and artistry. Gudmund reconsidered his thoughts on the risk of fire when all he saw for light was a single brass lantern. He borrowed that, adding to the shadows now he turned left once more and crossed through dozens of stringed bones. They rattled after him as he strode through a narrow stone corridor, which grew so dark and lightness that he was glad of the lantern. He walked for so long that he wondered whether this was the right way, but kept going. The corridor eventually opened out into a square-wrought stairwell, and he followed the steps down, further and further until he came across a handsome blond man standing on a wide landing. Engli frowned, his face painted by the light of a low burning candle. ¡°What kept you?¡± ¡°What kept you¡­¡± Gudmund waved his hands as if in expectation. ¡°Jarl Gudmund?¡± ¡°Exactly that. Now why you did you decide to travel so far down this gods damned stairway?¡± ¡°Can¡¯t be damned by the gods if Muradoon¡¯s servants are using it,¡± Engli joked. ¡°Did you make the mistake of thinking we¡¯re friends?¡± Engli shrugged. ¡°I came this far down because I was trying to avoid the priests.¡± ¡°Fair enough.¡± Gudmund sighed. ¡°Try to forgive my rudeness. I met a man here that reminded me too much of the past, and then I started lighting candles for the dead¡­ and¡ª¡± He sniffed. ¡°Forget it. Tell me what you know.¡± *** Alrik sat at the same table he had nights before in Sifa¡¯s tavern, but the day hadn¡¯t yet waned and he had fresh company. He had poulticed, and bandaged his right shoulder. At the opposite end of the table, Engli leaned back in his seat. He wore the dark clothes provided and looked little different to any other member of the Black Hands, though there was a softness to his face and gaze that set him apart from the rest. He showed his worry as well, whereas the other folk around would hide fear behind an ever-present frown or scowl. ¡°So I told him,¡± Engli continued, ¡°what you told me. And he wasn¡¯t exactly best pleased. I talked it over for a while, and he told me to tell you, that he wants you to arrange a meeting between the Black Hands, the Gem Cutters, and the Crooked Teeth.¡± ¡°Right.¡± Alrik raised his brows. ¡°And, forgetting for a moment it isn¡¯t possible, why does he want us to do that?¡± ¡°Apparently¡ªyet to be announced¡ªhe¡¯s going to be married to Jarl Thrand¡¯s youngest daughter. And he wants to offer up a grand sum of wealth to whichever group can murder Thrand, his guard, Atsurr, and anyone else that¡¯s known as overly loyal. He wants it done after the wedding, and he doesn¡¯t want there be any link to him.¡± ¡°Right¡­ well,¡± Alrik replied, ¡°if the Crooked Teeth could murder Jarl Thrand, he would already be dead.¡± Engli nodded. ¡°He said that you might be more useful if you all worked together.¡± A cool breeze swept in from the open window, causing both men to shiver. Alrik¡¯s eyes narrowed. ¡°I¡¯m not sure if you realize this, Engli, but the Black Hands aren¡¯t exactly in good health. I was almost murdered just the other week. And it¡¯s only for fear of Brolli and Hjorvarth that I¡¯m still sitting where I¡¯m sitting. I¡¯ve considered leaving every night since,¡± he admitted. ¡°So I¡¯m not sure I can arrange a meeting with the Black Hands, let alone the Gem Cutters who hate us, or the Crooked Teeth¡­ who come across as little more than a violent mystery.¡± ¡°A violent mystery?¡± came a curious inquisition from outside the window. The black-haired head of a soot-smeared man rose above the sill. ¡°Do you truly think so?¡± He bared a grimy smile. ¡°Do help me up, friends. I¡¯m falling.¡± The seated men shared confused glances. Engli pushed to his feet. ¡°Don¡¯t,¡± Alrik warned, rising. He drew a pair of long knives. ¡°Who are you¡­ friend?¡± The black-haired man cocked his head. ¡°Why, I¡¯m Smiler of the Crooked Teeth. An enigmatic leader. A curious rogue. A man made of many shades. A violent mystery. A. A. A. What? Stop. Give me a hand, will you, friend? It¡¯s quite safe¡­ I happen to have just dropped my knife.¡± He bared his teeth. ¡°Why did I admit that unfortunate and embarrassing truth?¡± Alrik took a step forward. ¡°I should kill you now, and spare the city your madness.¡± ¡°What?¡± Smiler¡¯s eyes widened. ¡°No, no! I am a shaded man. Shaded white. Shaded grey, at least. At least! You¡¯re after the black one I assure you. Two orbs. Sun and moon. I am bright, burning, yellow, scouring the shadows and the streets of eternal hypocrisy. Corruption! Greed, ground down by teeth. Scraps of flesh left amongst the spittle. Count them all, friend. I implore you! Count them all! They each add up to the smiles of bad, bad men. The snarl of a butcher who knows nothing of meat. The grin of a woman with dozens of girls, but no daughters. The sweet, sweet simper that appeals to the natural sociability of children.¡± Alrik shook his head. ¡°You are beyond mad, friend.¡± ¡°Stop, Alrik,¡± Engli warned. ¡°He doesn¡¯t lack strength. He hasn¡¯t sagged in his perch. He climbed¡ª¡± Smiler pushed up, vaulting forth and landing on the table, both legs at either side of the lantern. ¡°I come to speak in peace!¡± He turned to Alrik. ¡°No need to fight, friend. No need to fight. After all, haven¡¯t I already fought? Too much, I¡¯d say. So much. I live in a den of rats that eat each other.¡± He stared as if distressed. ¡°What does that even mean?¡± ¡°If you¡¯re here to talk, then talk.¡± Alrik waved his knife. ¡°Speak some words that make sense.¡± ¡°Talk?¡± Smiler smiled. ¡°I was just listening in¡­ listen in. Listening. Listening in¡­ listen. Listen! Listen!¡± He stepped forward, shifting the table as he leapt clear and out of the open window. ¡°Listen!¡± Alrik and Engli moved in unison to close and latch the shutters. ¡°I should check the street,¡± Alrik said. ¡°If the gods are kind, he¡¯ll have broken his legs.¡± ¡°What if that¡¯s exactly what he wants you to do?¡± Engli asked, noticing folded parchment by the lantern. ¡°Was this here before? It looks like he left a letter.¡± ¡°Cover your mouth,¡± Alrik suggested, lifting his collar over his nose. He plucked the parchment from the table, unfolding it to reveal scrawled lettering. ¡°Nothing dangerous¡­ at least nothing that should kill us right away.¡± He pulled down his shirt. ¡°It says that he¡¯s enthusiastically agreed to a meeting yet to be proposed. Location undecided. Invitation arranged by unplanned abductions in the night. Fine clothes encouraged. Blades expected.¡± ¡°Oh.¡± Engli frowned. ¡°What should we do?¡± ¡°I suppose I ought to let the Black Hands know,¡± Alrik spoke in a low, worried tone. ¡°And I expect you should try to find some way to warn Gudmund that he¡¯s listed as the Guest of Honour.¡± 14. Restless 14. Restless ¡°Life is tiresome. When I first sought to conquer mortality, I did not plan a means of reversion. Thus I am forced to live. Forever. Perpetually. Often enough I view this as a gift, beyond measuring, but now and then I see it more as a curse. Though as late I cannot remember the last time I viewed my predicament as a positive. I have instead been trying to puzzle out some way to revert the effects of that alchemist¡¯s elixir. Replicating the divine solution had been difficult, almost impossible, but my attempts to revert the elixir have proven entirely fruitless. He had warned me not to drink a third. I did not listen. I never listen. Perhaps if I can find how the Pools came to be to begin with, I can find some unique quality of goblinkind that I might exploit to undo this tireless longevity. Though if Agrak becomes aware of such a venture, he might well view it as a threat and have me buried under the earth to witter and regret for an eternity unending. If he feels how I feel, perhaps he might welcome a method of killing us both.¡± Beyond the palisade wall of the wooden compound that fenced off the northern mine, stood a collection of ten dusty buildings and a great pile of stone and earth that had been carted up from the tunnels. The dust and rust lent the air a nose-scratching scent, and had a habit of stinging eyes and clinging to throats. Of the buildings, there were four small storage sheds, arrayed near the corner formed between the wall and the rising mountain. There was a modest outhouse, one of only a few in the wealthier part of Timilir; a wide workshop, an expansive kitchen, a pair of long lodges for living and sleeping, and the two story structure that served both as the home and office for the mine¡¯s plump warden. The cavernous maw to the mine was sealed off by a second fence that was often open during the day, but meant a severe beating for any prisoner that crossed through it without the warden¡¯s permission. Beyond that, where faint light yielded to thick darkness, winded a wide and rugged tunnel that gave way to a crossroads. To the left, where brass lanterns kept the darkness at bay, the path ended in a domed cavern and yet another fence, where dozens of haggard, filthy prisoners, sat, slept, and coughed under oppressive luminescence. Their desperate faces could be seen by the lines of light stealing through gaps in their wooden prison. A modest underground river ran along the back wall, and served to stop the prisoners from dying of thirst. The latest prisoner, huge and bruised, lay curled up and shivering near the gate. He had drawn little attention from those around him, beyond mentions of how his size might end with men being trapped in a tunnel. One among the prisoners, Dan, thought he recognized the new arrival, so he kept a close watch while those around him weighed the merits of killing the prisoner before he caused the others any trouble. Dan had once watched an old fisherman catch a pale and sickly fish from the river with his hands, eat it despite other¡¯s warnings, then choke on the bones. He had long decided he was happy enough to eat the tasteless gruel provided by the city instead of risking his life for a short-lived meal. He wondered whether the huge prisoner would ever wake to make the same decision. Dan had his father¡¯s slim build, but not his height. He had his Sam¡¯s pleasant features, as well, but brown coloring instead of black. He stood as little more than a momentary inconvenience to the ruffians that muttered and plotted near the prison¡¯s far corner. The huge man murmured in his sleep, his pale body covered in mottled bruises and dark cuts. Dirt coated most his chest and his tattered leggings. Abrasions marred his back, as if he had been dragged along a road. Dan squinted through the dusty half-light, seeing the thuggish group in the corner break apart, moving towards the gate. He looked down at the sleeping man, pushing his shoulder. ¡°You should wake up, friend. There¡¯s men on their way to kill you.¡± Dan¡¯s fear rose now the men drew close. He slapped the sleeping man across the cheek. He considered running, then gripped a small stone and held his crouch instead. ¡°Who¡¯s this, then?¡± asked a raw-boned old man. He prowled more than walked, and his words seemed to dance from his mouth. ¡°Ah. Friend of yours, is he, young lad? Bit big though, no?¡± He swept his cruel gaze to the four brawnier men with him. ¡°Too big¡­ for some tunnels. Not a man you want to get stuck behind when things start popping and flashing, I¡¯d say. Would you¡­?¡± Dan felt unsettled by the man¡¯s toothless smirk. ¡°If he¡¯s too big for a tunnel, he won¡¯t go down it. Where¡¯s the risk¡ª¡± He smashed into the ground, deaf and senseless, before his jaw started to ache. Dan realised he hadn¡¯t been paying enough attention to the men around him. He tried to rise, but found the task harder than he was used to. Weight pressed into his back and he understood a man had taken to sitting on him. If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. Dan didn¡¯t start to panic until hands tugged on his leggings. ¡°Get off of me!¡± He squirmed as something warm and hard touched his thigh. ¡°Get off, you sick bastard!¡± He remembered the stone in his struggle, tightened his grip then flailed back, striking a knee. Weight shifted above him with and Sam managed to roll, glimpsing the angry man beside him. He lurched forward to smash the stone into the man¡¯s brow. A foot took Dan under the chin, his teeth clacked, and he was on his back, stone nearly slipping from grip. In the corner of his vision, he could see the toothless old man holding up the new prisoner¡¯s thick neck, a stone dagger drawing closer to the throat. Dan managed to hurl his stone. It sailed past the old man¡¯s face, missing, distracting him long enough to make him drop the prisoner¡¯s head, look back, and laugh. A boot thudded into Dan¡¯s ribs, snapping bone, sending pain surging through his belly. He heaved in a breath and tried to curl up before more feet were driven in. Dan held himself tight as he was kicked this way and that, as pain made him blind to his other¡¯s senses, as his flesh was scraped against the cavern floor by the enthusiastic work of two heavy-footed men. In the back of his mind, he could hear a deep voice shouting over another struggle. He mistook the blows suffered by other men as his own. He thought the constant pain was a mark of them still beating him to death. He jolted at a splash of cold water. Dan glimpsed the gloomy cavern ceiling. He shivered with the chill. More water crashed down. ¡°Stop!¡± ¡°Apologies.¡± A huge hand obscured Dan¡¯s vision. ¡°Can you stand?¡± Dan thought for a moment, pain subsiding to a dull ache, and decided that he likely could. He grabbed the hand and was lifted effortlessly from the ground. ¡°You.¡± A stony visage stared back at him, made of hard lines, pale eyes set under thick brows, broad jaw adorned with a handsome beard. ¡°Have we met?¡± The huge man blinked, rubbing at his eyes. ¡°That old man spat in my face, and I can hardly see¡ª¡± He frowned. ¡°Dan¡­?¡± He laughed. ¡°Dan!¡± ¡°I¡ª¡± Dan¡¯s breath was squeezed from his chest in a crushing embrace. ¡°Please, stop.¡± ¡°Oh.¡± The huge man let go. ¡°Are you badly wounded?¡± Dan probed at his own sides, deciding that he wasn¡¯t as hurt as he¡¯d feared. He frowned, shaking his head. ¡°Is it really you?¡± ¡°Hjorvarth.¡± ¡°Hjorvarth.¡± Dan narrowed his eyes. ¡°By the gods, what are you doing here?¡± ¡°Sam came here looking for you, and I came looking for him¡­ for you both.¡± ¡°Sam?¡± Dan wrestled with confusion. ¡°My father came here?¡± ¡°Yes.¡± Hjorvarth paused. ¡°Or so I was told. Have you not seen him?¡± ¡°I haven¡¯t.¡± Dan slowly shook his head. ¡°But there are two groups of miners. This group, and another that are¡ªthat would be working while we rest.¡± He shook his head again, more in denial. ¡°If he was here¡­ in the other group, then the kobolds have taken him or, well¡ª¡± He glanced at the floor. ¡°There have been a few bodies brought back¡­ burned by the kobolds. They have pipes that shoot fire to blind you or kill you.¡± Dan watched with something close to sympathy now the stone-faced man started to crack, but then the visage hardened and he wondered if he had only ever imagined the lapse. ¡°Did you commit a crime so that you could come here?¡± He thought of his harmless father. ¡°Did Sam¡­?¡± ¡°I am uncertain,¡± Hjorvarth admitted. He squinted off at the gloomy cave, to many dirty faces that now watched the huge man with fearful eyes. Dan saw the prone forms of the six men that had come to cut the Hjorvarth¡¯s throat. He remembered the angry youth the huge man had been and wondered whether he was still so quick to rise to violence. ¡°What do you plan to do?¡± Dan asked. ¡°If Sam was here, then he is long gone.¡± ¡°How long?¡± Hjorvarth asked. ¡°I pay less mind to time passing, but I would guess at five days, or even a week.¡± Hjorvarth nodded as if in consideration. ¡°And these kobolds steal men from the tunnels where you work?¡± ¡°They do. But we¡¯ve been working in the safer places since the last attack.¡± ¡°Then the path forward seems simple enough.¡± ¡°Does it?¡± ¡°We¡¯ll gain access to the most dangerous tunnels in the hopes that they capture us,¡± Hjorvarth explained, ¡°or in the hopes of finding a tunnel that we can follow. We¡¯ll find Sam, escape our captors¡ªor help him to escape his¡ªand then find a way to the open world that doesn¡¯t cross through Timilir.¡± Dan glanced at the branded circle on his palm. ¡°We¡¯re all marked as slaves.¡± ¡°A life wearing gloves seems easier than this.¡± Dan snickered. ¡°Not to insult you, Hjorvarth, but your plan still sounds reckless.¡± ¡°I would not deny it, but the odds are better than ever leaving this place,¡± he said. ¡°Which to my mind makes the choice between a slow death, here, in the company of men that now hate you, or with me, at an attempt to save your father and escape¡­ to make lives of our own that are actually worth living.¡± Dan grunted. ¡°Put that way, I suppose I don¡¯t really have much to lose.¡± He raised his brows. ¡°I¡¯ll follow your lead, then, Hjorvarth. But, for right now, it¡¯s going be a while until they let us out. So you might as well get some sleep.¡± He smiled in sympathy. ¡°You look a little too close to death for my liking.¡± ¡°I will be fine,¡± Hjorvarth assured. ¡°It took longer to get here than I expected, but I¡¯m here now. You sleep, and I¡¯ll watch over you,¡± he suggested. ¡°I expect there¡¯s still a long journey ahead of us both.¡± Dan didn¡¯t feel too pleased about the prospect of a long journey with the man that once bullied him. ¡°I¡¯m not even tired. So you should try¡­ or, if you like, you can pass the time by telling me how you ended up here.¡± ¡°You have the right of it,¡± Hjorvarth swiftly answered. ¡°I¡¯ll make best effort to rest.¡± 15. Time to Mine 15. Time to Mine ¡°Mass excavations have been undertaken to shape chambers for dozens, if not hundreds, of spawning pools. It is time to for me to clarify the true nature of the acrid liquid in which we grow and to put to rest myths and theories of how to influence the growth of the birthing sacks which we lay at the bottom of each pool. Perhaps by vast experimentation I might better understand my own genetics. And, failing that, perhaps I might birth a shaman with the requisite intellect to succeed where I have failed. All this in a quest for death. While all those around me strive for a few more meager cycles of the desolate Moon which hangs lofty and aloof above us all. The Small King was not only supportive, but almost excited. His grand ambitions for a lasting Grorginite Empire might one day be reached if we can reliably birth goblins with minds that steer towards contemplation rather than impulsive violence.¡± Hjorvarth woke to being shook, but was almost sure that it was still the night. He grumbled disagreeably for only a moment before he remembered where he had slept. The shadowed face a young man smirked down. ¡°I thought you weren¡¯t tired.¡± ¡°Everybody up!¡± another man bellowed, echoing across the domed cavern. ¡°In a line! Away from the gates!¡± Metal rang out as if made by striking a pot or pan. ¡°Everybody up! A fresh day awaits, full of hope for all the men and women that aren¡¯t inside this cage¡­ and for all you, well, animals love nothing more than scratching at the earth.¡± ¡°Come on,¡± Dan urged. ¡°They¡¯ll beat you half to death if you aren¡¯t in the line¡­ which would fully kill you.¡± Hjorvarth tried to laugh, but the sound was dry and stifled. He struggled up from the floor, nearly stumbling forward, then managed to straighten into a drunken stride. Slowing to a stop, he took some breaths to steady himself. Ahead of him, two untidy lines of rag-clad men had gathered at either side of the gate, which now lay much darker, torches beyond obscured by the shadows of men on the other side. Grunting sounded out now a bar was lifted, then the wooden gates groaned outward. Five men wearing skullcaps and leather armour waited on the other side. Four gripped their own cudgels while the fifth man had a tight hold on a four-headed whip. Hjorvarth and Dan had only just managed to reach the end of each lines. They both met eyes as if still unused to the other¡¯s presence. ¡°What happened to you?¡± the lead guard demanded of the wounded men. ¡°The big prisoner attacked us.¡± The old man, standing near the front of Hjorvath¡¯s line, bared his toothless grin. ¡°All of it without provocation. Tried to ask him to stop, but, well¡­ you seen how much that helped.¡± ¡°And where is this ¡®big prisoner?¡¯¡± The old man craned his neck to the end of the line. ¡°Back there, master Valdi.¡± Valdi turned briskly, then snapped his wrist back so that the whip heads sliced into the old man¡¯s cheek. ¡°That¡¯s for stepping out of line.¡± He struck again, tearing into the hand that the man had held up in defense. ¡°For raising your hand.¡± The old man whined, but brought his hand down. ¡°That¡¯s better, prisoner. Learn your place, and we¡¯ll all be happier for it¡­ won¡¯t we?¡± ¡°Yes, master,¡± each of the prisoner¡¯s echoed in a clumsy unison. ¡°Have we got a mute back here?¡± Valdi asked, stalking forwards. He came to stand before the huge prisoner. ¡°Well, then. Looks like you really are the ¡®big prisoner¡¯, aren¡¯t you?¡± He waited, eyes narrowing. ¡°Are you deaf, you big oaf?¡± Two guards with cudgels came to stand beside their whip-wielding leader. Hjorvarth took a slow breath. ¡°I suppose I am.¡± The whip struck him with a cruel snap, barbs tearing through his nipple. ¡°To what end do you seek¡ª¡± He suffered another strike, and smiled. ¡°To torture¡ª¡± Hjorvarth struck the man in the head. Valdi tottered, then collapsed. The two guards near him gripped their weapons, trading wary glances. The pair near the gate rushed to join their peers. ¡°I am warning you,¡± Hjorvarth declared, ¡°step closer and I will happily do to you as I did to him. I struck this man because he meant to harm me for no reason I could see. Because he seems to have taken it upon himself to cause suffering to those who have already been forced to suffer.¡± ¡°On your knees, prisoners,¡± a tall guard warned. ¡°Get on your knees, and we can talk this over. But this isn¡¯t a place where we negotiate on threats.¡± Hjorvarth scowled at the shadowed faces of the guards, at the prisoners watching in the half-lit cavern. ¡°I am of no mind to discuss it further, or in any mood to stay here any longer than I already have. Stay out of my way, or I will put you down and leave you to whatever fate awaits you in the care of your charges.¡± The tall man stepped forward, bringing down his cudgel. Hjorvarth caught him by the wrist. He punched the man¡¯s gut, letting him drop to the floor. ¡°Time to go, Dan.¡± He waved the man towards the open gate, which two guards were now hurriedly trying to close. Each half came together with a wooden rattle. He kicked one side open before they barred it, sending a guard onto his back. The man closest struck the huge prisoner across the thigh, then staggered when he was punched answered. ¡°Dan!¡± Hjorvarth glanced back at the young man, who stood frozen at the precipice of the gate. ¡°This has already begun, and you are already a part of this. As are all the men with you. If you stay here you will be bloodied and beaten for the things that I have done. If I have to, I will walk back, strike you down, and carry you.¡± Dan stepped forward, breaking into a run now the guards started to recover. An excited roar went out and a dozen prisoners followed after them. The eight that remained, bar one old man who had sat down in the hopes that he wouldn¡¯t be associated with those standing, decided they would be too exposed and reluctantly followed after the rest of the law breakers as well. ¡°This is absolute madness, Hjorvarth,¡± Dan shouted, struggling to keep up with him. Hjorvarth held up a stolen lantern as they came to a crossroads. He turned to the young man. ¡°Which way?¡± Dan waved his hand to the tunnel opposite the one they had come from. ¡°That one, but we should go to the storehouse in the compound and find some supplies. Or, closer to hand, the cavern where we eat is this way.¡± Hjorvarth considered the decision while the old man ran past, leading half a dozen men towards the exit. He strode into the tunnel that led to where the men ate. Dan followed in the wake of the man¡¯s huge shadow. ¡°You could have warned me that you¡¯re plan was going to be so¡­ graceless,¡± he complained. ¡°Didn¡¯t you at least want to have a look at the tunnels first?¡± ¡°No need.¡± Hjorvarth¡¯s eyes glittered with lantern light. ¡°I trust your judgement.¡± *** ¡°Still trust my judgement?¡± Dan asked. They had searched the expansive cavern, finding it full of all furnishings and possessions needed for serving food, but nothing to actually eat. Hjorvarth led the way back through the winding tunnel. ¡°The decision has no less merit because it proved useless.¡± Dan frowned. ¡°So¡­ no?¡± ¡°I had meant that as a yes.¡± Hjorvarth slowed to a stop at the crossroads. ¡°I¡¯ve no talent for memory. Which way?¡± ¡°Left.¡± Hjorvarth nodded, turning into a wood-braced tunnel that widened and narrowed and widened again while they followed it. Dust and dirt blanketed the air, and both man had begun to take heavy breaths. They both slowed when they heard voices. The way ahead opened to a wide man made cavern that offered access to three more tunnels. A dozen grey-liveried men stood beside two narrow half-laden carts, conferring with the guards that had taken beatings. The plump man was in attendance, red-faced, his fine black jacket at ends with mundane surroundings. They had taken most interest in the tunnel on the left, leaving the approach to the rightmost path unchallenged. ¡°Of the paths ahead,¡± Hjorvarth whispered, ¡°which leads to danger?¡± ¡°Gods above,¡± Dan hissed, glimpsing the group ahead. ¡°There¡¯s no way forward. We should run back to Timilir.¡± ¡°The way forward is the way forward,¡± Hjorvarth assured. ¡°Choose a path and I will follow.¡± This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version. ¡°Choose a path?¡± Dan scowled. ¡°Hjorvarth¡­ they will catch us, and kill us, and¡ª¡± A deep laugh sounded out from the tunnel behind them, followed by low conversations and the metal rattle of men trudging forward in heavy armour. ¡°Isn¡¯t that great?¡± Dan muttered. ¡°Trapped on both sides. You know I spent the past season praying for help¡­ and now I¡¯m very much starting to regret it.¡± ¡°Do not hesitate,¡± Hjorvarth warned. ¡°Brikorhaan willing!¡± The guards of the mines and city both startled at the shout. The huge half-naked man shouldered into one of the carts, snapping off a wheel, and sent it tipping over onto a pair of guards. He drove a nearby man to the ground with a heavy punch, and then scooped the broken wheel up off the ground while Dan ran off into the tunnel to the right. Hjorvarth followed, wheel in one hand and lantern in the other. ¡°Keep running,¡± he told Dan. ¡°I¡¯ll lead once we reach the next cavern.¡± ¡°Did you fools really not check the dining cavern?¡± came a furious shout. ¡°Oh gods,¡± Dan said, breath ragged. ¡°This tunnel is going to be too narrow.¡± Hjorvarth frowned, then realised Dan had not meant for himself. Rugged stone pressed in on his huge shoulders, and he had to twist his body side-ways to fit through. ¡°Can you get through?¡± Dan asked. Hjorvarth lifted the lantern over his head, handing it over. ¡°You should keep going, and scout the way ahead. I will get through.¡± He saw hesitation and fear. ¡°Run! Go!¡± Dan offered a doubtful smile, but turned to follow the tunnel ahead. Left amid growing darkness, Hjorvarth sighed. He made an awkward effort of side-stepping his way through the tunnel, while the the rattle of armour and angry voices grew closer. Rock pressed into his skin, scraping his flesh, reopening recently closed wounds. Hjorvarth laughed, having no other answer to his desperation and agony, and thanked the gods that he had lost so much weight in the season past. He struggled now pressure threatened to break his ribs, or crush his chest, but then the weight slowly loosened and he managed to keep faith in his reasonable pace. Lantern light bled into the darkness behind him, and he could see the stretching shadows of approaching guardsmen. Hjorvarth had almost come into a stretch wide enough to run through, when the first guard caught up with him. The man wasted no time attacking an unarmed prisoner, and threw his momentum into a sword thrust. Hjorvarth caught the blade with the broken cart wheel, twisting it upward in an attempt to wrench the sword from grip. Iron cracked and shattered. Hjorvarth stepped forward and grabbed the guard by shoulder and head, driving his helmet into the stone, once, twice, then a third time until he was sure the man would collapse. A cry went out now more guards approached, hampered by their fallen friend. Hjorvarth ran forward into the blackness before the pursuers could clear the way. He sighed with pure relief when he saw the lantern light at the end of the tunnel. Dan startled as the huge man approached. He meekly smiled. ¡°Glad you¡¯re here.¡± They both stood on a path that ringed an expansive natural cavern, which housed moist rock formations and two large pools. The pair were blocked by a sheer drop to water ahead, while on the left and right stood several hunched figures who wore hooded cloaks and kept a grip on metal pipes. ¡°Give!¡± the cloaked figure behind Dan hissed, brandishing a pipe. ¡°Give!¡± ¡°Friends?¡± Hjorvarth asked, dropping his wheel. Dan slowly shook his head, water splashing u wood struck water with a hollow splash. ¡°Don¡¯t move. Those are the pipes that shoot fire.¡± ¡°Give!¡± the kobold screeched. ¡°Give!¡± ¡°My deepest apologies if this cripples you,¡± said Hjorvarth, shoving Dan off of the ledge. He jumped after, meaning to land in the other half of the pool. Both men plunged into the ice cold water, thudding into stone below with an impact that jarred bone. Dan regained his wits first, barely understanding what had happened, wishing he had managed to hold his breath. He had never learned how to swim, but could see the light above him and made a frantic effort of flailing through the water. Relief flooded him when he broke into the stale air above. He managed to clamber high enough to rest his elbows on the pool¡¯s ledge. ¡°Stop!¡± came a screech. Five hunched kobolds aimed pipes at the young man in the pool. Fur showed in places on their squat frames, but their heads were hidden by thick black cowls. They each had one clawed hand gripped on a small sparking stone. Hjorvarth broke water with the wheel back in grip. Gemstones set in the earth illuminated the cavern in many hazy hues of colour. Hjorvarth glimpsed five hooded creatures overhead threatening to attack, while a dozen more milled about the ground below. Those had turned their attention to a score of burly goblins, who now spilled out of a wide tunnel, charging towards the kobolds. The five kobolds overhead turned towards the roaring goblins as well, smashing their stones atop their metal pipes. Hjorvarth pulled Dan back under the water¡¯s surface. Sparks erupted. The hooded kobolds were thrown back now their cannons erupted in hand, sounding out with a reverberative boom and a hail of sparkling debris. Projectiles shredding their dark flesh, goblins cried out in panic and pain. A kobold stood alone still trying to make his pipe spark, which then exploded in hand, destroying the creature in a shower of gore. Two goblins were killed by the force and a third was skewered by propelled bone. The last goblins staggered forward, bleeding from many wounds, and started to bludgeon the cloaked creatures to the ground. Hjorvarth and Dan clambered out of the pool, and ran forward towards a large cavernous maw while vicious fighting continued in the cavern around them. Shouts sounded out, along with screams and screeching, punctuated by small explosions. Both men crossed into the darkness while the grey-liveried guards filed into the large cavern behind them, becoming a part of scattered battles that had broken out between invading clans of brutish goblins and exploring groups of kobolds. ¡°We don¡¯t even know where this leads,¡± Dan argued into blackness. ¡°By your echo,¡± Hjorvarth answered, ¡°it doesn¡¯t end in a fall.¡± He kept ahead of Sam¡¯s son just in case, hoping that he might be able to warn him should he fall into chasm as he had once before when traveling with Engli and the Sage. A myriad of colored luminescence began to bleed into the darkness ahead, suffused by sparkling gemstones that were set into the wide walls of the rugged tunnel. The deep sounds of grunted goblin conversation reached them and both men slowed to a stop. ¡°Now what?¡± Dan asked. Hjorvarth still had a grip on his broken wheel. ¡°We go forward. Perhaps I can reason with them.¡± ¡°Reason with them?¡± Dan asked. ¡°Have you gone fully mad. They are monsters!¡± ¡°Yes.¡± Hjorvarth nodded. ¡°They are¡­ but less than you might think. Perhaps no more than some cruel men.¡± He smiled in frustration. ¡°We have no choice. Death is behind us, at swords, or at summoned fire. You have to take it on faith that Ilma has not yet weaved to the end of your life. And if she has, well¡ªyou are soon to be dead. Worry less.¡± Dan frowned, then sighed. ¡°I say again¡­ I wish you¡¯d never come to save me.¡± ¡°Believe me,¡± Hjorvarth replied, starting to run again. ¡°I know that feeling well.¡± Ahead of them, in a cavern both long and narrow, a score of brutish and bleeding goblins oversaw the crushing and killing of a dozen cloaked kobolds. They were oversaw, from a stone plateau that overlooked the cavern floor, by a clan of diminutive goblins named Moonkin. Each had been hued in the different colour of sparkling gemstones that adorned the walls and floors. Goblins of all sizes turned to the heavy footfalls of a huge manling that strode into the place without fear. ¡°Greetings, I am¡ª¡± ¡°The manling that smells like a troll!¡± Loffi declared, standing at the plateau¡¯s edge. He bared grimy fangs as ragged ears twisted and twitched. ¡°What doing here, manling?¡± ¡°I am as you are, goblin, standing where I have been told to stand. So the man with me, so the men following me, and so all the men behind me, in these caverns, and in the world above. As has every man ever stood in one place or the other. Unless¡­ unless he happened to be a Chief, and I am not a Chief. Not in the slightest.¡± Dan stood in silence, wary of the hungry gazes of so many ugly goblins. He wondered how Hjorvarth¡¯s nonsensical words were ever going to convince a group of monsters to let both men pass by unscathed. Loffi laughed shrill hysterical laughter that bemused all those around him. ¡°Those words must be stuck in your mind, manling. As surely as they are stuck in mine. But that is no bother to me¡ªLoffi.¡± He turned his orbish gaze to the burliest goblin amid the brutish clan below. ¡°Dugg¡­ you will let the manling pass?¡± Dugg rubbed at his green face with thick fingers, then nodded in all severity. ¡°Well I remember the day that the Fire Giant spared my life outside the gates of Horvorr. It deeply troubles me to see such a legendary warrior so unclanned.¡± ¡°I am pursued by another of my kind,¡± Hjorvarth said. ¡°The kobolds have taken my clan, and I march now to find them. Do you know the best way for me to take?¡± ¡°Which rat do you seek?¡± Loffi asked, his eyes narrowed. ¡°Great King Rubinold? Treacherous Zelerath? Or holy, holy, Hubbard the Hallowed?¡± Hjorvarth met the words with a shrug. ¡°Whichever is closest.¡± ¡°We are not far from Hubbard¡¯s domain, Fire Giant,¡± said Mugg straightened, straightening to a height almost as tall as the huge man. ¡°I will lead you there. The clan of Mugg honoured to help you find yours.¡± ¡°Good luck to Mugg.¡± Loffi dipped his head in departure. ¡°Should we not meet, I pray The Pool remember you.¡± Mugg struggled both to bow low and to also look up at high plateau. ¡°You honour me, Herald Loffi.¡± ¡°Man troll.¡± Loffi bared his fangs at Hjorvarth. ¡°Moonkin. Follow Loffi.¡± He scampered up a narrow tunnel, soon pursued by his clan of diminutive goblins. ¡°Come, Fire Giant,¡± Mugg urged. ¡°Rubinold¡¯s rats crawl in force.¡± Dan stared dumbfounded at the respectful group of savage monsters. He let Hjorvarth pull him forward and the two men soon ran alongside the clan of twenty goblins. They were so broad and brawny that Dan felt as if he were walking amid a clan of small Hjorvarth¡¯s, save that they had no hair and their heads seemed close to neckless. He carried on as even the pace through darkness drove him to exhaustion, and he gratefully slowed as the goblins did, as they began to argue and shout in low voices that echoed back from the large cavern that they must have stood in. Dan noticed flickering sparks and heard a faint rhythmic tapping. ¡°For King Rubinold!¡± came a chorused screeching. The first sparks reached the kobold powder. Twin explosions rocked the air with a myriad of colour, revealing dozens of hooded figures encircling the goblins, blocking every avenue, stones sparking while their pipes were lined to fire. ¡°To ground!¡± Mugg bellowed. ¡°Protect Fire Giant!¡± Hjorvarth¡¯s hands clamped on Dan¡¯s shoulders. ¡°Get¡ª¡± The rest of the kobolds seemed to light their weapons in unison, shaking the air and earth, deafening and blinding those in the cavern without distinction. Dan shut his eyes to brilliant light. He bitterly realised he was going to die. 16. Intertwined 16. Intertwined ¡°¡®How far along are we¡­?¡¯ When asked the question, I idly answered in the human tongue that progress on the pools was going well. And then I turned to see the green-robed alchemist standing in my caverns. Though I was at first wary, and swiftly considered how an old and frail shaman might best a human twice his height, the stranger seemed placid enough. He then asked if I had heard the voice yet, which was a question I did not have any good answer for. He went on to explain that when I did hear the voice I should not pay it undue heed. That I would be better served treating it with suspicion and fear. ¡®Keep it from The Small King as long as you can,¡¯ he had warned. I answered that I would both to placate him and because I would have graver concerns if I began to hear voices in my mind beyond my own. Then he simply stood there, awkwardly, and began to make idle conversation. I had not spoken at length to anyone of intellect in some time, so I humoured him. No doubt he placed great import on this voice, but all the talk that followed was seemed trivial and pointless. By the time he finally left, I wondered if he were simply lonely. Then that night I dreamed restless dreams, as if seering in my sleep, and I heard a voice that was ancient, bitter, and shaking with inconsolable rage. It demanded I build far bigger pools.¡± Astrid trudged through ankle deep snow, her arms tucked under her grey cloak. The dark green figure of Fragor loomed beside her, and she had watched every now and then as each of his lumbering movements formed more cracks in his skin, which required ever more wax to seal. Within his rounded humanoid frame, she could see the dark liquid sloshing back and forth in his great stomach, which had started nearly quarters full and had since fallen to half way down. There was nought to eat for him to eat for miles around. Other than Astrid, of course. The great towering trees of the Blackwood lay behind them, separated by a long stretch of stone and snow. She could still distantly see the Snake Basin path, which ran alongside the forest, eventually opening to a wider road that cut through a wintry plain, crossing into a sheltered pass, towards the wide and icy mountain ranges of Timilir. There had been farmsteads and cabins along that road, but they were now smoldering husks, blackened and burned. Astrid could make out their broken frames in the distance. The stone city lay eastwards, while southerly cliffs dropped down to the Snake Basin. Astrid needed to head northwards though, where the stretch of mountains that separated Southwestern Tymir from the Midderlands gave way to a vast valley of swampy soil. Though all she could see in that direction was an endless horizon of greys. She sighed, breath coming out meek a shakily, and barely made a plume of misty air. Astrid¡¯s foot hooked on something beneath the snow, and she tripped forward, stumbling on. She barely managed to right her balance before she went head first into the cold grind. ¡°Acid!¡± Fragor exclaimed. ¡°Want carry¡­?¡± Astrid felt bone tired. And she had no real reason to distrust the giant green troll. But she still felt a visceral urge not to be plucked up like all those goblins had been before her. Still, she decided, it was either be carried or else die of exposure. ¡°Yes, please, Fragor.¡± Fragor reached out with his enormous wax arms and plucked her up gently, eventually setting her on his spongy right shoulder. Then her vision swam and ears rang and she was suddenly not herself, but a small, keen eyed goblin, looking up at the immense log walls of Horvorr, standing on the shoulders of a different giant. ¡°Dalpho¡­¡± Her stomach turned at the sight of torn open men and women of Horvorr, strewn about the ornate, half burned, hall of who must have been Gudmund son of Geirolf. He was alone, beaten, soon die. Then the sudden thrum of a bow sent Astrid reeling. Back to herself, wind whipped past her eyes and she hurtled to the ground below, landing instead in the great and grimy paw of Fragor. ¡°Why you jumping, Acid. You ask for carry!¡± ¡°Sorry,¡± she managed meekly. ¡°I have¡­ visions, sometimes. But this was strange. I don¡¯t usually see things that have already happened.¡± ¡°Oh. Still carry¡­?¡± ¡°Yes, please,¡± she answered, realizing that she had seen the last moments of the Great Chief Lazarus. He had spared a young girl and the young girl had not repaid the favour. She bitterly smiled, knowing full well that Gudmund of Horvorr had slaughtered all those goblins he swore to protect. ¡°Thank you, Fragor,¡± she said, now dropped back atop his bulky shoulders. ¡°You is welcome, Acid,¡± came the happy answer. The hardened green wax was cold to touch, and slightly sticky, which made it easier to keep in place despite the great weight of each of his stomping steps below. The troll seemed all the more giant from up here, stepping through the deep snow as it were completely insubstantial. ¡°What visions?¡± ¡°A vision is¡­ well, I see through another¡¯s eyes. Usually Hjorvarth¡¯s.¡± ¡°Oh. Why¡­?¡± ¡°I believe are bonded in some way,¡± she honestly answered. ¡°Fated to be together.¡± ¡°Oh. Like Fragor and Agak,¡± the giant troll said, picking up pace and marching forward across the vast snowy plain. Astrid placed both gloved hands onto the sticky wax, and flexed her legs and thighs to better keep in place. In the distance, she glimpsed sight of greenery, flanked on both sides by rearing mountains of ash grey and bone white. ¡°I suppose so.¡± ¡°What see Yore yar?¡± Fragor asked. ¡°I do not know,¡± she shouted above now thunderous footfalls. Her teeth began to rattle now the giant troll began to lope. ¡°I do not see him always.¡± Fragor hummed as if confused and disappointed. ¡°When I was younger,¡± Astrid added, ¡°I saw him, much younger as well, in a house in what must have been Timilir. He was trying to rob the owners!¡± she had to shout to be heard, but then Fragor slowed to a noisy walk. ¡°There was a locked safe, and the man meant to open it was terribly nervous. His hands were shaking. And try as he might, he couldn¡¯t manage to open the dwarven lock. And Hjorvarth was growing impatient, scowling back and forth between the man and the door, when a great alarm rang out.¡± Fragor curiously hummed. ¡°What then, Acid¡­?¡± Astrid¡¯s mouth hung agape now the snowy plain gave way to mossy ground pocked by by tall bulbous plants and tufted by wild grasses. Before the disparate pair, a long stretch of signs and posts had been erected, each wooden point puncturing through the rotting heads of both goblins and humans. Flies buzzed around the gruesome markers, which gave way to overlapping crude fences and sharpened stakes further back. ¡°Oh. Pictures,¡± said Fragor, referencing the crossed out humanoid figures, as if they weren¡¯t welcome, and then other etchings of claws and fangs and teeth. ¡°And walls. What does it mean, Acid¡­?¡± ¡°I think it means that someone, or something, doesn¡¯t want us in the Pass.¡± ¡°Oh,¡± said Fragor, his childish tone now edged disappointment. ¡°I smash¡­?¡± ¡°Go ahead.¡± *** ¡°Moonbear is back!¡± cried the dirty, scrawny goblin now he scurried into the cavern. The words met, by the other goblins scattered around the large camp cavern, by fearful murmurs or frightful exclamations. ¡°Moonbear¡ª¡± ¡°Be silent! Do that,¡± Chief Ugu snarled, his grimy teeth ever on display, because a cruel scar ran from nose to chin. He had squared features, almost like a mans, and once spoke with a proud voice. But after he had lost his fight to Harak the Unseen¡ªsuffering the wound on his pale brown face¡ªhe¡¯d had trouble speaking without a lisp. Despite the affectation, volume alone forced all of his clan to a tense silence. ¡°No, no,¡± said a second voice, as an even skinnier goblin limped inside. ¡°Giant!¡± ¡°Where¡­?¡± Ugu demanded. If the Moonbear, or a giant, had entered the Middle Lands Pass then that was good news. It was Harak who had decided that Braguk was dead, after all. Ugu might never be Great Chief but he could at least take pleasure in Harak¡¯s dying. And, if it were a giant instead, then he might be able to trick the creature into fighting Harak¡¯s clan instead of Ugu¡¯s. Then Ugu could have his revenge and be the Great Chief. ¡°From the snow lands,¡± answered the first scrawny goblin. ¡°Carrying a tiny goblin.¡± ¡°A manling,¡± insisted the second. ¡°A giant, dark and green, carrying a manling!¡± Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences. Ugu grumbled wordlessly to himself. He straightened in his stone-hewn seat, and glanced back at the hunched figure in the corner, crouched over a bowl of burning things that smelled foul. The shaman bore many scars and bruises, and was missing an ear. ¡°What see you, Forgo¡­?¡± The shaman¡¯s small dark eyes kept staring into the flames, dancing with the light. He carried a small bone knife and wore a scaled jerkin over his bony chest. ¡°Shaman!¡± Ugu demanded. ¡°I would not go,¡± he eventually answered, his slow words strained. ¡°Death waits.¡± Ugu¡¯s eyes narrowed, and he considered beating the shaman again. He had once respected, even feared, Forgo. But then he had seered that Ugu would lose his duel against Harak. And refused to unseer it. This had enraged the Chief so much that he did what other goblins thought unthinkable, and attacked the shaman, biting off his ear. ¡°If you leave them,¡± added the shaman, ¡°Harak will be slain. And only you and Saka will remain. This will be better for you both¡­ in some ways. Worse in others.¡± ¡°It is Braguk, or a giant¡­?¡± ¡°It is a troll¡ªthe very first troll¡ªand a womanling. Their stories are strong. The smokes are clear. And the womanling is not seeking honour,¡± the shaman added. ¡°A box has been buried. It is best for us all that she finds it in peace.¡± Ugu scowled, his ruined lips drawing further up over his teeth. Forgo had never spoken so surely on any of his seering. And he spoke words that were supposed to be important, but did so flatly and without feeling. ¡°This is a trick,¡± the Chief hissed. The shaman looked over his hunched shoulders, his thin lips curled into a cruel smirk. ¡°Not all battles can be won, Chief Ugu,¡± he studiously explained. ¡°This is no trick. Be deaf, if you wish. You have done so before. This time will leave greater wounds.¡± ¡°Mind your tongue,¡± Ugu growled. ¡°Or I will bite off your other ear.¡± He had only left the shaman alive so far, because all true Chiefs had a shaman. But he realized now that it was just a name to be given, or taken. That he could replace Forgo with any other fool. ¡°Even with no ears, I will still hear better than you, Ugu.¡± Forgo¡¯s quiet chuckle was soon followed by a rasping cough. ¡°You can kill me. I have seen my death in the smokes.¡± Ugu forced himself not to rise, and smash the shaman¡¯s head open with his bone club. Rage and confusion surged through the Chief. If Forlo had seered his own death, and he died, then his seering was true. But if Forlo did not die then Ugu would appear as a fool. He glanced around at his clan, who watched with fearful confusion, while one or two of the bigger goblins appeared almost amused. ¡°Forlo has seered his death,¡± Ugu then declared. ¡°Whoever eats his eyes, will be the new shaman!¡± *** ¡°Strange,¡± murmured Astrid, bobbing atop Fragor¡¯s great shoulders. The ground beneath them lay boggy, pocked with deep murky pools that no doubt harbored all manner of creatures, some likely dangerous, other perhaps murderous. ¡°I had a feeling that we were being watched just then¡­ oh, and now. But that started before¡­¡± ¡°Before¡­?¡± asked Fragor. Swarms of small, noisy flies buzzed in the humid air. ¡°When Hjorvarth arrived at our home,¡± answered Astrid. ¡°I had the same feeling. And when he came back to us before the battle at Horvorr. And when I saw him in Fenkirk, as well. But since then I¡¯ve been having the same feeling every now and then.¡± ¡°Oh.¡± Fragor abruptly stopped, nearly throwing the grey-cloaked young woman from his waxy shoulders. He craned his featureless head around as if he had a pair of hidden eyes. Fresh liquid pooled from his neck while he twisted and craned. ¡°Not seeing.¡± ¡°Oh,¡± said Astrid. ¡°No, not like that, Fragor. I mean¡­ well¡­ there are other ways of seeing. From a distance. The shamans use their seering smoke, and all manner of prophets and witches have different methods. They might be a vast distance away.¡± ¡°Hmm¡­ not good. Or¡­ is good? Yes? No?¡± ¡°I¡¯m not sure. I don¡¯t think the one watching us now means us any harm. But the one before felt desperate, and short lived. I think whoever seered us must live in the Pass.¡± ¡°Oh,¡± said Fragor, starting to trudge forward once more, his great foot noisily plunging into a deep pool, lifting back out with a raucous splash. ¡°We find, Acid?¡± ¡°No,¡± she dismissed. ¡°I¡¯m sure they¡¯ll find us. We just need to keep moving forward, and avoid all the monsters we can. Hopefully your size alone will ward off most.¡± ¡°I am very big!¡± Fragor happily declared. ¡°Fragor never this big before,¡± he added. ¡°Not enough food, and no room in cave. This widing world is much better.¡± Astrid kindly smiled. ¡°I¡¯m glad that you like it, Fragor. If we do get attacked¡­¡± she began, not quite sure what she meant to ask or how she meant to ask it. ¡°I will fight! Protect!¡± Fragor made an excitable humming sound. ¡°Acid must hide,¡± he then added, his normally high pitched voice going as low as it could. ¡°Yes¡­?¡± ¡°I will try to stay out of the way,¡± Astrid agreed. ¡°Stay out o¡¯ tha way!¡± a voice then echoed, from a man who had appeared amid the boggy reeds just ahead of them as if from nowhere. Fragor stopped, and Astrid frowned, as the lanky, black-skinned stranger¡ªclad in a fibrous skirt made of pressed leaves and caked in mud¡ªspared them only a fierce glance as he turned, hands gripping tight round around a gnarled and battered cudgel to face nothing at all. Then the air shimmered and two more men, clothed in hooded robes and masked by ornate plates of etched silver¡ªappeared stepped forth onto the sodden mud. The black man leapt forth with an overhand swing. The club crunched into the leftmost stranger¡¯s cheek¡ªbone snapping and metal clanging¡ªwhich sent a silver mask spinning in a spray of spilled blood and shattered teeth. The second robed man, startled and surprised, staggered back and tripped. Astrid thought that the fight was savagely, and easily won, but then the air shimmered as another pair of dark robed, silver masked wizards, appeared behind the black man. ¡°Behind¡ª¡± she began to shout, but the straw-dressed stranger waved an idle hand, which sent roots bursting up from the ground to entangle them¡ªby their legs at first, and then by their arms as they were wrenched into reedy grass and buried in the bogs. The surviving robed man, crawling back on the floor, waved his own hand, sending up sudden flames which were soon swept away by a vicious gust of wind that turned the fire back on their conjurer. The heat took to the black fabric hungrily and set him aflame. The black man turned, paying no mind to the awful screaming behind him, and readied his bloodied club once more. Astrid saw then that his dark skin was lacquered with sweat, and his wiry chest heaved with breaths. He was unsteady on his feet, but rolled his neck and bared his dirty teeth. Two more robed men appeared, ahead of the black man, and then another pair appeared, and another, and another, until he was surrounded by a circle of eight. Astrid and Fragor stood unmoving, the giant green troll towering over the odd gathering amid the long grasses, and fly ridden pools, and jutting reeds. ¡°Come now, Void Walker,¡± said one of the robed men in a studious tone. ¡°You must be nearly spent. Would you rather die than come with us?¡± ¡°Yes,¡± answered the Void Walker between breaths. He resignedly smirked, his tongue between his teeth, before he raised both arms above his head and thrust them down. The wind surged in answer, with such force that Astrid was deafened, thrown clear of Fragor¡¯s shoulder, and whipped through the air as she fell, thankfully, into a massive tuft of grass. The world screeched and fluttered above her with the sudden vicious weather, and by the time she manage to struggle out of the grass, she could see¡ªbetween Fragor¡¯s waxy green legs¡ªthat most of the robed men had been thrown from their feet. Flames erupted in great torrents, scything upwards when they seemed to hit an invisible wall, while great rocks were hurled haphazardly through the whipping wind. Astrid watched, stomach turning, now one of the robed men paused in his conjuring of flames, and began wretchedly screaming. His anguish cut short by the roots of a plant bursting free from his belly. A great rock struck the Void Walker in his shoulder, opening flesh and sending him spinning, but he righted himself in time to club another¡¯s head. Four robed men down, the black man waved away a hurtling ball of fire, and then reached out, as if to drag those closest to Fragor under the earth as he had the others, but the roots did not jut upward and instead snaked out and flailed to the earth. The Void Walker met the sight with a regretful grin. His smile fell, and then the rest of him followed now he toppled sideways into a murky puddle. ¡°Finally,¡± declared the same studious voice as before. ¡°This would have been much easier if those fools had learned to properly time their arrival.¡± He made a tutting sound that hinted at disappointment and annoyance. ¡°Gather him up, and we can go.¡± ¡°Yes, Magi, but¡­¡± ¡°What?¡± snapped the Magi. ¡°Shouldn¡¯t we address the elephant in the room?¡± asked a woman¡¯s voice. Astrid had struggled to her feet, coming to stand beside the giant green troll, and now the four robed figures turned to face them both. ¡°I am not an elf and ant!¡± declared Fragor, confused and unhappy. ¡°I am a troll.¡± ¡°Girl,¡± said the Magi to Astrid. ¡°You need not concern yourself with this. This man is¡ª¡± ¡°You called him the Void Walker,¡± she remembered. Edda had mentioned him once or twice, when speaking of Lucius Chance, but Astrid wasn¡¯t sure whether her grandmother had seen him as malevolent figure or an ambivalent one. ¡°I did,¡± the Magi agreed. ¡°Nevertheless that is not your problem. We came here to locate this fugitive, and we have done so. We will be on our way, and leave you in peace.¡± ¡°Why were you hunting him?¡± Astrid asked. The Magi sighed. ¡°I have humored you long enough, girl. Be silent. Grab the body,¡± he said to the others. ¡°Ignore the mundane and her oversized pet.¡± ¡°What doing, Acid¡­?¡± Fragor pondered. ¡°They is friends?¡± Astrid was not sure whether to ask the giant troll to intercede. The robed folk had wanted to take the Void Walker alive, while he was viciously murderous in defending himself. And the black man had even asked her to stay out of the way. Yet she wanted to help him. Or maybe she just wanted to meddle. To ruin the plans of these powerful strangers who felt they could swoop in and out of her life as the Old Enemy had. ¡°The black man is our friend,¡± Astrid declared. ¡°We must protect him, Fragor.¡± ¡°Oh.¡± Fragor lurched forward, collapsing one robed figure underfoot with a horrid crunch. Then another soon after. He grabbed his own hand with the other, the crude fist sloughing off into a ball, which he hurled at the Magi. The dark green liquid¡ªa mix of dried and dull, fresh and smoking¡ªengulfed the silver-masked man, who staggered back, skin turning stark red and clothes disappearing, his agonized screams muffled by wax while the acid killed him. ¡°I am helping, I am helping, I am helping,¡± said the giant troll happily, his great feet lifting up with crushed bodies tangling beneath them. The fourth robed figure, who had stood stunned for a long moment, then waved her hand and turned to face a shimmering portal, which showed an ornate stone corridor. The Void Walker, groaning on the floor, grabbed her by the ankle, and she tripped. Falling half way between the portal, her head struck flagstones with an awful thud. The portal closed, leaving only half of her behind. ¡°Tymirians,¡± muttered the black man, scowling up at her. ¡°You never listen.¡± Astrid might have replied but his eyes fluttered close and he sagged to the ground, and¡ªseeing all the death and violence around her¡ªshe desperately needed to vomit. ¡°I am helping, I am helping, I am helping,¡± Fragor carried on happily above her, about to drop one of the crushed strangers into his now wide open head, teeming with teeth. ¡°Careful,¡± managed Astrid between retching. ¡°The masks are silver.¡± ¡°Oh. Good thinking, Acid!¡± Fragor happily announced. ¡°You are very good friend!¡± 17. Seasons 17. Seasons ¡°Many cycles of the Moon have passed, and I have yet to hear the voice again. I did build a bigger Pool, nearly a score times larger than the usual design, but I soon realized that it was impossible to fill. Even with hundreds of goblins regurgitating their birthing sacks, the liquid never changed to the usual acrid green and the unborn hatchlings withered and died amid the unforgiving earth. When Agrak visited the vast spawning caverns, he asked why I had ever attempted such a thing to begin with. I answered that I was merely attempting to perfect the design, to experiment, but he seemed unconvinced. Even I, seeing that the next largest pool was dwarfed by this behemoth excavation, thought I had given a poor answer. I hadn¡¯t even realized how large a design I had commissioned until I was asked to explain it by The Small King.It was as if some quiet impulse in my brain had driven me to do so, consuming my mind for Moons, and I had hardly even noticed. While I waited to be called out on my obvious lie, Agrak had merely shrugged and offered a curious, lopsided smirk. ¡®The elves were obsessed with perfection,¡¯ he said in his strange, piping voice. ¡®But their pools were much smaller.¡¯ ¡®Pools¡­?¡¯ I echoed, because until that point I had assumed that elves had reproduced by the same method of humans. ¡®Much smaller,¡¯ he repeated. ¡®Though the merfolk are similar to our own.¡¯ ¡®You are saying that there are other species who reproduce as we do¡­?¡¯ ¡®I suppose I am,¡¯ he quietly answered. ¡®In the future, stay within the bounds of our agreed plans.¡¯ This he had gently requested as if we were friends. But I saw a glimmer in his eyes that I had seen once before, which was then swiftly followed by him dismembering a Chief with his razor claws.¡± Jarl Thrand sat at the cluttered table of his counsel room. The marble doors to the ornate balcony lay open behind him, which did little to abate the heat. Lanterns burned atop the grey drawers that lined each side of the room, but their small flames were made needless by the surround of shining white. Fati and Ekkill faced the Jarl, both men wearing shirts that had long since sweat through. Fati had appearance of a white and wet scarecrow, while Ekkill seemed as if he had covered his rounded belly with a translucent second skin. Jarl Thrand had not succumb to the weather. He wore a thick burgundy robe. Sweat beaded atop his cracked pate and he silently lamented the unheralded heat of the past week. Atsurr had taken a seat at the Jarl of Timilir¡¯s left. He sat back from the table, leaning on his knees, breathing as if the warmth of the day had stolen into his lungs. ¡°Should we not wait for a more seasonable day?¡± Ekkill ventured. ¡°Atsurr seems ripe to collapse.¡± ¡°And you seem fit to burst,¡± Atsurr grated. ¡°But I will suffer the heat.¡± Jarl Thrand sighed, musing of how he so tired of present company. ¡°If the heat bothers you, speak quickly.¡± ¡°Of course.¡± Ekkill swept out his thick arms in apology. ¡°Of course, my Jarl. Of most pressing and troubling news, I regret to report that the road repairs have gone¡­ untended. It would seem that the Crooked Teeth murdered the overseer in charge of the work some days ago, along with the foreman¡­ or perhaps that was done by the workers there, and as such they have been¡ª¡± Jarl Thrand waved his hand. ¡°Promote whomever tells the truth of what happened. Dispose of all those involved.¡± He scratched at his sweat-sheened cheeks. ¡°As to the Crooked Teeth, Atsurr will be charged with setting fires among the shacks and hovels of the slums while the heat has so chosen to visit us.¡± Fati glanced away, then met eyes with the Jarl. ¡°Is that wise? Ulfsteinn offered no retribution when they attacked the Stone Sons,¡± he noted. ¡°You can smoke out bees, but they never leave their nest. What if these people suspect, are led to suspect, our involvement, and they decide to meet fire with fire. Death with death.¡± Jarl Thrand sneered. ¡°Then I will offer you up as the man that came up with the plan. Or I will kill those who had the gall to rise up against me.¡± He turned his hateful gaze on Ekkill. ¡°What was the other news?¡± Ekkill smiled as if pained. ¡°The prisoners that escaped with¡­ the son of Isleif were¡ª¡± He glanced up at the white roof. ¡°Well, as we all know, most were caught, bless the gods, but it would appear things got out of hand between the captives and the masters after that¡­ and so most of them are now dead, as are three of the guards.¡± ¡°I see,¡± Thrand hissed. ¡°And what of the man himself?¡± ¡°Isleif?¡± Fati mocked, suffering a withering stare. ¡°Hjorvarth¡­ is still not caught.¡± ¡°Why?¡± ¡°I suppose because they haven¡¯t found him, my Jarl.¡± ¡°Why?¡± Thrand angrily repeated. Atsurr then cleared his dry throat. ¡°The tunnels can no longer be mined,¡± he put in. ¡°They are rife with goblins and kobolds both, rocked by persistent explosions.¡± The old guard sighed. ¡°There is unrest in the city, the prospect of the Stone Sons moving against us, the fear of the Bloody Teeth, and the persistent messengers from the Low King. We can hardly justify wasting lives searching for a man that the city sees as disgraced and dead. If Hjorvarth is anywhere, then he is a bloody smear across a rock. Or he is in pieces, digesting in the stomachs of a clan of goblins.¡± Jarl Thrand¡¯s answering scowl was bitter and seething. ¡°And on mention of the Low King,¡± Fati then said, ¡°it would seem that he has refused to send grain for he both fears that we are mistreating out people, and fears that we have lost control of organized law breakers that will only steal his goods. Essentially¡­ I believe he wants to further worsen the unrest among our people. And I have heard rumours that he has been in touch with the Stone Sons as well.¡± ¡°The Stone Sons?¡± Jarl Thrand muttered. ¡°Do they think they can unseat me?¡± ¡°I expect not,¡± Fati replied. ¡°In truth, there is little in the way of Ulfsteinn responding at all. But The Low King is plainly trying to instigate dissent. If he could take Timilir in one fell swoop, it would give him unchallenged control over the High Lands as well.¡± ¡°Sirs,¡± declared a guard from beyond the meeting room¡¯s marble doors. ¡°There is a messenger, from Jarl Adelsteinn.¡± Jarl Thrand paused for a long moment. ¡°Bring him in.¡± Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences. The guard bowed, backing away, and a ginger man entered in his wake. He wore the green-and-gold jacket to indicate his position in Adelsteinn¡¯s household. ¡°Greetings, Jarl Thrand of Timilir.¡± The messenger bowed, sweeping out his arms. He straightened, freckled face turning pained and grave. ¡°I bring word from the lands of Jarl Adelsteinn. The message is most important, meant only for your hearing.¡± ¡°I trust all those in my company,¡± Thrand drawled. ¡°Deliver your message now, or not at all.¡± The messenger hesitated, eventually nodding. ¡°As you wish, Jarl Thrand. I have been sent here on the will of Adelsteinn¡¯s oldest daughter, Jodis, to inform you that two nights ago, Adelsteinn died while he was dining in his hall. She wishes you to know that he died happy, and in good company, and offers her young brother¡ª¡± ¡°Young?¡± Jarl Thrand cut in. ¡°How old is he?¡± The messenger¡¯s jaw grew taut. ¡°Nefsteinn is a man already grown at his fourteen winters. Well respected, well loved¡ª¡± ¡°And not a man that will marry my daughter,¡± Thrand finished. ¡°I see.¡± The messenger bared his teeth. ¡°Would you have me deliver the message as such. Or would you prefer that I word it with more tact¡­ Jarl Thrand of Timilir?¡± Jarl Thrand¡¯s aged face twisted into a scowl. ¡°Pardon?¡± ¡°I said¡ªyou withered old man¡ªwould you like me to pretend that you offered my grieving masters some semblance of respect?¡± Silence descended on the marble room. Ekkill and Fati watched the Jarl of Timilir redden with rage. ¡°Kill him,¡± Jarl Thrand decided, speaking to Atsurr. ¡°Send a messenger inquiring to Adelsteinn¡¯s good health. Blame this messenger¡¯s absence on the Low King should they question it. We will feign offence that word was not brought sooner.¡± The messenger laughed in derision. ¡°You are as a child, old man. Do you think the gods themselves fear you? Do you think that you are Muradoon living? That you see both life and death with the same impermeable gaze?¡± He shook his head. ¡°I warn you, out of respect for my master¡¯s wishes, retract your threat.¡± Atsurr had not moved. He sat still on his seat, thoughts warring in his mind. This man was a household messenger for a storied lineage, not the errand boy of a disgraced son of Geirulf. He rose slowly to his feet, drawing his sword from its sheath. ¡°I look upon a council of cowards!¡± the messenger decried. ¡°Do none of you dare speak out in defense of a man who is by all rights god-guarded?¡± He glanced at the white corridor behind, as if he might run, while the armoured sentinel approached. The freckled messenger then charged forward instead, leaping onto the table. Fati¡¯s blade raked through his hamstring but he stumbled onward. Atsurr swung as best he could but he had stepped out of range; even so, the sword cleaved through the messenger¡¯s elbow. A forearm thumped against the table amid hissing blood and hammering boots. Jarl Thrand rose now the messenger closed. He drew the blade from his serpentine walking stick, slashing through the man¡¯s stomach. The messenger staggered, leapt, taking the Jarl of Timilir to the floor. The messenger¡¯s mind swam with agony. He dug his nails into the withered cheeks beneath him. ¡°Bleed. Bleed you¡ª¡± *** Gudmund had been summoned to a small counsel room near the back of Jarl Thrand¡¯s Estate. He vaguely recognized the two men in white shirts, one as skinny as the other was fat. Atsurr wore the same unadorned armour as any city guard, but was plain enough to see by his rigid posture and steady suspicion. The Jarl of Timilir was the only man that looked discernibly different. He wore a dark red robe that was too thick for the weather. Gudmund decided he shouldn¡¯t mention the scratches down the old man¡¯s cheek or the smell of shit and blood that hung in the air like sour iron. ¡°Jarl Thrand,¡± he greeted, ¡°and¡­ friends.¡± He smiled. ¡°I was summoned, so here I am.¡± ¡°Jarl Gudmund,¡± the white-shirted men answered in amiable unison. They glanced at each other as if annoyed by the shared timing. ¡°It is¡ª¡± ¡°A pleasure to make your acquaintance,¡± the chubby man finished alone. ¡°My name is Ekkill, and I offer advisement on the city¡¯s internal affairs.¡± The skinny man raised his brows. ¡°Fati.¡± ¡°Good to meet you both.¡± Gudmund nodded, turning to the armoured man. ¡°And you, friend? Have we met?¡± ¡°No and yes,¡± Atsurr answered. ¡°We have met. But we are far from friends.¡± ¡°Ah.¡± Gudmund smiled. ¡°I hope I¡¯m not here just to give you another chance at stabbing me in the back.¡± ¡°I¡¯ll happily match you sword for sword,¡± Atsurr growled. ¡°Another time, perhaps,¡± Gudmund offered. ¡°I come at the bidding of my fellow Jarl.¡± Jarl Thrand scrutinised his visitor. The Jarl of Horvorr had worn the same blue-and-white clothes for the past week. ¡°Please, Gudmund,¡± Thrand rasped, ¡°take a seat.¡± He shook his head when the man turned to sit near Ekkill. ¡°Between Fati and Atsurr, if you please. I reserve the other side for those who deal in city affairs.¡± He offered a slight smile. ¡°It would seem that most of those have ended up as sacks of teeth.¡± ¡°Of course.¡± Gudmund strode to the other side of the table, pulling out his chair, leaving an empty seat between himself and Atsurr. He pulled his own chair closer to the table. ¡°And how did you manage to be so long-lived, Ekkill?¡± Ekkill upturned his fleshy palms. ¡°I would say that only Broknar knows, but I expect Joyto alone is responsible for my fortuitous longevity. A trait you share, Gudmund. I hear you alone, barring your daughter, are the sole survivor of your family. One of a select few of Horvorr¡¯s Guard that remain in the realms of the living.¡± Gudmund met the words with an easy nod. ¡°The gods have cursed me with a long life.¡± Atsurr grunted. ¡°Call upon me should you need that malady lifted.¡± ¡°As to long lives,¡± Thrand interjected, ¡°I have recently received news of Jarl Adelsteinn¡¯s death.¡± ¡°Oh.¡± Gudmund suppressed a smile. ¡°On the field of battle?¡± ¡°Dining at evening meal.¡± ¡°Poisoned¡­?¡± Those at the cluttered table answered the question with a collective frown. ¡°He had passed fifty winters,¡± Fati said, ¡°I expect it was no more poison than ale.¡± Gudmund upturned his palms. ¡°I had meant it more as a question than accusation. Poisoning a neighbor is not that uncommon in the Low Lands¡­ even if it is largely ignored as a man reaching the end of a full life. For his family to claim it as poisoning would invite a border war, of course. I did have three tasters die in my own service.¡± ¡°It is something to consider,¡± Jarl Thrand murmured, distracted by a virulent hatred of the Low King. ¡°As to why I have summoned you here, Jarl Gudmund. Considering recent events, I would like to offer you my youngest daughter¡¯s hand in marriage.¡± Gudmund paused as if to consider. He kept his gaze toward the Jarl of Timilir, but at his left he could see the armoured sentinel struggling with rage, and at his right he could see the greedy, almost benign smile, of the chubby man. ¡°Well¡­ I know not what to say, beyond that I would gladly accept this match with a grateful heart. And I hope, dearly hope, that this is an alliance that will see us both rise on the piled ashes of our enemies.¡± Jarl Thrand watched the proud man¡¯s face fill with insurmountable pride. He sat in silence, thoughts flitting on the knife edge thoughts of killing the betrayer in his midst or embracing a man that was as he appeared to be. He raised a hand to stay Atsurr¡¯s wrath, and sighed with relief. ¡°As do I, Gudmund. As do I. I am sorry to report that my daughter is out of the city visiting her sister¡­ but I will send word to have her return to Timilir.¡± Atsurr sat shaking, overwhelmed by heat, wanting nothing more than to shout out in warning or defiance. ¡°I would be glad to meet her,¡± Gudmund enthused, even as Atsurr rose with his hand on his pommel. ¡°I would like to visit the market stalls tomorrow in order to search for a suitable gift. I hope that you could suggest something appropriate¡ª¡± ¡°Son of Geirulf,¡± Atsurr grated, drawing his blade. ¡°I¡­ I¡ª¡± He reached out for a table just out of reach, and collapsed with a rattle of metal. Gudmund stared down at the armoured heap, one hand on his brother¡¯s sword. ¡°Oh. He looks to have become overwhelmed in an attempt to pay his respects to me. Moving as that is, I think it would be best for us all if he¡¯s given water and sheltered from the heat.¡± 18. Surprise 18. Surprise ¡°Strangely, the leader of the new dwarves, Headsman Grunel, has arranged for a third goblin delegation to visit his growing mountain settlement. By latest reports, the humans living there now outnumber the founders two to one. If history is anything to go by, those who shelter and help humans will soon be betrayed and destroyed by them. But if not all goblins are the same, then perhaps that assessment is unfair. Still, I was surprised by the invitation. All our prior visits gave me the sense that the dwarves, Grunel included, were disgusted and repulsed by the goblins. Even I must admit that the formality and bombast of a diplomatic feast will be lost on nearly all our peoples. Part of me wonders if this is some sort of a trap. Perhaps growing oversight from The Small King, and otherworld visitors prying into my affairs, have made me all too paranoid.¡± Chief Ugu scowled, his grimy teeth bared in a scarred sneer. ¡°Do not move,¡± he demanded in a lisping snarl, and the command was echoed quietly along his scrawny clan, spreading along the edge of a cliff where they all perched. He and all his clan were hidden by vantage and by squat bushes from the valley below, which lay covered in pale green moss and yellow tufts of long grass. Skeletal trees were dotted here and there, as if reaching forth to grab a passerby. Ugu had been right to plan the ambush in this valley. Seeing the great creature of green wax lumbering below, he knew there would be no better place to attack than from this high vantage. But Forgo had been wrong. On the cliff opposite, waited the hunched, pale yellows goblins of Saka¡¯s clan. The useless shaman had said that Saka would stay out of the way. Yet the wiry goblin, standing as tall as his curved spine allowed, stood staring at Ugu¡¯s clan. Ugu hated Saka. The coward made use of venoms and hissed as if he were a snake. He covered himself in mud and berries to make his scaly skin patterned like one as well. Unlike Chief Ugu, Saka had not fought against Harak. He had simply bowed to Harak as he had bowed to Bragak Moonbear. Ugu scratched at the ugly scar running across his face and wondered if he should have done the same. The distant footfalls of the enormous troll reached Ugu¡¯s ears. He would need to attack soon, or the creature would pass by the valley and cross into the tunnels ahead. He knew that Saka would not attack, but the coward would doubtless tell Chief Harak of Ugu¡¯s actions. And the Chief might decide that Ugu had stolen his honour, and then demand another duel that would cause more harm than a scar. Saka raised his hand, beckoning, as if he wanted to speak. Chief Ugu bared his grimy teeth. He jutted a hand towards the giant troll below. Saka slowly shook his head. Ugu hesitated. He did not care what Saka wanted but there was a strangeness to his gaze that Ugu had never seen before. The serpentine coward¡¯s eyes were entirely sure. Chief Ugu wondered if Saka¡¯s own shaman had seered the same as Forgo. Perhaps that meant that Saka wished for the giant troll to go on and slay Chief Haruk. And then Ugu could slay Saka and he would finally be Great Chief. As he had long deserved. He scowled down at the waxy green figure below, enormity clear now the troll passed beneath Ugu¡¯s feet. He was surprised to see a third among them now. The troll carried a black manling in its great hands as if it were sleeping or wounded, while the womanling sat perched on the giant creature¡¯s shoulder. Chief Ugu plucked up a rock from the cliff¡¯s edge. His fingers tightened around the rough surface. From this distance, he could crack open the head of the womanling. He wound his hand back, and was about to launch, but she turned. The womanling smiled knowingly up at him. Like Saka, she slowly shook her head. Chief Ugu spat, nearly dropping the rock, and then hurled it instead. *** Fragor heard a frightful crunch. He stumbled to a stop, too slow to catch Astrid now she flopped from his shoulder. In his haste to cushion her fall with his great foot, Fragor sent the black man hurtling through the air, his dirty dress flapping in the wind until he thumped into a nearby tree. Horns, shrill and discordant, sounded out from the high rises at either side of them. Then more stones and rocks began to hurtle down, thumping harmlessly from Fragor¡¯s waxy figure now he desperately tried to shield Astrid. Blood pooled from her pale cheek, where split flesh gave way to gleaming teeth. The giant troll emitted a great humming sound, wrathful and confused, which reverberated throughout the valley, up to the tall cliffs at either side and back down again. The sound reached the ears of the black man, who murmured in discomfort. Fragor did not know what to do. Astrid was bleeding, and sleeping. And she looked like she might never wake. Panic began to overwhelm him. He hunched over her, more rocks sailing down as the chaotic din sounded out overhead, and as more projectiles sailed down, clattering across the ground or crunching into the moss not far from his friend. Fresh wax began to drip around her as well, some landing on her skin which sizzled. Fragor suffered a fresh wave of terror. He could not protect her until the goblins ran out of rocks, or stopped, because his own skin was leaking. ¡°Acid! Wake now, Acid!¡± He tried to scoop her from the floor, but his hands were huge and ungainly, and more wax sloughed way and fresh liquid spilled forth, burning the fabric of her grey cloak. Fragor needed to be smaller. But becoming that small would mean losing wax that would pool around Astrid and burn her. And then he wouldn¡¯t be big enough to stop the rocks. He noticed the black man had gotten to his feet, leaning on the withered tree. ¡°Oh!¡± the troll shouted. ¡°Man! Man in dress!¡± The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation. A sharp rock struck the trunk beside the black man, bouncing harmless into his shoulder. The Void Walker frowned now he took in the valley around him. ¡°You are helping,¡± declared a hopeful Fragor. ¡°You are helping. You are helping!¡± A flurry of rocks sailed towards the black man¡¯s head, but he waved an idle hand, and a gust of wind swept them harmlessly aside. He then looked at Fragor, shaking his head. ¡°Please!¡± cried Fragor. ¡°Please helping!¡± The Void Walker strode forth, twirling his finger which whipped up protective winds, then looked down at the bleeding girl. ¡°I do not belong,¡± he said, his words lengthened by a guttural accent. ¡°You should not have helped.¡± ¡°I am helping!¡± Fragor declared in a piping shout, remembering her had saved the black man. ¡°You are helping!¡± ¡°No,¡± said The Void Walker with a regretful shaking of his head. ¡°It cannot be.¡± ¡°Please!¡± cried Fragor once more. ¡°Lift, Acid! I will carry!¡± The black man frowned down at the girl, examined the giant troll¡¯s crudely shaped limbs and seemed to understand. ¡°Yes¡­ but¡ª¡± He began, freezing when he touched the wounded girl¡¯s grey cloak. ¡°Half a cloak,¡± he murmured, his weathered features settling into a determined stare. ¡°Of course,¡± he added with a resigned smirk. ¡°Here I do belong.¡± Fragor reached out his arms to take his wounded friend, but the black man shook his head and smiled. ¡°This way, my friend,¡± he declared. ¡°I will help. Stay in my shadow.¡± Blood trickled from The Void Walker¡¯s nose. He rubbed it clear, and the wind dropped. ¡°Still spent,¡± he said disagreeably to himself. ¡°Quickly, my friend. Quick as we can be.¡± The discordant chorus grew louder above. Stones and rocks bounced off Fragor. Fearful for his new friend and his old friend, he scooped the pair up into his great arms and bounded off towards the distant tunnels. ¡°I am helping, I am helping, I am helping.¡± *** ¡°You are Fragor,¡± was the first thing the black man said, his words and drawling, after he had demanded to be set down. ¡°The First Troll.¡± ¡°Yes,¡± answered the waxy green giant in his high pitched tone. ¡°I am a troll!¡± They had left the goblin clans behind them, though some had¡ªin enthusiasm both misplaced and fatal¡ªtried to give chase by jumping into the valley bellow. ¡°Why you not with The Small King?¡± the man asked. ¡°Hm¡­¡± answered Fragor. ¡°Not knowing! I am walking. I am helping. I am fighting.¡± ¡°Ah.¡± ¡°You know?¡± ¡°No, brother. This I do not know.¡± ¡°What is¡­ ¡®brother¡¯?¡± ¡°Ah.¡± The Void Walker bared his crooked teeth in a confused smile. ¡°Means¡­ friend.¡± ¡°Friend,¡± said Fragor, stepping forward, his great shadow eclipsing the black man. ¡°Acid is brother¡­?¡± he excitedly pressed. ¡°Ah¡­ eh¡­¡± The black man shook his head. ¡°Yes, no. No matter. You must shrink.¡± ¡°Shrink¡­?¡± The Void Walker waved lazily to the cavern mouth yawning to darkness ahead. ¡°The way is ahead lays narrow. You must go¡­ smaller. But, first, step back. I am not wanting to be burned by your wax.¡± ¡°Hm¡­¡± Fragor leaned over the much smaller figure of The Void Walker. ¡°No.¡± ¡°It must be so.¡± ¡°No¡­¡± he repeated, with an angry, sullen edge. ¡°You friend¡ªAcid¡ªis hurt. There is no way back. I cannot take us to any other place without being hunted.¡± ¡°Oh. I will fight them!¡± ¡°The paths I make are much smaller than that tunnel, brother.¡± ¡°Smaller?¡± Fragor shrieked, stomping his great feet. ¡°No!¡± The Void Walker¡¯s weathered face hardened into a glare. ¡°Fragor. It must be so.¡± ¡°It will not be so!¡± ¡°Fine,¡± said the black man. ¡°I will take the girl someplace safe. You wait.¡± ¡°No!¡± Fragor shouted, his great wax hands tightening into fists. ¡°You go!¡± The black man¡¯s dark eyes narrowed to slits. ¡°Troll. I do not care for your tone. My head aches, while your voice is shrill. I cannot leave the girl. I promised¡­ well, I will.¡± ¡°You will go. Or I will eat you!¡± warned Fragor happily. ¡°Grow even bigger!¡± The Void Walker sucked breath through his teeth, then ran hands through his tangled matter hair. ¡°Fine. You leave me no choice.¡± Fragor reared up, ready to fight, but the black man dropped to his knees by the grey-cloaked figure of Astrid instead. He lay both his muddy hands upon her pale skin, and closed his eyes. Blood trickled down his left nostril, and then from the right. The flesh of Astrid¡¯s cheek began to knit together, bone webbed over with muscle, which in turn was covered by folding flesh. The Void Walker started to shake now purple bruises faded to red and then softened to pink. ¡°Oh!¡± declared Fragor in wonderment. ¡°You are friend brother!¡± The black man paused, his skin sweaty and grey, and blearily looked up at the troll. ¡°Shrink¡­¡± he slurred. ¡°Over there. It must be so.¡± ¡°I¡ª¡± The Void Walker collapsed atop Astrid, who started awake with a breathless murmur. ¡°I am thinking. I am thinking. I am thinking.¡± *** ¡°See¡­?¡± Chief Ugu turned his scowl on the hunched, serpentine Saka. Standing this close, Ugu could reach out and snap the skinnier goblins crooked spine, but Saka had claws and knives around a tendon belt that might be tainted with all kinds of poison. Beneath them, seen from a cavern overlooking the sheltered valley, the troll had wandered away from the tunnels to shed a small lake of sizzling wax. No longer the size of Braguk Moonbear, he stood only a few heads taller than Ugu. Saka¡¯s ferine eyes were knowing slits. ¡°Now the troll can be killed.¡± ¡°Forgo said the troll would kill Harak.¡± ¡°Great Chief Harak,¡± Saka reminded, hissing laughter. ¡°Where is the shaman¡­?¡± ¡°Dead.¡± ¡°Oh.¡± ¡°I killed him.¡± ¡°This I guessed.¡± ¡°What do you want?¡± Ugu demanded, stepping forward, forcing the skinnier goblin up against the cavern wall. Even with the curve in his spine, Saka stood as tall as did Ugu. ¡°What did Forgo seer?¡± Saka asked as answer. Ugu spat, stalking back to the ledge. The troll picked up the black manling, and then he and the womanling strode towards one of the tunnels together. ¡°He seered what I said.¡± ¡°What else? You would not kill him for seeing Harak¡¯s death.¡± ¡°He said I should not attack the troll. He only seered bad things. For this, he died.¡± ¡°Hm¡­¡± ¡°What?¡± Ugu snarled. ¡°Hubu, too, seers Harak¡¯s death. I think we should follow the troll. And make certain of the seering.¡± ¡°So says Great Chief Saka?¡± Ugu mocked. ¡°Great Chief¡­ no. All Great Chiefs are different. Yet all the same. Dead. Or soon to be. But Harak has the best land. If he is dead, that is better for Saka. And better for Ugu, too. If you wish to be Great Chief, I will not argue. So long as I can have my share of the Pass.¡± Ugu grumbled wordlessly to himself. ¡°Unlike Forgo, you speak sense. I will agree.¡± ¡°Good,¡± hissed Saka, baring his sharp teeth in an eerie smile. ¡°First, we follow. Then, we kill. Harak, the troll, and the womanling. They must all be killed and eaten.¡± 19. Underestimated 19. Underestimated ¡°I have woken up in a fetid pile of goblin corpses. Though the feast at the dwarven settlement had gone surprisingly well, I sat waiting for swords to sing from sheathes and axes to cleave through green necks. Instead, we ate and drank ourselves into a stupor, unaware that all that we were consuming had been poisoned. The robust constitution of our kind usually prohibits such treachery, but Headsmen Grunel must be well informed of our genetic weaknesses. I wonder if they have had aid from the dead god, Muradoon, and acted at his command. If I have survived, then so too has The Small King. But all the rest of our procession are dead and rotting. I had long thought that I did not have sentimentality left to form friendships, or to care, about my kin, but seeing those I had grown familiar with laying dead, eyes vacant, in a gruesome pile filled me with unfamiliar grief and unbridled rage. No doubt they have trapped Agrak if they cannot kill him. I am not sure if I should find him, and restore his authority, or try and take over the Grorginite Empire myself. But I am sure of one thing, I want revenge. The dwarves will go extinct once more.¡± Sybille sighed, fanning herself with a dusty tome. She had almost sweat through her pristine white dress. ¡°It¡¯s far too warm.¡± Arfast, armed and armored, grunted. ¡°How do you think I feel?¡± They were both at the center of a wide library, enclosed in a stone surround, but furnished by woods both red and golden. There were even a few desks made of the black wood that was the most prized and valued export of Fenkirk. Sybille sat at one of those, squinting at the arrayed books ahead of her, dusty pages laid open at the point where she had since tired of reading. ¡°I had thought you were indifferent to the heat.¡± Arfast stood behind her, ahead of a crowded bookshelf. He had view of the entrance to their left, and of most of the marble avenues. ¡°And why would you think that?¡± Sybille¡¯s pale face lay framed by strands of slick red hair when she looked back at the old guard. ¡°I don¡¯t really know. You seem¡ª¡± ¡°Cold?¡± Sybille returned to the book before her. ¡°Immutable,¡± she corrected. ¡°You say that as if it is a good thing.¡± ¡°Isn¡¯t it?¡± ¡°What good is a man that doesn¡¯t change?¡± ¡°What good is a man that changes for the worse?¡± ¡°Perhaps he¡¯ll change for the better,¡± countered Atsurr. ¡°Perhaps,¡± Sybille admitted. ¡°But then you¡¯re fine as you are¡­ and you¡¯re too old to worry of changing.¡± ¡°Am I?¡± ¡°Aren¡¯t you?¡± Arfast nodded. ¡°I am¡­ but a man can always pretend.¡± Sybille glanced back at him. ¡°And women?¡± ¡°They never stop pretending,¡± he dryly answered. Sybille chuckled. ¡°Words spoken from experience are the truest and the falsest, old friend.¡± ¡°And are we friends now, young woman?¡± ¡°I was reading an annotation,¡± she explained. ¡°But, yes, we are. Unless you¡¯re too old to have friends, Arfast?¡± ¡°No fear for me,¡± he said. ¡°The worry is in bonding with the old¡­ and when they pass, well, the young suffer.¡± ¡°Lucky for me then that your death will likely precede my own. I¡¯ll have little time to grieve.¡± Arfast chuckled. ¡°You have a grim humour, girl. What words are you reading?¡± ¡°Nothing, everything.¡± Sybille waved an idle hand to the books arrayed on the black desk. ¡°Those near the top were histories, on the stone city, and the two regions of Southeastern Tymir. One was a long-winded mention of how the Low King came to be. Another some treatise on the true creators of the city,¡± she tiredly added. ¡°But what good is it to know that another people lived here before and died?¡± Arfast¡¯s armour rattled with his answering shrug. ¡°Perhaps it would allow you to avoid the same fate?¡± ¡°Perhaps.¡± ¡°And what¡¯s this?¡± He stepped forward. ¡°A man has scribbled on the edges.¡± ¡°Always ¡®a man¡¯ with you,¡± she chided. ¡°Habit,¡± Arfast dismissed. ¡°Though most men are scholars, and it¡¯s a quicker word to say.¡± ¡°True.¡± Sybille wiped hair from her sweaty brow. ¡°It is a history of the goblins. Of a settlement under the earth named Grorgin, ruled by a shaman named Lozrig, a warrior named Kragor, and a guardian named Orog. They are all old friends or so it seems, but a runt has been born and Kragor wishes to kill it. Lozrig has already named it Agrak, which is a formal rite, and so he has lessened the importance of a coming ceremony.¡± ¡°And what do you think of that?¡± Arfast asked. The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement. ¡°There is mention of an old war with the dwarves that crippled the Goblins of Grorgin.¡± Sybille shrugged. ¡°I expect that the runt will survive, and come to lead the goblins against the dwarves. And thus the moral will be that even a small creature can matter in his own way. Brain over brawn and such like that.¡± ¡°I had more meant what do you think of the prospect of killing the runt?¡± ¡°Do men not do the same thing with ill-formed children?¡± ¡°Men,¡± Arfast pointedly echoed. ¡°Men,¡± Sybille flatly repeated. ¡°And if the choice were yours?¡± asked the old guard. Sybille turned in her chair. ¡°Are you wishing it upon me, Arfast?¡± Arfast¡¯s gaze hardened. ¡°Not in any way, girl. Not in any way.¡± ¡°I am sorry. That was¡ª¡± Sybille paused. ¡°I would, yes. The men do it out of custom, but I would not shy away from making the choice. If the babe dies, they will go to the after life and be fully grown. To make them suffer the waking life as less than what they should be¡­ I could not suffer it. I would not let my child suffer it. ¡°My mother had six children,¡± Arfast said as if idle mention. ¡°Five were exposed. It is a thing I think on often as I grow older and more alone.¡± ¡°I understand that plight well enough.¡± Sybille nodded, turning back to her open book. ¡°You were not really a member of Horvorr¡¯s Guard, were you, Arfast?¡± He stood silent for a while. ¡°I am who I need to be when a situation arises.¡± ¡°And why did you need to be in Horvorr?¡± Sybille pressed. Arfast searched the surround of packed bookshelves, clear tables, and unoccupied chairs. ¡°I fear the honest answer will not sit well with you, Sybille.¡± ¡°I have no great fondness for silence, either, old friend.¡± ¡°I came there to die.¡± ¡°Something of an irony that you outlived all those that hoped to survive, then?¡± ¡°I suppose it is.¡± ¡°And when did you arrive in Horvorr?¡± she asked. ¡°Why, even?¡± ¡°I¡¯d venture I came on the last cart before the war. Not long before it started, at any rate,¡± he decided. ¡°I came because I heard of what happened on the Snake Basin path¡­ and I knew enough of the old war to guess that the Great Chiefs had been gathered. So I came there, expecting a fight¡­ hoping to die.¡± ¡°Yet you warned no one?¡± ¡°Words are of little use to men who wish themselves deaf,¡± Arfast dismissed. ¡°I spoke warnings, but none listened. I asked audience with your father, but I was refused. It wouldn¡¯t have mattered. As I travelled from Timilir to Horvorr, the Great Chiefs were already moving, already marauding Southwestern Tymir. I slipped through Timilir¡¯s gates just before they pulled the rope tight around the region¡¯s neck.¡± Sybille let out a long sigh. ¡°And why would you want to die, Arfast?¡± ¡°You would not believe me if I told you.¡± ¡°You believed my tale of ghosts.¡± ¡°I did, but¡­ fine,¡± he conceded. ¡°I am over two hundred years old. I once bedded the daughter of a woods witch that wished my master dead and I was faced with a choice to act against him or murder my lover and the woods witch both. I made my choice, and the woods witch cursed me before her death. She swore I would outlive every master that I loyally served and respected. Her words held true, death after death, from one man¡¯s service to another. I thought, hoped, that old age would take me but I seemed to reach my own limit. Old as I was, I would decay no further.¡± Sybille¡¯s laugh was disconcerted. ¡°And have you not considered taking your own life?¡± ¡°More than considered, Sybille, I¡ª¡± Arfast paused, hand resting on his sword. ¡°An unarmed man approaches.¡± ¡°Greetings!¡± came a warm declaration, echoing around the library. The tall man strode forward in a loose blue shirt. He smiled brightly at the red-haired woman in white, even though she had barely turned to regard him. ¡°I do apologize for my delay,¡± he politely began, ¡°circumstances prevented me from arriving when I had expected. My father told me where you were, Sybille, and I thought I would come see you right away.¡± He smiled as if uncertain. ¡°It is Sybille, is it not? Or have I made a fool of myself finding the wrong woman¡­?¡± Sybille arched an eyebrow, her countenance cold despite the heat. ¡°Have we met?¡± The tall man¡¯s smile widened, and he laughed. ¡°Thrand. I¡¯m Thrand¡­ Young Thrand. I am sorry¡­ for some reason I assumed you would know who I am.¡± He straightened, still smiling at the pale woman, then glanced at the guard. ¡°And you are, friend?¡± ¡°Arfast of Horvorr¡¯s Guard.¡± ¡°An honour to meet you, then,¡± he replied. ¡°I hear the war in Southwestern Tymir was a close thing.¡± Arfast nodded. ¡°You seem to have seen violence yourself.¡± Young Thrand frowned, then glanced down at his blue shirt, now staining purple. ¡°Gods,¡± he muttered, shaking his head. ¡°We had a procession of folk pass us by, and then start dragging men off of horses. Thankfully they were poorly trained or we would all be dead. I must have ridden too hard on the way in and reopened a wound.¡± He seemed to want to shrug, but stood restless instead. ¡°Have you been well looked after, Sybille?¡± Blood tapped against the marble floor, marking it with circles. ¡°I suppose I have.¡± Sybille stared up at the kindness in his plain face. ¡°Should you not see to your wound?¡± ¡°I have arrived days late, and stood here only for a few moments,¡± he explained. ¡°I do not wish to leave now and make you think even less of me.¡± ¡°I could not think less of you, Thrand. Will not, even. I will admit I was surprised by your lack of arrival, but I do not blame you given what happened.¡± Sybille narrowed her blue eyes. ¡°And I can assure you I will be greatly displeased should you die not long after arriving. If you wish to see me afterwards, I will be here for the next few hours. And if I am not, then you can find me in the dining hall or in my room.¡± ¡°Of course.¡± Young Thrand appeared disappointed, but nodded and regained his smile. ¡°I suppose it is disconcerting to speak to a man as he is bleeding. Is there anything that you would want me to bring with me when I return?¡± ¡°No,¡± Sybille answered. He winced and she reconsidered. ¡°I would like a new cloak.¡± Young Thrand frowned, then nodded in somber fashion. ¡°Very well¡­ anything else?¡± Sybille shrugged. ¡°Do you need anything, Arfast?¡± Arfast glanced between them. ¡°I believe he meant for you, Sybille.¡± ¡°No,¡± Young Thrand assured. ¡°A cloak is easy enough to carry¡­ and simple enough to find. So long as you¡¯re not going to ask for me for a horse, by all means.¡± Arfast offered a slow nod. ¡°I would be grateful for a second drinking skin.¡± ¡°On a day like this, who would blame you.¡± Young Thrand dipped his head, still smiling, then bowed low to Sybille. ¡°I will be back soon, with a skin and a cloak¡ªunbloodied, as well, I hope.¡± He paused. ¡°I had not meant that to rhyme. Please do not think me a worrisome poet.¡± He waited a while longer. ¡°I am going to leave now.¡± Sybille politely smiled. ¡°Goodbye, Thrand. And safe journey into the city. The streets have been poorly cleaned since a man was paraded for his crimes, and murderers make havoc in the alleys, abducting folk and leaving in their places bags of teeth.¡± ¡°Truly?¡± Young Thrand¡¯s mirth shifted to horror. ¡°A recent development?¡± ¡°No.¡± Sybille shook her head. ¡°Quite old.¡± ¡°Oh.¡± Young Thrand¡¯s gaze fell. ¡°I should have¡­ well¡ª¡± Sybille watched with disinterest. ¡°I can tell you more once you fetch my cloak.¡± ¡°Yes¡­ yes,¡± he worriedly answered. ¡°I would appreciate that, Sybille. It would seem I have been ill-informed of recent events.¡± ¡°Goodbye, then,¡± Sybille said. ¡°And, once more, good luck.¡± Young Thrand bowed then strode away, trailing droplets of blood as he departed. Arfast chuckled for a long while. Sybille turned in her chair, blue eyes narrowed. ¡°He was odd, but not that odd.¡± ¡°Him?¡± Arfast shook his head. ¡°No, girl, I was laughing at you.¡± Sybille turned back to the open pages. ¡°I acted as anyone would. He acted as if his life hung in the balance.¡± ¡°I would guess he expected a warmer reception.¡± ¡°Are you saying that I was cold?¡± ¡°Dancing on the knife¡¯s edge between that and outright hostile.¡± Sybille frowned down at the book-cluttered table. ¡°So you think I¡¯ve made a mistake?¡± ¡°Not at all,¡± Arfast assured. ¡°I thought it was well handled¡­ especially when he asked if you wanted drink or food, and you asked him for a cloak.¡± ¡°Is that what he meant?¡± Sybille shrugged. ¡°I did ask him for drink in a roundabout way.¡± ¡°For me.¡± ¡°Yes.¡± ¡°And what did you think of him?¡± ¡°He was not how I expected him to be.¡± ¡°You expected him to be a withered, cruel old man,¡± Arfast reasoned. ¡°I supposed I did.¡± ¡°And was he better or worse then you expected?¡± ¡°Better,¡± Sybille admitted. ¡°But young men still have time to change.¡± ¡°If we¡¯re back to that, perhaps you could do a better job of pretending.¡± ¡°Kragor wouldn¡¯t pretend.¡± Arfast frowned. ¡°Krag¡ª¡± He paused. ¡°Oh, the goblin. Probably not a man to aspire to.¡± ¡°According to this all goblins breed into the same pool,¡± said Sybille, leafing through the dusty parchment. ¡°So there are no men and women. Or there are only women.¡± ¡°Even so.¡± ¡°Maybe the ancestors of Kragor are under our very feet, breeding, discarding runts.¡± ¡°Beneath our feet?¡± Arfast doubtfully echoed. ¡°There only stones, bones, and the earth itself. Amid that, kobolds running around their tunnels.¡± ¡°No dwarves?¡± ¡°No chance of that.¡± Sybille curiously smiled. ¡°Why so sure?¡± ¡°You said yourself, Sybille. The runt goblin killed them all.¡± 20. Counsel Takers 20. Counsel Takers ¡°Having assembled the chiefs and shamans of the Grorginite Empire, I no longer wish to be The Small King. My attempts to articulate what had happened, or how we might remedy the issue, was lost on nearly all of those gathered. And, when most did finally understand that Agrak was gone, a pair of huge goblins began to fight over who would lead the Grorginite Empire. The violence spread into a brawl that resulted in a score wounded and several dead. Thankfully, Chief Zalak ripped out the throats of the two most vocal dissidents and declared that I, Izzig, was now The Small King. To elucidate his point he nearly slashed through my neck, which created an otherwise fatal wound which swiftly healed. Seemingly impressed by my survival, and by the show of vicious violence, those gathered agreed with Zalak that I was indeed the new leader of the Empire. A role which I wish to swiftly vacate. ¡®There will be war,¡¯ the lithe Chief declared. ¡®Be ready.¡¯ This announcement pleased everyone, and the fighting gave way to a celebration. When the raucous clamor, still echoing in my mind, had finally ended I spoke with Zalak to tell him that we must find Agrak and restore him to his throne. ¡®You are The Small King,¡¯ he answered. ¡®We must find the old one.¡¯ ¡®We will look,¡¯ Zalak conceded. ¡®Sometimes small things going missing.¡¯ These words he had said with a savage smirk, my dried blood still spattered across his angular features. ¡®Do not threaten me,¡¯ I feebly warned. ¡®No threats, Small King. We must work together. If he can be found, he will be found.¡¯¡± Harak reclined in his latticework throne, the backing blackened to bear the symbol of a half moon, while he listened to the rhythmic humming of Dargo the Small. The air lay hazy and sour, stinging Harak¡¯s eyes, because of all the shaman¡¯s seering smokes. Dargo seered from the flat of his back, his splayed figure not much larger than a goblin youngling. His large eyes, set in a rounded skull, trembled under wrinkled green lids. Between Harak¡¯s dark green ankles, which rested on a manling desk, sat a battered old box of iron. It was the only thing on the squat brown desk that was not made of bone, or dried flesh, or plucked feathers. The tent around the Great Chief and his shaman, woven of long grasses and branches in and around the trunk of a thick tree, stood adorned with all manner of trophies, and trinkets made from the dead. Manling, goblin, or otherwise. Dargo murmured, and his eyelids flickered open, pupils shifting from white to black. ¡°Things are as I seered.¡± Harak answered the shrieking proclamation with a doubtful grunt. ¡°Sarak and Ugu? Together¡­?¡± ¡°Yes,¡± said Dargo in his shrill voice. He pushed up to seat himself on crossed legs. ¡°And the dark one remains in the Pass.¡± ¡°How can it be¡­? Where do they come from?¡± ¡°From the same place as the Old Enemy. It is not for us to know, my Chief.¡± Harak hissed through his teeth. ¡°How can that be¡­? They come to our lands, but we cannot go to theirs. You say they have fierce magic. Then they pose a threat to us all.¡± ¡°No, my Chief,¡± Dargo dismissed. ¡°We are as younglings to them. Insects. They do¡ª¡± ¡°That is even worse!¡± Harak spat. ¡°The goblins should be respected!¡± Dargo tittered, shrugged, and crawled around the tent blowing out the seering smokes. Great Chief Harak ground his own teeth together. He had knelt before the giant Braguk on promise of a great victory in Southwestern Tymir and the beginning of a new war to take back the Quiet Isles. Instead the Moonbear left never to return. And what word did reach Harak¡¯s ear had been foul to hear. Great Chiefs slaughtered to the last. Braguk fled. Gudmund the Wolf victorious once more. New manlings heroes, Fire Giant and Spearslayer, making their own legends while Harak sat waiting in the Pass. He had avoided death, at least. Though Dargo did not believe that this would be a truth for much longer. ¡°Why do they come?¡± ¡°I have told you,¡± said Dargo as if Harak were the youngling, and the Great Chief was not four times the size of the diminutive shaman. ¡°For the box.¡± Harak grunted, nudging the well wrought box of iron with his foot. Then the box jumped in answer, as if something were still living in there. ¡°So we trade.¡± ¡°We must not,¡± said Dargo. ¡°So we fight.¡± ¡°We cannot.¡± Harak snarled, baring his teeth at the shaman. He could understand why Ugu had killed Forgo, though such a thing was still unforgivable. Shamans were to be respected by every member of every clan. No matter how small or annoying. ¡°You should offer me guidance, shaman,¡± the Great Chief grumbled. ¡°Instead you say we cannot give the box. But if we fight then we will die. I do not wish to die, shaman. Nor the clan.¡± ¡°Nor I,¡± agreed Dargo. ¡°That is why we should flee.¡± ¡°There is no honour in that. Goblins do not flee.¡± ¡°Then we will die, my Chief¡­ with honour.¡± Harak¡¯s eyes narrowed as he scowled at the shaman, still looking down on him even though he was seated. His claws dug into the flesh of his own palm. ¡°Goblins do not kill their shamans, either,¡± Dargo reminded with a smile. Harak grated out a sigh. ¡°Ugu would have killed you.¡± ¡°Lucky it is that you are my chief, then, Harak.¡± ¡°Lucky,¡± Harak bitterly repeated. ¡°We are not lucky. You say we are doomed.¡± ¡°By your choice,¡± Dargo reminded. Harak clicked his tongue, and stared at the iron box, which rattled once more. ¡°I should not abandon the box?¡± ¡°You should not.¡± ¡°I cannot prevail against those who wish to take it?¡± If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement. ¡°You cannot.¡± ¡°What of the clan¡­?¡± Dargo shrugged. ¡°What of them?¡± ¡°Does it matter if they stay or leave?¡± ¡°I would think no.¡± ¡°Then lead them away, Chief Dargo,¡± he pointedly instructed. ¡°I will stay on my own.¡± ¡°That is a good idea,¡± declared the shrill shaman, as if he were surprised. ¡°But I will stay, my Chief. Marag can take the others up into the Middle Lands.¡± ¡°There is no need,¡± assured Harak. ¡°You are my Chief, Harak,¡± insisted the diminutive shaman. ¡°I will die with you¡­ with honour. And we can show the outworlders that even insects can bite.¡± *** Loffi stood in blackness, in company with the titanic goblin known as Orog and the diminutive ancient known as The Small King. He had left his clan of goblins named Moonkin in a cavern nearby, knowing that his monarch preferred the peace and quiet to the constant scratching and murmurings of Loffi¡¯s clan. ¡°How should we proceed?¡± Orog¡¯s voice rumbled through the darkness like thunder. ¡°Proceed?¡± the Small King asked, his shrill tone distracted. ¡°It would appear that we are being watched.¡± Orog reached behind his back for an enormous axe. ¡°I heard none approach.¡± ¡°Distantly.¡± The Small King shook his head. ¡°It is a benign entity. The one that so follows Chance.¡± ¡°Can you dispel it?¡± Orog asked. ¡°Or shall we leave?¡± ¡°¡®Are you watching me, Watcher?¡¯¡± the Small King muttered. ¡°No. I suspect it has no way to intercede.¡± He rasped his long claws together. ¡°As to you, Loffi, what news?¡± ¡°Zelerath rejects the request,¡± said Loffi. ¡°She believes you a deceiver.¡± ¡°And here I thought deceit was meant to be an enigma to those giant rats.¡± ¡°Perhaps Rubinold is the laughing head of a man with snake arms?¡± ¡°What¡­?¡± ¡°I believe,¡± Orog answered, ¡°that Loffi is suggesting that King Rubinold is the happy countenance of a community more treacherous than it would otherwise seem.¡± ¡°Zelerath and Hubbard are arms,¡± Loffi agreed. ¡°We could assume then that Zelerath and Hubbard were of import in Rubinold¡¯s old court. And that Rubinold himself is the least of the threats,¡± mused the Small King. ¡°Though his invention of hand cannons might suggest otherwise.¡± ¡°Happenstance,¡± Orog grunted. ¡°Those I have seen are salvaged pipes from the plumbing of dwarven cities. Stuffed with small rocks and a mix of explosive powders. Struck on the hole of a removed valve until it catches fire.¡± ¡°Bang in your hands,¡± Loffi agreed. ¡°Rat men made red and dead.¡± He paused. ¡°Loffi saw a manling in the caverns.¡± ¡°We know of the human guards¡­ they are largely dead.¡± ¡°Slayer of Ragadin. Fire Giant.¡± ¡°Oh?¡± the Small King asked. ¡°When?¡± ¡°Loffi knows not,¡± Loffi spoke in a troubled tone. ¡°Brugg with me before Loffi sent to Zelerath. Finds Fire Giant. Offers to help manling find his clan. Loffi hoped to see Brugg when he returned, but Brugg returns not. Loffi thinks Brugg is made red and dead. Loffi hopes Pool remembers Brugg.¡± ¡°I see,¡± the Small King answered. ¡°I am sure he will be remembered. You can return to your clan now, Loffi.¡± ¡°Loffi goes.¡± The Small King waited for the goblin¡¯s scampering departure. ¡°Perhaps it as you say, Orog. Chance leads us by strings like a puppeteer.¡± ¡°Perhaps.¡± ¡°And what course would you now recommend?¡± ¡°We are committed,¡± answered Orog. ¡°If you still wish to take vengeance on Chance then you will need a base of power. And if you refuse to establish that overland, then we will need to wrest control of livable tunnels. I would suggest that we unseat one of the three leaders, Zelerath perhaps, and then try to arrange a suitable peace.¡± ¡°To what end? They lack intelligence and purpose. It would be better to destroy them all and be done with it.¡± ¡°I could say the same for any race,¡± Orog rumbled. ¡°But if you have come to decide that you are the arbiter of what peoples are allowed to live in peace, or at all, then I see you as no different than Chance. Colder, perhaps, but that man deceives and manipulates without thought for the cost in lives or even empires.¡± The Small King sighed. ¡°So what path would you have me take?¡± ¡°Whichever you please. But there are those where I will not follow you.¡± ¡°Well¡­ I¡¯ve no mind to walk this world alone.¡± The Small King paused. ¡°Arrange things with Loffi and the Chiefs as needed, and then begin an attack on Queen Zelerath.¡± *** King Rubinold the Fifteenth held his audience in an expansive domed cavern, which connected at compass points to four substantial tunnels. Though the one behind him, which lead to his personal chambers, was rarely used. He sat on a throne molded from the earth itself, worked to a standard that suited a child¡¯s talent. He was, by appearance of his face, much akin to a rat without hair, though his frame was bulkier and he had longer claws as if to burrow like a mole. He and all his people shared these traits, but they covered their nakedness in a mixture of poorly-knitted fur garments and the finer, more colourful clothes, that they had claimed in ransom from Timilir. King Rubinold himself wore a very fine robe, dyed blood red, trimmed with white fur, traced with golden finery. He held a sparkling scepter of gold, adorned by emerald and rubies both. He had quite small eyes, and a pair of large and impressive teeth. He had four scrawny, unclothed and unarmed, kobolds in attendance at all times, two standing to either side of him. They were his servants, who helped to scratch and preen him, who held up roots and other food for their monarch to eat, when he so choose to. The Royal Guard of King Rubinold had equipped itself with the masterwork armaments of the long-fallen dwarven civilization. At each of the four tunnels, two four-foot armoured rats stood guard. They wore conical helmets, chain mail, and kept a hold of stolen spears. They held their positions with a careless bearing. The approach to the throne of mud lay flanked by two three-tiered benches of earth, where sat nearly fifty other kobolds that appeared much like their venerable monarch. Those with the most power wore the well-woven clothes of Timilir while the rest of the kobolds in attendance wore their simplistic furs. They had each been gathered to an assembly on the risks posed to the underground kingdom, which had only then descended into screaming, spitting and screeching. ¡°Enough!¡± King Rubinold commanded, waving his scepter in anguish. ¡°Enough! Silence! I will have silence!¡± The beady gazes of his fanged people turned to regard their monarch. Their eyes reflected the diminutive flames of candles scattered across the cavern, though most of those were arrayed near the mud throne. ¡°Am I not king here?¡± Rubinold asked, answered by communal affirmation. ¡°I am, yes. I am. And so I will say what we choose to do next. Our enemies are many, but weak¡ª¡± ¡°The Small King is not weak!¡± hissed a withered kobold who wore no clothes at all and, even sitting upright, bore semblance to a dead and shriveled rat. ¡°He put an end to Rubinold the First!¡± King Rubinold swept out his arms, revealing a pink belly beneath his majestic robe. ¡°And, yet, Rudrun the Old, we have held against the goblin onslaught.¡± ¡°And what of Zelerath?¡± another asked, one of the only female kobolds sat among the benches. She wore a purple robe that barely covered the girth of her pregnancy. ¡°She stole your prisoners!¡± ¡°You voice that almost as accusation!¡± Rubinold rebuked. ¡°Am I not king here?¡± he asked, answered by communal affirmation. ¡°I am, yes. I am. My cousin is a usurper. A coward usurper. And though she has taken my prisoners, I will send a group to take them back. And then we will ransom them to the pink goblins and be done with it.¡± ¡°What good will that serve when the green goblins overrun us?¡± Rudrun the Old pressed. ¡°We must seek peace with Zelerath¡ª¡± ¡°No!¡± King Rubinold declared. ¡°I have never heard a suggestion more ridiculous. Next you will expect me to align myself with that heretic usurper. See, another usurper. Usurpers everywhere! But I must ask again, am I not king here? Yes,¡± he answered amongst the communal affirmation of his own people, then nodded in triumph. ¡°I am.¡± ¡°And who will you send to take back the pink goblins from Zelerath?¡± asked the pregnant kobold. ¡°A good question,¡± Rubinold mused, scratching at his chin, his pink nose twitching. ¡°Ah, I know! Guards! Guards! Bring me the pink goblin!¡± An armoured kobold, standing closest to the throne, looked up at his monarch. ¡°Which one?¡± ¡°Ah, Rood, there you are,¡± King Rubinold enthused. ¡°The one that finds the other pink goblins. That one!¡± Rood¡¯s beady eyes creased. ¡°The one that escapes?¡± ¡°Yes!¡± King Rubinold the Fifteenth waved his golden scepter through the air. ¡°Bring him!¡± 21. Under the Earth 21. Under the Earth ¡°Though the goblins theoretically out number the dwarves ten thousand to one, it cannot be denied that their ability to hew stone into defensible fortifications is impressive. Our first attempt to slay the dwarves ended with a confused and angry gathering at the bottom of their mountainous fortress, while rocks and boiling oil rained down overhead. ¡®We will go under,¡¯ Zalak had said. I now find myself once more deep beneath the earth, waiting for yet more tunnels to be completed by effort of claws. I have noticed the strangest feeling of confinement. Where once I despised the overworld, the sky too blinding and the spaces dizzyingly wide, I now find that I miss it. Perhaps when all this is done I can leave the Grorginite Empire behind me, and go and live in an overworld cavern somewhere, so that I might freely tread between bright expanses and the familiarity of enclosed darkness. In any case, I hope that we will break through to the dwarves soon. If Agrak is their captive, then we can free him more quickly, and if he has been hidden elsewhere then we must widen our search at once. And if they have found some way to kill him, then I have no clue what I should do.¡± Hjorvarth sucked in slow, measured breaths. He struggled to stay awake, his strength of body and mind both waning. He could feel himself dying. He had tried to escape, but found only darkness. He had ran for an hour, and when the giant rats finally cornered him with spears it had taken only a few minutes to return from where he had started. Escape eluded him. Darkness shrouded all. No matter how much he breathed. No matter how he sat unmoving. The air grew thinner and thinner in his lungs. He worried he would soon die in silence. Hjorvarth pushed the warm shoulder beside him. Dan barely murmured. Hjorvarth had carried Sam¡¯s son on their last attempt at escape, though he had begun to wonder whether he could even call it that. The giant rats whimpered and cowered when they lost their weapons, taking away any thoughts he had of murdering his way out of the place. They cocked their hairless heads as if they understood him, listened to his words, but cared not at all to answer his questions. Mute by nature or silent by choice removed. ¡°We have to try again,¡± Hjorvarth muttered, his words leaving him breathless. ¡°Dan. We have¡ª¡± ¡°No,¡± Dan murmured. ¡°I need to sleep.¡± Ocher darkness encroached the earthen horizon. Hjorvarth squinted, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment to see if the coloring faded. ¡°They¡¯re coming.¡± Mail jingling preceded the kobold guards now the light intensified. Shadows appeared in the tunnel that led to the cavern prison, stretching behind the mounded earth and banded planks that now served as a door. Their captors seemed to have expected dormancy and compliance at first, but erected the barrier after the last escape. The kobolds, instead of removing the door, burrowed their way through the wall on one side of it. They entered, armoured better than most men Hjorvarth had known, holding squat candles in their hands that seemed a fifth of the usual size. The kobolds kept grips on their spears with other hands, but did not brandish them. ¡°You,¡± the helmeted leader said. ¡°You come. The king requests it.¡± Hjorvarth slowly rose. ¡°I would¡­ take my friend with me.¡± He pointed to the sagging figure of Dan. The young man wore shredded clothes both dusty and bloody. Hjorvarth winced as he remembered the goblins piled atop him, roaring in pain while they were ripped to pieces by explosion after explosion. ¡°You!¡± the leader repeated. ¡°Not him. You!¡± Hjorvarth frowned, bending to lift the young man from the floor. Dan blinked up at him and made an effort of holding on. ¡°Stop!¡± the leader ordered. ¡°Stop! Drop! Drop him!¡± Hjorvarth shook his head, balancing the weight across both arms. ¡°I cannot leave him.¡± ¡°Cannot?¡± the leader¡¯s pink face creased. The three armoured kobolds with him appeared equally perplexed. ¡°Cannot. Oh. Come, then. Rubinold may know a way for you to drop him. He is a wise king.¡± ¡°I am glad to hear it,¡± Hjorvarth managed, wishing nothing more than that they would start walking, that the kobold king held his audience in a place where he might catch his breath. ¡°As are we,¡± the leader assured, dipping his head. He span on his clawed feet, then waved his men forward. The four kobolds made a persistent rattle of armour as they entered the neighboring tunnel. They squeaked between themselves. Hjorvarth could not mark their quiet words, but found it an oddity that he could understand these overgrown animals at all. He struggled to imagine how they had ever managed to craft such fine weaponry and armour with their clawed hands. Hjorvarth¡¯s legs buckled under him, the kobolds turned in surprise or concern, but then the huge man managed to rise. The leader¡¯s gaze lingered longer than the others. ¡°You almost did it!¡± Hjorvarth blinked. ¡°Did what?¡± ¡°Dropped him. You almost dropped him.¡± ¡°Oh.¡± Hjorvarth trudged forward. ¡°Are we close to the king?¡± The leader¡¯s beady eyes wandered. ¡°A little this way,¡± he answered, with a small shift of his wrist. He thrust his arm into the air several times. ¡°Then, up, up, up!¡± ¡°Eluna break the thread,¡± Hjorvarth whispered, his throat painfully dry. ¡°Up, up, up,¡± he encouragingly repeated. The kobold¡¯s smile lent prominence to twin teeth. ¡°Yes, yes. Come, come.¡± Hjorvarth followed him to a crossroads, which adjoined to curving tunnels on two sides, and led to a much steeper rise ahead. The kobold hurried up the earthen slope, his spear shaft scuffing with each step of the ascent. Hjorvarth almost sighed, but feared he could not spare the breath. He stared at the rise ahead of him, then forced himself forward. ¡°Here is my greatest enemy,¡± he thought. ¡°I will die from lack of air¡­ consequence of my own fool notions. As if life is as simple as I pretend. As if I can charge blindly forward to fulfill an oath of protection because I have failed my father. Or did I truly have nowhere else to go? ¡°Gudmund was in Timilir, come to take his revenge against Jarl Thrand. Is Engli with him, or is he still waiting at the Lake? Are they all with him¡ªall those that stood after the massacre at Horvorr? Am I the odd man out, under the earth, when I should be standing with them? Well I am not, am I? I am here. Nowhere. Darkness. Seeing by the light of a candle that is about to burn through that giant rat¡¯s hand. Yet he seems not to care at all for the heat of molten wax. ¡°I have buried myself. Worse still, I have buried the son of the man I came here to save. Will I ever stop making Dan¡¯s life a misery? I did when we were children, and I remember that plainly enough. So does he, if his ever wary gaze is any measure. What even am I? Not a member of the Black Hands. Not a member of Horvorr¡¯s Guard. I am the man in the stories that you are supposed to despise. I am an outlaw. Murderer. Violent. Thoughtless. I have styled myself in imitation of Ragnar the Red when I could be no further from that fabled hero. Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author. ¡°Where could I be now if not here? How many wrong decisions did it take for me to come here? Reject Brolli. Reject Gudmund. Reject Astrid. Reject Ruby. Reject the Stone Sons. Walk into the venom jaws of a withered Jarl with a coward¡¯s heart. And what do I do now? Walk forward, carrying my friend¡¯s son up this endless slope for a dual execution. ¡°And where is Astrid? Laughing somewhere. Drawing pictures of this climb. Easy enough for her to mark out the lines of a scene that never changes. What would Isleif say? Am I lost in the earth? Am I like him, only I will never find my way back? I have no son to go home to. No family at all. What would Brolli say? Or would he simply laugh to see me on my way to meet the king of rats? I have never met a king, perhaps because I am not worthy. But had Arnor not said that all things change? Keep walking forward in the hopes that they¡¯ll get better. ¡°Things will get better,¡± Hjorvarth promised himself. ¡°You are not dead. Dan is not dead. Keep forward. Stay the course. You are not yet dead. All can still be well.¡± ¡°Hjorvarth?¡± Dan¡¯s tired voice broke the huge man¡¯s reverie. ¡°Where are we?¡± ¡°Almost here,¡± the kobold leader answered. ¡°King Rubinold will show us how to drop you.¡± *** Hjorvarth¡¯s breathing came easier now he strode into the candlelit cavern of King Rubinold the Fifteenth. Though he still appeared uneasy as the prospect of suffocation dwindled, and as he strode warily between the earthen benches that flanked him on approach to the monarch¡¯s mud throne. He felt, in his dazed state, that the scene was altogether surreal: in the depths of the earth watched by the many gazes of giant rats, those that seemed to share the clothing sensibilities of Timilir. The place appeared no less a mock court than Gudmund¡¯s Hall a season before or the marble approach of Jarl Thrand¡¯s Estate, only now it was a host of animals, overgrown rats, that sat in place to lay judgement, as if these monstrous big-teethed creatures had, had grown tired of scampering between the feet of humanity. Hjorvarth wondered, seeing desperate flames dancing in a hundred black eyes, whether this was the Lady¡¯s Shadow. Whether he had died in that prison¡­ or even sooner than that. Whether he had died outside the walls of Horvorr when he was finally surrounded, and this life that followed was much like life but different: a life of endless missteps and sufferings so great and numerous that they threatened to smother him. The rat monarch that sat the throne appeared more regal than any man that he had ever seen. He wore a robe dyed to the colour of blood, trimmed by pristine fur. Gold finery glimmered as he shifted on his seat. In the distant reaches of Hjorvarth¡¯s tired mind, he could hear the squeaking and screeching of what sounded like a thousand angry rats. He fell to his knees, earth unyielding against bruised bones, and settled Dan before the throne. The kobolds in audience, who had heard how the huge man had been cursed¡ªunable to drop the other man¡ªmet the spectacle with an enthusiastic chorus of amazement. King Rubinold himself appeared quite pleased to have so easily broken the curse. He smiled for a moment, before growing tired of the clamour in the cavern. ¡°Silence! Silence! I will have silence!¡± He waved his golden scepter. ¡°Am I not king here?¡± Hjorvarth thought that an odd question. Nausea swept through his stomach when the giant rats behind him answered in the voices of men and women. He sucked in a tired breath, but it did little to stop the throbbing in his skull. ¡°King Rubinold.¡± King Rubinold flinched at the rumbling address. ¡°Yes¡­ goblin?¡± ¡°My name is Hjorvarth, son of Isleif, and I would like to be taken to the open air. I fear I will die here if I stay much longer, and my friend is in no better health.¡± Murmurs of excitement rippled through the benched audience. ¡°Isleif?¡± King Rubinold asked. ¡°This Isleif?¡± He pointed off to a vast and shadowed mural on the far wall, artistically painted, of two lithe men standing before a kobold king, watched by an audience that wore furs, moleskin, or no clothes at all. Hjorvarth barely recognized the youthful visage of his ginger father. Despite familiarity, he could not place the handsome face of the black-robed man with golden hair. ¡°I am confused.¡± King Rubinold¡¯s pink face creased. ¡°I do not understand your answer, goblin.¡± ¡°Who painted this?¡± Hjorvarth asked. ¡°Were these men in your company?¡± Rudrun the Old cleared his throat. ¡°It is a painting by the pink goblin known as Golden Hair. It is of the painter, and his companion, Isleif the Bard, in audience with King Rubinold the Twelfth. There are none among us old enough to have witnessed the event,¡± he explained. ¡°Not even I.¡± Hjorvarth searched the ocher-hued cavern, walls all bare earth save for that one mural. The clothed kobolds watched him in silent amazement. He turned back to the rat monarch. ¡°Is Isleif the Bard a friend of the kobolds?¡± ¡°Of course,¡± King Rubinold enthused. ¡°Why else would he send you here to save us in his stead?¡± ¡°I have not come here to save you.¡± ¡°Oh, but you must! You must! I have asked it of you!¡± King Rubinold stared down from his throne. ¡°Am I not king here?¡± The communal affirmation swept through the cavern. Hjorvarth paused for a long moment, seeing his escapes blocked by armoured guards on all sides. ¡°You have imprisoned others. Others like me, and the man with me.¡± ¡°Yes, yes.¡± King Rubinold nodded. ¡°I can see you know your purpose.¡± ¡°I would have them released to the stone city.¡± ¡°What?¡± Rubinold shook his head. ¡°No, no, no. I would have you release them to me!¡± ¡°If I may,¡± the pregnant kobold interjected, pulling her purple robe tighter about her belly. She awaited refusal for only a moment. ¡°The prisoners that you seek have by stolen by the usurper Zelerath. Cousin to Rubinold. He wishes for you to venture into the domain of Zelerath and to retrieve the prisoners.¡± King Rubinold thrust his scepter into the air. ¡°Yes, yes!¡± ¡°So you have no prisoners?¡± Hjorvarth asked. ¡°Two. You, and you.¡± ¡°And the prisoners you took from the mines were taken by your foe, Zelerath?¡± ¡°Indeed,¡± Rubinold gravely agreed. ¡°And you wish for me to venture forth and rescue them, to bring them back to you?¡± ¡°Have I not just told you all this, goblin?¡± ¡°You have, but I see no gain in it for me. If I managed to free these prisoners why would I not just flee to the world above and take them back to the city of Timilir!¡± ¡°Treachery!¡± Rubinold screamed. ¡°Guards¡ª¡± ¡°Hold, Rubinold!¡± Rudrun pleaded. ¡°This goblin may be our only chance!¡± King Rubinold paused, his scepter looming in the ocher air. ¡°He must do as I command! Am I not king here?¡± The communal affirmation sounded out more loudly than before. Dan murmured on the floor, his eyes fluttering open. ¡°King Rubinold,¡± Hjorvarth began, his deep voice careful, ¡°I will do as you wish. But I will need a guide to find Zelerath¡¯s caverns. And I will need this¡­ goblin, to accompany me. Does that sound fair?¡± ¡°No,¡± Rubinold hissed. ¡°Why would you want to carry this goblin after I so kindly freed you from the burden?¡± ¡°He is a member of my clan.¡± ¡°Oh¡­ oh.¡± Rubinold¡¯s pink lips drew up over his twin teeth. ¡°Then I will keep him. And I will hand him over when the other pink goblins are returned to me.¡± ¡°I think that would be a mistake, King Rubinold.¡± Hjorvarth glanced around the cavern, but each tunnel only seemed to lead further down into the earth. ¡°You told me that Isleif the Bard was friend to the kobold people.¡± ¡°Did I?¡± King Rubinold rose from his throne. ¡°Guard! Come close!¡± He scratched at his own belly. ¡°You will find my goblins, goblin. You will bring them to me. Or I will make your clan member dead. Do you hear me, goblin?¡± Hjorvarth¡¯s pale eyes grew cold now he rose to his feet. ¡°I hear you clearly, king.¡± ¡°Son of Isleif,¡± the pregnant kobold shouted over the worried murmurs of the gathered kobolds. ¡°Beyond vents, this place is sealed from the surrounding earth. Without a guide, you will wander until you die of thirst, for water or air, in the darkness. It is plain, to me at least, that your goblin is in no health to travel.¡± Hjorvarth rounded on her as armoured kobolds rattled closer on all sides. ¡°He will die in the place you kept us!¡± ¡°We will store him in a higher cave, one with a steady flow,¡± Rudrun offered. ¡°He will be fed and kept safe. And even if you do not return, we will ransom him back to the pink goblins of the stone city. This is his best hope, son of Isleif,¡± the old kobold insisted. ¡°As you are ours. Zelerath has taken our prisoners¡­ those that we need for ransomed riches of bread and pastries. We will starve if you do not help us. War encroaches the kingdom of Rubinold on all sides. If you do not intervene then all the goblins she has taken will die¡­ we will all die, goblin. Would you truly wish that end on us?¡± ¡°No,¡± Hjorvarth conceded, drawing in on himself. ¡°I wish to see the place where you mean to store him. I wish to see him fed, myself as well, and I wish to be armed and armoured. If that is agreeable, then I will venture forward, with a guide, in the intent to free the prisoners that this Zelerath has stolen.¡± ¡°Am I not king here?¡± King Rubinold shouted, answered by a belated affirmation. He hissed in surprise. ¡°Your requests are agreeable, goblin,¡± he declared. ¡°I would have them fulfilled. Rood!¡± The armoured kobold lifted his helmeted head. ¡°Yes?¡± ¡°Escort this goblin to the metal hole,¡± Rubinold instructed. ¡°And arrange for a group of pipers to guide him into Zelerath¡¯s tunnels.¡± 22. Darkness 22. Darkness ¡°I found this journal laying where I left it. But I feel¡­ different. Some other goblin. Some other shaman. The bone stylus feels strange in my hands, and even my own skin feels odd sagging upon my frail frame. The plan¡ª The plan¡ª The dwarves were able to create explosives, which quite abruptly, thoroughly and assuredly obliterated the tunnels which we had hoped to dig to reach their fortress. Hundreds were killed instantly, dozens crushed within moments, while many unfortunate kin were trapped beneath the earth where they died of hunger or thirst. I was not so lucky. Trapped, yes. Hungry, yes. Thirsty¡ªI have never been so thirsty in my life. I could not move an inch and barely breathe with all the weight of that rock and stone, and I wanted more than anything to scream, or to die, or to¡ª I was freed. Eventually. Best not to lament on the details. Nor how many Moons had passed before I was found. Or why a search was conducted so long after the event. No need to worry that of all the days that Zalak was not with us, it was that day. Or that the once lithe Chief is now the self-styled King of the Goblins. I keep thinking of that day when I thought he was supporting me, showing my immortality, but I wonder now whether he was trying to kill me in truth and declaring me as Small King only to usurp me. In any case, King Zalak was the one who found me. Smiling as if we had parted ways not long ago. And as if he were not at all surprised to find me buried so deep beneath the earth. But then he told me what I already knew. ¡®Malek sent me.¡¯ For the ancient voice had spoken to me once more. And though I thought at first it was madness born of my being trapped in the blackness by the dread unending weight of the earth, it offered me freedom in exchange for my help. To which I readily agreed.¡± ¡°I am angry, I am angry, I am angry,¡± cried Fragor, his voice higher and far more sullen than before. He then followed the words with a high pitched, ear splitting hum. Thing had not gone well. So far as Astrid understood it, the Void Walker had healed her, so that she might convince Fragor to enter the tunnels, but his healing of her had harmed him. This she guessed because his powers had limits, and he had pushed himself beyond them. She had managed to convince the giant troll to become less giant, but then the tunnels had gone from gloomy and large to black and narrow. Luckily, she was still haunted, by Edda¡¯s rent spirit or some other figure, because she still managed to keep forward. Until, of course, they¡¯d reached a dead end. There was light here, at least. Pale blue worms glowed luminescent as they crawled their way from moss to moss or rock to rock. ¡°Try to be calm,¡± Astrid suggested, though her own voice shook unnervingly. Fragor was running well short of wax, and even though he was now only the size of a large man¡ªperhaps the waxy green brother of Hjorvarth¡ªhe could still eat her, or the Void Walker, if he so chose. ¡°Where going, Acid?¡± Fragor asked more ponderously. ¡°I suppose we¡¯ll have to turn around,¡± she said, watching as liquid gathered at the tapered tip of a hanging rock, dripping noisily to the pool below. Each resonant drop seemed to mark her waning hopes like sand sifting from a glass. Her vision swam, and she found herself in another cave, lit by a crackling brazier, and there stood Lazarus, with his lithe frame and ungainly head, staring at a grimy hourglass while flames roared beside him. Shaking her head, she was back in the pale blue chamber of earth and stone. She did not understand why she was seeing visions of Lazarus. His story had already ended. And she had never dreamed of goblins before. Only dwarves, and elves, and men. And there was that one dream where Hjorvarth was talking to a giant rat in a fanciful red robe. The Void Walker clicked his tongue. ¡°You went the wrong way.¡± He was smirking up at her from the cavern floor, slumped up against damp stone, while a pair of luminescent worms crawled over the ebony skin of his neck and shoulder. ¡°Hard to see in the dark.¡± ¡°Even with so many ghosts¡­?¡± he asked. ¡°Ghosts!¡± shouted Fragor. ¡°Where is they?¡± ¡°A question for Altonian scholars,¡± answered the black man, now he rose to his feet and dusted off his fibrous skirt. He plucked a glowing worm from his neck. ¡°Let us go.¡± ¡°Fragor is running short of wax,¡± said Astrid. ¡°Yes. You must shrink again, my friend,¡± said the Void Walker. ¡°And we must leave the ghosts behind. I did not wish for this, but we have no other choice.¡± ¡°For what?¡± Astrid asked, after Fragor had finished angrily humming. ¡°We will walk The Void.¡± *** ¡°It¡¯s freezing,¡± complained Astrid, but despite the dread cold cloaking her and burrowing under her pale skin, she wasn¡¯t shivering. She felt almost dead. The world around her was like the midnight sky, but full of bright lights in all manner of colors and patterns. ¡°Walk as I do,¡± warned the Void Walker, glancing back at her with fear in his dark eyes. ¡°This is not our place. Or mine. One step in this world, might be leagues in yours.¡± Astrid lowered her gaze, tracking the man¡¯s black heels and shadowing his footfalls. ¡°Who¡¯s place is this?¡± ¡°Many. But¡­ The Populate rule here. Lizards,¡± he added, smirking back at her. ¡°Cold as the void. As strange, as well.¡± If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it. ¡°Will Fragor be safe?¡± Astrid then asked. The troll had refused to shrink, or to listen, and so The Void Walker had opened a portal in the cavern floor, through which Fragor dropped and disappeared. The black man had promised they would meet him soon. ¡°Safer than here,¡± he answered as if the fact amused him. ¡°Quiet now. Our words echo through the thoughts and dreams of friends and foes alike.¡± Astrid wasn¡¯t sure what that meant, or if she believed him, as she¡¯d started to think he was far more interest in speed and silence than explaining who he was or why he was helping her. Fragor knew that the black man had healed her but not more than that. The cold worsened to a freezing, numbing sensation. Astrid¡¯s could hear her heart beating slow and heavy in her chest. The Void Walker raised a hand up ahead as if to stay her. His tongue clicked. Then a pair of strange creatures appeared up ahead. Half as tall as a man, covered in scaly, shiny skin of bronze. Their eyes bulged from their wide heads like curious frogs. The Void Walker shook his head, and waved an arm as if to shoo them aside. Strange, reverberative whispers began, and Astrid could hear what sounded like the black man¡¯s voice, only much quieter and his lips were not moving. She could hear fragments of sentences spoken in wise, disapproving voices. ¡®Unwelcome.¡¯ ¡®Defilement.¡¯ ¡®Betrayal.¡¯ Then came a single word spoken clearly and firmly in the Void Walker¡¯s harsh tone. ¡®Gah¡¯rul.¡¯ The pair of creatures blinked, their lids slow and sticky, and turned to one another. ¡®Untrue.¡¯ ¡®Impossible.¡¯ ¡°I am no liar,¡± the Void Walker growled aloud. ¡°Blame Avenpark. Or any other. I am preserving the Cycle. If you get in my way¡ª¡± Childlike laughter sounded out above his warning, and the scaled creatures exhaled nosily as if they were amused. ¡®Dry.¡¯ ¡®Weak.¡¯ ¡®Powerless.¡¯ ¡°What are you¡­?¡± a curious, alien voice then spoke in Astrid¡¯s mind. ¡°So bright.¡± Astrid looked around for the speaker, but the bronze pair were still focused on the Void Walker, and then a creature with gold scales appeared before her, and she startled. Stumbling back, she threw out her arms to try and regain her balance, but her ankle twisted and she tripped. Astrid glimpsed the wide panicked eyes of the Void Walker, but then he, and all three of the serpents sloughed and twisted like crushed clay. Then all the myriad stars of the Void whirred and danced all around until sputtering out to darkness. *** ¡°Strange¡­¡± came a crone¡¯s ancient voice that crackled with age. ¡°Not dead. Not alive. You¡¯re lucky that you landed here. Well¡­ not lucky, but not unlucky, either. You could have had that shining soul of yours gobbled up by a frightful monster.¡± The muffled sounds of great waves crashing, and the rocking motion of the hard floor beneath, made Astrid think she had ended up in a large, dark boat. But the ground lay too cold and hard to be wood, so it must have been stone. ¡°Where am I¡­?¡± she asked, her voice disquieted. ¡°I was¡ª¡± ¡°Lost,¡± the crone finished. ¡°Still are, I¡¯m afraid.¡± Her eyes adjusting to the dark, Astrid glimpsed a vast ceiling overhead, huge rusting chandeliers swaying worryingly back and forth. Roots and branches crawled over brickwork and burst through roof and walls, as if some great temple had surrendered to nature. When she managed to rise, disgust and terror threatened to overwhelm her. The vast space of stone benches, fractured statues, and golden ornamentation lay littered with skeletal corpses, while at the far back of the room, on a raised throne of bones sat a desiccated corpse of a frail old woman in a tattered black robe. Her ribs were exposed, jutting out from emaciated skin, while her eyes glittered like onyx in a rotting skull that had been cracked badly open. ¡°Do not be afeared,¡± said the crone¡¯s voice, as if she were a kindly grandmother. ¡°I will not hurt you, bright girl. I could not¡­ even if I wished to. I am as lost as you are.¡± ¡°I need to¡­ get back. To the Midderlands Pass,¡± Astrid confusedly insisted. ¡°Why¡­?¡± ¡°I¡ªwell, for the box. I need to find the box.¡± ¡°What¡¯s inside?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡± ¡°That¡¯s a shame,¡± murmured the crone. ¡°To come such a long way in ignorance.¡± ¡°Edda says that it is important. And she knew everything there is to know.¡± ¡°And who is Edda?¡± ¡°She is¡­ was my grandmother.¡± ¡°Dead now,¡± the withered figure guessed. ¡°Like me and all my followers.¡± Astrid took a few steps towards the thrown, her footfalls soft and muddled by a carpet of damp moss. ¡°You look dead. But you¡¯re still¡­ speaking.¡± ¡°In your mind,¡± the crone¡¯s voice agreed. ¡°It¡¯s hard to kill a god. Fully. But not too difficult to wound and imprison one. I think I would have preferred true death.¡± ¡°You are a god of death?¡± The question was met with pained, rattling laughter, that echoed from the skeletal corpse itself. ¡°No. I am¡­ was¡­ the Goddess of Wisdom. The Mother of Mothers, some called me. To mirror the King of Kings. But his sword proved sharper than my wit.¡± ¡°I¡¯ve not heard those names.¡± ¡°And why should you?¡± she lazily countered. ¡°We are not your gods, bright girl.¡± ¡°No¡­?¡± ¡°My people have bronze skin, burnished by the Sun,¡± the crone answered, almost as if with pride. ¡°You are pale like a ghost. And soon you will be a ghost just like all these here. Stripped down to the bones by wily rats and slithering insects. Unless¡­¡± ¡°Unless?¡± ¡°I have been alone for so long. Tell me a story, girl, and I will sustain you.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t want to be sustained,¡± replied Astrid. ¡°I want to be free. I need¡ª¡± ¡°¡ªto find a box,¡± the crone finished without patience. ¡°I told you, bright girl. I am trapped here. And I am a god. You are trapped here. And you are not a god. If I cannot break the cage, then neither can you. But there is some hope. One day¡­ the cage will break itself. But I have badly lost track of time, so I know not whether it is tomorrow, or eons from now. So there is a chance¡ªslim, admittedly¡ªthat sustenance will free you.¡± ¡°How does the cage break?¡± ¡°Tell me a story, and I tell you one in return. But I asked first. And I can cause your skin to wither just as easily as I can preserve your flesh. So¡­ do not anger me, ghost.¡± ¡°I could tell you about The Void Walker,¡± Astrid said. ¡°No,¡± grated the crone. ¡°That story hasn¡¯t happened yet. And I know all the words.¡± ¡°Do you know of Horvorr?¡± ¡°What is it?¡± asked the crone. ¡°A settlement, a person, or a place?¡± ¡°It is a settlement. Founded by goblins, and¡ª¡± ¡°What is a goblin?¡± ¡°A goblin¡­?¡± Astrid repeated. ¡°What do you mean? It is a goblin, of course.¡± ¡°Ghost,¡± the crone snarled out a singular warning. ¡°They are like men. Only most are smaller, and they range from the size of a child to the size of a tower. Some have magics, and those they call shamans. There are no men and no women, and they all birth into a pool of acrid liquid by regurgitating sacks. They are a beastly people, and most folk fear them, and flee from them or else kill them.¡± ¡°Hm,¡± murmured the desiccated god. ¡°What magic do they have?¡± ¡°With respect, you asked me to tell a story,¡± answered Astrid. ¡°How can I manage that with your constant interruptions?¡± Rage like a wave of restless fire pulsed over Astrid¡¯s cold flesh, but then abated. ¡°Fine,¡± whispered the crone quietly. ¡°You may proceed.¡± 23. Broken 23. Broken ¡°It has become clear to me that The Small King possesses a singular will. The likes of which will never be matched by another of our kind. I had long thought that Agrak¡¯s manner spoke to a languid, almost miserable, individual who was slowly letting the Grorginite Empire slip out of grip. An immortal creature who had only a passing interest in keeping our peoples together. But now that he is gone, everything has split and fractured in the blink of an eye. Where once hundreds of Chiefs bowed beneath a singular ruler, there are now mere dozens. Countless kin across the disparate clans have been reduced to the tens of thousands, only a fraction of which could be reliably forced into a passable army. Yet King Zalak is undeterred. He has a plan, given to him by the disembodied words of ancient Malek, to birth a new shaman, who will in turn rebirth something ancient and long ago lost to our kind. This creature, he believes, will unite the goblins in a way that The Small King never could. And raise our people above to heights so high and soaring that the humans, and dwarves, and all other races will be so far below us at to be indistinguishable. So long have I secretly resented, even hated, my immortal monarch, who I thought would be there to rule over for me times unending. Yet now¡­ now I almost¡­ miss him. As if I am some sentimental human. And I wonder now fear that he was my friend. My only friend. But I swore that I would uphold Zalak and follow Malek¡¯s wishes in exchange for being freed. And now I am freed. But I do not feel free. I feel sick. I feel a level of discontent and worry that should be reserved for those not of goblinkind. Before I thought I wished to rebel, and now I know that I do. But how can I rebel when I am one frail shaman alone? All the influence I have ever possessed was lent to me by The Small King. And now I bow and scrape at the bidding of new masters.¡± Gudmund sat in the place of honour, his ears ringing from the din of celebration, knock of mugs, clatter of plates, and endless murmur of conversations. He had made his face ache with smiling, his lungs hoarse with hollow mirth. He wore the same, now grimy, clothes of blue and white, and the trappings felt false. A horseshoe of marble tables lay ahead of him, separating his high-backed chair from the pit of fire that clogged the air with smoke to make every man and woman in attendance bead with sweat. Gudmund had not been drinking, but had seen and heard the steady descent into drunkenness of all those around him. He could see their flushed faces through the hazy blur of warmth that writhed from the fire. Heat blinded him to the marble hall, shadows twisting and dancing away from the crimson glow of flames. Darkness and brightness left the grand walls of veined white with a sense of enclosure. Gudmund had the thought that where he sat, in company of no one he knew, might be some eternal form of torture. The company of strangers made him feel more alone than when he sat on his own. Every now and then sorrow would sweep over him like an icy wind. When he would look around the room, half hoping to see the wild grin of Grettir, or the smirking or somber faces of his beloved sons. ¡°Are you well, Gudmund?¡± asked the lilting voice of a young woman. Gudmund glanced to the rosy beauty at his right, then turned his gaze to the remnant meals on his plates. ¡°I¡¯m not used to such rich foods,¡± he answered, clearing his throat to try and rid the sorrow from his choked tone. ¡°But I¡¯m sure I¡¯ll recover.¡± He glanced once more to Jarl Thrand¡¯s youngest daughter, her full lips pursed in way of studious disbelief. ¡°Are you well, Luta¡­?¡± Luta¡¯s delicate brows dipped in consideration. ¡°I am, Gudmund,¡± she gently answered. ¡°Would you like to take a walk? So that you can breathe deep the open air and better recover?¡± ¡°Did you say that you are leaving?¡± Jarl Thrand asked from Gudmund¡¯s left, his rasping voice displeased. ¡°It would not look well for you to both leave early for a feast hosted in your honour.¡± ¡°We will return,¡± Luta assured, simpering at her withered father. ¡°I find the heat stifling, father. I fear I will faint should I sit here without pause.¡± Jarl Thrand managed a bitter smile. ¡°Of course.¡± Luta offered her hand, taken by Gudmund, who rose from his chair. As if prearranged, those in audience paused and watched the grizzled warrior and the beautiful wife promised him. ¡°Leaving already?¡± Ekkill called, words slurred by liquor, rising in his seat on the left side of the horseshoed tables. ¡°Return to the celebrations,¡± Jarl Gudmund insisted. ¡°I need to step out for air. Horvorrians rarely suffer heat.¡± Ekkill swayed where he stood, his robed belly bloated by wine and meals. He opened his mouth to say more, but was silenced by a scowl from the Jarl of Timilir. ¡°Of course.¡± He collapsed back onto his seat, nearly bucking it over, landing with a solid strike of stone. Gudmund and Luta had crossed, hand in hand, to the main doors of the dining hall. He paused under the archway, witnessing the suspicious gazes of the hundred folk come to celebrate the abrupt union between Horvorr and Timilir. There was no love in the eyes that still followed him, but a mix confusion, frustration, and hatred instead. Gudmund met eyes with Fati, who sat beside Young Thrand, as he spoke at length with Sybille. The skinny, grey-garbed man dipped his head in respect, but Sybille¡¯s father barely noticed. He had the sudden fear that one day she would love her Thrand the Younger more than him. And he suffered the worser feeling that if she did then he would hold all the blame. For being so hard to love himself, and for leading her here to this place, for his sake, and for his vengeance. Luta¡¯s grip tightened around his arm. ¡°Are you coming, Gudmund?¡± Gudmund turned with a smile, then followed the grey-dressed woman into the lantern-lit corridors of marble. Footfalls grew ever more pronounced now they left the din of the feast behind them, and then their steps served to punctuate their uneasy breaths. ¡°You seem displeased, Gudmund,¡± Luta¡¯s lilting voice broke the silence. ¡°Am I not what you expected?¡± ¡°More than.¡± Gudmund held to silence while they crossed through a large archway, and into a sheltered marble garden. Clouds shrouded the moon above them, creating a surround of muted whites and pronounced darkness. He turned to see her rosy cheeks steeped in shadows. ¡°Were I younger, I would thank the gods for gifting me with such a woman.¡± Luta met his troubled eyes with mild amusement. ¡°Has your love of women lessened over the years?¡± Gudmund rubbed at the mottled scar on his neck. ¡°I more meant that I¡¯ve little to offer you,¡± he said, deciding not to mention that he meant to murder her father. ¡°And that seems a great shame.¡± ¡°Does it?¡± Luta scrutinised her prospective husband, then turned to take a seat on a bush-encroached bench. She smoothed her dress, and smiled up at him. ¡°I met Adelsteinn before he died¡­ that would have been a shame. But I am glad enough of his replacement. A younger, more handsome man, with scars gained over the years instead of weight. So, I do in fact consider that a blessing, Gudmund.¡± ¡°Your words are a comfort,¡± Gudmund replied, still standing. ¡°But¡ª¡± ¡°You are afraid to start again?¡± Gudmund flinched. ¡°I wouldn¡¯t blame you if you were,¡± Luta continued, her voice softened by concern. ¡°I have had the wisdom to learn of your history before our meeting¡­ and I found it tragic to say the least.¡± Gudmund¡¯s heart skipped at her sorrowed smile. ¡°I worry over loss.¡± ¡°Yes,¡± Luta murmured, ¡°but you needn¡¯t worry over the loss you might cause me. I would have suffered baring the children of Adelsteinn, should he have managed it. But I would gladly have your children, Gudmund. And any company offered in the winters to come. A man in your health might well live long enough to see boys grown to men.¡± She sighed. ¡°I see in your eyes that you think your life is over¡­ when I would like to see hope instead. I can tell you have no love for my father¡­ but if you allowed yourself, perhaps you could feel compassion for me. This is a beginning, not an end.¡± ¡°Your words humble me, Luta,¡± Gudmund answered in earnest. ¡°But this night has reminded me¡ªby merit of new company¡ªof all those I have lost. Which wounds me deep with grief. I would only ask you take that not to heart and give me some time to collect my thoughts before I return to the feast.¡± He smiled with regret. ¡°I will walk you back.¡± ¡°No need,¡± Luta replied, rising. She stepped forward, studying the proud man, then cradled him in an embrace. ¡°Your pain is so readily seen. I wish I, or anyone, could take it from you.¡± Gudmund struggled not to yield to her warmth, contrary to the coldness of his own heart and the shadowed night. ¡°I have sad eyes by birth. There is nothing more to it than that.¡± ¡°You are a poor liar,¡± Luta whispered, letting go. ¡°I shall like you more for that.¡± She studied him for a moment, then turned to leave. ¡°I will return on my own. There are no enemies in this place.¡± ¡°Beyond the one you¡¯re smiling at,¡± Gudmund thought, watching her skirts swirl while she swept away. ¡°Why does my heart ache? Am I so easily fooled by a show of kindness? Am I so false a man that I assume every other person in this world must be lying? Acting as a troubled husband to this young woman while I plan to carve out her father¡¯s heart. Is this how Brolli came to kill all those men, act out all those black deeds? Did he convince himself he was doing the right thing? Am I no different to the men who tell themselves the virtues of ripping out teeth?¡± This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience. Gudmund sighed, stepping out of the darkness of the garden and into the dimly lit corridors. He decided he would walk the open ground beyond Jarl Thrand¡¯s home. He had the sudden urge to free Hjorvarth from the dungeon only to remember that the man had already walked. ¡°Not free, but to his death,¡± Gudmund thought, ¡°or to a life not worth living. What a waste that was¡­ submitting yourself to false judgement on the hopes of saving a man from the same fate. Sam, now there was a man with a treacherous wife. Gone from spitting venom to blood¡ª¡± Gudmund grimaced, shaking himself. He could see his brother¡¯s hard gaze shining with the light of a moonlit lake. ¡°¡®It happens.¡¯¡± ¡°What happens, brother?¡± ¡°¡®Death. No sense you taking the blame for an accident.¡¯¡± ¡°But what if there was sense in blame?¡± Gudmund worried. ¡°What if all this is judgement of the gods? But that happened after Hilda died, and what had she ever done to deserve death? And Grettir, what misstep did he ever make? Kata, more than anyone, deserved a long life. I walked among cursed men and that¡¯s the simple truth of it,¡± he decided. ¡°I wonder if Ralf sees that? Does he notice death looming over us like the long shadow of the Eternal Temple? Or is he just busy buying carts, happy to have something to do other than stalk the corridors of Gudmund¡¯s Hall like a draugr among ghosts?¡± Jarl Gudmund shook his head. ¡°Gods, I think too much. Gods, the gods aren¡¯t real. I¡¯m proof of that. We¡¯re all proof of that. Hjorvarth rotting under the earth somewhere is proof of that. Isleif the Bard cursed to be a fretful old man. Brolli the Boy turned Brolli the Black. Grettir the Oneswing losing his arm. A women named Mardis¡ª¡± ¡°Forget that, Gudmund,¡± he whispered aloud. ¡°Forget it.¡± Gudmund found himself back by the raucous dining hall. Ruddy light spilled forth from open doors. Gudmund waited in the shadows. He took a slow breath, drawing and sheathing his sword, then strode forward. As before, those seated seemed to know as one that he had arrived, though now only half rose while the rest smiled or dipped their heads. Luta had risen, standing in grey beside her gold-robed father. She met his arrival with a beatific smile. Gudmund smiled with less enthusiasm as he entered the stifling space of sweat and smoke. At the right corner of the horseshoed table, Sybille and Young Thrand discoursed to Fati¡¯s exclusion. The grey-liveried guards of Jarl Thrand¡¯s Estate were drinking and talking, while the three guards of Horvorr stood straight-backed and ready. Arfast¡¯s aged face was shrouded by shadows, but he met Gudmund¡¯s look all the same. Sybille¡¯s armored guardian strode forward, one hand on his sword, towards where she sat with Young Thrand. He spoke loudly enough to be noticed, but not enough to be clearly heard above the noisy gathering. Those seated turned in time to see outrage flicker across Young Thrand¡¯s plain and amiable visage. Sybille sat shocked, as if slapped. Arfast growled words in a low voice. Young Thrand started to rise, stayed by Sybille¡¯s hand. Sybille tried to countenance Arfast, but the armoured old man shook his head. Arfast drew his sword, causing fear and unrest to ripple through those seated at the marble tables. Jarl Thrand had not risen but he stared as if he wanted the death of the old guardian who had so interrupted the celebrations. Gudmund had strode close enough to hear Young Thrand¡¯s strained effort at reconciliation. ¡°You have misjudged me,¡± the man stressed, his words edged with barely restrained anger. ¡°I made no such move. Sybille has told you herself that she is unharmed. You have had too much to drink, old man, and this is no place to¡ª¡± ¡°Old?¡± Arfast spat. ¡°I¡¯ve killed hundreds of men as young as you lad, and best believe I¡¯ve done it for worse reasons than this. Apologise, and leave, or I will¡ª¡± ¡°Escort this fool from the premises!¡± Jarl Thrand commanded, answered by the approach of a dozen grey guards. Gudmund strode forward, drawing his blade at the same time as Young Thrand, Fati, and the third guard from Horvorr. The grey guards in Thrand¡¯s service readied their spears and formed to enclose the conflict. ¡°Hold!¡± Gudmund shouted. ¡°This man is in my service, and I will deal with him.¡± ¡°I am in the girl¡¯s service, Jarl Gudmund,¡± Arfast warned. ¡°And I have told you to step back!¡± Sybille shouted, rising to her feet, a newly bought black cloak at stark contrast with her white dress. ¡°Arfast, please, leave here¡ª¡± ¡°The family of Thrand cannot be trusted.¡± Arfast¡¯s hawkish face twisted with rage. ¡°I implore you, Gudmund, take leave of this place, or else I will have no choice but to draw blood in an attempt to save you and your daughter from yourselves. I will not see another good man die while I serve him.¡± ¡°While I will suffer no more men dying in my service, Arfast,¡± Gudmund replied in a level voice. He could feel the eyes of all those gathered watching him, a weight of the mind and heart made manifest in the pain of his neck and back. ¡°You have misstepped,¡± he warned. ¡°I have allowed your feelings for my daughter¡ª¡± ¡°Feelings?¡± Arfast cocked his bald head in predatory fashion. ¡°You think this is about some old man¡¯s fantasies?¡± He shook his head. ¡°I¡¯ve seen crows circling this place. Death is on the way. Perched on your shoulder. I will have an end to it now. Stand with me or¡ª¡± ¡°Or?¡± Gudmund cut in. ¡°You saved me once and I¡¯m grateful for that. I¡¯ll pay you back right now,¡± he added. ¡°But go any further and not even that debt will help you. I don¡¯t need to be saved, old man. Not by you. You¡¯re passed it. Passed use. Passed reason,¡± he pressed. ¡°You¡¯ve lost your mind over a few drinks, and black birds in the sky. I say again¡ªfriend¡ªleave. Leave. By the gods, leave you old fuck! I¡¯m trying to spare you!¡± Arfast shook with rage, his aged face flushed red. ¡°This man¡ª¡± ¡°Is soon to be my son!¡± Gudmund rebuked. ¡°You raised blade against my family. By law of the gods I should kill you where you stand. Your services are no longer needed, Arfast. You are done.¡± The Jarl of Horvorr strode forward, sheathing his brother¡¯s sword. ¡°But if you want to die fighting, then make the first strike.¡± ¡°You would choose these strangers over me?¡± Arfast hissed. ¡°Snakes? Your whole family would be dead¡ª¡± ¡°And that is the only reason why I have not cut you down.¡± Arfast swept his maddened gaze around the richly-dressed folk and grey-liveried guards watching with expectation. ¡°Gudmund, you need¡ª¡± ¡°I do not care for your needs!¡± Gudmund roared. ¡°How many times, must I say it? I kept you in my service out of courtesy. And now that courtesy is no longer extended. My daughter does not need to suffer the pining of a man old enough to be her grandfather. And I do not want a guard in my service who is as addled as Isleif the Ghost.¡± Arfast opened his mouth to protest. Gudmund¡¯s fist thumped into his jaw, sending the old man staggering. ¡°Jarl Gudmund,¡± Jarl Thrand began, almost sympathetically, ¡°I appreciate your loyalty to this man, but he is clearly devoid of all reason. I will put an end to his life, so that he can die before he disgraces himself further.¡± Young Thrand saw the protest in Sybille¡¯s gaze. ¡°No, father,¡± he voiced. ¡°The man seems to ready to leave.¡± Arfast brushed blood from his split lip, gaze darting in fear as if he were wounded quarry. He then scowled at Gudmund as though he were the only man in the room. ¡°When you die, Gudmund, remember me,¡± he said. ¡°Remember my warning. Know that I leave now only so that I can live to watch you fall.¡± Gudmund offered the slightest of nods, his face twisted into a hateful grimace. ¡°Have no fear, Arfast. I will never forget the day when man of good standing in my service spat back all the good I have ever done him. I will never forget the day you disgraced yourself. I will not forget the disgust and loathing that writhes within me.¡± ¡°It will all come out with your blood, my Jarl.¡± Arfast bowed, smiling in mockery. He turned to leave, way blocked by the leveled spears of six guards. ¡°Clear the way,¡± Young Thrand ordered. ¡°This is not the place¡ªand certainly not the time¡ªfor violence. We are here to celebrate the matching of Jarl Gudmund, who has shown much tolerance here, and my beautiful sister, Luta.¡± ¡°Muradoon take them both,¡± Arfast intoned, marching forward now the guards parted. ¡°What was that?¡± snapped a high voice. Two of the three members of Horvorr¡¯s Guard came to face one another at the abandoned side of the marble hall. ¡°Out of my way,¡± Arfast warned. ¡°I will¡ª¡± He twisted clear of a sword thrust, drawing his own sword, kicking out the guard¡¯s knee. He paused for only a moment before he swung to cleave off the guard¡¯s head, but his target had already ducked to avoid the sweeping blade. The small guard managed to counter with a weak arc that bit into Arfast¡¯s heel. The old guard cursed, and fled forward into the darkness of the corridor. ¡°My Jarl?¡± the third guard shouted as inquiry. ¡°The choice is yours,¡± Jarl Gudmund answered. ¡°Brikorhaan guide your hand, either way.¡± ¡°Jarl Gudmund,¡± Young Thrand voiced. ¡°I would send guards to aid the pursuit.¡± Gudmund turned to regard the man without sympathy. ¡°Then you would do so without my blessing. If my loyal guard does not return soon, then I will search him out myself.¡± In the corner of his eye, he could see his daughter sat staring after the two warring guards, weeping in appalled horror. ¡°If you wish to help me, Thrand the Younger, then you should escort my daughter back to her room. You should travel with a guard in case Arfast does indeed come for you. Otherwise, rest assured that your father and I have this matter in hand.¡± Young Thrand nodded, and tried to coax Sybille up from the chair. The standing guests made their to back to seats, muttering as politely as they could while the grey guards returned to their positions at doors and archways. Gudmund turned to see scrutiny, sunken eyes narrowed under grey brows. ¡°I apologise for speaking above you in your own home, Jarl Thrand,¡± he said regretfully to the old man. ¡°I¡­ Arfast saved my life. And I did not wish to watch him die.¡± Jarl Thrand nodded, his garish gold cloak at odds with his withered visage. ¡°Yet you sent a man to kill him?¡± ¡°I realised my mercy had been a mistake when he tried to murder one of his peers,¡± said Gudmund. Jarl Thrand¡¯s dark eyes narrowed. ¡°An astute conclusion.¡± The Jarl of Horvorr met the words with a slight smile, and stepped past the Jarl of Timilir. Luta stood waiting, hands linked ahead of her grey dress, watching him with unknowable intent. ¡°I am sorry for the spectacle.¡± ¡°Because the fault was your own?¡± Luta asked, watching her brother lead Sybille out of the firelit hall. ¡°It seems odd for a loyal man to so turn on you.¡± ¡°Misplaced trust.¡± Gudmund furrowed his brows. ¡°He has not served me long. In truth, I have no notion as to when he joined Horvorr¡¯s Guard¡­ but he was one of only five men to survive.¡± ¡°You were mauled that badly?¡± Jarl Thrand asked from behind. ¡°Who were the other two survivors?¡± ¡°Hjorvarth, a survivor no more, and an significant blond man that I forget the name of.¡± Gudmund sniffed. ¡°He too had misplaced infatuation for my daughter.¡± ¡°A plight I thought you might have more sympathy for,¡± Thrand mused. ¡°Because of Grettir?¡± Gudmund turned, shrugging. ¡°The difference there is that Kata loved Grettir, and she was the one that begged him to take her away.¡± ¡°I expect Jarl Alfgeir would disagree,¡± noted Thrand. ¡°I expect he would,¡± Gudmund agreed. ¡°But if he did so in my company, he would die for the lie.¡± ¡°As quick as that?¡± Luta asked. Jarl Thrand smiled at his daughter. ¡°Horvorrians are ever well known for their violence and impatience.¡± ¡°They are.¡± Gudmund turned back to the beautiful woman with rosy cheeks. ¡°And I would hate to disappoint.¡± Luta regarded him with the same unknowable stare. ¡°Sit, Gudmund. Let us suffer the heat for a while longer.¡± 24. Invitations 24. Invitations ¡°I have been summoned to King Zalak¡¯s court. The vast cavern, once housing only a small throne for the Stone King, who most often sat in darkness, has been filled with gaudy ornamentation and enormous braziers which burn with unnecessary flames. The mood of the gathered Chiefs is sullen and suspicious. In the short time I was there, three duels occurred between the greedy and violent leaders of each of the clans. I thought that Zalak had brought me here to complain of my lack of progress in birthing a new shaman, but instead he gifted me with a pouch of what appears to be bone powder. From what creature, I could not discern. The strange substance vibrates with magical energy, and I have been instructed to make a small pool, intended for a single hatchling, in which Zalak will regurgitate a birthing sack. Despite my warnings that a pool of such size will not work, Zalak insists that I must faithfully follow these instructions unless I wish to end up locked away in a steel box. This comment I considered most curious. Because beneath his new, much larger throne¡ªroughly hewn from stone¡ªlies an ornate box of metal wrought with dwarven symbols of weaponry and deities. I wonder what resides inside. Or who.¡± Atsurr lay in his stone bed, groggy and aching, too old to make a graceful recovery from something so benign as heat stroke. The woolen blanked prickled his damp skin and cold air permeated his spirit. He was soon to be discarded. ¡°Pay no mind to our matching ages,¡± Atsurr thought, ¡°or my loyalty. I, healthy and strong, am too old while my shriveled master holds complete control. Control of what, though? A counsel full of betrayers. How else would Fati and Ekkill survive when seven other members, more cautious sword-trained members, had ended their days as sacks of bloody teeth? No, he has no control, this is the end, and he refuses to see it. He needs to cut out the rot before it festers and afflicts his children. Was losing Thorfinn not lesson enough? For me, for him?¡± Silence had held a pronounced sway on the chill night, but it was broken by the distant clacking of a cane. ¡°And so they come to end me,¡± Atsurr mused grimly, ¡°though, wait, no¡­ not the rattle of armoured men. Just the clack of that serpentine cane. Perhaps he has finally seen reason. Or perhaps the Son of Geirolf strikes that cane as a tactless joke in his victory. Perhaps he stalks the halls as death itself, and I have slept, shivering, through the slaughter.¡± ¡°Are you awake?¡± came a rasping voice, muffled by a closed stone door. A brick scraped into place, mechanisms clipped and the wall groaned open to reveal the moonlit silhouette of an old man in a gold robe. ¡°Apologies for the late hour.¡± ¡°Celebrations.¡± ¡°Is that an accusation or an observation?¡± Jarl Thrand stepped forward, his wrinkles riven by shadows, his sunken eyes glistening in the gloom. ¡°Yes, celebrations. For the proposed match of Luta and Gudmund.¡± ¡°The coward has nothing to offer you but a knife in the back.¡± Jarl Thrand rasped a quiet laugh. ¡°Is that not utter hypocrisy, Atsurr? How many men¡ª¡± ¡°Hundreds.¡± Atsurr paused for a while. ¡°I am not a better or more noble man. And it is by that admission that I claim to know him. He has set the stage to steal your whole Estate, your legacy. When the marriage is done¡ª¡± ¡°Perhaps it never will be.¡± Fledgling hope took root in the old sentinel¡¯s heart. ¡°How?¡± ¡°A knife in the back,¡± Thrand rasped. ¡°But not yet, and perhaps not ever. He has agreed to marry Sybille to Thrand the Younger, which leaves open the opportunity of me stealing his lands. As does his marriage to my daughter, for that matter.¡± ¡°It would be simpler to kill him now, and claim the lands by right of your stewardship.¡± ¡°Simpler for my enemies, yes,¡± Jarl Thrand agreed. ¡°Simpler for them to wage war while I am distracted on the pretense of liberating a stolen region. What you do not understand, what you have never understood, is that we are not in power. I am not in power. I am surrounded on all sides by enemies. Jarl Harrod the Younger takes loss after loss in the Midderlands. The Low King is soon to rise. Trouble brews even in the Eastland Plains and there are rumors of a foreign peoples landing in the Northlands now as well. I am old¡­ you are old. And when we die, my legacy will be sundered on all sides.¡± ¡°Find other allies.¡± ¡°Who?¡± Jarl Thrand scowled. ¡°Dead Adelsteinn? Or some other pretender Jarl soon to bend his knee to the Low Lands monarch? All you see in Gudmund is treachery. Yet I see plainly his strengths. He is a man that can bridge the gap between our passing and my son¡¯s rising. He is well known by the goblins of the Midderlands¡­ perhaps to the point he could even arrange a peace as the old Jarl Harrod once did. He is loathed in both regions of the Southeast, as is his brother, but he is also well known as a talented duelist.¡± He paused. ¡°My sons are just that. As Jarl Harrod the Younger is still the son of his father. They are not yet their own men. And I fear I, neither of us, will live to see the day when they can stand against the encroaching enemies alone.¡± ¡°Gudmund has already been the death of one of your sons.¡± ¡°Was he, Atsurr? And where we you when Thorfinn moved to stab Geirmund in the back? Close by, I would think. While Gudmund lay days away in his own holdings.¡± ¡°You would blame me for his death?¡± Atsurr whispered in disbelief. ¡°I would blame all of you,¡± answered Thrand at length. ¡°The son of Isleif, you, and Thorfinn himself. Or else I¡¯m left to blame the cobblestones.¡± Atsurr sighed. ¡°Blame who you wish, my Jarl. But I am certain that Gudmund means to kill you. So his uses, fine as they may be, will avail you nothing. This is an alliance that will be the death of you.¡± ¡°Perhaps it will,¡± conceded Thrand. ¡°Which is why I would have you find out if he or his followers are up to anything untoward.¡± The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. Atsurr grunted his approval. ¡°I will return to my duties in the morning.¡± ¡°You should know that the old guard is dead.¡± ¡°Is he?¡± Atsurr frowned. ¡°The Crooked Teeth?¡± ¡°No. The other guard, the one that covers himself, killed him¡­ or so I¡¯m told. Arfast took issue with something Thrand did or said to Sybille and demanded apology. It ended in something of a shouting match between Arfast and Gudmund and the old guard was allowed to leave. Before he did, the other guard took issue with something Arfast said. They traded blows and the guard gave chase. Upon return, he told us that he had pursued into the gardens, and that the old guard had jumped, or fallen, from the cliff¡¯s edge.¡± ¡°Was there blood?¡± ¡°Yes. Trailed along the garden, and the guard that lives suffered his own wounds.¡± ¡°How severe?¡± Atsurr asked. ¡°A slash across the gauntlet¡­ apparently caused by a close up struggle grappling swords.¡± ¡°We should search the slums for a body.¡± Jarl Thrand scoffed. ¡°The order was already given.¡± ¡°And?¡± ¡°The body was mangled, having struck the cliff side several times. The hair that I could see was white. So either it was a man of his age, in his armour, or else the guard himself.¡± Jarl Thrand raised his hand to halt a reply. ¡°The Estate is already being searched, as were all those that have left.¡± Atsurr disagreeably grunted. ¡°He did not strike me as a man that would die.¡± ¡°No?¡± Jarl Thrand raised his brows. ¡°I expected it well enough. From time rather than the sword. I share your suspicions, but by the same merit I can see no real gain to faking a man¡¯s death. Arfast acted as guardian for Gudmund¡¯s daughter and now she has agreed to be watched by my own guards. If anything, this puts her more at risk.¡± ¡°Has the fat guard not been tasked with watching her?¡± ¡°No. The fat one has been out of the city since you collapsed. I have had him watched and from what they could gather he is commissioning carts and purchasing goods to be sent to Fenkirk after winter passes.¡± ¡°There must be something more.¡± ¡°And what if there truly isn¡¯t, Atsurr?¡± asked Thrand. ¡°What if we are jumping at shadows in our own home while our real enemies work towards our demise? The suspicion becomes tiring. It proves ever useless. I spent hours with Gudmund this evening and he was pleasant and amiable. He said nothing in anger. Nothing suspicious. The only oddity of the evening was the outburst and death of the old guard, and Gudmund handled that in an acceptable manner.¡± ¡°And what of the guard that killed Arfast?¡± pressed Atsurr. ¡°Did he remove his helm when his wounds were treated?¡± ¡°He was wounded on the hand. He removed his gauntlet.¡± ¡°Why does he cover himself? What man worthy of trust hides his face?¡± ¡°An ugly man¡­ or one that is horribly scarred. I spoke to Gudmund of it at the feast and he mentioned a story of an angry man in a forge who took issue with a young boy.¡± ¡°And have you had him followed?¡± ¡°There was no need,¡± Jarl Thrand answered with less patience. ¡°The guard is ever in Gudmund¡¯s shadow, as Arfast was to the girl.¡± ¡°The girl,¡± Atsurr muttered. ¡°Does she weep? Did the loss sorrow her?¡± ¡°She has cried for the past few hours. Thrand says he did his best to comfort her, and managed to have her sleep.¡± ¡°And did Gudmund come to see her?¡± ¡°He did.¡± Jarl Thrand nodded. ¡°And now he has scratches across his cheek to match my own. Thrand said that her anger and attack wounded him. I have spoken briefly to Luta and she agrees that they were both deeply troubled.¡± Atsurr grunted once more. ¡°I still do not trust him.¡± ¡°I know. And that is why I am tasking you to keep a close watch on them.¡± *** Gudmund wandered through the shadowed grounds of Jarl Thrand¡¯s Estate. He had come there to avoid sympathy and scrutiny. He had come there to avoid his betrothed. He had come to walk towards the limits of the prison he had volunteered for. Gudmund had sight of the marble gates ahead, where guests filed out by the light of torches, their faces searched in case they wore the borrowed visage of a dead old guard. He turned to a pair of square outbuildings, and seated himself against the wall between them both, beyond the reach of prying eyes. He had only begun to sigh his relief when the measured steps of an armoured guard drew close. The small guard crossed the corner, pausing, then took a seat against the building opposite. ¡°Hiding, Gudmund?¡± ¡°Had to¡­ I¡¯ve heard what you do to members of Horvorr¡¯s Guard.¡± ¡°What a mad old man,¡± the guard replied in a soft-spoken tone. Gudmund shrugged. ¡°He seemed to think they were going to try and kill him. Something about poison and a second skin. So I let him do as he wished.¡± ¡°And where did he get the body from?¡± ¡°Stole it from the poor bastard that once owned it?¡± The indignant voices of guests being searched filtered through from the distance. The small guard sighed. ¡°What¡¯re you even doing here, Gudmund?¡± ¡°Waiting to be married.¡± ¡°Then shouldn¡¯t you be with your darling wife?¡± Gudmund smirked. ¡°Jealous, are we?¡± ¡°Not at all. I just see the humour in your fear of a young woman.¡± ¡°I fear the old ones more.¡± ¡°You¡¯re older than I am.¡± ¡°My darling wife tells me I¡¯m young and handsome.¡± ¡°Definitely a child of Jarl Thrand, then?¡± Gudmund chuckled. ¡°She spoke of children.¡± ¡°And did that win you over, Gudmund? An offer of a new life and a new wife?¡± ¡°It made me feel like a false facing bastard¡­ but, no, I wasn¡¯t won over. She might think that she told it true, but there¡¯s no starting over for me. I¡¯m¡­¡± ¡°Hopeless?¡± ¡°I was going to say broken. Does that suit, Anna?¡± ¡°Well enough.¡± Anna shrugged under her armour. ¡°Have you heard from Engli?¡± ¡°Word passed by Ralf,¡± Gudmund said. ¡°He has some fears of the Crooked Teeth. Seems to think that they¡¯re going to try and abduct me.¡± He sniffed. ¡°So I¡¯ll be sure to take care when Jarl Thrand gives me leave for a city stroll.¡± ¡°No need,¡± a cold voice assured. ¡°We¡¯ll come to you.¡± Gudmund and Anna turned to see a black-haired man standing, smiling, beside them. ¡°Danger lies in the other direction, friends. Alas, it¡¯s too late.¡± Gudmund glimpsed shadowed figures before a sack robbed him of sight. Anna started to shout, her voice muffled, protest ended with a thud. A club struck Gudmund¡¯s skull. He regained his senses in time to lose them. 25. Salvation 25. Salvation ¡°Though I had thought building a smaller pool would be more quickly accomplished, it took far longer than I could have ever imagined. Instead of a circular design, Zalak was insistent that seven sides, each of equal length, were required to a level of precision which might be easily achieved by humans or dwarves, but which proved to be particularly problematic to goblin claws. In truth, I could not see the difference between the two pools prior, which were refused, and the one which was finally deemed acceptable. While all this has happened I hear that the Grorginite Empire has splintered further and further, and that Zalak¡¯s domain has shrunk from a vast kingdom to a modest clan the likes of which had been achieved many times over by all manner of Chiefs. Strangely, despite my infirmity, I was tasked with gorging myself until I could regurgitate the birthing sack for the pool. This, as well, took far longer than desired. The alchemy which keeps me alive drastically limits my desire for food. So the task of eating and eating soon became torturous. I did finally manage to regurgitate a birthing sack. One so small and so pale in colour that were I, or any other shaman, to see it we would swiftly decide to discard it. Yet Zalak was insistent. And the pool, barely coated with liquid, was filled by an odd concoction of luminous blue slime that my new King had made. A Cycle of the Moon later, the hatchling was pulled forth, barely bigger than it had begun. Once the birthing sack was split, a meager runt spilled forth, even smaller than Agrak must have been when he was long ago lifted from the Pool. By breathing and blinking, the youngling has exceeded my meager expectations. But I do not see how this new goblin is even going to protect himself, let alone restore our fractured Empire.¡± Hjorvarth sat in a stone chair, emerald-adorned, that reminded him of Jorund¡¯s Hill. He sat at a smaller table now though, sized for four people in a stone room that seemed suited for only two men. It had once served as an outpost for a wide-ranging kingdom of dwarves, and housed only sparse furnishings for simple living. Hjorvarth and Dan sat chewing on roots, pouring stale ale into bronze mugs. They had been left without company, but neither man showed any leanings towards escape. Dan sat more pensive than the huge man opposite, as if soured by something more than the taste of bitter roots. He drank from his mug to swallow a mouthful, then reached for another pale and dirty tubor. ¡°You¡¯re mad, Hjorvarth. Has anyone ever told you that? I mean, by all the gods, where even are we? In the company of giant rats that know your father¡¯s name. Giant rats that speak our own tongue, or at the very least that screech it. And now I¡¯m supposed to wait here¡­ in their company, while you go to wage war against another kingdom of rats. It makes no sense. There is no sense to it,¡± he all but shouted. ¡°We¡¯re both going to die¡­ you do know that, don¡¯t you? You¡¯re going to end up lost in some dark tunnel and I¡¯m going to die here. Both of us alone. And, somewhere, out there¡ªif it hasn¡¯t yet happened¡ªSam is going to die too.¡± Hjorvarth drank from his mug. ¡°And if you don¡¯t?¡± ¡°Don¡¯t, what?¡± ¡°If you don¡¯t die. If I come back here, to free you, with your father in my company.¡± ¡°Then this¡ª¡± Dan raised his mug, sending a splash onto the stone table. ¡°This must be as it tastes. Piss. Joyto¡¯s piss.¡± ¡°It does no good to expect the worst.¡± Hjorvarth shrugged under his short black cloak. ¡°And by my measure the worst was already avoided.¡± ¡°And what outcome was that?¡± ¡°That I died before I ever reached the mines of Timilir. That you spent your next years working, being raped by men, until you died of exhaustion, or until you were beaten to death by the guard with the whip. Or, perhaps, little better, we both would have died beneath the earth, breathing for air that seemed not to exist. Silent deaths. Both of us left rotting as worms and maggots made play in our skin.¡± Hjorvarth sniffed. ¡°Is our position truly so distressing to you, Dan? Food and drink. A place where we can actually breathe. By all means, expect my demise, but the kobolds will sell you back to the stone city¡­ and you can return to the slave life that you seem to think I have stolen you from.¡± Dan blinked, scowled, then turned to stare at the open doorway, where stone walls gave way to an earth tunnel. ¡°You¡¯re not wrong,¡± he admitted quietly. ¡°You¡¯re not wrong. I¡¯m just angry that we¡¯re both going to die.¡± He swung back, smiling sadly. ¡°I¡¯m angry that we¡¯re all going to die. Sam, you, me. And that it¡¯s my fault. Do you know why I¡¯m here? Why we¡¯re here? Why Sam is¡­ somewhere? My father, likely dead already.¡± He waited for an answer that didn¡¯t come. ¡°I left Horvorr looking to be¡­ anything. Anything other than a man that owned a tavern and despised his own life. I thought that I could do better than Sam¡­ but I was wrong. The coin I stole from him didn¡¯t last as long as I thought it would. The coin I made wasn¡¯t anything near what I expected. I finally got work as a messenger, but that barely paid.¡± Dan sighed. ¡°Then one of the men I delivered a message for had left a gift of rings and armbands on an open table. Dozens of them. A whole pile. I was sure¡ªsure¡ªthat they wouldn¡¯t notice one missing, or two. Or even three.¡± He upturned his palms. ¡°Who would want to search or accuse a god-guarded messenger?¡± This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon. Hjorvarth nodded. ¡°Five winters your hand.¡± ¡°Exactly that. And I¡¯d even managed a winter. But then the Low Lands mine decided to sell me to Timilir. And I went from sleeping amongst men that were paid, eating reasonable food, to a place where they work you to death.¡± ¡°Your luck has turned once already, then,¡± Hjorvarth said. ¡°It should turn again¡­ and even if we do both die, it won¡¯t be for a lack of trying. No man lives forever in any case, so there¡¯s no reason to worry on it.¡± ¡°Things happen as they happen?¡± ¡°Exactly that.¡± Dan chuckled, shaking his head. He looked up as if regretful. ¡°You are not how I remembered you. You were unhappy with everything, angry, and wanted to change it all. But now you seem content to suffer whatever comes.¡± Hjorvarth upturned his heavy palms. ¡°There was a time when I believed I deserved a happier life¡­ but I have long since learned the truth of that lie. Perhaps when I see myself as worthy, as deserving, I will voice complaints to the gods above¡­ until then, I will expect the worst and be happy for it.¡± Dan half-smiled. ¡°Maybe I should do the same.¡± ¡°By my own reckoning, you have more than made amends for your failed theft.¡± ¡°That¡¯s good to hear¡­ but it begs the question, what great crime have you committed?¡± Hjorvarth¡¯s pale gaze grew distant. He thought of the weight of his father¡¯s body in his arms. His mother¡¯s shivering visage by the candlelight, suffering cold after she had tried to save her reckless son. Brolli¡¯s muffled screaming in the lake, hands clawing, limbs flailing, trying to fight his way upwards. A gory field of the dead. Men, women and children led to slaughter. Thorfinn¡¯s head forced into hard stone, crunching inward to spout out blood. He thought of that cold night in the shadows of Timilir¡¯s walls that had started it all. A guard taken another man¡¯s shift. A man that knew nothing of the bribe taken, that had too much honour to simply stand aside. Ivar had stabbed that guard in the neck, and smiled. Hjorvarth saw that as excuse enough to strike him the day before the Autumn Trip. But the blow had killed him. Ivar had shivered and screamed until the Godi of Muradoon opened his throat. Hjorvarth realised then that he was walking death. Favored son of Muradoon the Spirit Talker. ¡°Too many and too grave to want to name,¡± he admitted. ¡°But we will live through this, and maybe then I¡¯ll have a chance at redemption.¡± Dan seemed to watch with pity, but before he spoke they heard the distant squeaking of kobold conversation. ¡°Time for you to leave, then.¡± Hjorvarth rose from his chair, glancing at the stone structure around them, then turned to face the open tunnel. A dozen kobolds approached, six in chain and helm, six in hooded moleskin cloaks. They carried the weapons that the son of Isleif had chosen from the kobold metal hole, which had turned out to be an underground chamber with hundreds of masterworks arms strewn in dusty piles. He accepted a large circular shield, carried by two kobolds, that seemed made of a single piece of bronze. Quiet words were shared and the armoured kobolds departed. Hjorvarth let the heavy shield rest on his legs. ¡°Son of Isleif.¡± The kobold closest stepped forward, lifting his hood to reveal a pink face blotched by burns and mired by scars. ¡°I am Russ, and with me are the pipers who will travel in your company.¡± He swept a clawed hand from his cloak, passing over a single-handed twin-bladed axe. ¡°Are you ready to leave?¡± ¡°What about me?¡± Dan asked. ¡°What about you?¡± Russ squeaked, not turning at the words. ¡°You will remain here. Food provided. Drink provided. Under the guard of King Rubinold until our journey is completed.¡± Dan flirted with annoyance, then sighed. He smiled at the huge dust-smeared man, clad in an undersized cloak, reaching for an oversized shield. ¡°Joyto¡¯s Luck, then, Hjorvarth.¡± ¡°Here, goblin.¡± Russ turned to the young man, offering him a slender dagger. ¡°In case the meals prove hard to chew.¡± ¡°We are not goblins,¡± Hjorvarth said. ¡°Rubinold declares you as such, thus you are. That is our way. As it always was.¡± ¡°It is a fool¡¯s way.¡± ¡°So says Zelerath, whom we now march to attack.¡± Russ turned, pulling his hood over his burnt visage. ¡°Ready?¡± Hjorvarth glanced at the man he was leaving behind, then nodded. ¡°I suppose I am.¡± ¡°Good.¡± Russ dipped his hooded head. ¡°We march, then. Come, come. Supplies await us further into the tunnels. The journey is a long one, made longer the overground way.¡± ¡°We should take the shortest path.¡± ¡°You would die from lack of air, and we would all die from goblins or worse. Overground is best.¡± ¡°You seem wiser than your king,¡± Hjorvarth mentioned now they set off down the tunnel. The six cloaked kobolds squeaked laughter at that. ¡°That is why he is our king,¡± Russ replied. ¡°And is Zelerath equally foolish?¡± ¡°No.¡± Russ scratched under his hood. ¡°That is why she has abandoned Rubinold. It is why we are losing the war. But it is better to serve under a fool king than a cruel queen. Or a kobold as mad as the Hallowed.¡± ¡°The Hallowed?¡± ¡°Hubbard,¡± Russ hissed. ¡°Leader of a third kobold kingdom. Those that believe salvation from the Small King can only be found in death. Those that believe that Hubbard is a living deity.¡± ¡°You do not believe that?¡± ¡°No.¡± Russ trod forward in silence. ¡°But if I had the chance, I would gladly gift Hubbard his salvation.¡± 26. The Honoured Guest 26. The Honoured Guest ¡°I had never birthed a goblin before. Overseeing the hatching over innumerable sacks, I thought that this would be much the same. But when Zalak demanded that I hand the youngling over, despite the fact that it did not seem as if it would live out the night, I found myself full of wrath. And then, after rage gave way to impotent surrender, I felt what I believe the humans would describe as longing. Cycles have passed since, and I have been left alone to wander around my caverns, overseeing the births of yet more goblins. And I find myself in a restless state of strange emotions, wondering whether I will see that hatchling again or pondering on the fate of Agrak. It is a miserable way of living. I thought that I had felt sadness before¡ªand that there was no fate worse than being compacted in a collapsed tunnels for so long¡ªbut I wonder now if this is the worst combination of emotions that I have ever suffered. All my life I had the permanence of The Small King ruling over me. Even in the days when I was a young, healthy and hopeful hatchling. Now I am an old, withered and bitter creature with no power, no friends, no authority, and no future. I began to feel a strong desire to throw myself into the acrid liquid of a spawning pool just to see if that might end my tiresome existence. Standing on the edge, Zalak arrived behind me, nearly frightening me forward. The new king is holding a feast. To which I have been invited.¡± A slap reverberated through Gudmund¡¯s cheek, which filtered through to his restless dreams. ¡°I say again, dear friend,¡± enthused a mad man¡¯s voice, ¡°won¡¯t you open your eyes and join us for dinner?¡± ¡°We are wasting our time with this,¡± came a grim objection. ¡°Time is the one thing I have in excess.¡± ¡°More likely you refuse to listen to the hiss of sand.¡± ¡°Outrageous! My ears are always open to hissing. I¡¯ve a great fear of snakes.¡± ¡°This city hangs in the balance and you dance around like a showman.¡± ¡°What would you know of balance? I assure you, I know more. I once had employ as a balancer. Purpose. Eternal purpose. Checks and balances. Accidental pregnancy here, plague outbreak there, murdered parents, fires, fires, fires¡­ and, well, hopefully, some good. You¡¯d be surprised how all that horror adds up to greatness.¡± ¡°The only thing that surprises me is why I still tolerate this.¡± ¡°Because the city hangs in the balance?¡± ¡°Yes.¡± ¡°And yet¡­ should we do what you wish, and snatch for it, our wrists will prove unsteady¡ªsnap¡ªand we will forever walk around bleeding and bawling with our limp appendages. ¡®Sorrow! I remember the days when I had working hands.¡¯¡± ¡°In what way does that hold true, Smiler? Jarl Thrand is weak. His faithful guard almost found his death from the heat of the sun. Thrand the Younger is in attendance, as is the young girl. We should take them all out in one fell swoop.¡± ¡°Oh, it would be fell,¡± Smiler assured. ¡°It would be fell for us. We might even fall, because of it. Hah!¡± ¡°At least tell me the use of this man. The use of any of these fools?¡± ¡°Well, Ruby here,¡± Smiler said, followed by a woman¡¯s confused murmur, ¡°saved your life, did she not?¡± ¡°A life I risked for you. Which I am coming to regret.¡± ¡°I know regrets my friend, be assured,¡± said Smiler. ¡°That is why you and I are two halves of the same kindred spirit.¡± A laugh sounded out, dark and hateful. ¡°You are a thing all in your own, Smiler. A thing I tire of.¡± ¡°Then, rest, friend, rest,¡± he gently suggested. ¡°Rest while I come to the business of balancing. Of balancing business.¡± ¡°Speak your plan, Smiler. You begin to overstep.¡± ¡°No, friend,¡± Smiler¡¯s voice had turned cold. ¡°If any of us had overstepped there would be a lot of missing toes.¡± ¡°The plan.¡± ¡°Is this man¡¯s.¡± Soft footfalls approached, followed by a sudden slapped that fully woke Gudmund. ¡°Ah, friend!¡± A soot-covered face stared down at him, grime shining with the light of scattered lanterns. ¡°Welcome to dinner. I¡¯ve called this meeting as requested. You¡¯re the Guest of Honour. A guest honoured. An honoured guest. Now, now, so are all those with you, so don¡¯t think I¡¯m playing favorites. But please, please, straighten, and look upon food and faces arrayed.¡± Gudmund squeezed closed his aching eyes. Pressure pushed against his skull, pulsing in painful waves. ¡°Where¡ª¡± ¡°Am I?¡± Smiler asked. ¡°Your eyes can answer that.¡± He stepped back, striding with a childish skip to his step. Gudmund sat at yet another horseshoed table, only now there were less guests and they all wore damp sacks as hats. The grey guards gone as well, leaving rough-faced spectators in tattered clothes and ratty leather armour. Marble had been replaced by rotting wood. Ornate seats by mismatched chairs, stools and barrels. Damp floorboards, moist dust marked by a circle of boots, lay ahead instead of a vibrant fire pit. A pair of men stood there, the young man named Smiler, still pacing, and another man unmoving, hooded and clad in black. The warmth had faded to leave a permeating cold along with the smell of rain and mold. ¡°Well,¡± Gudmund thought, ¡°I suppose this is one way to end my life.¡± Smiler paused, his frown shrouded by the mellow half-light. ¡°I thought you would look happier, Gudmund.¡± He snapped his fingers. ¡°I know what it is, you haven¡¯t recognized your guests!¡± Smiler raced to the left, leaning over the table, plucking the sack from the closest head. He levied a hefty slap against the young man¡¯s narrow face. ¡°Awaken, Ragni of the Gem Cutters!¡± He span on his heel, smiling broadly, then lifted a sack from a young, raven-haired woman. She had a hardness to fine features that reminded Gudmund of Anna. The woman glared at Smiler. ¡°I¡¯m already¡ª¡± If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it. Smiler¡¯s slap stole her words. ¡°Awaken, Ruby of the Gem Cutters!¡± The soot-faced mad man dashed to the opposite table. Gudmund kept his gaze towards the table of the Gem Cutters. Nausea settled in his stomach when he realised the other five guests seated on that row were dead. Old blood coated their clothes and necks, and a deep blotch of red stained the sacks, whether once brown or yellow, where teeth should have been. As if sight triggered smell, a vile merging of urine, bile, and rotting feces assailed Gudmund. The woman named Ruby seemed to notice the dead guest beside her. She stared in horror, fighting against the ropes that bound her, then started to gag. A slap resounded through the room, followed by a tired groan. ¡°Awaken, Alrik of the Black Hands!¡± A slap. A murmur of anger. ¡°Awaken, Afi of the Black Hands!¡± A slap. A hiss of pain. ¡°Awaken, Afi of the Black Hands!¡± A slap. A whimper of fear. ¡°Awaken, Afi of the Black Hands!¡± Smiler lifted the sack from the last guest on a row of five living and two dead. A blond man, his face handsome, bruised, stricken by horror. ¡°Awaken, Engli of loyalties divided!¡± He turned, then rounded back with a vicious slap that drew winces from all the groggy visitors. Fear seized Gudmund¡¯s heart now he heard the struggle of a woman beside him. Smiler struggled with the neck strap of another guest, as if it had been stuck fast by blood. He finally pulled it free, then he took a slow step back. ¡°Oh no,¡± he murmured, shaking his head. ¡°Ralf of Horvorr¡¯s Guard, what have they done to you?¡± ¡°What?¡± Gudmund tried to lean forward, but he was tight bound. He tried to shift his chair, and tumbled backwards. Skull struck wood with a solid thud. Gudmund¡¯s ears rang with a mocking din as he vaguely heard a distant tirade. He could see the stout guard now. Ralf sagged in his chair, stressing ropes that anchored him. Cheeks no longer ruddy. Bulbous nose crushed inward, bone showing through flesh. A break showed plainly in his skull, thin hair caked with a thick caking of dried blood. ¡°No!¡± Gudmund roared in defiance. ¡°This is not how it goes! He did not deserve¡ª¡± *** A slap reverberated through Gudmund¡¯s cheek, which filtered through to his nightmares of violence. ¡°Awaken, Gudmund of Horvorr!¡± said Smiler once more. ¡°Son of Geirulf. Our honoured guest, our Guest of Honour!¡± Agony pierced into Gudmund¡¯s skull like the broken blade of a dagger. He could barely reconcile the pain with disorientation of his barely woken senses, with the grief and fury that writhed within. Gudmund blinked until he reached a blurry clarity. The frightened gazes of seven guests rested on him. The hooded man stood amid the horseshoed tables. ¡°We are running out of time.¡± Smiler sat cross-legged ahead of Gudmund. ¡°This is not how I wanted this to go.¡± He waved an idle hand to the right, where rent flesh resided. ¡°If it helps, I¡¯ve punished those responsible.¡± Gudmund stared for a long moment before he realised it was a pile of severed limbs, four torsos, four heads, bone showing as dull white amid shining red. He recognized the empty seat to his right. ¡°Where is Ralf?¡± ¡°Burned,¡± the hooded man answered. ¡°Along with the rest of the dead.¡± ¡°The other guests were restless.¡± Smiler rose, smiling with regret. ¡°We instilled order while you slept. But, as my other half says, sand runs ever out the glass.¡± He followed the words with a prolonged hiss. Gudmund spat in the man¡¯s face. ¡°What do you gods-damned want?¡± Smiler frowned, wiping his soot-stained cheeks which did not smear. ¡°You called this meeting, Gudmund. Proceed.¡± ¡°Proceed?¡± Gudmund¡¯s breaths were ragged. ¡°Do you really think that¡ª¡± ¡°Wait, no!¡± Smiler managed to leapt to his feet. He stepped deftly forward, plucking the sack from a blond woman¡¯s head. ¡°Awaken, Anna of Horvorr¡¯s Guard!¡± ¡°Mother?¡± Engli stared in dumbfounded terror. ¡°Gods, what¡ª¡± ¡°Enough from you!¡± Smiler snarled, rounding on him. ¡°Unless you want to end up like those three?¡± Gudmund turned towards the three men named Afi. The middling man had his head cupped in his hands, his neck flush against the bloody table. The youngest had crimson lips, and wore a necklace of braided hair, threaded through a severed tongue. The oldest, showing no wounds, appeared to have fared better, but his eyes shone with a sense of loss more poignant than the aimless gaze of his son¡¯s severed head. ¡°By the gods,¡± Gudmund muttered, ¡°you sick bastards must have crawled out of the Lady¡¯s Shadow.¡± ¡°Free his hand!¡± Smiler ordered, then turned to the hooded man. ¡°My friend, aim your bow!¡± He smiled in apology. ¡°Your delays are too long, Gudmund, so I must assume your intent.¡± Rope snapped. ¡°You can keep one hand free.¡± Cold metal pressed against Gudmund¡¯s palm. ¡°Take that knife, yes, and see my friend here.¡± The hooded man had unslung a bow, and now started to draw back an arrow. ¡°My friend here,¡± Smiler continued, ¡°is going to loose an arrow if you do not cut Anna¡¯s throat. It¡¯s what I call a show of commitment. Because¡ªI presume¡ªyou have invited us all here in a plot to kill Jarl Thrand. And so I must know for certain whether or not you are committed to that path, so go ahead¡­ go on ahead and cut her throat or else your plans end here. Or else your daughter will be left alone on the marble grounds where she will be married to the son of Jarl Thrand and left without a true family to speak of.¡± Gudmund tried to kick back from his chair, but a body blocked him. ¡°Take the knife away!¡± Smiler instructed. ¡°Make a choice instead, Gudmund,¡± instructed the hooded man. ¡°This arrow is going to fly, who gets it?¡± Smiler span, his outstretched hands coming to point towards Old Afi. ¡°Loose!¡± The bow thrummed, arrow piercing through flesh and crunching into wood. Old Afi struggled against the shaft that pinned him, but he voiced no complaints. The arrow had skewered his heart and the light soon faded from his gaze. ¡°Once more, Gudmund?¡± Smiler asked. ¡°Make a choice!¡± ¡°And what happens to those that stay living?¡± Gudmund demanded. ¡°Pieces on the board, my friend. Living, carved. Wood breathes!¡± Gudmund turned to the blond woman beside him. ¡°Anna, I would have you¡ª¡± ¡°Anna? Anna!¡± Smiler shouted. ¡°You heard the man, loose the arrow!¡± ¡°No!¡± Gudmund commanded. ¡°Anna will leave, and I will die.¡± ¡°Gudmund,¡± Anna urged. ¡°That¡ª¡± ¡°What?¡± Smiler asked. ¡°You want me to kill you, Gudmund?¡± ¡°I am the only one here with nothing to lose.¡± ¡°You are the only one here with everything to lose.¡± ¡°My daughter will be in safe hands.¡± Jarl Gudmund steeled his gaze. ¡°Ralf is dead. Grettir is dead. Brolli is dead. They are all dead and I am the last man living of an ancient guard turned to ash. Even my old enemies have fallen.¡± He shrugged. ¡°I am no longer of use and I have nothing to lose.¡± ¡°Your enemies reside, one and all, on Jarl Thrand¡¯s Estate,¡± Smiler replied. He waved his hand and the hooded man lowered the bow. ¡°Don¡¯t you see, Gudmund? ¡°I see a shadow-spawned man before me,¡± he answered. ¡°A company of his vile kin standing as spectators.¡± ¡°Cruel barbs,¡± Smiler whimpered. Gudmund met the words with a harsh laugh. ¡°If you¡¯ve a grievance with Thrand, why not simply kill him?¡± ¡°You echo my thoughts, Jarl,¡± the hooded man muttered. ¡°Jarl Thrand¡¯s advisors are mostly dead,¡± Alrik answered, smiling when met with a glare. ¡°If Thrand were to fall without a steady hand to grab what he has then the stone city would either tear itself apart, or it would hold on long enough to see itself conquered when the doors were broken down by the Low King.¡± Gudmund regarded the hooded man. ¡°I¡¯ll pay you your weight in gold if you kill your friend. Twice over, if you kill Jarl Thrand.¡± Smiler frowned at his peer. ¡°You almost seem to be considering the offer.¡± The hooded man shrugged. ¡°Then things are as they are appear.¡± ¡°Hah.¡± Smiler grinned. ¡°As to your offer, Gudmund, son of Geirulf. I will accept the payment, twice weight, for the death of Thrand.¡± He swept his wild gaze across the guests. ¡°And I will, of course, expect full participation from you all.¡± 27. Messages 27. Messages ¡°The mood at King Zalak¡¯s feast was grim. Despite there being nearly sixty goblins in attendance, a dozen far bulkier than others, the conversations were grumbling and dissatisfied. Zalak sat at the head of Agrak¡¯s great table, with the meek and meager figure of my hatchling sitting beside him, barely tall enough to crane his head above the plates and so weak that he seemed to struggle not to topple over. Despite the prominent seating, Zalak did not mention this new shaman, who he had once claimed would save us all and lead us into a new era, and instead sat as sullen as all the other goblin leaders in attendance. Time passed. Meals, other than my own, were swiftly consumed and then picked clean until the hall fell into an awkward silence where it was not clear when or if we should leave. Suffering anger and resentment, I decided I would be the first to leave, when a reedy voice spoke in a quavering pitch. ¡°Izzig.¡± All in attendance were surprised to see the hatchling standing in his seat, keen dark eyes fixed upon me. ¡°Come here, shaman. We need to speak.¡± Zalak reluctantly assented and I made my way over to the end of the table. Therein the hatchling told me that his name was Melam, and he had need of me. I was to teach him, and mentor him, and tell him all I know of the world. Feeling some strange sentimental connection to the hatchling, it was easy to agree. Though in truth I don¡¯t think I would have been offered a choice in the matter. The meagre hatchling then turned his keen gaze to King Zalak. ¡°Where is he¡­?¡± Zalak¡¯s eyes narrowed but he eventually understood. ¡°This way,¡± he grunted. ¡°The feast is over!¡± he declared, as he and his guards and the hatchlings swiftly departed. I moved to follow, but a large and bulky goblin named Grogg forcefully guided me to a different cavern, where I was instructed to wait.¡± Saxi knocked on the crooked door of a nondescript shack in the middle of the city slums. It was midday, but the dirt streets around him were shadowed. The mountains rose ahead of them like the ash claw of some ancient beast, reaching in anger for the shining estate that towered over the rest of Timilir. Saxi frowned at his own perception. He was a young man that put great stock in happenstance and augury, and wondered if he hadn¡¯t just predicted the downfall of Jarl Thrand and his kin. The crooked door creaked inward. A smiling, cold-eyed and smudge-cheeked man stood to greet him. ¡°Saxi!¡± Saxi took a step back. ¡°Smiler¡­ I was told to come here.¡± ¡°Oh.¡± Smiler¡¯s smile lapsed. ¡°Here I thought it was a friendly visit.¡± He poked himself in the brow, over and over, while his other hand rested near belted knives. ¡°Hear eye thought¡­ here I thought¡ª¡± He blinked. ¡°Come in. Come in!¡± Saxi forced a smile, and crossed under the door. The shack was a single room where the floorboards had been smashed to allow for a sunken fire. Heat rippled in greeting and thin smoke twisted up through a hole in the roof. Cupboards lined the back wall, cluttered with cups and scores of empty bottles. A dozen stools lay scattered across the remaining floorboards. The hooded man had eschewed the stools and sat, legs crossed, staring into the flames. Saxi moved to sit on the nearest stool. ¡°No!¡± Smiler shouted. ¡°Wait, stop, no. Don¡¯t move! Here.¡± He grabbed Saxi by the shoulders, guiding him closer to the fire, forcing him onto crossed legs so that he faced the hooded man. Smiler then started gathering stools, trying to stack them atop one another, feet to feet then seat to seat, only for it to collapse when he reached three or four. He hissed but carried on unperturbed. ¡°Smiler.¡± The hooded man glanced up from the flames. ¡°I need to speak with our guest.¡± ¡°Hm?¡± Smiler turned, knocking his eight stools over. ¡°No! Wait, stop!¡± Saxi had never seen a man¡¯s face twist so quickly into revile and hatred. ¡°What have I done?¡± Smiler whispered, staring off at a bloodstained wall. ¡°We¡¯ve all fallen.¡± ¡°Forgive me, Saxi.¡± The hooded man sighed. ¡°No doubt you¡¯re eager to hear why I brought you here?¡± Saxi wasn¡¯t. He was frightened. He didn¡¯t want to be here to begin with. He nodded. ¡°I need you to deliver a message to the Low King. When you return to your room at the tavern, you will find a satchel with the message, a seal, and payment. There should also be some proper clothes laid out.¡± The hooded man looked up. ¡°Deliver that message, as soon as you are able, and your dealings with us will be done. Agreed?¡± ¡°Can I read the message before I deliver it?¡± ¡°It is sealed by wax.¡± The hooded man shrugged. ¡°It is a declaration that Jarl Thrand will be murdered before the summer months. It advises the Low King to be ready to act. It also informs him that Gudmund of Horvorr has paid for the same service. And as such, he should prepare for a potential struggle.¡± He paused. ¡°Of course, should you tell any of that to anyone, then you will no longer be guarded by the gods.¡± Saxi offered a slow nod. ¡°Is Gudmund going to die?¡± ¡°I¡¯m not a prophet.¡± ¡°I am.¡± Smiler looked down at them from a stack of stools, his back hunched and touching the roof. ¡°He will die, and rise again, and die. Most certainly. Always¡­ sometimes. Always, every time. A dozen.¡± ¡°Perhaps you should have another drink, Smiler.¡± ¡°I can¡¯t¡­ I¡¯m stuck.¡± The hooded man rose slowly from his seat then quickly kicked out the stools. They collapsed with a thud and clatter, one landing in the fire, others cracking in the fall. Smiler swept out his hands, somehow still standing. ¡°My thanks for that. Your thanks, even.¡± He turned to regard Saxi. ¡°Would you like a friend, drink?¡± He frowned. ¡°Would you drink a like, friend?¡± ¡°Would you like a drink, friend?¡± Saxi ventured. ¡°No!¡± Smiler snapped. He smiled. ¡°I would love one!¡± ¡°Forgive him,¡± the hooded man muttered. ¡°He struggles with atrocities committed. You are free to go, Saxi.¡± Saxi nodded and pushed up to his feet. He turned to leave, not quite able to shake the glimpse of Smiler¡¯s miserable gaze. He glanced back to see the man struggling to open a bottle with shaking hands. The hooded man watched while the short messenger closed the door behind him. He rose, and turned to Smiler. ¡°We never should have included Gudmund in this. It is a complication unneeded. Our original plan would have seen Thrand dead already and us long gone.¡± He shook his head. ¡°What gain is there in this?¡± Smiler turned, drinking from a raised bottle. He didn¡¯t stop until he had drank two thirds. ¡°Your weight in gold, twice over. As was said, as is said, as is always said. Yes?¡± ¡°Gudmund does not have gold,¡± the hooded man argued. ¡°If he did, we would be better served taking it from him.¡± ¡°But then we would take to lose.¡± ¡°And what would be lost?¡± ¡°Honour.¡± ¡°Honour?¡± the hooded man doubtfully echoed. ¡°We have no honour. We are murderers. We are thieves. We are shadows in the night.¡± ¡°Darkness has majesty, friend. Friends have majesty. Darkness is our friend.¡± The hooded man sighed. ¡°Can you talk no straighter? I begin to worry this is not for show and you are buckling in truth.¡± ¡°Jarl Thrand will die.¡± Smiler¡¯s eyes narrowed. ¡°We will be paid. That is all that matters, it was all that matters, it will always be what matters. It will never not matter.¡± ¡°It won¡¯t matter at all if we end up dead.¡± Smiler frowned. ¡°It would matter to your children.¡± Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. ¡°I don¡¯t have¡ª¡± Smiler smiled. ¡°If you go near them I¡¯ll end you, Smiler,¡± the hooded man growled. ¡°The Crooked Teeth are behind me, not you. They want to see you dead just like the rest of the stone city.¡± He paused. ¡°No man will weep for you when you¡¯re gone.¡± ¡°Tears of blood. Tears of blood. The spring springs and the trap traps. Miss your mark and your mark will be missed, my hooded half.¡± Smiler sighed. ¡°Alas, threats beget more threats. Yet I resist. Yet I resist.¡± The hooded man shook his head. ¡°When this is done, I want nothing more to do with you.¡± ¡°When this is done, you and I will be nothing more.¡± ¡°It was reckless to take them from the Estate.¡± The hooded man sat back by the fire. ¡°If Jarl Thrand realises, you may well have made his murder an impossibility. Do you understand that, at least?¡± ¡°Gudmund sleeps soundly in his bed,¡± Smiler assured. ¡°He dreams sweet dreams that taste like poison in the morning.¡± ¡°And when the handmaids wake to find blood on his person and bedsheets?¡± Smiler snickered. ¡°If he can¡¯t hide that then he can¡¯t help us.¡± He drank the rest of his bottle then let it clink onto the floorboards with a dozen others. ¡°He never can, he never could, he never will.¡± *** ¡°Tell me another,¡± instructed the ancient, weary voice of the crone. Astrid had seated herself on one of the many stone benches arrayed across the dank, dark temple, her legs having long since grown tired. Though now her whole body ached against the cold and unforgiving seat. ¡°I¡­¡± She swallowed to try and ease her aching throat, but there was no moisture left, and her pain worsened instead. ¡°¡­ don¡¯t¡ªneed¡ªa rest. I need water.¡± ¡°Tell me another,¡± snarled the desiccated corpse on the distant throne. ¡°You tell me a story,¡± suggest Astrid, as she had either ran out of tales to tell, or else her hungry and exhaustion were preventing her from remembering the rest. ¡°No.¡± The hissing whisper echoed around the dark surroundings, venomous and sullen. ¡°How did you end up here?¡± Astrid pressed. ¡°Why should I tell you that?¡± the crone snarled. ¡°This is my realm. Not yours.¡± ¡°You said that you do not get much company,¡± Astrid reminded. ¡°I need water¡­ and food¡ª¡± Bitter laughter interrupted her words. ¡°You won¡¯t find any here,¡± the crone answered. ¡°You can sup at puddles, or lick away at damp stone, but like as not the act will only make you sick, and prolong your suffering. If you are finished, then I will end you. It will be a kindness.¡± Fear roiled through Astrid¡¯s stomach. ¡°You said that you could sustain me. That¡ª¡± ¡°I lied, bright girl. If I could sustain anything, do you think that I would appear as I do. That I would rot here, broken and unmoving?¡± the crackling old voice mocked. The soft rattling of wood sounded out. ¡°What was that¡­?¡± the crone asked, more curious than impatient. Astrid did not know. She glanced over to her left, seeing a wooden door amid the heavy flagstones of the dead temple. Words glimmered in gold around the top of the frame. ¡®The Trapdoor Apart.¡¯ By all reckoning, it had appeared from nowhere. And by all appearances, the door would open to a lower floor. But by the muffled crash of the waves beyond the thick walls and the ever present rocking motion, it would surely open to the ocean below. ¡°Well?¡± growled the crone¡¯s voice. ¡°You said you were a god,¡± mentioned Astrid. ¡°I am a god.¡± ¡°Yet the other god trapped you here.¡± ¡°Not just him,¡± the dead crone hissed. ¡°My son by law helped him. And my own husband stood idle. Traitors one and all. Worse than Melek.¡± ¡°Why¡­?¡± Hinges squealed slightly, and the trapdoor lifted by an inch, creating a gap from which the corner of a letter protruded. ¡°Why?¡± the dead god echoed angrily. ¡°Why what?¡± ¡°Why did they trap you.¡± ¡°Because I refused to bow to that murderer.¡± ¡°He killed another god?¡± Astrid reasoned. ¡°Yes¡­ he did,¡± the crone answered quietly, almost mournfully. ¡°Your daughter.¡± ¡°Yes,¡± she repeated in a murmur barely heard. Deep grief washed over Astrid, in great waves, and she began to weep so profusely that it belied her terrible thirst. ¡°I wanted revenge¡­ needed it. But her own fickle husband would not betray his master, and her useless father buried his nose in books instead of avenging his only child. So they conspired together to lock me here, away from them all, so they could readily forget.¡± ¡°That is¡­ very sad.¡± ¡°No. It is injust. It is evil!¡± Rage whipped around the room, making Astrid suffer a terrible heat that made her sweat. The trapdoor rattled again, and the letter rustled as it was shoved forward, sending it up to the air where it landed with a soft slap. ¡°What was that?¡± the dead crone hissed. Astrid stared down at the letter, unsure of whether she should tell the truth. Part of her wanted to just run for the door, and dive down there rather than wait here to terribly die. ¡°There¡¯s a letter. It dropped on the floor.¡± ¡°Liar!¡± the crone snarled, sending forth a wave of pain that stole Astrid¡¯s senses. When she recovered, warm blood trickling from nose to chin, her ears were ringing. ¡°I¡­¡± ¡°Read it,¡± the crone gently instructed. ¡°I believe you now, bright girl. If you can come here, why not a piece of parchment? Read it. Go on, now. I wish to know what it says.¡± Astrid tried to stand, but her legs gave out. She caught her balance, knee thumping into unyielding stone, and then managed to struggle up with aid of the bench. Eventually, she plucked the letter up from the cold floor. Blood pattered down onto the pristine white envelope, staining the golden wax symbol of a flask. Holding it aloft, she carefully broke the seal and unfurled the letter. The paper was unduly smooth, and despite her pain and thirst and hunger, the sensation of the letter against her fingers made Astrid smile. ¡°Well¡­?¡± demanded the crone. ¡°Read it aloud!¡± ¡®Dear Astrid, We have never met. But you find yourself in a most difficult predicament. When one man tries to instill order, he might succeed, but when hundreds aim to do so¡ªeach with their own version of order in mind¡ªthings soon give way to relentless chaos. Thus you find yourself in the wrong time and a very wrong place. Alas, I cannot enter the temple. Because then we would both be doomed. But¡ªfortunately for you¡ªif you can enter the trapdoor beside you, then I can ferry you away from here and cart you back to where you belong. Unfortunately for you, Altonia is not a region in which I am well versed. This extends to their deities, though I understand they are called The Seven Wizards. Please proceed to give a false account of this letter and then make your escape. Perhaps it would be wise to say that this is a message from Zeleker, God of Wisdom, who was her husband. But by my calculations whatever answer you give will suffice. Heroically yours, The Alchemist.¡¯ ¡°Tell me what it says,¡± the crone warned, ¡°or I will make your skin wither and rot! You will die a death beyond your feeble understanding.¡± Astrid swallowed, her throat raw and aching. If Zeleker was her husband, surely he¡¯d have contacted her sooner. She could say she couldn¡¯t even read, but if that lie was believed then she would be of no use. ¡°Why?¡± ¡°Why?¡± the crone echoed with venom. ¡°Listen¡ª¡± ¡°Why would you hurt me?¡± Astrid cut in. ¡°You said you were the God of Mothers. Surely such a god holds women in high esteem. Yet you have hurt me. And lied to me.¡± She rubbed her nose, smearing blood across her pale cheeks. ¡°You rebelled for your daughter. For injustice. But now you are just as injust. The letter is from a man unknown to me, who calls himself The Alchemist. He says that I should step into the trapdoor by my feet, and he can take me back to where I belong. He suggested that I should lie to you, and tell you it is a letter from your husband, Zeleker. Perhaps suggest that he has some need of me that might in some way benefit you. But the letter is not for you. It was for me. So go on then¡­ kill me. Watch me starve. Force me to tell tale after tale after tale. If that is who you are now. Some wretched, miserable being intent on sharing your suffering with others. But when I¡¯m dead remember that I was someone¡¯s daughter. That I might have been a mother one day, too. And when all these dead faces are looking up at you, hold mine apart from the others. Remember the story I told you, and my story as well. Brought here against my wishes, held here against my will, and made to die a death beyond my feeble understanding because of a rage borne in you by a god who I had never even heard of until we met. Do all that and then go on raging about injustice, as if you are not just as bad if not worse than these deities you so decry.¡± A great weight of murderous rage settled on Astrid¡¯s shoulders, smothering her own desperate anger, and her skin began to prickle with pain now she shuddered. ¡°How dare you speak¡ª¡± ¡°Do it!¡± Astrid screamed. ¡°Kill me! Be the monster that they made you!¡± Agonizing fire danced all along Astrid¡¯s cold skin, but then as swiftly faded. A cloak of bitter regret settled over her that made her feel miserable and freezing. ¡°So brave, bright girl¡­ so brave. And so clever,¡± the crone gently whispered. Scenes of a young girl, brown hair tied back over her shoulders, running through a forest flashed through Astrid¡¯s mind. ¡°I won¡¯t snuff you out,¡± added the crone. ¡°But I wish to trade.¡± Astrid¡¯s relief was balanced by disbelief and confusion. ¡°Trade¡­?¡± ¡°I want something bright. In exchange. It is terribly dark in here.¡± ¡°Oh,¡± said Astrid. ¡°What about a kobold stone? It shines forever.¡± ¡°Yes¡­ something like that would serve.¡± ¡°But I don¡¯t have one. And The Alchemist might not want to trade.¡± ¡°Convince him,¡± the crone suggested. ¡°As you¡¯ve convinced me.¡± Silence lingered for a long moment, while great waves crashed against the temple, rocking the walls and nearly sending Astrid stumbling. ¡°So I can leave¡­?¡± Astrid asked. ¡°Goodbye, bright girl. Don¡¯t forget to send something bright back behind you.¡± ¡°I will try my best.¡± ¡°Thank you. And thank you for your stories. I should have been more gracious.¡± Unsure if this was a trick, or if her argument had truly struck a chord, Astrid used all her remaining strength to prize the door up from the frame, which swung back into the cold stone, rattling to a stop. Gold light spilled up from portal, nearly blinding her aching eyes. She stepped gently forward, meaning to ease herself down, but another great wave crashed against the temple and she was thrown forward instead. 28. New Friends 28. New Friends ¡°Despite his physical weakness, the hatchling, who has named himself Magar, is well spoken and possesses a mind keener than any I have ever seen. Over two Cycles of the Moon, he has learned more than many goblins, even shamans, will manage in their entire lifetimes. He seems to remember every concept and conversation that we discuss, and to reach his own ideas readily enough. In one way, it is good to have charge of such a capable student. But in another way, I begin to fear that I will soon have no use. My knowledge will eventually be surpassed. ¡®Do not worry, Izzig,¡¯ Magar said to me just as soon as that worry passed through my mind. ¡®I will protect you. You brought me into the world and I will not take you out of it.¡¯ The fear that he could read my thoughts passed through my mind. ¡®Some,¡¯ Magar added. ¡®But I will not, if it bothers you. I will not,¡¯ he soon added, baring his small fangs in a regretful smile. ¡®Just know that you are safe. From Zalak and the others.¡¯ I studied the meek goblin¡¯s bony, youthful green mien. His large eyes shining as if in curiosity or confusion. I wondered loudly in my own mind what had happened to Agrak, but the hatchling did not show any sign that he heard my thoughts. ¡®Where is the Small King?¡¯ I then asked aloud. ¡®Is he alive¡­?¡¯ ¡®Yes, Izzig. He is alive.¡¯ ¡®Is he safe?¡¯ ¡®Yes, Izzig,¡¯ Magar hesitantly repeated. ¡®Agrak is safe for now.¡¯¡± Hjorvarth paused atop the rocky ledge of a treacherous climb. Flanked by mountains and snaking from Timilir to Vendrick, he could see the particoloured patchwork of land known as Ouro¡¯s Scales. He had sight, as well, of the snowy ranges separating the winter hues of Southwestern Tymir from the autumn shades of the Midderlands. ¡°We must hurry,¡± Russ urged, ¡°the blue ceiling dizzies us.¡± Hjorvarth glanced at the hooded kobold. ¡°The Midderlands is burning.¡± Russ shrugged. ¡°Is that not the way of all goblin lands?¡± The green hills of the Midderlands stretched in the distance, separated down the middle by a great wooden wall and two huge ditches known as Ragni¡¯s Divide. Two walled towns stood at the northern and southern points of the sprawling defense, but by the smoke rising from scorched fields and blackened homesteads, the goblins had already made their way into the manling lands of Jarl Harrod the Younger. ¡°We must leave,¡± pressed Russ. ¡°The goblins you seek will soon be sold, or eaten.¡± Hjorvarth nodded, turning to the scene of rugged stone behind him. Ahead, up a winding slope, the other cloaked kobolds filed into the shadows of a small cave. ¡°I thought you eat roots?¡± ¡°We do.¡± Russ turned to follow the others, his cloak unnaturally black against the grey surroundings. ¡°But distinctions become harder to make when children begin to starve. If the pink goblins will no longer give us food for their kin then we will begin to see them as things worth eating.¡± ¡°I would sooner starve than eat a man.¡± ¡°The kobolds do not share your suicidal thoughts.¡± ¡°You speak as if for all of them.¡± ¡°I speak as a kobold speaks.¡± ¡°You are on a odd thing,¡± Hjorvarth said now they crossed into the cave. The narrow walls led to a tunnel that lead back into the darkness of the earth, which the other hooded kobolds had already begun to descend. ¡°How far are we from the lands of Zelerath?¡± asked Hjorvarth. ¡°Tunnels. Not far,¡± Russ squeaked. ¡°And I am not odd.¡± ¡°I meant no insult.¡± ¡°And yet you make constant efforts to distance yourself from my kind.¡± ¡°Perhaps that is meant as a compliment.¡± Russ shrugged under his cloak. ¡°It should be. But it is not. I wonder what would¡¯ve happened had a kobold ever held audience with a king of the pink goblins.¡± ¡°He¡ª¡± ¡°Would be hacked to pieces before reaching the gate.¡± ¡°Perhaps. But there are those who might listen to the kobold¡¯s reason for being there.¡± ¡°Be clear in the knowledge that Zelerath is not among those of our people who might listen.¡± ¡°Is there blood between you?¡± ¡°Yes,¡± Russ hissed. ¡°We made blood. A child. But she considered him too weak¡­ and so consumed him.¡± Hjorvarth frowned, trudging along as the tunnel led further down into darkness. ¡°I can hear you thinking, goblin. Words of barbarism,¡± added Russ. ¡°Yet I have walked forests before, and I have seen the babes of goblins in the maw of a wolf. Or shredded in the clawed paw of a bear.¡± ¡°Truly?¡± ¡°No. But what else awaits a parcel of meat when you set it in the realms of a predator?¡± ¡°The gods take the child into care after it passes.¡± ¡°After it is savaged.¡± Russ shrugged. ¡°The kobolds have no gods. We are born, live, then return to the worms.¡± ¡°Then what sense is there in living at all?¡± ¡°I have often asked that of myself, goblin. Kobolds make use of gifts given¡­ perhaps that is our way. Or, perhaps, Hubbard the Hallowed brings truth to an ignorant people when he preaches of his deity. Eternal salvation free from the probing of scavengers and worms. Free from servitude at the feet of the Small King.¡± If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. ¡°Rubinold is enemies with all three?¡± ¡°Rubinold would chew through the neck of any that oppose him. He is not wrong to take issue with the Hallowed. For his preachings tell our people that the answer is death. For all others, for ourselves. Carnage until eternity.¡± ¡°Oh.¡± Hjorvarth nodded. ¡°And that is why you fire stones from pipes?¡± ¡°No.¡± Rubinold shook his head. ¡°It is simply the best way to obliterate those that mean to obliterate me.¡± *** Russ raised his clawed hand now he and the other five hooded kobolds crossed into a domed cavern that was lit by the unnatural luminescence of sparking blue gemstones. Hjorvarth slowed to a stop while the group started to chatter, spreading out around the walls, keeping their ears close as they scrabbled against the dirt. Russ turned, beady eyes glistening under his hood. ¡°I expect this marks the border of Zelerath¡¯s tunnels. This tunnel is recently expanded, and the glowing stones have been placed here. The others will check the walls to make certain that the place is not hollowed for a sudden ambush. If it is safe, we will rest before proceeding.¡± ¡°I am not tired,¡± Hjorvarth assured. ¡°No doubt you claim the same even as you sleep.¡± Russ swept out his clawed arms, revealing scars across his slender belly. ¡°My concern is for those with me. This trip was planned before your arrival, but was yet to be agreed. Once we cross into the tunnels, we will be spotted by scouts hiding behind false walls, which will leave us little time before an overwhelming number of Zelerath¡¯s followers are upon us. As such, we must be rested and readied. Do you wish to eat, goblin?¡± ¡°I see no goblins to eat.¡± Russ stared. ¡°I had meant that as address.¡± ¡°I had meant that as a jest.¡± ¡°As had I,¡± said Russ, his lips curling over his fangs. Hjorvarth frowned. ¡°I¡¯ll manage without food.¡± Russ¡¯s pink arms returned to the folds of his cloak. He stood for a while in silence. ¡°Problem?¡± asked Hjorvarth. Russ shook his hooded head. He lifted a root to his mouth, gnawing reddish flesh now he turned the others. ¡°Is it safe?¡± ¡°Yes,¡± a few of the hooded kobolds answered in unison. ¡°Do we rest?¡± ¡°Yes.¡± Russ seated himself on the floor. ¡°We will move when we awaken.¡± Hjorvarth took a seat in the middle of the cavern, watching while the kobolds gathered themselves in a circle. They squeaked and chattered, shared roots and herbs and branches, making a chorus of gnashing as they chewed food. Russ and his hooded kobolds sat in company for so long that the huge man decided he would need to sleep. Hjorvarth untied his short black cloak, placing the bundle under his head now he laid against hard earth. He laid the large shield atop his bruised chest, so that cold metal shadowed his crotch and neck. He sighed, and closed his eyes. Hjorvarth tried to sleep in the awkward confines of the earth and the shield, but decided he would not be able to manage the act with the giant rats squeaking nearby. Despite that, he next opened his tired eyes to find all the kobolds now in their own corners of the cavern, counting pouches of powder and cleaning metal pipes. Hjorvarth closed his eyes once more, certain he wouldn¡¯t find sleep again. He woke to find the cavern silent around him. The kobolds snored softly, nestled together in a pile, hairless skin shown amid their tangled black cloaks. Hjorvarth then heard a distant squealing and scampering, as if made by another kobold¡¯s rapid approach. He rolled onto his side to see a burdened figure struggling towards the blue gloom. ¡°Russ¡­?¡± A strike of stone sounded out, followed by a shower of golden sparks. ¡°For the Hallowed!¡± Hjorvarth managed to roll to his feet before the kobold drew too close, understanding then that the giant rat had shouldered packs upon packs that leaked the same explosive powder which his hooded companions had so carefully handled. Stone clacked and sparks sprayed. Russ and the others murmured awake, soon tripping over themselves in efforts at escape. Hjorvarth strode forward instead, glimpsing a fledgling flame that swiftly spread along the powder sacks and danced across the furred figure of the burdened kobold. A pained screech split through the panicked cavern. Fire stole into sacks, glowing red and gold, embers welling with a muted inhale. Hjorvarth slammed his shield down at the tunnel¡¯s entrance, eclipsing a malicious conflagration. Flames roared outward in a burgeoning inferno, rolling over his shield, scorching neck and shoulders, brightening closed eyes with the colour of blood. *** Russ shook dust and debris from his tattered moleskin cloak. He stood over three fresh graves, yet to be covered. In the left, Rigg. Next, Rott. Then the huge man that claimed to be the son of Isleif the Bard. The air reeked of burnt flesh, singed hair, and fresh earth, along with the tang of spent powders and fired pipes. Russ had the thought that Hjorvarth appeared much the same living as he did dead, only now his ears were burnt, swollen red, split and peeling, much like his broad shoulders and back. Tattered clothes had gone up with the flames or melted into reddened flesh. Eyelashes and brows had been singed at the edges. Combed hair had combusted, the long tail cut away. ¡°They lived. They died. May the worms take them.¡± The cloaked kobold glanced to his two surviving companions, their own dark garbs burnt and shredded, then the living three began to cover the bodies in a layer of soil. Russ discounted the huge man¡¯s murmur as a trick of the tunnels. He refused to acknowledged the splutter. ¡°Enough,¡± Hjorvarth groaned. ¡°You are dead, goblin. Go to sleep.¡± ¡°I am cold, but I am fine.¡± ¡°You are burnt, goblin. Your arm welded into your shield. Your face licked by flames. Would you like me to end this illusion of living before you understand what you have become?¡± ¡°That is an odd lie,¡± Hjorvarth whispered, still laying in his shallow grave. He seemed afraid to look at his body, and his pale eyes shook now he stared up at Russ. ¡°What has happened¡­? Are your companions well?¡± ¡°Two are dead,¡± answered Russ. ¡°We are all wounded. A kobold of Hubbard the Hallowed found us. He had clad himself in sacks of powders and meant to destroy us all in a divine conflagration. Such is the madness of faith. The worms cannot take him now¡­ he is little more than chips of bones and scraps of flesh.¡± Hjorvarth struggled to nod. ¡°I find myself unable to rise.¡± ¡°Yes.¡± Russ hissed a sigh between sharp teeth. ¡°You are dead, goblin. As I have said. You tried to stand in the way of fire, when you should have stepped clear of the flames. Though I expect that would have led to all of our deaths. Our own powders would have ignited and erupted. You would have then been skewered by our bones.¡± Hjorvarth furrowed his burnt brows. ¡°You speak in riddles, rat.¡± ¡°I am not a rat, and I speak plainly.¡± ¡°I am not a goblin.¡± Russ assented with a nod. ¡°But you are dead.¡± ¡°I disagree.¡± ¡°You will soon remember your pain, Isleif¡¯s son,¡± assured Russ. ¡°I will ask once more, do you wish for me to spare you a slow passing? I must continue forth without you,¡± he added. ¡°I cannot linger any longer. If I do not slay Zelerath, then my people will be too divided to stand against The Small King.¡± ¡°I know that king.¡± Hjorvarth blinked, his burnt face creasing in confusion. ¡°He is small.¡± ¡°Your mind wanders. Do you wish for me to deliver a message to the stone city?¡± Lost eyes gazed up at Russ and labored breaths filled the silence. ¡°Isleif¡¯s son¡­?¡± ¡°Ask the kobold known as Russ to save a man named Sam.¡± ¡°I am Russ.¡± Hjorvarth seemed confused by that, but his expression froze before he could speak. Russ looked to his two companions, who watched with ware from under their tattered hoods. They had already buried their kin. ¡°We will leave him¡­ in case his spirit wishes to rise.¡± ¡°I see danger in that, brother. The tunnels are no place for ghosts.¡± ¡°It is decided,¡± said Russ, lifting up his hood. ¡°Come, let us bring death to the usurper.¡± 29. Old Friends 29. Old Friends ¡°Magar has taken to visiting Zalak every few days, where they have hushed discussions that I am allowed close enough to witness but not close enough to hear. Though I have observed that as Magar has grown older, though not much larger, he is often the one ordering and chastising Zalak. The King, his empire still failing, appears ever more sullen and regretful. I fear for the day when Zalak grows tired of being ordered around by disembodied voices and meek hatchlings and cuts all our throats. I would heal, of course, but no doubt he could have me buried again. Through their conversations, I often find Magar and Zalak both glancing towards the large steel box that the King keeps by his large stone throne. And I begin to grow ever more certain of what resides within. ¡®Why do you keep Agrak in that box?¡± I asked Magar one day. ¡®For our safety,¡¯ he answered without pause. ¡®He is my friend. He will not harm us.¡¯ ¡®You must trust our master, Izzig. The time will come to free him. For now, we are not ready. I am not ready.¡¯ ¡®What will happen when he is released? Magar met the question with a sad smile. ¡®I suspect that will be up to you.¡¯¡± ¡°Ah, excellent,¡± remarked an enthusiastic man. ¡°You¡¯re still alive.¡± Astrid blinked her eyes open, soon closing them again at the bright golden light of lanterns, reflected off highly polished walls and floorboards of a golden wood. ¡°Take a moment,¡± the man suggested. ¡°But not too long. I¡¯ve still got a lot to do. It¡¯s a tiresome business, is this. The Voidwalker goes here, Avenpark goes there. Hurrying through time and space and undoing the requisite order. And never mind all the minor deities, spirits, and meta world entities trying to make their own mark on existence.¡± Astrid¡¯s ears began to ring, and her head throbbed, pain pulsing into her temples. ¡°Drink this,¡± the man suggested. She opened her eyes to see a murky flask held out ahead of her. ¡°No.¡± ¡°I¡¯m afraid you must. This elixir will heal your wounds, so I can send you merrily on your way. Otherwise, we¡¯ll have to wait days for you to eat, rest and hydrate and that¡¯s not a pause that either of us can afford. Well¡­ you can, of course. Since I¡¯ll be inserting you back into the proper time and place, but I must swiftly be about my business.¡± ¡°Can you talk more quietly?¡± Astrid tiredly asked. ¡°Of course,¡± said the man happily. ¡°But I won¡¯t. Unless you drink this flask.¡± ¡°It could be poison.¡± ¡°You are weak and wounded on the floor,¡± countered the man. ¡°I woke you from a stupor. If I had meant you any harm, then I could do so without the need for you to drink, or do, anything. This is a level of suspicion that you would¡ªrightly¡ªmock Hjorvarth for, is it not¡­?¡± He popped the stopper, and jutted it towards Astrid. ¡°Here. I insist.¡± Astrid stared feebly at the flask. The liquid inside was murky and grim, while the edges of the green glass gleamed with golden light. ¡°Fine,¡± she said, suffering terrible thirst. ¡°But¡ª¡± The man grabbed her hand, placing it around the flask, and then left her to drink. His cushioned footsteps sounded out as he strode away from her, and then back, pacing while he waited for her to decide. Beyond tired, and with little other choice, Astrid began to drink. The liquid tasted grey, and heavy, and seemed to grow heavier still as it settled in her stomach. It neither pleasant nor unpleasant, but the strangeness caused her to pause. ¡°Finish it,¡± instructed the man, his friendly voice now edged with impatience. ¡°If it is poison, better you take a full dose rather than linger on in agony and suffering.¡± Unable to refute the logic, Astrid continued to drink. Her hand grew tired, and the empty flask slipped from grip, striking the floorboards below with a crystalline note. The strange weight began to lift, and all the deep aches and pains in her muscles and bones began to ease. And the overly bright room, difficult to see, settled into a more mundane glow, which allowed her to see the many cabinets and shelves, and a distant horseshoe counter, as if she were sat in the back of a traveling merchant¡¯s cart. ¡°I appreciate your trust,¡± said the man, happy and enthusiastic once more. ¡°A rare thing,¡± he added. He placed his hands on his hips. The man wore a green robe of many vivid shades, so that it appeared almost a thing living. His hair was deep black, his features squared, his beard close cropped. Astrid had never seen a man who appeared so clean and so neat before. ¡°No doubt you will have questions. But there is no sense in answering them, as soon enough your memory will be fractured. Not by my hand,¡± he added, when Astrid recoiled, ¡°but it approaches by inevitable design. Once our business is settled, I will return you from where you came. At which point I must insist that you continue on with your original quest. You must find what has been buried, and free it from imprisonment. Or else events will diverge too starkly and all will likely be lost.¡± ¡°Why should I help you¡­?¡± Astrid asked, pushing back against the wall and straightening. The strength had returned to his limbs, and her throbbing head had faded to a dull ache. ¡°Or listen¡­ or¡ª¡± She paused. ¡°Why should I do anything?¡± she snapped. ¡°My family are dead. I¡¯ve been dragged here and there. And all you care about is¡­ ordering events. What does that matter to me?¡± ¡°It matters because without me, you would be dead,¡± he answered flatly. ¡°Never mind the fact that you were already set upon this path before the Voidwalker interrupted. What else do you have to do, Astrid? Find the troll, carry on forward, and do as you always do. Like I have to. Forward, ever forward. For the sake of us all.¡± ¡°So bad things will happen if I don¡¯t dig a box out of the ground?¡± ¡°Yes,¡± the robed man gravely agreed. ¡°Ignore me, by all means. Even though I spared you from despair and starvation. But listen to Edda, at least. She¡ª¡± ¡°How do you know her name? Or mine? Or Hjorvarth¡¯s. You¡¯re just like Chance. And all those other gods and wizards that you decry. All knowing and self important. You treat the world and those in it like they are puppets who must go along with your plays.¡± The man¡¯s dark brows fixed into an angry scowl. ¡°I am not a thing like Lucius Chance. There is no one like me. I am The Alchemist. And I have achieved things the likes of which could not be achieved by anyone other than me. I¡ª¡± He cut himself short. ¡°Never mind,¡± he added with a bright smile. ¡°I am short of time. I had simply not anticipated this level of animosity. Let me elucidate matters in a more convincing manner. You do not know where we are, who I am, how you got here, how to leave here, and I can guess that you do not wish to stay here forever. In which case, your continued survival relies on my good will or else my good nature. So do as I say, and I will return to your own world where you can do as you please. But waste any more of my time, and I will send you back to the temple where you can wail and rot for a few more wretched days.¡± He stepped close, and bared his teeth in an cruel smirk. ¡°Now, Astrid, do we understand one another¡­?¡± This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it. Astrid¡¯s indignation and anger gave way to an undercurrent of fear. ¡°Yes,¡± she eventually said. ¡°But send a kobold stone or one of your lanterns to the temple.¡± ¡°To what end?¡± ¡°If you do so, I will help you,¡± she easily answered. ¡°You said we were short of time.¡± ¡°Very well,¡± the robed man swiftly agreed, straightening and striding towards the counter. ¡°Follow me,¡± he said. ¡°First you will write yourself a letter, and then we will be on our way. And after all that is done, I need to see a man about a horse. Horses, even.¡± *** Hjorvarth rested soundlessly in a shallow grave left open to the blue light of sparkling gemstones. The two kobolds did much the same beside him, shredded bodies buried under humped earth. There was no movement in the place, little change to be seen other than the slow process of that dead man¡¯s healing. Scarred flesh slowly crawled across the worst burns, splits, and fissures along cheeks, neck, and shoulders. The subtle hiss of dirt grained then broke the silence. They rolled down from the mounded earth of the kobold grave furthest away, until mangled claws jutted up into the blue gloom. They made a frantic effort, along with one shredded leg, of struggling free from burial. The kobold that crawled out was missing most the flesh on its narrow skull. One eye missing, the other collapsed. A leg had been cut off at the hip, so it had no way to stand. Still, it clawed towards the resting man. A malicious whisper answered the slow approach. The kobold paused, edged back, waited for a long moment before turning to the second mounded grave. Claws from above and below carved through the dirt, revealing a second kobold that had an almost untouched chest and face, despite the punctured head. ¡°What is it?¡± The first kobold stared down, but had no throat to offer answer. ¡°Then cut the throat and be done with it.¡± The first kobold¡¯s ravaged gaze did not waiver. ¡°Spirited?¡± the other echoed. ¡°Lift me. Let me see.¡± They linked hands, and the second kobold was dragged up in sight of the man¡¯s grave. ¡°Ah, yes.¡± A pause. ¡°No¡­ this ghost is beyond reasoning. We must call the master. There is alchemy and foreign magics at play. Wait. Hurry, put me back in the grave. The living approach.¡± *** Sam ran through darkness, the candle he had stolen long burned low. Men and women followed behind him, restless, fearful, panicked, muttering among themselves. Behind them, explosions rocked the tunnels. A group of cloaked kobolds had passed by their prison, unleashing fire upon the armoured guards. Sam had thought that a grand opportunity to escape, but now realised he had no idea where he was going. The lead kobold had known his name and pointed him this way, but he grew ever more afraid of any coming crossroads. Exhausted and starving, he would have almost been happy to give up and die. ¡°Do you know which way we¡¯re going?¡± a man asked for the third time. ¡°Should we go back?¡± asked another. ¡°Is it safe?¡± ¡°I¡¯m so tired. Is anyone else tired. Is anyone else having trouble breathing?¡± ¡°The path runs straight!¡± Sam declared. ¡°You¡¯re breathing heavy because you¡¯re running. We¡¯re all safe. We¡¯re all going to be safe,¡± he insisted. ¡°Carry on forward. Keep going until you see the light of¡­ day.¡± He stumbled his last words at the sight of blue light that bathed the tunnel ahead. ¡°That¡¯s not daylight.¡± ¡°Should we turn back?¡± ¡°Stop asking that,¡± Sam snapped. ¡°This is the right way. They told me to run to the blue cavern and beyond.¡± ¡°Really?¡± ¡°I¡¯ve no reason to lie,¡± Sam lied. ¡°I¡¯m going to slow my pace.¡± He listened to the ripple of relief amid labored breaths. ¡°When you can all see again, check that everyone near you is all right.¡± He sighed, tired of his own echoing voice. Sam didn¡¯t come here with hopes of leading yet another group of desperate people, and he certainly didn¡¯t feel well suited to the task at hand. He glanced at his hands now he crossed into the blue light. He looked filthy and withered. Blood and dirt stained his flesh and nails. Scratches and bruises mottled his skinny arms. He strode on at a quick enough pace, no longer worried by screeching and explosions that had faded behind them. Despite his relief, he paid no more mind to the questions asked of him, or to the conversations made between those in his company. He didn¡¯t want to stop. He didn¡¯t want to talk. Sam wasn¡¯t really even sure what he wanted, but he had decided to try and lead these people to safety so he would do just that. And then he might go live in the wilderness, though he realised he would likely need to learn survival skills for that. He decided he would go back to Horvorr instead, or start searching for Dan again in Timilir, though that would likely end in him being sent back to the mines. Sam sighed his frustration. ¡°Is something wrong?¡± Sam glanced back at the gaunt miner. ¡°I came here to find my son,¡± he explained. ¡°I haven¡¯t found him.¡± ¡°What¡¯s his name?¡± the brawny woman behind the miner asked. ¡°Dan.¡± ¡°Dan?¡± The miner frowned. ¡°Young and slim with brown hair?¡± ¡°Yes.¡± Sam¡¯s eyes narrowed at his own stupidity. He had been ignoring these folk for weeks. ¡°Have you seen him?¡± ¡°He¡¯s with the other group of workers, ain¡¯t he? Back at the camp. He came in not long before you did.¡± The miner¡¯s smile was conflicted. ¡°Then again, you would¡¯ve seen him if he was there, surely?¡± ¡°Not likely,¡± the woman answered. ¡°We got grabbed the day after he got there. He never went to the meal hall.¡± ¡°Are you really sure this is the way out?¡± the miner asked. Sam didn¡¯t answer. He didn¡¯t want to lie. He didn¡¯t want to tell the truth. ¡°I¡¯ll take that as a no, then.¡± ¡°We¡¯re moving up a slight climb, which is good enough for me,¡± the woman said. ¡°And there¡¯s no other way to go.¡± Sam nodded as they drew close to a cavern where the blue light shone brighter. ¡°If we keep running, then¡ª¡± He slowed to a stop, stumbling forward when the miner ran into him. He sidestepped in time to stop the whole column from coming to a stop. Crystals sparkled brightly overhead and in the cavern walls, shining light on three graves, two of which seemed newly disturbed and a third that lay wide open. ¡°What is it?¡± ¡°It¡¯s not¡ª¡± Sam frowned down at the scarred body of a huge man. ¡°There¡¯s no way.¡± He dropped to his knees, and knelt in silence for a long while. He looked up with wild eyes that spoke to disbelief. ¡°Is there a body here?¡± ¡°What?¡± ¡°Is there a body, in the grave, beneath me?¡± ¡°Of course.¡± The miner¡¯s brows knitted. ¡°Yes, there is. And two more beside it, by my guess.¡± He glanced at the crowd of haggard men and women that had started to gather. ¡°Do you know the man?¡± ¡°The kobold knew my name,¡± Sam murmured, struggling with a misery that had begun to smother him. ¡°He didn¡¯t speak a word, not a word. I thought he had disowned me.¡± He shook his head, remembering their last meeting on the Great Lake. ¡°No¡­ this is someone else, this is anyone else. He didn¡¯t die out here searching for me.¡± The brawny woman stepped forward, her hard face softened by concern. ¡°Is this your son, Sam?¡± Sam¡¯s wordless shout rang through the blue cavern and shook them all. He could see the brass bands clasped along severed hair. The stony face shared the same stillness in life as it did in death. This was Hjorvarth, this was an unbreakable warrior lying broken beneath the earth, stopped short of finding the man he sought, of finding Sam. Sam had brought about the end of Isleif and his son. He had destroyed his first family, broken them apart, and now Sam¡¯s second lay dead because of his rash actions. He scrambled onto the burnt body, trying to haul Hjorvarth up, but he was too weak. Sam didn¡¯t have the strength to lift him. He searched the troubled faces of the crowd but none came to help. He tried to pry away the metal shield, grabbing onto the edge, as hands grabbed onto him. They tried to pull him away from Hjorvarth. He could hear a man shouting in defiance as he gripped tighter to the shield. Sam only realised that it was welded to flesh when it tore away with a horrific rip. He retched, vision swimming, head lolling. His only friend was dead. 30. Restless Dead 30. Restless Dead ¡°Though for the Moons passed we had barely wandered beyond a few restricted caverns, Magar has begun to insist that we visit the settlement of Grorgin. Guarded by two stocky twins with block heads and big fists, we must appear quite peculiar as we wander through the bone and filth strewn streets. There are those that look at myself and Magar, eyes wide and features drawn, as if we would serve as an able meal. But so far our guardians have afforded us peaceful travels. Today, that changed. We arrived outside a compound of scrawny, clawed goblins who refused to let us in let alone to speak with their leader, Chief Halar. Magar explained to me that Halar is a rival leader who is openly refusing the rule of Zalak. And that, since he refuses to negotiate, Halar must now be slain. The chosen assassin? A withered old shaman. ¡®You are immortal, after all,¡¯ the younger shaman had said.¡± Hjorvarth swayed in his seat. He blinked, remembered and righted himself, then rubbed at his aching eyes. Raucous laughter rang out above a clamour of a hundred conversations, each vying to be louder than the other. Hjorvarth realised, by the mundane wood and wolf banners, that he was in Gudmund¡¯s Hall. He sat along a bench that he thought destroyed, along with men and women that shared the same fate. Chief Gudmund¡¯s chair lay empty, so far away that he could barely see it. ¡°Hjorvarth?¡± Hjorvarth vaguely recognized the man sitting across from him. A handsome man with curly hair and moss-green eyes, a man almost as tall and as broad as Hjorvarth. A man that grinned easily, creasing smooth cheeks. ¡°Where am I?¡± ¡°Gudmund¡¯s Hall.¡± ¡°Perhaps,¡± Hjorvarth admitted, his thoughts clouded. ¡°But the place seems far larger than I recall.¡± He turned to survey the place and those standing in gathering¡ªtalking and drinking, sharing secrets or shouting boasts¡ªseemed to thin and thicken, seemed to scatter and cluster as the walls grew farther or closer. The hall seemed to stretch along the length as well, adding new members to an endless bench, adding more banners to the candle-lit rafters. Yet Gudmund¡¯s chair remained ever at the limits of his vision. ¡°And there is no door.¡± ¡°Door?¡± The man chuckled, glancing at the table. Hjorvarth followed his gaze to see a plate stacked with gravied meats. Steam rose up from golden bread to blind his eyes. ¡°Why would you ever want to leave?¡± ¡°Who are you?¡± Hjorvarth demanded. ¡°A jest?¡± The man frowned. ¡°It¡¯s me, Grettir. Less the scars and the hair.¡± ¡°A man cannot shave away his scars. You are not Grettir. This place is a falsity. And as to whether anyone would want to leave, you should voice the question to Gudmund.¡± ¡°Gudmund isn¡¯t finished yet.¡± Hjorvarth turned to see Ralf seated at his right, face bruised and bleeding then healed and gleaming. He blinked and the stout man appeared chubby and ruddy-cheeked as he ever had. ¡°For what?¡± ¡°He isn¡¯t finished,¡± Arnor echoed at Hjorvarth¡¯s left. ¡°The drowned men come.¡± Hjorvarth glanced up to see the Grettir he knew, scarred and hirsute and savage. He wore muddied armour and had grip on the broken haft of an axe. ¡°I am but a moment away from¡ª¡± Wood shook and shuddered, hissing dust, as if struck by a hammer blow. Hjorvarth turned now the sound both repeated and echoed. The ornate doors of the Hall were being broken open. All of the cheerful men and women had been replaced by grim-faced warriors in battered armament. ¡°I begin to think this is an odd feast.¡± Silence descended on the hall, broken only by a hundred footfalls as the gathered folk drew closer to the splintered door, which then swung soundlessly inward. A swollen host in sodden clothing, flesh both blue and glistening, stood gathered outside a town that was little more than the rotting wood of broken homes and the endless surround of tall walls. ¡°What business?¡± Grettir demanded. Brolli trod onto the floorboards, water trickling down and mingling with dust. ¡°I¡¯ve come for the boy.¡± A lithe man stepped forward, sword gleaming at his belt, red leather almost a match for his striking ginger hair. ¡°He is not yours to take.¡± Brolli¡¯s smile was broad. ¡°You can¡¯t take what¡¯s already yours.¡± The two men drew sword. They all drew swords. Hundreds of footsteps scuffed mud and hammered floorboards. Hjorvarth realised he had no weapon of his own. He stepped forward, slowed by a weight on his arm. He then remembered his shield, offering more pain than protection. He was on his knees, on his back. Shivering, burning, and aching. A cold silence greeted his ringing ears. He could only see out one eye, to a darkness that seemed more blue than black. There was a kobold knelt over him, a dead and broken thing that then toppled. Hjorvarth tried to think, struggled not to vomit, but he could only concentrate on the throbbing agony of his forearm, as if all the flesh had been scoured by flames. He vaguely caught the scent of cooked meat in the air, tainted by sweat and piss and shit. He managed to turn his head, and make a poor effort at emptying a stomach filled more with fear than food. ¡°Russ¡­? Sam¡­?¡±You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story. He had the vague thought that his old friend had been here. He could still hear the echo of his mad wailing. Hjorvarth wondered what had so troubled him, but he had no time to ponder it further. He needed to rise, to stand, to search, to fight. He needed to find Sam and return to save Dan. Then he could rest. Then he could lay down and waste time while others suffered. Hjorvarth grew close to terrified now he tried to move. Pain had seeped into every muscle. Agony lanced through his bruised frame like a spiderweb. Yet he managed the act, to rise, struggled not to fall. He frowned down at the red snake of hair lying in a shallow grave. He pawed at his own neck and grunted in surprise, deciding that it would be best not questioning how it was he came to lay there and how it was he came to lose his braid. He ventured a touch of the rest of his head, pulling his fingers away when he felt the coarse bristles of scorched hair. He brushed a knuckle against the blisters of burning cheeks. A certainty of dread shrouded him like an ice cold night. ¡°I live on borrowed time,¡± he realised. ¡°Yet my hearts beats, and I am living, and I am in pain. So I cannot be a risen corpse, or an unchained spirit, or a vengeful draugr. I must simply be stubborn.¡± Hjorvarth was further confused by the two kobold corpses lying near his grave, as if they had crawled out from their own mounds to bring him an end. He made a slow and painful effort of burying them both back in the places Russ had chosen. He wasn¡¯t certain which tunnel led which way, but one was blackened as if by an eruption of fire and the other appeared untouched. He was too disorientated and fevered to notice the footprints trekked across the earth, so he ripped a pair of shining stones from the wall and followed the path that he hoped didn¡¯t lead to fire. The hours passed like seconds or the seconds passed like hours. Hjorvarth stumbled forward all the same. He expected that he would collapse, but each struggling step renewed his vigor instead. He was almost walking at a straight and steady pace when he came across a broken kobold, blown straight into the cavern wall, crushed into the dirt and stone to form a bloody crater. He found more and more, each body shredded or broken, dead gazes missing or glistening with eerie blue light. He had passed nearly two scores, alone or in groups, before he reached a kobold in a black cloak, stabbed many times over, bloodied claws clutching to a metal pipe. Hjorvarth crossed into a wider cavern, furnished by a stone marker post. The way directly ahead looked to have been blocked by a wall of armoured kobolds. Rent limbs and remnants flesh lay in a macabre heap of ruined bodies and grimy blood. Mail links had been blasted apart, scattered across the cavern with shattered wood and tattered cloth, broken teeth and small bones. Hjorvarth thought the sight odd, not by merit of ruin or violence, but because the blast seemed to have erupted from within their ranks. A single set of footprints had tracked through the blood, leading on to a long tunnel. Hjorvarth decided to follow the same path, making his own red marks. He kept forward, forcing the gloom back with blue, until the path forked. An armoured kobold seemed to stand guard at the earthen divide, leaning heavy on a spear, but a hole had been torn from its chest and dried blood pooled at clawed feet. Hjorvarth considered taking the spear, but thought better of it, knowing well enough that stealing a dead warrior¡¯s weapon was an easy way to risk the wrath of a draugr. He could see no difference between the tunnels now offered, but the kobold seemed to look to the left, so he headed in that direction. Hjorvarth heard the shrill notes of kobold conversation soon after and regretted not taking a weapon. He tested his limbs and was answered with the pain of raw flesh. He winced but was convinced he still had one fight left in him. He hoped he would be able to find the prisoners before it ever came to that. ¡°Goblin.¡± Hjorvarth turned to the hissed whisper. A kobold stood behind him, black cloak torn and tattered, barely covering hairless flesh that had been scraped, slashed, and bruised. A metal pipe was raised, aimed, a stone poised above it. ¡°I should have buried you.¡± ¡°Russ¡­?¡± Russ sparked the stone against the pipe. ¡°Are you mad?¡± Hjorvarth growled. ¡°Stop or I will throw my own stone at your head.¡± Russ paused mid-strike. ¡°You speak words as if living, goblin.¡± ¡°I am not a goblin.¡± ¡°You were dead. I saw you die.¡± ¡°There may be some truth in that,¡± Hjorvarth admitted. ¡°I expect it is a wrong soon to be righted. So there is little need for the act to be done by your own hand.¡± Russ barely lowered his pipe. ¡°I freed the man named Sam. Did he raise you from the grave?¡± ¡°Truly?¡± Hjorvarth asked, his haggard voice lifted slightly by doubtful happiness. ¡°I thought I had heard his¡ª¡± He frowned. ¡°He must have thought me dead.¡± ¡°You were dead,¡± Russ repeated. ¡°Does the path they follow lead straight?¡± ¡°It takes them to the mountains where you looked upon the goblin lands.¡± Hjorvarth¡¯s nod was reluctant. ¡°Then my quest is at an end.¡± ¡°Mine is not,¡± Russ answered. ¡°By my own mind, yours seems ill completed as well. Does the pink goblin not await rescue in Rubinold¡¯s holdings? Have your bargaining roots not fled from grasp?¡± ¡°Then I will aid you in defeating Zelerath and you will arrange the trade on my behalf.¡± Russ¡¯ laugh was pained. ¡°I am bleeding, goblin. I have powder for only one shot.¡± ¡°It would be a waste to use it on a man who is already dead, then.¡± ¡°Goblins do not die, Isleif¡¯s son. They come again and again with the same snarling faces.¡± Russ waved him forward. ¡°Yet there is wisdom in your words. We shall proceed until an end is brought to us both.¡± ¡°That suits me well enough,¡± Hjorvarth said, made tired by speaking. He trudged forward in silence until they reached a wider cavern, overlooked by stone rises and rocky plateaus. Blue light suffused the darkness around them, enveloping man and kobold in a luminous sphere. Russ walked in Hjorvarth¡¯s shadow. He kept step for a few moments before mellow light flickered to life. Hjorvarth realised that he had stumbled into a surround of scores of kobolds, most gleaming in chain and wielding spears, others cloaked and holding metal pipes. The warriors had squat candles resting atop their helmets, dozens of delicate flames that seemed to serve as a marker of life. ¡°In the name of Queen¡ª¡± ¡°I am a goblin!¡± Hjorvarth declared as loudly as he could. ¡°I bring the prisoner, Russ, servant of King Rubinold. I come to make peace between Queen Zelerath and the Small King. I must be taken to an audience as soon as able.¡± The cloaked pipers held their sparking stones as if uncertain. The armoured guards shared glances and squinted at one another in confusion. A kobold, larger than the rest, clothed in blue robes, stepped forward to the plateau¡¯s edge at Hjorvarth¡¯s left. ¡°If that is the truth, goblin. Why does your prisoner hold a pipe?¡± ¡°He cannot drop it.¡± The kobold scowled. ¡°For what reason?¡± ¡°I did not ask.¡± ¡°Ah¡­ hah.¡± The kobold bared sharp teeth. ¡°Well, goblin, your prisoner has lied to you. I would¡ª¡± Hjorvarth lurched around, skin splitting with the effort. He lifted Russ from the floor and the metal pipe slipped from grip. ¡°It was a lie!¡± He turned back to the lead kobold, still holding Russ aloft. ¡°Is the Queen Zelerath as untrustworthy? I came to speak honest truths. If she cannot be trusted, I must travel instead to the Hallowed.¡± Whispers of fright and disgust rippled through those gathered. The lead kobold¡¯s smile slipped. ¡°There is no need for that, goblin. I will take you to our queen.¡± Candles went out in unison, smoke twisting up as blue light claimed the cavern. Hjorvarth set Russ back on the ground while armoured and cloaked kobolds approached on all sides. ¡°You have my honest thanks, Joyto,¡± he whispered. Russ sneered up at the burnt man. ¡°Death would have been better, goblin.¡± 31. Words of Warning 31. Words of Warning ¡°Killing the clan of Chief Halar proved both more and less difficult than I had imagined. On one hand, I had thought I would not be able to achieve it all, while on the other hand, even with immortality on my side, it was a brutal and laborious process. Unlike Agrak, I do not possess swift speed and razor claws. My bones and muscles were already frail and old by the time I had managed to preserve them. I stalked through the clan while they were sleeping, wielding a sharp knife, but any time I was met with resistance, or flight, I struggled to find the strength to overpower my opponents, or to pursue them. Eventually, I reached the flamelit enclosure where Halar sat alone. ¡®Do you remember me, shaman?¡¯ he had asked. His head was long and narrow, and his skin was more yellow than green. ¡®I remember you. You told me I had promise.¡¯ I did not remember the Chief. But I had helped birth and teach countless hatchlings through all my many Moons. ¡®And now here you are to kill me,¡¯ he bitterly added. ¡®To kill so many you brought from the Pool. And for what reason, Izzig¡­?¡¯ ¡®You are rebelling.¡¯ ¡®What is there to rebel against, shaman? A useless usurper. You should have stood against him, and many would have followed. Now you are the treacherous one. Hands stained with the blood of those you should have protected.¡¯ I stood staring at the Halar, who crouched on the floor near a burning brazier. ¡®No matter,¡¯ he added. ¡®The more you kill, the more will need to be killed.¡¯ He pushed to his feet, then towering over me, casting a monstrous shadow. ¡®I always hoped we would meet again, shaman. You were the first face I saw, and now you are the last.¡¯ I tried to speak, but Halar snatched away my blade and jammed it into himself. Moments passed in regret and confusion, while the dead visage of Halar stared up at me. And then I did remember him. The lanky hatchling who I thought would be a Chief. And I suffered a most terrible guilt.¡± ¡°Quite a late hour to be reading, is it not?¡± Sybille looked up from scrawled vellum pages. ¡°And too cold to be walking about naked, as well, I would think.¡± Luta shrugged, causing her nightgown to shimmer in the candlelight. ¡°This is hardly naked. Especially when considered against your father¡¯s own night habits. He seems not to note the cold at all.¡± They were both in the marble library, surrounded on all sides by the looming shadows of bookcases. Sybille sat at a table lit by the light of a single grey candle. She had the odd thought that this young woman was very shapely, and an odder sensation of unease. ¡°I have no wish to hear of night habits.¡± Luta smiled. ¡°No¡­? No, I suppose not. Does my brother not wonder where you are?¡± Sybille returned to her reading, and studied a passage without grasping meaning. ¡°Perhaps if his memory is short.¡± ¡°That¡¯s a roundabout way of saying he knows.¡± ¡°That¡¯s an honest answer to a question asked.¡± ¡°There¡¯s an irony here.¡± Luta¡¯s soft steps were pronounced in the shadowed library, underscoring her gown¡¯s hush. ¡°I wish to stay with your father, but he wakes screaming then pushes me away. My brother, I assume, wishes to stay with you, and you¡¯re on your own reading¡­ eschewing his company.¡± Sybille offered no answer, despite reaching a dozen that were all scathing or cruel. Luta came to stand behind her chair. Heat caressed Sybille¡¯s ears and neck. ¡°You don¡¯t much like me, do you?¡± Sybille had an urge to push back, and send her stumbling. ¡°I do not know you.¡± ¡°And you have made no effort to know me.¡± Sybille¡¯s laugh was quiet. ¡°Has it escaped your notice that those I know, save for my father¡ªwho I may not truly know at all¡ªhave ended up dead? Perhaps I have acted with your best interests at heart. Perhaps an effort can be made both ways. I am here, at most hours, which should make it easy enough for you. Had I tried to seek you out, I wouldn¡¯t know where to start¡­ at least not at any place where I wouldn¡¯t run into my father.¡± ¡°So it is him that you avoid?¡± Luta murmured in assent then leaned over her shoulder. ¡°What are you reading?¡± Sybille¡¯s thoughts flitted from lust to violence. ¡°Nothing of interest.¡± She shifted out of her seat, forcing a smile. ¡°I¡¯ve decided I¡¯m too tired to read. Good night, Luta.¡± ¡°A moment,¡± Luta implored. ¡°Surely you can spare me that¡­?¡± Sybille turned back to a fine dress made sheer by candlelight. She lifted her gaze to a gleaming pair of curious eyes. ¡°A moment for what, exactly?¡± ¡°I wanted to show you a book. Unless you¡¯ve read it¡­ it¡¯s ¡®The Improvised History of Everything¡¯.¡± Luta smiled. ¡°It¡¯s a magical tome, you see. Dangerous. If you ask for a topic it will tell you what is, or what will soon be.¡± Sybille sighed, smiling in resignation. ¡°I have no mind towards children¡¯s tales.¡± ¡°It¡¯s right here.¡± Luta strode forward, between a pair of bookcases, pausing at a column along the marble wall. ¡°Do come and have a look. It¡¯s a family secret, but you¡¯ll be family soon enough.¡± ¡°Very well,¡± Sybille assented, stepping forward to meet her. She felt unusually warm in her airy white dress. ¡°But I¡¯m not sure that I truly understand the jest.¡± Luta pressed against the stone, and a block clicked inward. ¡°It¡¯s no joke.¡± A piece of the column slid away to reveal a square alcove where a dusty tome rested upon a golden pedestal. ¡°Or perhaps it is¡­ but it tells the truth often enough. You¡¯ll see what I mean¡­ come here¡ªhere, help me carry it.¡± Sybille helped her, still wary, and they carried the heavy book towards the table. Both women seemed to fear trapped fingers so it landed with a thud and sent up a cloud of dust. Golden lettering had been worked into a red leather cover. ¡°How very odd,¡± said Sybille.¡°You told the title true.¡± Luta narrowed her eyes. ¡°Odd that I told the truth¡­ or?¡±This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there. ¡°Take any meaning you please.¡± ¡°Ah¡­ my brother said you were cold.¡± ¡°It seems odd to me that not being warm makes one cold.¡± ¡°So you¡¯re tepid, then?¡± ¡°I¡¯m Sybille.¡± ¡°Luta.¡± She bowed with all formality. ¡°I¡¯m pleased to meet you.¡± Sybille frowned, lifting the cover from The Improvised History of Everything. It thudded to the tabletop and swept up yet more dust. She flipped through the pages, smooth and golden, unblemished and unmarked. ¡°That¡¯s a deal of effort your family go through to hide a book with nothing written in it.¡± Luta nodded. ¡°What was it you were hoping to read about?¡± ¡°I had no hopes at all. Anything would have sufficed.¡± Sybille watched in silence as dark ink seeped into the golden pages, forming into flourished script. ¡°What¡­?¡± She smiled in confusion. ¡°I¡¯m not sure¡ª¡± ¡°What¡¯s there to be unsure about?¡± Luta asked. ¡°¡®Anything is a word best followed by ¡°and everything.¡±¡¯¡± She paused. ¡°Who is Sybille?¡± She waited for ink to fade and for more to appear in place. ¡°¡®Sybille is a sister that saw her brothers as two halves of the same coin: Gudmund, their father. Agnar had his cruel humour, rashness, and quick wit, while Geirmund inherited his thoughtfulness, stubbornness, and rare patience. She believed that both brothers had borrowed from their uncle Grettir as well, who was a savage looking man with a gentle soul.¡¯¡± Sybille¡¯s pale visage had no warmth to it. ¡°Is this supposed to be some cruel trick?¡± ¡°¡®Sybille was a young woman that wondered who she was,¡¯¡± Luta continued, tone curious. ¡°¡®Her grandmother¡¯s double, perhaps. Or the unwanted runt in a family of wolves, who brought about the death of the proud matriarch.¡¯¡± She paused, glancing up from the scrawled pages, and smiled as if sympathetic. ¡°I didn¡¯t know your mother had died in childbirth.¡± Sybille wanted to strike her, to leave, or to slam the cover closed. ¡°What does Luta fear most?¡± Luta¡¯s laugh was stilted. ¡°¡®Luta is the cruel daughter of a scorned wife. She fears being discarded, abandoned to die unloved and alone.¡¯¡± ¡°The book is not usually so truthful.¡± Luta sighed. ¡°And Sybille¡¯s fear?¡± ¡°¡®Sybille has had her worst fears carved out with her heart,¡¯¡± Sybille read, her words slowed by regret. ¡°¡®She still manages to worry for the health and happiness of her father.¡¯¡± ¡°Ah.¡± Luta drummed her fingers on the table. ¡°Perhaps we should stop there.¡± Sybille upturned her palms. ¡°Why does Luta want to stop?¡± She kept her steady gaze towards a lovely face that seemed sorrowed in the candlelight. ¡°It¡¯s your book. If you wish to close it, go ahead.¡± Luta barely nodded before closing the tome. ¡°¡®She wants to stop because her heart is beating and bleeding and she is so very afraid.¡¯ That is what was written, Sybille. Does the knowledge gladden you?¡± ¡°Why are you asking me?¡± Sybille bowed her head to blow out the twisted candle. ¡°Good night, Luta. I pray that Muradoon wards you from that cursed tome. The truth, the real truth, will bring you nothing but misery.¡± *** Jarl Thrand¡¯s workroom was beyond expansive, with wide tiled floors and a high vaulted ceiling. The marble expanse made the sparse furnishing appear small, and would have echoed any words spoken. There were none though, beyond the thoughtful murmurings of an old man as he scratched a quill against paper or dipped it into a well. Three chairs faced the large and orderly desk that Thrand sat at. Each piece made of the same black wood that almost faded into the darkness of the room. The night beyond the tall windows, and the wide balcony, lay cold and clouded. Stub candles, soon to drown, were scattered across drawers along the walls, hinting towards the breadth of the room. Tall candles, freshly lit, towered above the papers and ledgers stacked and weighted atop the desk. Jarl Thrand sighed, setting down his quill. ¡°What is it, Atsurr?¡± Atsurr stood opposite, amid shadows, as he had for a long while. ¡°I spoke no words.¡± ¡°Nor did you choose a subtle place to stand.¡± Atsurr grunted. ¡°You are up late.¡± ¡°As are you.¡± ¡°The fat guard has disappeared.¡± ¡°Yes,¡± Jarl Thrand agreed. ¡°Gudmund mentioned as much this morning. He was murdered by the Crooked Teeth.¡± ¡°Do you not find that odd?¡± ¡°Gudmund barely leaves the Estate. I expect they knew of no one else to strike at.¡± ¡°And what reason would they even have to strike?¡± Jarl Thrand¡¯s eyes narrowed. ¡°Do you ask that in earnest, Atsurr? You stood as witness when he slew a number of their ilk outside of my gates.¡± He sighed. ¡°You did forget, then. Perhaps you should return to your duties as my guardian¡­ or perhaps you should retire.¡± He raised a hand to halt reply. ¡°I say that not out of malice, but out of concern. Your judgement slips, old friend. I do not doubt your skill with a sword, but I would not want to see that sword misused because you forgot facts that should be plainly seen.¡± Atsurr paused in silence. ¡°And what of the girl?¡± ¡°Sybille?¡± ¡°No.¡± Jarl Thrand snickered. ¡°What of her?¡± ¡°Do you not find it odd that a young woman arrives and seek your affections when the city rests on a knife¡¯s edge?¡± Atsurr asked. ¡°A knife that she could easily hold?¡± ¡°She is searched each time we meet. And, no, I do not find it odd when a woman seeks my affections. I am rich and powerful. What more reason would they need than that?¡± ¡°It is my belief that Gudmund now works with the Black Hands. That the woman is part of the plot. And they each, one and all, conspire to murder you and all your line.¡± ¡°Even Luta?¡± Thrand asked. ¡°That would be a misstep on Gudmund¡¯s part.¡± ¡°The weddings are not arranged.¡± ¡°They soon will be,¡± the Jarl answered. ¡°Luta will marry Gudmund and Thrand will marry Sybille on the same day.¡± ¡°If you speak the truth then you have given him all the more reason to kill you. You will have given this city to him on a golden platter.¡± ¡°Do you so doubt me?¡± Jarl Thrand bared his teeth in a cruel smile. ¡°Gudmund will be poisoned on the night of his wedding. He will die in the fashion of Jarl Adelsteinn. If Sybille suspects, she will have little recourse. And if she does attempt anything rash, she will live the life of a caged bird with broken wings.¡± Atsurr grunted. ¡°I have mistook the situation.¡± He paused. ¡°If it please you, I would return as your personal guard. I would not see events upset before they come to pass.¡± ¡°I would welcome the change. Though you should know that Gudmund has been given freedom to leave the Estate whenever he pleases. He will of course be followed, guarded, for his own safety. I have instructed them to be lax should it actually come to that. I can hardly be blamed by his daughter if he falls victim to the Crooked Teeth.¡± ¡°A sound decision,¡± said Atsurr happily. ¡°I will inform the other guards and return to my duties in the morning.¡± Jarl Thrand nodded his assent, somewhat wondering whether he should have had another guard stay with him. But he did not like to behave overly fearful in his own home. He returned to his papers, while Atsurr rattled off into the distant corridor. ¡°I thought he¡¯d never leave.¡± Jarl Thrand glanced up to see a hooded man standing opposite. He slowly reached for his serpentine cane. ¡°I don¡¯t recall inviting you for an audience.¡± ¡°Nor do I.¡± He shrugged. ¡°Perhaps you didn¡¯t invite me at all.¡± He smirked. ¡°Should it not go without saying, I will savage you if you try to shout out.¡± ¡°Step any closer and I will take the risk.¡± The hooded man took a step back. ¡°Then this must greatly alleviate your fear.¡± The old Jarl scowled. ¡°What do you want?¡± ¡°Want? Nothing. I¡¯ve come to give. I¡¯ve come to donate. Freely. Information.¡± The Jarl of Timilir waited. The hooded man chuckled. ¡°Jarl Gudmund has offered the Crooked Teeth gold to murder you. The Black Hands and the Gem Cutters are involved. Namely, Alrik of the Black Hands and Ruby of the Gem Cutters, who has recently taken up your acquaintance and regularly attends your Estate. They, of course, wait for the weddings to be arranged.¡± Jarl Thrand¡¯s dark eyes narrowed. ¡°And who are you in this plot?¡± ¡°I am one of the two men that lead the Crooked Teeth,¡± the man answered. ¡°And I am here to entertain a counter offer.¡± 32. Sidelines 32. Sidelines ¡°Having questioned the merit of killing rebellious Chiefs like Halar, Magar stared at me quizzically, and then remarked, ¡®You are distressed, Izzig.¡¯ ¡®Yes,¡¯ I warily agreed. ¡®I¡ª¡¯ ¡®Do not be,¡¯ suggested the young shaman. ¡®If Zalak believes you are against him, you will be locked away like The Small King. Similarly, you will fare poorly if Zalak loses his throne. As will I,¡¯ he pointedly added. ¡®Eventually, everyone will be under a single rule, and all will be at peace. Those who die now ensure the survival of our future kin.¡¯ He stared at me with his large, shining eyes. But I looked to the earth at my bony feet. ¡®Not just distressed,¡¯ added Magar without inflection. ¡®Wrathful and vengeful. These thoughts will not serve you well, Izzig. Everything is in a delicate balance. I cannot afford for you to upset that balance. Not when we are closer than we have ever been.¡¯ ¡®What is it that you and Zalak are planning?¡¯ I demanded. ¡®Zalak is unimportant, Izzig. They all are. All that matters is that you and I prevail.¡¯ ¡®I am ready to die.¡¯ Magar¡¯s youthful green features scrunched as if in pain. ¡®That is not true, Izzig. Not entirely, at least. Everything will be better soon. You must have faith.¡¯ ¡®How?¡¯ I snapped. ¡®Tell me your plan if I am so important.¡¯ ¡®Soon,¡¯ said Magar. ¡®For now, it is better that you spend some time alone.¡¯ I might have argued, but the sound of scrabbling from a nearby tunnel distracted the both of us, and then a small goblin ran scampering towards the well wrought passages of Agrak¡¯s old throne room. Magar contemplatively hummed. ¡®That is an unfortunate complication.¡¯¡± Sybille sat beside young Thrand and opposite her father. Luta smiled at Gudmund¡¯s side and they all resided within the marble boundaries of a square garden, each seated at a grey table of cold stone. Bushes remained evergreen around them, rising from the earth or from squat pots, while flowers had shriveled to bleak leaves. Sybille listened and nodded and varied her mumbling affirmations. She smiled when she heard laughter, frowned when the others did, nodded quite severely at times and readily at others. She started to listen in earnest as she nibbled at honey and biscuits only to realised that Luta was still speaking on plans for their wedding, for both weddings. ¡°Bard¡¯s Circle,¡± Sybille¡¯s clear voice cut into a conversation and left the table in confused silence. ¡°What was that?¡± Young Thrand asked. Sybille could see his kindly concern, though she did note Luta¡¯s smile slipped and rose anew more hollow. ¡°I hear that there¡¯s a deal of performances and the like made at the Bard¡¯s Circle. I read about it in the library. I wondered if you would all like to go.¡± Gudmund¡¯s smirk was tight as if he doubted her delivery. ¡°We usually go quite often,¡± Luta replied, ¡°but with the Crooked Teeth¡­ well, our father sees no need to take the risk. Perhaps when the weddings are done and all that is taken care of¡­¡± ¡°Oh,¡± Sybille managed to fake disappointment easily enough. ¡°Of course. I had no idea the Crooked Teeth had such a hold on the stone city.¡± She frowned at her father. ¡°Should you be traveling about during the daylight hours?¡± Gudmund shrugged. ¡°I¡¯m not too worried about death.¡± ¡°That¡¯s a terrible thing to say,¡± Luta chided, squeezing his wrist. ¡°Luta is overly concerned,¡± Young Thrand assured. ¡°If you wish to go then I will take you. I¡¯m sure your father is equally happy to take the slight risk. I¡¯m sure our own father would be happy to attend as well.¡± ¡°I was never one for performances,¡± Gudmund admitted, ¡°but I was always one for fighting. So I¡¯ll go for the risk alone.¡± ¡°I think this is a bad idea,¡± Luta said. ¡°We¡¯ve all our lives to go the Bard¡¯s Circle.¡± Sybille saw the wry glint in her father¡¯s tired eyes and wondered if the sentiment wasn¡¯t more than optimistic. *** Jarl Thrand¡¯s cane clacked as he strode into the small garden where his two youngest children sat facing an array of half-eaten meals and scattered plates. ¡°Well¡­?¡± Atsurr rattled in step until he stopped behind. ¡°It was as you said, father,¡± Luta answered, smiling up from her chair. ¡°They wished to visit the Bard¡¯s Circle.¡±Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site. Young Thrand seemed less pleased. ¡°I made mention that you would be keen to go. But I am not yet convinced that an invitation¡ªthat could have been made at any time or any place¡ªis a firm sign of planned treachery.¡± ¡°Bless Ilma for your soft heart,¡± Jarl Thrand replied without warmth. ¡°Be sure that the topic does not get lost when you see her next. It has been a long while since I¡¯ve visited the Bard¡¯s Circle and I do tire of the snake¡¯s hissing in my nest.¡± Young Thrand glanced at his serpentine signet ring. ¡°Gods help you if you mean to correct my words.¡± The Jarl of Timilir rested heavily on his black cane. ¡°You will still get to marry the girl if that is your fear. You might even find her more warm and compliant when her life hangs in the balance. Rest assured that this is merely a test, a trap within a trap, and it may be that I am ill-founded in my suspicions.¡± He raised a hand to halt reply from his guard. ¡°Atsurr would disagree, most fervently, of course, and he will ensure that no harm comes to either one of us.¡± ¡°I do not trust them,¡± Luta said. ¡°You should be less blind, brother.¡± Young Thrand scoffed. ¡°I would rather be blind then have my eyes wide for a twisted plot that would explain away the simple fact that Gudmund has rebuffed your efforts to bed him. That Sybille finds you no more likable.¡± Luta¡¯s answering laugh was bitter and cold. ¡°You almost say that as if Sybille shows you any semblance of warmth.¡± ¡°Why should she?¡± he angrily demanded. ¡°She has lost her brothers. She has lost her town and all those she cared for. Not even a winter go. Do you really think she wakes each morning as you do, desperate to be married? Do you think she cares what I think of her? You may find this difficult to fathom, sister, but the loss of Thorfinn crippled me,¡± he added. ¡°So I actually understand what it is to suffer the death of a brother. To grieve.¡± He scowled. ¡°The whole world is not full of simpering idiots like you.¡± Jarl Thrand cleared his throat. ¡°I have things to attend. As I said, I look forward to visiting the Bard¡¯s Circle. Make sure that the plan does not change. You will both fare equally poorly if either one of you disappoints me.¡± *** Engli and Alrik sat in the back room of Sifa¡¯s Tavern. The shutters lay shut and locked despite the warm weather and the daylight hour. Sifa was there as well, sat so that she had the door on her left, Alrik opposite, and Engli to her right. The two young men were waiting for her to speak and, as they did, busied themselves with reading missives or notes on scraps of papers. The delicate flame of an ornate lantern painted stone walls to a hue of bronze. Sifa¡¯s aged face tightened. ¡°Is neither one of you going to speak?¡± Engli and Alrik traded glances, looked to Sifa, then returned to their reading. ¡°This is my tavern. I allow you to stay here. I want to know what happened to Afi, Afi, and Afi. And I want to know what it is you have planned.¡± ¡°Hjorvarth put¡ª¡± ¡°Hjorvarth was carted down the streets like a caged animal. He was covered in filth and shit and now he¡¯s trapped in the slave mines of Timilir. How foolish do you think I am? He wasn¡¯t sent here by Brolli. He came here looking for Alf and found you about to get your throat cut. So he told a lie and we all happened to believe him.¡± Engli¡¯s visage was one of discomfit. ¡°Hjorvarth doesn¡¯t lie.¡± Sifa scowled. ¡°And who are you exactly?¡± ¡°He¡¯s the man that killed Afi, Afi, and Afi,¡± Alrik answered. ¡°As to what we¡¯re doing¡­ you¡¯ve hardly proved yourself trustworthy,¡± he chided. ¡°As to Hjorvarth¡­ he gave me his word that he would be back. I don¡¯t know why he wanted to visit the slave mines, but I have heard mention that the kobold attacks have started to slow. So maybe he¡¯s the one behind that.¡± ¡°So Brolli¡¯s busy, Broknar knows where, and Hjorvarth¡¯s decided he wants to come visit to solve the miner¡¯s troubles?¡± Sifa doubtfully asked. ¡°Is that part of Brolli¡¯s plan, or is that just a personal quest?¡± Alrik upturned his palms. ¡°I don¡¯t think anyone ever accused Hjorvarth of being clever. I don¡¯t know what he¡¯s doing, and I don¡¯t know what he¡¯s planning. All I know is that I trust the man¡¯s word.¡± Sifa¡¯s keen eyes narrowed. ¡°So he¡¯s going to kill my children, then? If I decide that Brolli¡¯s dead and gone and you two ought to join him?¡± Alrik smiled. ¡°He admitted to me that, that was a lie. Hjorvarth is not a child killer. He simply thought it would be the best way to keep you out of harm.¡± He shrugged. ¡°What else was he going to do? Appeal to your good nature?¡± he asked in mock. ¡°Can¡¯t appeal to a thing that isn¡¯t, Sifa. Now¡­ I¡¯m not in your way. I¡¯m busy with what I¡¯m doing. If you want to lead the Black Hands towards some other thing, you go on ahead. I¡¯d just remind you that Afi, Afi and Afi were all still happy and healthy before they went after me.¡± ¡°You two have it handled?¡± Sifa asked. ¡°This¡­ whatever it is you¡¯re doing?¡± ¡°Almost sounds like you want to help,¡± Engli mentioned. ¡°How do I want to help if I don¡¯t know what it is?¡± ¡°Swear me some oaths,¡± Alrik suggested. ¡°And I¡¯ll tell you all there is to know.¡± ¡°I swear by Eluna, weaver of secrets, that I won¡¯t repeat the words spoken.¡± ¡°Do you swear by Ilma, against your children¡¯s lives, that you won¡¯t try to stab us in the back?¡± Alrik asked. Sifa¡¯s weathered face grew hard. She offered a slow nod. ¡°I swear by Ilma.¡± ¡°Right, then,¡± Alrik said with a sigh. ¡°Myself and Engli were held captive by the Crooked Teeth, along with Ragni and Ruby¡ªAfi, Afi, and Afi¡ªGudmund of Horvorr and two members of his guard. During the meeting, Young Afi got vocal and threatening and the Crooked Teeth killed the three of them. In the end, Gudmund offered to pay them to murder Jarl Thrand and we were invited to participate in the plot. So¡­ now me and Engli are trying to decide on the best way to betray the Crooked Teeth when this is all done. And, because Joyto hates me, Ruby and Ragni have opted for open defiance of the plot. I hear she¡¯s now playing as an escort and following Thrand around wherever he goes.¡± Sifa remained still and silent. ¡°Regret asking?¡± Alrik ventured. ¡°The latest news is that Thrand¡¯s agreed to go to the Bard¡¯s Circle at the end of this season. We¡¯ll be aiming to abduct him there, and then deliver him into Jarl Gudmund¡¯s hands.¡± ¡°So you¡¯ve thrown in with mad men to help in a plot that will see this city drowned in blood?¡± Sifa asked in disbelief. ¡°Only if all goes wrong,¡± said Engli brightly. ¡°Could be that the Gem Cutters and the Crooked Teeth are slaughtered, along with Thrand. Gudmund taking the stone city would leave the Black Hands without enemies and in good favour.¡± Sifa slowly nodded. ¡°And does Brolli, if he really is alive, know about all this?¡± ¡°I honestly don¡¯t know,¡± Alrik answered. ¡°Hjorvarth was the last to speak with him. But I¡¯m damn sure that the man was loyal when it came to his brother. And we all know that he hated Jarl Thrand. This seems to me to be a plan that sits close to his cold heart.¡± 33. Vengeful 33. Vengeful ¡°King Zalak brought both Magar and I to his throne room, having heard that the young shaman did not value the usurper monarch¡¯s continued survival. Full of rage, and appearing worse for wear, Zalak may well have punished us both severely, but his bitter rantings were interrupted when dozens, then hundreds, of goblins poured into the throne room chanting the name of Chief Halar. His allies carved and clubbed the nearest goblins of Zalak¡¯s faithful, and the rest scattered, most brought down before they could escape, while others swiftly switched sides. Magar¡¯s reaction was so quick that it was if he had preempted events. The huge, block-headed twins who had protected him worked together to both clear the way to a nearby tunnel and to retrieve the steel box in which resided Agrak. With the box, both shamans, and both bulky twins in the tunnel, the guards used great hammers to bring down the tunnels behind them with remarkable precision. ¡®Don¡¯t worry,¡¯ suggested Magar kindly, meeting my wide eyed concern with a slight smile. ¡®This was always a possibility. We are prepared for many eventualities.¡¯ ¡®You wanted this to happen?¡¯ ¡®Of course not, Izzig.¡¯ The young shaman¡¯s smile broadened. ¡®But Chaos will always worm into things. Zalak was a malleable target for all sides. It is a shame he could not have ruled more effectively, as things would have precede more smoothly and far more safely.¡¯ ¡®Set Agrak free,¡¯ I demanded in a snarl more vicious than was my custom. Magar glanced down at the dwarven lockbox. ¡®He would kill us, Izzig. He has been trapped in a lightless, soundless place for many seasons. His release must be handled with great care. For now, we are safer¡ªand he is safer¡ªexactly where he resides.¡¯ For a long moment, I considered all the ways that I might steal the box from the young shaman and the huge twins. ¡®Do not let Chaos make use of you, Izzig. You are only one that I can rely on.¡¯¡± Queen Zelerath presided over court in her royal cavern. She laid atop an earthen mound that overlooked her subjects while a score of newborn kobolds nursed on her swollen teats. Dozens of adult kobolds watched in muted unison, most standing in a long line that stretched from beneath the monarch¡¯s mound to a tunnel further back, while others watched from the sides, richly dressed as in Rubinold¡¯s courts, but with no seats to accommodate them. Hjorvarth might have thought the scene comical, were it not for the armoured escort and the ominous mix of mellow candlelight and eerie blue stones. He was led to the front of the queue, despite quiet complaints, and placed, alongside Russ, beneath the queen¡¯s harsh gaze . Her mound had been built with a curved slope so that the kobold queen could look down at them while laying on her side. Hjorvarth also had sight of the queen¡¯s pink body, large and layered in fat, skin so thin that he could see unborn kobolds pressed against her distended belly. ¡°You mated with this?¡± ¡°Indeed,¡± Russ answered, his sorrow edged by pride. ¡°Her beauty cannot be denied.¡± ¡°Behold!¡± A tall kobold stepped forward wearing a loose green robe. ¡°You sit in audience with the monarch of monarchs, Queen Zelerath the First.¡± Queen Zelerath spared them an annoyed glance. Hjorvarth wondered whether the monarch could even speak. ¡°She has granted you this audience,¡± the green robed kobold went on, ¡°emissary of the Small King, in exchange for the prisoner known as Russ.¡± ¡°Russ?¡± Zelerath croaked. ¡°Where is Russ?¡± She struggled further onto her side, nearly crushing newborn kobolds, pushing others off of the edge. ¡°Ah,¡± she sighed. ¡°It truly is you. You unfortunate fool.¡± ¡°My only mistake was to let you leave Rubinold¡¯s domain in peace.¡± ¡°Is this meeting not a mistake?¡± Queen Zelerath¡¯s laugh was strained. ¡°How poorly Rubinold will fare without you. He will die. You have done that in coming here. Thus this war is over.¡± Hjorvarth paid no mind to the disparate pair. He watched a newborn kobold squirming on the cavern floor, watched as an armoured guard edged ever closer. ¡°It is over,¡± Russ replied, struggling to his full height. ¡°You have created divides, and now we will all be destroyed by goblins and fanatics.¡± ¡°I was born to breed,¡± Zelerath hissed. ¡°He would not replace his ancient mate.¡± ¡°I would know nothing of that. I serve by serving the king, not by questioning him.¡± Queen Zelerath snorted. ¡°Who accompanies you?¡± ¡°The Son of Isleif. Come to bring ancient judgement against the new usurper.¡± The kobolds in audience murmured surprised and turned to the huge man, in time to watch him hurl a stone at the armoured guard as it tried to steal the kobold newborn. Metal clanged and the guard staggered back and collapsed. Queen Zelerath frowned. ¡°Do not do that again, goblin.¡± Hjorvarth walked over to collect the newborn, despite brandished spears. He placed it back on the mound with the other squirming babes. He returned to stand beside the cloaked kobold then took a deep breath. ¡°The Small King comes to destroy you and your people. What do you intend to do?¡± ¡°I will kill any intruders to my domain. Whether they be kobolds or goblins. But you are not a goblin. You are from Timilir. Sent by the fool Rubinold, along with Russ, who claims you are here to lay judgement. And for that you will be skewered with spears and eaten. Do you have any words of import to share before your death occurs?¡±This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. Hjorvarth gripped tighter to his last blue stone, trying to settle rising fear. He decided he might be able to hurl it at the queen¡¯s head then bluff his way clear of the place. ¡°I would only warn you that I am a competent fighter. And I am beyond certain that I can defeat all of your guards and slay the entirety of your kingdom.¡± Zelerath met the words with disappointed, breathy laughter. ¡°Is that so¡­?¡± ¡°Yet,¡± Hjorvarth went on, ¡°I have no desire for needless violence. My friend, Dan, is being held captive by Rubinold. Surely, with the goblins at war with you both, an accord can be reached. I do not wish to be here. I have no loyalties to anyone other than Dan.¡± ¡°Betrayer,¡± hissed Russ. Hjorvarth disagreeably grunted. ¡°Who is Rubinold to me, other than a stranger who threatens and imprisons?¡± he demanded. ¡°I have never belonged here. And I owe no favors to any monarch¡ªthose beneath the earth least of all. You say that Rubinold is a fool,¡± he then said to Zelerath. ¡°While you are not. Surely you can see that I have had no choice but to come here? And I bare no ill will to you or any other kobold. I wish only to save my friend. I have not harmed nor wounded a single one of you. Save for him,¡± he conceded, waving to the guard, ¡°and he seemed likely to eat the child.¡± ¡°Hm¡­¡± Zelerath shifted on her mound, causing her newborns to squeak. ¡°There is wisdom in your words, son of Isleif. I¡ª¡± ¡°For the Hallowed!¡± came a nearby screech. Queen Zelerath¡¯s eyes widened in alarm, while panicked murmurs swept forth. ¡°For the Hallowed!¡± echoed another, amid the clashing of stone on metal. ¡°For the Hallowed!¡± A thunderous boom rocked the cavern, sending Hjorvarth and all the kobolds staggering. Debris swirled forward with a hail of small stones that extinguished candles and left the cavern in darkness. Hjorvarth fell to his knees now a second blast sounded out. Flames curled through the smoke choked air. Kobolds screeched in agonized terror. The sounds of anguished chaos blended together in a cacophonous din, punctuated by the steady rhythm of four more explosions. Hjorvarth had the thought that his whole plan had been ill advised. He waited to die, for flames to engulf him, for rocks to crash into his head. He prayed for Dan to find safe passage home despite his failures, and for Gudmund and the others from Horvorr to prevail in Timilir as well. He wondered if he would soon be back in Gudmund¡¯s Hall. Instead, the cavern settled into the sounds of whimpering, wailing, and hissing dust. The cloud of debris cleared enough for Hjorvarth to see by dusty blue light. Robed figures emerged from all sides, squeaking, their furred faces shadowed by white hoods. *** Hjorvarth trudged at the back of a giant mole, watching the sharp claws dig in and out of the earth. He had been bound at the wrists and waist, tethered to the line of kobolds behind him. The mole had been tied as well, but to a large bronze cage that grated against the earth and spat up a trial of debris. They followed a wide tunnel, earth rugged and adorned by sparkling stones of all colour, which painted the white cloth of the hooded kobolds in varied shades. Hjorvarth seemed to be the only one among the company that had no clue as to their destination. The kobolds in fine clothes, or no clothes at all, were afraid of those draped in white, and they walked with numbed gazes and slouched statures as if having already accepted their deaths. Russ kept a step behind the huge man, but he had also spoken no words. He kept looking instead towards the bronze cage, where Queen Zelerath¡¯s rolled flesh pushed up against the rusted bars. ¡°How far is Hubbard¡¯s domain?¡± Hjorvarth asked. ¡°Are we in grave danger?¡± ¡°Not far,¡± Russ replied. ¡°They will burn us and eat us alive.¡± ¡°Perhaps we should try and escape.¡± ¡°The way backward is blocked by spears. The way forward is blocked by the mole.¡± ¡°Russ,¡± Zelerath croaked. ¡°Russ!¡± Hjorvarth saw her massive figure move, but couldn¡¯t see her head. ¡°You must kill me,¡± Zelerath pleaded. ¡°You must kill me, Russ. Please. He will make me suffer. He will torture me and humiliate me. I must die before we reach his domain.¡± ¡°Things happen as they happen,¡± said Hjorvarth. Russ offered no answer of his own. He trod on in silence. Hjorvarth considered trying to cut his bonds on the claws of the giant mole but decided it was better not to risk losing his fingers. The great beast turned a corner and the choice was removed altogether. They came into a modest cavern with four adjoining tunnels, though the way to the left had since collapsed. Red and orange stones lit the space, belying the coldness of the earth. A group of kobolds, armoured and cloaked both, had paused up ahead. The kobold riding atop the mole looked towards the blocked tunnel in alarm. They all spoke among themselves hurriedly, as if fearful of what was to come. ¡°The Small King wages war against the Hallowed,¡± Russ observed. ¡°My people will soon meet a permanent end.¡± A great weight struck the earthen blockage, sending up a plume of dust. ¡°Does it sorrow you?¡± Hjorvarth asked. ¡°I thought it would not. But, yes, it does. Why do you ask, goblin?¡± Hjorvarth shrugged, wincing at pain. ¡°That is a hard question to answer.¡± Zelerath writhed in her cage, squealing and squeaking. The line of prisoners recoiled and cried out in panic. The armoured kobolds formed into a line that faced the collapsed tunnel, which shook and crumbled, muffling the savage roars of whatever sought to break through. Those in cloaks poured powders and readied stones and pipes. The rider of the giant mole tried to turn his mount. A short kobold with a conical helmet strode up to Hjorvarth. He cut the rope that tethered him to the mole. ¡°You are to follow me, goblin. I will lead¡ª¡± A cacophony of upturned earth crunched into the cavern. The collapsed tunnel was broken open by a massive creature with the horned head of a beetle, which then reared up to reveal an almost humanoid body with chitinous limbs. ¡°For the Hallowed!¡± a kobold declared. ¡°For the Small King!¡± Loffi answered, waving forth dozens of burly goblins that looked like children beneath the massive creature. ¡°Kill the¡ª¡± Powders sparked and erupted, puncturing the wave of goblins with shards and stones. The armoured kobolds charged forward with spears leveled while the cloaked kobolds split apart, pouring in more powders. Hjorvarth grabbed the sword from the stunned kobold that had freed him. Cutting himself free, he handed the blade to Russ. ¡°We should run.¡± Russ freed himself, and handed the sword further down the line. ¡°Go this way.¡± He nodded to the tunnel opposite and Hjorvarth ran around the giant mole, which had started to edge forward in defiance of the horned monster it now faced. The armoured kobolds clashed with the goblins in a din of rent flesh, broken bones, and clattering armour. Goblins shouted and spat while they tried to break the necks and tear the limbs from their skinnier foes, while they hauled rocks at cloaked kobolds who were busy with their metal pipes. The chitinous monster bowed its horned head and charged forward, trampling kobolds and goblins underfoot, paying no mind to the spears that struck it. The giant mole reared up in answer, and the two combatants clashed together. Hjorvarth turned back when he reached the opposite tunnel. Russ had not followed. He had shouldered sacks of powders instead. Hjorvarth met eyes with the cloaked kobold as he came to stand beside Zelerath¡¯s cage. Russ¡¯ lips curled slightly upwards over his fangs, forming a resigned smile. He lifted his arms above his head, clapping clawed hands together, showering sparks over himself. Hjorvarth ran, as fast as he could manage, while mad screeches and forceful roars overshadowed the cacophony of the battle. He consider leaping as soon as he heard the roar of burgeoning flames, only to be hurled from his feet by swift, deafening thunder. 34. Small Mercy 34. Small Mercy ¡°Though our escape from Zalak¡¯s throne room went smoothly, Magar and I ran afoul of a pack of spiders in the neighboring tunnels. This was odd in two ways. Firstly, because the tunnels were oft travelled and any spiders should have long since been killed by other goblins. And, more worryingly, because the spiders were a new breed with a particularly potent venom that I had never before witnessed. Given that I had spent so much of my life tracking and recording all the species in the underground, as well as some of those strangers creatures that hunt amid the underdark, such a discovery should have been impossible. And yet one of the huge twins was bitten, which soon incapacitated the goblin and set his skin to rotting in a manner most horrific. Magic and poultices proving useless, there was little left to do than kill him. His twin, Tuku, was understandably bewildered and distraught. Our attempts to calm and placate him have worked for now, but I suspect that the loss will not be readily suffered. And I wonder as well whether it is just humans and wandering gods that are travelling through time and space or whether creatures, doubtless unwitting, are being pulled from place to place as a result of temporal manipulation. In any case, I now find myself in the company of a meek youngling who now speaks only to himself and a grieving hulk who utters not a word.¡± Hubbard the Hallowed resided in long and narrow cavern, perched upon a ledge that overlooked a sheer drop and a pair of arduous slopes. He had kobolds standing guard at each of those approaches and white-cloaked pipers ready at either side of him. Hubbard did not wish to risk being stabbed or fired upon by the unfaithful. Death was release, but he did not yet wish to be released. There was work to be done, goblins to immolate. Though in truth that proved harder than he had originally reckoned. He had lost cavern upon cavern, tunnel upon tunnel, follower upon follower. Divine fire did not scour his domain of the incursions. Fervent faith did not cure the foes that so ailed him. Hubbard wondered whether he had made a mistake in breaking the kingdom of Rubinold. He wondered if things would have been different had he waited, had he murdered the king and taken his crown instead. But he had nought to do now but see his choices through. He would hold tight to his shrinking domain. He would bring both kobold monarchs to the brink with him. Hubbard¡¯s people would die. Their souls saved from bone-and-flesh prisons. ¡°Most hallowed Hubbard!¡± Hubbard had to peer down to see the white-cloaked kobold addressing him. ¡°What is it, Child of Fire?¡± ¡°Zelerath has fallen!¡± he declared. ¡°Destroyed in divine flames!¡± ¡°Praise the Hallowed,¡± the guards and pipers intoned. ¡°He who safeguards our souls!¡± ¡°Our righteousness has been proven.¡± Hubbard nodded, unconvinced that this kobold was as pleased as he should be. ¡°The faithless usurper has fallen. Rubinold the Pretender will topple soon enough.¡± He leaned forward in a seat molded from a dark mix of ash and earth. ¡°Do you bring any other news?¡± The kobold scraped and bowed. ¡°The goblin horde has breached the main caverns, most hallowed.¡± ¡°Have they been shown the merits of our faith?¡± ¡°Yes! Yes,¡± he echoed more quietly. ¡°Only one remains.¡± He stared at the earth. ¡°It wishes to speak with you.¡± He paused. ¡°It claims to be the son of Isleif.¡± *** Hjorvarth was ushered forward by kobolds that seemed to be draped in filthy bedsheets. He was aching and tired and, more than anything, surprised he wasn¡¯t dead. He didn¡¯t know whether the request for audience had been answered or whether they were simply leading him to an execution, but he had little choice other than to step forward unless he wanted to be prodded and stabbed by spears. He ducked under the low roof of a narrow tunnel that then widened and rose to a narrow cavern. A high plateau towered ahead, reachable by two steep slopes that ran alongside each side of the chamber. A handful of mangled candles lent the dark space a hue of gloomy orange. Hjorvarth was brought towards the rock face and forced to his swollen knees. He had to squint, but he thought he could see a white figure looking down at him. ¡°You sit in audience with the most holy and most hallowed, Hubbard the Hallowed!¡± a kobold beside him proudly declared. Hjorvarth made slight effort to dip his head in respect. ¡°You claim to be the son of Isleif?¡± asked a reedy voice from above, better suited to a sickly child than a feared ruler. ¡°I am the son of Isleif.¡± ¡°Why then do you serve the diminutive monarch of the green goblins?¡± ¡°I am a goblin.¡± ¡°A pink goblin,¡± Hubbard corrected. ¡°Pink is ever at odds with green. All know this. You should serve those who live under the dizzying heights of the blue ceiling.¡± ¡°In honest truth, I was sent to steal from Queen Zelerath on behalf of the kobold known as King Rubinold. I was then attacked and captured by your followers and brought here. I now wish nothing more than to return to the surface, or to be led back to the tunnels from where I came so that I can steal from Rubinold instead.¡± ¡°That is much unlike Isleif. He was the bringer of peace. He saved us from each other.¡± ¡°Oh,¡± murmured Hjorvarth. ¡°Do you wish peace with Rubinold¡­?¡± ¡°Such a question has no consequence. The Small King will send more goblins, more and more, until all the faithful are passed on to the life that follows. Until all the faithful are consumed in divine conflagration.¡± ¡°Would it not be simpler to try and make a truce?¡± ¡°There is nothing simpler than death,¡± hissed Hubbard. ¡°Then I know not what to say beyond that I have no wish to die without reason.¡± ¡°You will be accorded all respect, Isleif¡¯s son. I will make sure we burn together.¡± *** Hubbard the Hallowed pondered on the oddity of the son of Isleif. The pink goblin did not seem at all pleased with the grand honour he was awarded. He almost seemed to teeter on violence, but soon changed his mind when he was hemmed in by shining spears. Hubbard wondered whether the pink goblin should have been slain outright, so that all risk could be avoided and his body could be kept safe for the final fire.A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. ¡°A thing to consider,¡± Hubbard mused. ¡°Hubbard the Hallowed?¡± a shrill voice enquired. Hubbard squinted to see a small figure below, a green goblin, whose presence caused surprise and alarm among all those gathered. ¡°How do you get in here?¡± The cloaked kobolds moved to the ledge, powder hissing now they readied their pipes. The armoured kobolds took a wary step forward. ¡°I walked,¡± the goblin replied. ¡°I am the Small King. I have come¡ª¡± ¡°Burn him!¡± Hubbard covered his eyes as sparks were struck, as the armoured kobolds charged forward. Explosions rocked the cavern, whipping up white robes with a bitter rush of air, causing the cavern to shake and dirt to sift down onto the Hallowed¡¯s head. Hubbard slowly opened his eyes to see that a cloud of dust had enveloped the green goblin. He was elated, clapping and happy, until the cloud faded to reveal a goblin, a whole goblin, covered in black soot and brown dust. The Small King coughed, and spat out debris. ¡°If you do that again, I will slaughter you and all your people.¡± Hubbard the Hallowed considered that while his followers stopped of their own accord. ¡°Why are you here?¡± he ventured. ¡°As I understand it, Queen Zelerath has fallen. I have come to make an offer of peace. One that requires that you cede some of your domain. I will take the rest from Zelerath¡¯s holdings and from Rubinold¡¯s, as well, if needed.¡± ¡°I wish to keep all of my domain,¡± Hubbard countered. ¡°Then I will kill you. And Rubinold will get to keep all of his instead.¡± Hubbard the Hallowed shook with anger. ¡°I would sooner die!¡± ¡°Thank you. Those are the only words I needed to hear.¡± The Small King upturned long claws. ¡°If any of the rest of you wish to live, then you can butcher the Hallowed and I will negotiate with whoever takes his place.¡± ¡°Wait!¡± Hubbard insisted. ¡°I will conquer Rubinold¡¯s domain for you, and then you will have no need of mine.¡± The goblin scowled. ¡°That was I not a choice I presented.¡± ¡°Present one, then. This is no negotiation¡ªit is a threat!¡± The Small King¡¯s laugh was piping. ¡°I suppose that¡¯s true. Another choice¡­? I am obliged by the old laws to offer you resolution through a duel. If you wish to settle this war through single combat then that can be arranged.¡± He shrugged his sloped shoulders. ¡°But you would be expected to vacate your caverns, never to return, in the event of a loss. And I believe your people would be better served by¡ª¡± ¡°I accept!¡± Hubbard the Hallowed announced. ¡°Very well.¡± The Small King bowed. ¡°I will return to my people and arrange a place for us to meet. Though I would suggest you take all care in choosing your champion. My own will not be easily beaten.¡± ¡°I have already chosen.¡± Hubbard straightened in his ashen seat. ¡°Pink is ever at odds with green.¡± The Small King frowned, bowed once more, and then vanished. Hubbard the Hallowed grumbled his confusion. He had always thought that the Small King would be a giant. ¡°Well,¡± he thought aloud, ¡°at least I have a giant of my own.¡± *** Orog sat on crossed legs, titanic shadow looming behind, before a crackling fire. The Small King sat opposite and seemed at peace in the orange warmth. Loffi crouched between the mismatched pair while a dozen goblins, each named Moonkin, screeched and scratched while they ran frantic circles around the modest cavern. ¡°This seems¡ª¡± Orog frowned, searching for words. ¡°Makes us dead?¡± Loffi asked. ¡°Fraught with needless risk.¡± The Small King¡¯s green lips drew up over protruding fangs. ¡°Was it not you who asked me to find a peaceful resolution?¡± he asked. ¡°Does this not allow the kobolds to leave in relative peace when the war is concluded?¡± ¡°You saw the remnants of Zelerath¡¯s court,¡± Orog replied. ¡°They were shredded, ripped to pieces. If Hubbard attends then he will only attempt to consume us all in a senseless explosion.¡± He sighed. ¡°For what other reason would he attend? Does he truly expect that a kobold is going to best a fighting goblin?¡± ¡°I expect he intends to use a giant mole,¡± Agrak answered. ¡°As to the risk of fire, we¡¯ll simply choose a place that divides the spectators. If the need arises, I can shield us readily enough with magic.¡± ¡°At risk of you yourself exploding,¡± Orog rumbled. Agrak dismissed the warning with laughter. ¡°My soul isn¡¯t quite that unstable.¡± He smirked. ¡°Besides, I speak only of solutions to unlikely problems. Hubbard grabbed at the idea, and thus he must think he can win.¡± ¡°Or he is as mad as they say he is.¡± ¡°Perhaps.¡± Agrak shrugged. ¡°I think the likelier truth is that sacrifice by fire becomes less and less romantic as the flames grow ever closer. He sat high up, but I could see plainly that he feared death. Or at the least a fear of failure. What man, goblin, or rat would want to live as a god only to die as a screaming mortal? It is easy to surrender when you have nothing. Less so when all things are now yours.¡± Loffi snorted snot into the flames. ¡°Which of us will fight, Small Agrak?¡± ¡°I will, Loffi,¡± Orog answered. ¡°Orog fights.¡± ¡°That isn¡¯t strictly true,¡± Agrak said. ¡°I don¡¯t want to have you walk out to have your skull blown away by a crude cannon. I have spoken with Izzig, and he has one of those beetle goblin monstrosities fit for purpose.¡± Orog¡¯s flat features twisted. ¡°That does not sit well with me.¡± ¡°You could try standing,¡± Loffi suggested. ¡°What part?¡± Agrak asked. ¡°That you won¡¯t get to fight, or that Izzig has created them in the first place.¡± ¡°It is one thing,¡± Orog¡¯s rumbling voice was even lower, ¡°to breed monstrosities for¡­ for sake of some odd gain. And perhaps another to use them to spare the lives of ordinary goblins. But to put them in place as your heralds and champions.¡± He shook his large head. ¡°That is a mark of disrespect towards your actual people.¡± ¡°I have no wish to argue over trivialities,¡± said Agrak. ¡°If I have to disrespect you to protect you, then that is exactly what I will do. In the very same way that you would not have Loffi fight in a duel on your behalf.¡± Loffi met the words with a slight shrug. ¡°I will fight.¡± Orog scowled. ¡°I would not have any goblin fight on my behalf. Nor would I ever have need to.¡± ¡°I could make the same claim,¡± Agrak replied. ¡°Yet immortality takes the fun, and fairness, out of winning.¡± Orog¡¯s frown deepened. ¡°None of this changes the fact that Izzig means to twist us and defile us towards enormous proportions. Or to create creatures with monstrous appendages that no goblin should ever possess.¡± ¡°He does that at my request,¡± said Agrak. ¡°Do not disparage him for his loyalty.¡± ¡°Why would you ask that of him?¡± Orog demanded. ¡°You could have him breed ordinary goblins that can be trained¡ª¡± ¡°I will,¡± Agrak insisted, sighing deeply. ¡°This is beyond your understanding, my friend. If you want a simple answer then I am trying to understand whether goblins or the spawning pools came first. I am trying to discern how Dalpho was born to the proportions and likeness of sea creatures when he was born nowhere near the ocean.¡± ¡°The pools came first,¡± Loffi mentioned. ¡°What makes you think that?¡± Agrak asked. ¡°It smells like blue magic. And that is the bluest, oldest magic of all.¡± Loffi¡¯s orbish amber eyes danced with firelight. ¡°Though not so old as the man in the robe that smelled like gold.¡± Orog chuckled. ¡°I did not know you could smell such things, Loffi.¡± ¡°Of course.¡± Loffi¡¯s ears twitched. ¡°We all can¡­ can¡¯t we?¡± ¡°What do I smell of?¡± Agrak asked. Loffi shrugged. ¡°The earth, sweat, stone, old meat, old blood. Green and purple, and a mix of red and gold that keeps you together. Like Orog, only better and stronger. Orog¡¯s is more like the Fire Giant. Yours is better than that but not so good as the man in the robe. He is all gold, stained by purple. No red at all.¡± Orog and Agrak exchanged worried glances. ¡°What else do you know of the robed man?¡± Agrak asked. ¡°I don¡¯t,¡± Loffi replied. ¡°But Dalpho told Lazarus that he was the Old Enemy and Small King both.¡± ¡°You speak of a man named Lucius Chance,¡± Orog informed. ¡°He is in truth the Old Enemy.¡± ¡°This blue magic,¡± Agrak said, ¡°have you smelled it anywhere else?¡± ¡°No, yes, no.¡± Loffi scrutinised the flames. ¡°Yes¡­ no. It¡¯s hard to think with all the gold. That¡¯s why Moonkin has to run away and screech.¡± Agrak¡¯s eyes narrowed on the manic encirclement of goblins. ¡°They¡¯ll all running and screeching.¡± ¡°To stop the other colour,¡± Loffi agreed. ¡°One or two follow the rest.¡± Orog straightened. ¡°So we¡¯re being watched?¡± The Small King tapped his claws together and all of the scrawny goblins slowed to a stop, save for one that kept on running and screaming, paying no notice at all to his kin. ¡°How entirely unsettling,¡± said Agrak with a piping laugh. ¡°I managed not to notice the scrutiny of a dozen prying eyes.¡± The goblins named Moonkin sighed relief and started taking seats on the floor. ¡°What of the last?¡± Orog asked. Loffi grinned, leaping to his feet, and screeched. 35. Questions 35. Questions ¡°Isolated and alone, Magar has led us to a large chamber where a rough start to a vast spawning pool had been begun. Like the small poll from which the young shaman was birthed, it is not circular but seven sided. But a frail old shaman and a skinny youngling would struggle to finish the work. The surviving twin, Tuku, remains silent and seemed set on killing Magar when he suggested that we consume the body of his dead brother. Despite the obvious risk, Magar proceeded to eat the goblin¡¯s flesh. There then seemed to me to be little reason to act as a captive. My immortality might not avail me much against the likes of Tuku, but ending the young shaman¡¯s life was well within ability. ¡®We will set Agrak free now,¡¯ I told Magar. He sat cross-legged eating scraps of flesh that he had carved from the dead twin, and did not bother to look up at me. The masterfully wrought box of dwarven steel rested beside him, the once gleaming metal now dulled by dust and debris. ¡®Will we¡­? ¡®I will. You can help, or you cannot help.¡¯ ¡®It would be unwise, Izzig. He has been in the box for a long time.¡¯ ¡®Then the sooner we help him, the better.¡¯ ¡®There is no helping him.¡¯ My bony fists had clenched, and I felt terrible rage. Whatever attachment I once felt to the hatchling was swiftly fading. ¡®Then why did we bring him all this way?¡¯ ¡®For the Pool,¡¯ said Magar, glancing back with a flat expression. ¡®What we mean to birth requires a vast amount of magical energy. Agrak is not a shaman, but his being is permeated with magics both divine and alchemical. He will serve as a reagent.¡¯ ¡®I won¡¯t allow that. I will set him free.¡¯ ¡®Go ahead,¡¯ Magar readily suggested. When I finally arranged the correct code glyph and the chest opened, I was relieved to see that The Small King did indeed still live. But Agrak was unspeaking and unmoving. And though he breathed, he was as lost and uncommunicative as the dead.¡± Astrid sat amid the long grass, her cold legs slick with mud and her dress soaked with sleeting rain. Beside her, the sounds of dozens of teeth ripping into flesh and grinding into bone were horrific yet muted. She had been returned to the Midderlands Pass as promised, and soon stumbled upon Fragor, who sat happily gorging himself on a pile of charred goblin corpses. The robed man, The Alchemist, had not required much in exchange for his help. He had asked Astrid to pen a letter to herself, in which she divulged a childhood secret which would apparently be needed many years from now when she was much older and had forgotten all of these events to convince herself that the robed man could be trusted. Though Astrid was sure that he could not be relied upon at all. While a man like Hjorvarth spoke and acted with a childlike clarity that was as reliable as stone, the robed man spoke with a swift sweetness that mirrored the deceptive trickery of Lucius Chance. One a prideful man playing at a god, the other a prideful god playing at a man. But all this did not bother her. She was trapped, faraway, and would have had to agree to any reasonable deal brought to her by The Alchemist. It was her gift of light to the dead goddess which truly troubled her. She had thought at first that giving her a kobold stone would be a kindness, for it would shine unending and provide illumination if not distraction for a trapped and tragic creature. She had believed that her own words had reached through to some deeper humanity that resided within the undying corpse. And that answering that with a small gift was not only right, but required. Now though she could picture that purple kobold stone in waking dreams, radiating with malevolent energy. And Astrid knew that she had not convinced anyone of anything. She had been tricked. And what she thought would be a pretty bauble for a lonely goddess would somehow be used and imbued to create an object of terrible evil. Astrid could picture the buxom woman who would pluck it up from a stony beach. And she could faintly hear the screams of her husband after the stone¡¯s corruption took hold. ¡°What doing, Acid¡­?¡± Fragor was standing over her now, his dark green figure of wax looming, the black blood of goblins tricking from his featureless head, diluted by the slowing rainfall. She viciously shivered. ¡°Nothing.¡± ¡°No thing¡­?¡± Fragor ponderously hummed. ¡°But we are finding¡­ yes?¡± ¡°No, Fragor,¡± she quietly answered, plucking at blades of long marsh grass. Her entire quest had been stupid, she realized. She should have waited for her sister. Or gone with Hjorvarth. Or done anything at all other than accompany a troll into a dangerous place which she had no business being in to undertake a vain quest for a mysterious box that she truly knew nothing about. That had likely been buried for a very good reason. That had been hidden away and secured just like that dead goddess had been. And Astrid was not about to go and undo some other ancient deeds to let loose more evil into the world. Fragor stood staring down at her for a long while. ¡°You is cold, Acid,¡± he remarked as if both surprised and concerned. ¡°We need to¡­ not finding, then. Moving. Shelter,¡± he happily decided. ¡°I am finished eating. I am very big now. Not as big as before,¡± he added, somewhat regretfully. ¡°But who knows¡­ maybe we are finding¡ªmore food!¡± ¡°I¡¯m fine,¡± Astrid answered, her caustic tone undercut by trembling delivery. ¡°Not fine!¡± Fragor countered, his words shill and painful to hear. Astrid scowled up at the huge troll. ¡°Why don¡¯t you just leave me alone, Fragor?¡± ¡°Leave?¡± he asked. ¡°Why? We are friends, Acid! We¡ª¡±Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings. ¡°No!¡± Astrid struggled up from the slippery mud, nearly falling back down. ¡°There is no ¡®we.¡¯ You are some ancient carrion, gobbling up corpses like a thing out of a child¡¯s nightmare. And if I were to die, you would gobble up me as well. I only ever brought you with me on a whim. A child¡¯s whim, to show Hjorvarth what a brave and capable young woman I am. But I am not brave, nor capable. And you are not my friend. You were never friend my friend. Nor will we ever be friends. So¡­ please¡­ leave me alone.¡± Fragor emitted a long whining hum like a wounded animal. His fists balled together, creases forming and cracking to seep out acidic wax, but then he leaned forward as if he were studying her. ¡°Oh¡­¡± he murmured, almost thoughtfully. ¡°Your brain is freezing, Acid. I need to find you a fire. And then¡­ friends. Yes, yes.¡± ¡°No,¡± Astrid shouted. ¡°You need to listen¡ª¡± Fragor lurched forward, scooping her up into his arms, and began bounding down the sodden marshland. ¡°I am helping, I am helping, I am helping.¡± She tried to struggle, to wrest free, but the more she squirmed the tighter the giant troll¡¯s arms wrapped around her. And her chest began to become compressed while errant cracks in wax began to burn her skin. Strangely, the dangerous heat felt almost pleasant amid her freezing flesh. And she had the thought, mind tired and eyes drifting, that maybe it would be good to find a fire. *** Sybille sighed in frustration, her chest pressed by rising dread. She stood in the library, staring down at the red-leather tome that was the Improvised History of Everything. She had opened the pages, and closed it, and now moved to open it once more. The cover thudded with the same force and swept up another gust of dust. She coughed to clear the tickle of her lungs. Sybille swallowed, and scrutinised the golden pages. The candle beside it flickered and made her own shadow dance across the dusty rows of dark bookshelves. ¡°Will I die?¡± ¡°Of course,¡± bled into the pages. ¡°Soon?¡± ¡°Is a vague approximation.¡± ¡°Will our plan work?¡± ¡°We have not formed a plan.¡± Sybille scowled. ¡°Is my father going to die tomorrow?¡± ¡°No.¡± Sybille¡¯s hopeful smile faltered when realised she was entrusting her future to a book. ¡°Is Jarl Thrand going to die tomorrow?¡± ¡°Eluna has woven it so. Muradoon take his soul.¡± Sybille nodded with a certainty. She waited in the cold silence. ¡°Will Engli survive?¡± ¡°For longer than you.¡± ¡°Is Hjorvarth alive?¡± ¡°More or less.¡± ¡°Do I love Engli?¡± Sybille regretted the words as she spoke them. ¡°That is an odd question, Sybille. And not one I would make a habit of asking¡­ books.¡± Those words, echoing in her head in Grettir¡¯s harsh voice, chilled her and smothered her in sorrow. ¡°Is Grettir in the Lady¡¯s Shadow?¡± she whispered. ¡°Does he suffer in death?¡± ¡°He is not. No more than in life. He waits for his oldest friend.¡± ¡°And my brothers¡­?¡± ¡°One is far away, in a place of darkness. The other watches this library from the cold streets of the stone city, and wonders who has left a candle burning at such a late hour. He knows that he looks upon his father and sister. He is mourning. He is waiting. He is the one-eyed servant of a one-eyed god. Do not rush to the window.¡± ¡°Why?¡± ¡°A snake approaches.¡± A clacking cane announced the staggered arrival of Jarl Thrand. He wore all black and seemed as old as ever. ¡°Oh,¡± he muttered. ¡°I didn¡¯t think it would be you. What are you doing up so late at night?¡± He noticed the ink shift. ¡°¡®Reading,¡¯¡± he read aloud from the page. ¡°What a droll volume.¡± Sybille had not moved or spoken. She appeared as an animal readied for flight. ¡°I take it that Luta showed you this?¡± the old Jarl asked. ¡°She should not have.¡± He smiled in manner almost apologetic. ¡°I did not mean it any sense of violation. Rather that the book is dangerous. My second wife would often look upon it, asking two questions which proved to undo her: would I come to love another woman, and would I ever bear her children. It answered yes and no¡­ and proved those truths when she leapt from the window. Do you understand my meaning?¡± Sybille carefully nodded. ¡°It tricked your wife into taking her own life?¡± ¡°It did,¡± Thrand agreed soberly. ¡°And since it cannot be destroyed, I hide it in that wall. Yet no matter where I hide it, someone always seems to find it.¡± He let out a shaky sigh. ¡°I once buried it under the earth and a man arrived, having stolen it from a kobold, to return it in hopes of gaining favour.¡± He stared down at the book. ¡°It was a fisherman when I hurled it into the ocean. And when I had it brought out to distant mountains, it simply fell back into the estate from a sky. Perhaps returned by a great bird.¡± ¡°That is very worrying.¡± ¡°I suppose it is.¡± Jarl Thrand scowled down. ¡°And why do you so plague me book?¡± ¡°The Improvised History of Everything was given as a gift by The Guide to one of the first descendants of the ancestors that arrived in the Landing,¡± emerged onto the page in red ink. ¡°It was given to the true ruler of the stone city. You are not of his blood. Thus it is you that plagues history, Thrand son of Thrand. Improvised or otherwise.¡± Jarl Thrand shook his head. ¡°I was told by Dragmarr that it is bound in the skin of a man. A servant of Muradoon. And as such his spirit lives on in the pages.¡± He looked up at the pale maiden. ¡°What do you think of that?¡± ¡°It could be true,¡± said Sybille. ¡°So the same could be said for all things.¡± Thrand raised his thin brows. ¡°Tell me¡­ what questions did you ask?¡± ¡°I asked of my father and brothers,¡± she answered. ¡°I asked if they would be safe. I asked of those from Horvorr, as well.¡± Jarl Thrand nodded. ¡°And did the answers please you?¡± ¡°They were more or less as I hoped.¡± ¡°Truly?¡± the old Jarl¡¯s dark eyes narrowed. ¡°It answers me with only vague words or half truths.¡± He paused. ¡°Safety, was it? Dear book, will I be safe on our journey tomorrow? Will I live out the winter?¡± ¡°Safety¡­¡± the ink began then disappeared. ¡°These questions would be better asked to the Low King.¡± Thrand¡¯s teeth ground together. ¡°Is the Low King near to Timilir?¡± ¡°Closer than some enemies, further away than others.¡± ¡°I will leave you to your reading,¡± Sybille gently suggested, her gaze lowered. ¡°I do wish not to intrude.¡± Jarl Thrand assented with a nod and a forced smile. He watched and waited until she departed. ¡°Is Gudmund my enemy¡­? Is his daughter? Should I kill them in their beds tonight?¡± he demanded of the book. ¡°Gudmund¡¯s death will be the death of you. He has no daughter that is a threat to anyone.¡± ¡°Am I going to die?¡± Thrand asked. ¡°Of course.¡± ¡°Soon?¡± ¡°Sooner than you¡¯d like.¡± ¡°Can I prevent it?¡± ¡°As easily as a man can stop himself drowning by drinking water.¡± The words were replaced by a black depiction of Ouro, of an enormous scaled worm choking on his own tail. ¡°In salvation, death. In victory, defeat.¡± 36. The Night Before 36. The Night Before ¡°I have spent several days trying to get Agrak to respond or to communicate, but he simply stares unceasingly forward with a hollow gaze. If he is not propped against a wall, he merely flops forward like a corpse. My initial elation upon seeing him has soon withered to bitter regret. Long had I envied and resented The Small King. Then I had missed him dearly and wished for his return. Yet now I wish I had never found him. I keep pondering on our last conversation before the dwarven feast. He had told me that in his whining piping voice that he thinks that this will go poorly. I asked for which side and he merely shrugged. I had always found The Small King¡¯s voice to be close to insufferable. And never quite reckoned how he managed to effectively threaten so many goblins in such a whining tone. But each night I think how sweet it would be for him to speak again. To hear his words be they melancholy or caustic. And each night, amid those thoughts, I fear he will never speak again. That Magar is right. There is no way to help Agrak now. My time crushed beneath the earth nearly broke my mind. And The Small King has been trapped in a lightless box for a far longer and far more terrible length of time." Gudmund lay in the shadowed room provided. Long, sparsely furnished, his modest bed nestled against the far wall. He slept on his left side, having view of his door, while keeping his brother¡¯s sword under the furs behind him. When his concentration lapsed, he entertained fleeting thoughts of returning home, only to remember that the past had turned to ash. ¡°Can¡¯t wait to see my sons again,¡± he bitterly thought. ¡°Can¡¯t wait to go home. But, no, I won¡¯t. I can¡¯t. All gone and you¡¯re all that¡¯s left. You¡¯ve got your daughter, but she hates you. I should send her to safety, end Thrand, and be done with it.¡± Cold marble. Embers resting in the darkness of a mantled hearth. Worn chests and old garments of a life past. His history stuffed into wood. Folded, dusty, and moth eaten. Gudmund slept now in the clothes that an enemy had made for him, white and blue discordant with the deep red of his hair and beard. ¡°The son of great old Geirolf. In line to become the Jarl of Weskin. Well, not at first¡ªbut chopping Grim to pieces soon fixed that. Brolli and Gudmund working together like midnight butchers. The first time, but not the last. Though at least Grim had deserved it. Had Gahr¡¯rul? He¡¯d wanted an honest duel, after all. Three to one.¡± If Gudmund had only known what he really was then he¡¯d have gladly accepted. He¡¯d always feared he was a goblin stronger than Ragadin, bigger than Dalpho, swifter than Lazoor the Black. ¡°But surely there¡¯s no way that the Chief of Chiefs could have won. Not against all three of us at our strongest.¡± ¡°Maybe he should¡¯ve,¡± Gudmund whispered aloud. ¡°Might have done more with his life,¡± he bitterly thought. But then a great weight of guilt swept over him at the thought of his son¡¯s being denied their lives. All too short, but at least they had known love. ¡°I was a grandfather,¡± he realized, now the misery deepened and he could feel all the sorrow he¡¯d long fought to bury reaching up to grab him by the throat. ¡°What did I ever do to you, Muradoon?¡± he demanded in his mind, thoughts turning restless and violent. ¡°Why have you been out to get me from the moment I was born? Not one family, but two. Not sons, but grandsons! I was a good¡­ I was not¡­ I¡¯m not evil. I don¡¯t¡ªI can¡¯t have deserved this¡­ could I? No¡ªNo! And my sons sure as shadows didn¡¯t deserve it, you wretched one-eyed fuck! When all this is done I¡¯m going to tear down your temple stone by stone. Send every useless Muradooner into the Lady¡¯s Shadow, and then I¡¯ll come for you too. Tomlok took your eye, but I¡¯ll hack off your ugly head. And when I¡¯m done I¡¯ll burn every page in every parchment that ever mentioned your name. Until you¡¯re forgotten. First Thrand and then you, Spirit Talker. See how well you can see the dead when I set your head on fire and your one good eye pops in the heat¡ª¡± The door¡¯s handle rattled. Gudmund paused, cheeks red with anger, heart pounding. Hinges creaked now the door opened and closed. He reached for his sword. Then armour rattled as a small guard strode into the ruby gloom of the cold room. Anna waited in stillness and silence. ¡°Are you awake?¡± Gudmund opened his eyes as answer. He sighed, remembering that all their lives were balanced on a knife¡¯s edge. ¡°Is she¡­?¡± ¡°She¡¯s gone to bed,¡± Anna whispered. ¡°Thrand scared her out of the library.¡± She paused. ¡°This is an odd plan, Gudmund. It¡¯s not too late to change your mind.¡± Gudmund closed his eyes. ¡°Thrand means to poison me at my wedding. I think it¡¯s a little late¡ª¡± ¡°You have coin to live in peace. You don¡¯t¡ª¡± ¡°Do you know why I lost I my lands?¡± Gudmund cut in. ¡°Why I conquered Southwestern Tymir?¡± ¡°I can guess that you¡¯re going to tell me.¡± Anna stepped forward. ¡°Roll aside before you begin. You¡¯re the loudest whisperer in the world.¡± Gudmund frowned at that but did as she asked. He waited till the armoured woman laid down on the bed. ¡°Well¡­?¡± ¡°Well,¡± Gudmund whispered, ¡°I thought Brolli had been murdered by my neighbors. And I was not in my right mind¡­ so I started to raid towns and villages. I killed a lot of folk,¡± he admitted with regret. ¡°For vengeance, of course,¡± he mocked. ¡°But some people seemed to think that I had the right idea and so they swore loyalty to me. Soon enough, I was almost in control of a third of the High Lands. I then receive a letter from Jarl Thrand asking me¡­ well, it hardly matters. I travelled to Timilir. Then the wolves descend when I¡¯m gone. They kill all my people, and my friends¡­ and my wife¡­ and my child.¡± ¡°I¡¯m¡­¡± Anna wasn¡¯t sure what to say. ¡°I didn¡¯t know that.¡± ¡°No use telling you if you did,¡± said Gudmund, gruffly, as if he felt no grief at all. ¡°So there¡¯s that, and some other things.¡± He shrugged. ¡°Thrand helped the goblins that attacked Southwestern Tymir, as well. He asked them to capture my sons. All bad things. He¡¯s¡ª¡± Gudmund worked his tongue against his teeth. ¡°You told me I don¡¯t need to do this¡­ but I do. There is no peace for me while that bastard walks in the waking life. I can¡¯t buy the hatred out of my veins. I almost want to¡­ but I don¡¯t, and I won¡¯t.¡± ¡°Then you¡¯re an idiot.¡± ¡°I¡¯d say that¡¯s a kind way of putting it.¡± Gudmund stared up at the shadowed marble ceiling. ¡°I once spent a night screaming at shadows and demanding answers from the gods. But I¡¯m starting to think that I¡¯m the one who¡¯s really owing answers¡­ for all those that died in my care, for all those I killed with my own hands. Even the goblins, that one called Lazarus, believed in the honour of his cause. But I¡¯m still here, living and breathing, while he¡¯s ash on the wind. I¡¯m not righteous. I¡¯m not better then he was. Or any of the other goblins. I might not even be better than Thrand.¡± Anna lay still beside him. She opened her mouth but spoke no words. ¡°¡®The gods are always listening¡­¡¯,¡± Gudmund bitterly repeated. ¡°That¡¯s what I said in my hall when I refused to answer the questions of my own people. And I can still see all their scared faces looking up at me when I told them they¡¯d survive.¡± He swallowed. ¡°Before that, I told Grettir he hadn¡¯t done enough because he hadn¡¯t died for my sons, And then he went out and died for my daughter¡­ for me¡­ for all of us. He didn¡¯t mind proving a man wrong. I don¡¯t think that¡¯s something I¡¯ll ever manage.¡± ¡°There weren¡¯t many folk in Horvorr thought you could keep your town.¡± ¡°And now they¡¯re dead and I¡¯m still living,¡± Gudmund remarked, his words flattened by sadness. ¡°That wasn¡¯t what I wanted. I leapt out a window to die a hero¡¯s death and now I¡­ I don¡¯t really know. I invoked my sons¡¯ deaths when I set goblins loose in Horvorr. I did the same at the trial¡­ to paint Hjorvarth as a violent fool, and then he told me the truth that noone would. Sixty six men on that field and I wasn¡¯t one of them. I was hiding from the world. Sleeping in a boat when Agnar and Geirmund died.¡± The words lingered in the cold night air.If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. Gudmund closed his eyes tight, finding it an effort just to keep his breathing steady. He¡¯d accused his little brother of hating himself once, but he¡¯d readily agreed. ¡°Is this how he felt?¡± Gudmund thought. ¡°Every day of his hard life. Reviled and feared. Shunned by his own brother. The only person in the whole cruel world who could understand him.¡± ¡°Should have gone for a swim,¡± Anna eventually whispered. ¡°Would have saved us all some trouble.¡± ¡°It would have. But it was Brolli that took that tact, wasn¡¯t it?¡± Gudmund asked, his words coming out unwieldy and trembling. He bit down on his emotions, and scowled into the darkness. ¡°He hated Thrand, you know,¡± Gudmund added. ¡°He¡¯d ask me what it was going to take to make me rise up against him. ¡®You¡¯ve turned soft. You¡¯ve turned into a coward. A lazy coward, the worst kind of coward.¡¯ He said that a lot,¡± he realized with a slight smirk. ¡°Didn¡¯t matter what kind of coward he was calling you, it was always the worst kind.¡± Then Gudmund shook his head and he smiled with rage. ¡°¡®I¡¯ll come back when the man¡¯s killed your sons, because that¡¯s how this ends.¡¯¡± Anna looked over at him. Through her helmet¡¯s visor, she could see his troubled eyes glistening in the darkness. She had always suspected that the Chief of Horvorr kept most of his thoughts and feelings well hidden, but she never thought he¡¯d want to unburden himself to her. She realized Gudmund had always been more of an idea, or a figurehead, to her. An unlikable hero in a saga. But now he seemed like a man. Broken and wounded. Or even a lost and fearful boy. ¡°Maybe Brolli should have been a Salt Sage,¡± she joked. Gudmund laughed a quiet, bitter laugh. ¡°He made that over claim ten winters ago. Do you think that he¡¯s coming back¡­?¡± ¡°No.¡± ¡°No,¡± Gudmund echoed. ¡°I suppose not.¡± He swallowed. ¡°I used to have another brother, you know. By the name of Grim, and he was just that. A big bastard¡ªonly a little smaller than Hjorvarth. Two years my elder, but he always reminded me of a man grown. Even when he was young. Brolli was¡­ my little brother.¡± He nodded at his own choice of words. ¡°And he was quick, and he didn¡¯t give up. So when it came to fighting swords, it was me¡ªmiddling in all respects¡ªagainst strength and speed. I didn¡¯t really care. I just liked fighting. But Grim¡­ he didn¡¯t ever want to lose. I¡¯d let him win even when I¡¯d fought for minutes for an advantage. But Brolli only ever wanted to win as well.¡± Embers crackled in the fire and hissed out a spray of dying sparks. Cold encroached on all sides from the stone and the darkness until the only heat left was between them. ¡°Grim¡¯s dead?¡± Anna reasoned. ¡°Grim¡¯s dead. Murdered in the night by his young brothers.¡± ¡°Is that one of your many regrets?¡± Gudmund chuckled. ¡°Brolli¡¯s best friend, his only friend, was the daughter of a neighboring lord. She was always around, always with Brolli. So she was there after Brolli beat Grim. There while our father told Grim he was a disgrace for losing to his younger brother. She was in Brolli¡¯s room when Grim came with his friends and raped the both of them. The both of them,¡± he whispered in disgusted disbelief. ¡°She didn¡¯t visit after that. Next I heard she was with child. Then not long after that she herself from a high window. Landed onto some hard stones. I saw Brolli stalking the halls a few days later with two sharp knives. Followed him. To stop him, I thought, but¡­¡± ¡°You helped him instead?¡± Gudmund met the words with an assenting murmur. ¡°Not sure why I¡¯m telling you all this,¡± he then added. ¡°I¡¯m sure you really don¡¯t care about¡ª¡± ¡°I killed Engli¡¯s blood father,¡± Anna quietly whispered. ¡°He raped me,¡± she added more firmly, both feeling unburdened and nauseated by admitting the secret. She had never told Linden, for fear he would want revenge, and for fear he would look at Engli and be ever reminded of how he came to be. ¡°I bit through his throat.¡± ¡°Oh,¡± murmured Gudmund. ¡°Well, that¡¯s a little unsettling.¡± ¡°And murdering your brother as he sleeps is normal, is it?¡± she hissed. ¡°I had meant that as a joke,¡± Gudmund answered, his words unusually awkward. ¡°Besides, Grim wasn¡¯t sleeping for the most part. Too busy with all the screaming. ¡± ¡°You¡¯re not funny.¡± ¡°I heard you the first time.¡± ¡°First time¡­?¡± ¡°That¡¯s what you said when we first met.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t remember that.¡± ¡°You were watching Engli play on the lake,¡± said Gudmund. ¡°It was winter and frozen over. You walked over to me and asked about my children and I said that I didn¡¯t have any children. That I was just waiting to see if anyone fell in the water.¡± ¡°That wasn¡¯t funny. Good people have died in exactly that way.¡± ¡°I know. But I had the thought that the next question out of your mouth would have been asking about my wife. Asking why I¡¯m the only man of working age stood about with the mothers and old people.¡± Gudmund sniffed. ¡°I was honestly waiting to see if someone fell in as well. I thought I¡¯d have the best chance at saving them.¡± ¡°You¡¯re not so good at that though, are you?¡± Anna asked. ¡°Waiting?¡± ¡°Saving people. Or waiting. Or honesty.¡± ¡°Funny,¡± Gudmund muttered. ¡°Why didn¡¯t you kill Brolli?¡± Anna frowned. ¡°Why would I want to kill Brolli?¡± ¡°He¡­¡± Gudmund trailed off. ¡°He attacked you. In the Ritual House, when he¡ª¡± ¡°I know when you mean¡­ but, no, he didn¡¯t. It was a close thing¡­ and the men with him weren¡¯t exactly pleased. But he thought it would be best for us both if I pretended that he did. He seemed to almost think that it was funny. I told Linden, of course. But I thought that it would be pretty obvious to you that it hadn¡¯t happened.¡± Gudmund stomach turned hearing her words.¡°Why would it be obvious?¡± ¡°Because.¡± ¡°Because¡­?¡± ¡°He wouldn¡¯t exactly have an easy time of it, would he?¡± ¡°Brolli was the best fighter I¡¯d ever seen. In what way would he have a hard time?¡± ¡°Are you pretending?¡± she confusedly asked. ¡°Or do you really not know?¡± ¡°He tried to rape Hilda,¡± Gudmund growled. ¡°That¡¯s what I know.¡± ¡°He tried to rape Hilda?¡± Anna echoed in frustration. ¡°He doesn¡¯t have any balls, Gudmund. I¡¯ve seen it with my own eyes, when I didn¡¯t even want to. He told me he had never had sex with a woman.¡± Gudmund pushed up onto his side, scowling as he shook his head. ¡°No.¡± ¡°No¡­? I swear it by Broknar¡­ which isn¡¯t worth much because I swore I¡¯d never tell anyone his secret,¡± she realized. ¡°By the gods, you should have known. Why wouldn¡¯t you know that about your own brother?¡± ¡°He told me. She was barely dressed. Hilda told me. Brolli¡ª¡± ¡°Stop saying their names,¡± Anna hissed. ¡°You¡¯re going¡ª¡± ¡°Lady below,¡± Gudmund cursed, remembering his young wife laughing with a hawkish ginger man. Heat rose to his rigid cheeks. ¡°Isleif the Ghost was bedding my wife. He sat at my table. He watched his friend suffer for the lie. I risked war with Timilir for his sake. I defended him. I protected him. I¡ª¡± ¡°You need to calm down, Gudmund,¡± Anna quietly urged. ¡°All the men you¡¯re mad with are dead.¡± ¡°Dead,¡± Gudmund repeated. ¡°My brother died knowing I hated him for something he didn¡¯t even do. I blamed him for her death. I spat in his face. He wanted me to kill him but I did worse than kill him.¡± His laugh was almost a cry. ¡°Why wouldn¡¯t he just tell me?¡± ¡°He must have wanted to protect Isleif.¡± ¡°No.¡± Gudmund knew that wasn¡¯t it. ¡°He didn¡¯t think I deserved the truth. Why should he have to tell me what I should already know? ¡®Not my job to cure the ignorance of others. If it was, I¡¯d be a busier man, and I¡¯d be even more hated.¡¯¡± Anna rolled atop him and blocked his mouth before he started to shout. ¡°You¡¯re an idiot. He¡¯s an idiot. You can¡¯t change it.¡± She held his feral gaze. ¡°You can¡¯t change it. We can¡¯t change anything. We can only choose what happens next. I lost my husband. You lost your brother and your sons. He made his choice. He convinced you.¡± Gudmund shook his head. He grasped her wrists now tears trickled down his cheeks. Anna lifted her hands to let him speak. ¡°You have more important¡ª¡± ¡°Important?¡± Gudmund asked in a fretful whisper. ¡°You just told me that my brother could never have children of his own¡­ and I barred him from seeing his nephews and niece for no reason at all. That I despised him for something he never even¡ª¡± Anna kissed him for a long moment, stopping when he started to scowl. ¡°What are you doing?¡± he gruffly whispered. ¡°Look at you,¡± Anna answered. ¡°You¡¯re crying like a little girl. You look heart broken. How am I supposed to entrust you with my life and my son¡¯s, if I¡¯m worried you¡¯re about to jump out of a window?¡± She shook her head. ¡°Do you want to have sex or not?¡± Gudmund considered the question for a long while. ¡°You¡¯re married.¡± ¡°I¡¯m a widow.¡± ¡°You¡¯re covered in armour.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t have to take it all off.¡± ¡°Why would I want to do this right now¡­ with you, with anyone?¡± ¡°I assumed you¡¯re remembering the first thing I told you meant that you were attracted to me. I can¡¯t answer the last question, but as to the first I¡¯d offer the simple fact that we might both die tomorrow.¡± ¡°I can¡¯t even see your face.¡± ¡°Is that you asking me to take off my helmet or just another excuse?¡± ¡°I¡¯m married.¡± ¡°So it¡¯s been nearly twenty winters?¡± Anna lifted off her helmet, her tangled blond hair colourless in the night. ¡°That¡¯s bad. That¡¯s almost as bad as Brolli.¡± Gudmund glared. ¡°That¡¯s not funny.¡± ¡°It¡¯s sad, really. I can¡¯t let you walk to your death with that as a fact.¡± Anna brushed matted locks away from her face. ¡°So are you ready¡­ or do I need to force you?¡± 37. Contender 37. Contender ¡°The plight of myself and Magar appeared to take a turn for the worse when we were found by a rowdy clan of scrawny goblins led by a cruel sharp-fanged goblin who was far more scarred and far more muscular than the rest. Though he had attempted to take us all prisoner¡ªperhaps to eat as food¡ªTuku uttered his first word since his twin brother had died.a ¡®Challenge.¡¯ The scarred chief readily accepted, with such enthusiasm that I worried for our huge goblin protector. I feared that speed and agility would win out against lumbering force. But I need not have worried. Within the space of a few breaths, a thunderous punch drove the scarred into the stony ground. And then Tuku proceeded to pummel the Chief until he was a bloody pile of broken bones. Lacking the fanfare of other duels I¡¯d seen, the scrawny clan of goblins watched in horrified silence. Then Tuku, his great fists slick with blood and impaled by shards of bone, turned to Magar with a flat and lifeless look that made me feel real fear for the first time in as long as I could remember. I found myself stepping ahead of the young shaman. Tuku¡¯s small dark eyes narrowed, and he took a thumping step towards me. Then the hulking goblin slowly exhaled, and his lips curled up into a regretful smile. ¡®Shaman Izzig. Come. Together, we lead.¡¯¡± Hjorvarth took a deep breath that stretched his bruised chest and lifted aching shoulders. He wasn¡¯t sure whether pain was lessening or whether he had started to lose his senses. But he was certain enough of the way forward, even without the narrow tunnel walls at either side and the spears prodding from behind. He had not planned to become trapped under the earth, to be burnt and scarred, to be buried in a world that he did not understand, but that was the reality he woke to and so that was the purpose he would now pursue without hesitation. Sam would be safe, or so Hjorvarth prayed. He had a chance at the least. Dan was either dead already, courtesy of Hjorvarth¡¯s help, or he was still waiting and trapped for his rescuer to return. Hjorvarth would¡¯ve liked to manage that, the return, but he had no doubts at all that he was due to lose this coming duel. He would stand against that same goblin he had fought before. Orog, who had caught his axe mid-flight and felled him in a single blow. Hjorvarth had a spear now though, so perhaps that might help. He sighed a slow sigh that seemed to shrink his tired frame. He could barely see the path ahead of him, lit by the candle of the kobold behind and eclipsed by his own great shadow. ¡°That is the way of things,¡± he thought, ¡°I bring cold and darkness in place of warmth and illumination.¡± His musings drifted to thoughts of those from Horvorr. He wondered how Gudmund¡¯s trip to the stone city had fared, whether Engli and Sybille were safe and happy, whether Alrik had fled or kept a grip on the treacherous reins of the Black Hands. He thought about the woman who had lost her husband to Ivar¡¯s reckless actions, about Ivar¡¯s own death, caused by Hjorvarth, and of his frail mother that lived in Timilir. ¡°I should have remembered that sooner,¡± he chided in his own mind. ¡°The Black Hands will have brought her no word nor coin. I will survive, then,¡± he decided. ¡°I will claw my way through the earth if needed. Let no woman or child be left to suffer for my own rash actions. Once I have made all my amends, I can go readily to death. Isleif is gone, Horvorr with him. There is nought left for me to do once Dan is freed.¡± He then pictured the proud, stoic features of Bjorn, asking Hjorvarth what he might do with his life before he died bravely outside the walls of Horvorr. And he was surprised to feel great guilt at having survived while the mountaineer died. By Astrid¡¯s word, the Sage had returned to Jorund¡¯s Hill and broke apart the strange family of goblin worshipers. ¡°Astrid¡­¡± Hjorvarth thought, suffering an odd sort of longing. He pictured her room, where lay scores upon scores of drawings of Hjorvarth. She claimed that they were visions of the future. He wondered if there was a drawing there of him fighting Orog. But she had drawn him as an old man. Scarred. Bald. Hjorvarth still had some hair upon his head. So if Astrid was to believed, then he would survive so long as he never shaved. ¡°But she is not to be believed,¡± he reminded himself. ¡°For all prophets are liars. ¡®All seers prey on the blind,¡¯ as Brolli would say.¡± ¡°He had always wanted me to fight in an arena,¡± Hjorvarth mused. ¡°Were I not certain to lose, I would wish you were here to see it. What was it I said¡­ ¡®You did not raise me to fail.¡¯ Yet all I have done is fail. Failed you. Failed Isleif. Failed Engli. I have failed Gudmund in ways beyond counting. I could not spare his sons the Lady¡¯s Shadow. I am not with him to safeguard his daughter. I did not stand alongside him and the other men of Horvorr¡¯s Guard when the walls were broken. But you did not raise me to fail, that much is true.¡± ¡°¡®Gudmund is not finished yet,¡¯ had said Grettir in that strange dream.¡± ¡°Nor am I,¡± Hjorvarth decided aloud. ¡°I will not fail no matter what I face.¡± *** The Small King had made a cavern suited to the purpose of safe spectating. He stood between Loffi and Orog, one taller by a half, the other by four full lengths. He had the fleeting thought that the diminutive pair must have appeared as Orog¡¯s children. ¡°You smell like gold,¡± Loffi mentioned. Two dozen goblins named Moonkin perched on a high bench behind the prominent trio. They were all situated on a stone balcony that overlooked a wide arena, and had view of an identical balcony on the opposite side of the rounded cavern. One of the Moonkin¡¯s appeared wide-eyed and restless, his tattered ears twitching. ¡°Yes,¡± Agrak agreed. ¡°It is not a concern unless you can smell the robed man.¡± Loffi swept his orbish gaze across the darkness, pocked by a dozen luminous spheres where torches burned on the sides of rugged walls or standing rocks. ¡°Not him, no.¡± ¡°I would ask once more to fight,¡± Orog said. ¡°You disrespect them by choosing a creature that cannot be bested.¡± Agrak bared his fangs. ¡°Would I not then be causing more disrespect by sending you instead?¡± ¡°I will have a Chief chosen.¡± ¡°No.¡± Agrak shook his head. ¡°I do not wish to risk being honour bound to leave this place in peace.¡± ¡°Orog not fight,¡± Loffi agreed. The trio were distracted now kobolds began to arrive on the opposite balcony, filing forward in white gowns, black cloaks, colored robes or gleaming armour. Thoughts of unease and disgust flitted through the gathered minds as each side regarded the savage faces of their enemies. Insults, whispered and murmured, followed in kind. Orog crossed his great arms. ¡°They are a strange people to look upon.¡± ¡°As are we,¡± Agrak replied. ¡°As we are,¡± Loffi echoed. ¡°Perhaps¡­ but we do not look like rodents grown overly large.¡± Agrak glanced back at the arrayed goblins named Moonkin. ¡°More the green children of mankind and bats.¡± ¡°And what would you call that?¡± Orog asked. The Small King turned his gaze towards the far tunnel on the low ground. A broad figure stepped out, clad in tattered rags, scraped and scarred and bruised, holding a spear in grip and a squat candle on an open palm. ¡°Fire Giant,¡± Loffi answered. ¡°He smells unwell.¡± ¡°You must be mistaken,¡± Agrak replied. ¡°We have met the Fire Giant.¡± Orog¡¯s sigh was troubled. ¡°It is him. I can tell by his bearing and stride.¡± ¡°Hubbard the Hallowed,¡± a shrieking voice announced, ¡°most hallowed, offers up the son of Isleif as his champion to fight against the Small King!¡± The words echoed through gloom. ¡°He wishes to witness your own champion!¡± ¡°¡®What are the chances.¡¯¡± The Small King¡¯s mien shifted from sudden rage to a serene smile. He glanced curiously up at the titanic goblin. ¡°Do you still wish to fight?¡± *** Hjorvarth came to stand at the middle of the vast, cavernous fighting ground. The candle guttered out in his hand and he tossed the molten coin aside. Torches flickered at a distance, as if signals from friends or foes that waited beyond the half-light of red and orange. ¡°I stand as well for King Rubinold the Fifteenth!¡± Hjorvarth declared. He waited for an answer to rebuke that, beyond his own echoing voice, but heard nothing. He had sight of a trio of goblins, all of whom he recognized. They each stood together in an elevated cavern lit by metal wrought torches. Loffi¡¯s orbish eyes were wide in amusement. Orog stood rigid as a statue. The Small King scowled with rage or doubt. Behind those three, a score of scrawny goblins watched from a two-tier bench, their faces scrunched as if suffering confusing or a shortness of sight. Orog¡¯s lips moved as if he were whispering. The Small King seemed to pay him little mind, answering with a swift nod. ¡°The Small King presents,¡± Loffi declared, sweeping out his arms in a bow while the goblins behind tried to mimic a chorus of horns in announcement. ¡°A¡­ thing!¡± Hjorvarth felt no comfort at the vague words, and a deal of unease when the ground shook underfoot. Mounds of earths and tall rocks towered around him, casting long shadows that made him feel unable escape his coming fate. He gripped his spear for a throw, resigned to fight, knowing that he should already be dead times over. ¡°Have we met before?¡± the Small King shouted, shrill voice drowned by monstrous footfalls. ¡°Did you kill my troll?¡± Hjorvarth watched the approach of his opponent. He had seen its like before in the tunnels where Russ destroyed himself with flames. It had the legs and arms and body of a man, sheathed in a glossy red shell instead of soft flesh, only it was four times as tall and wide and walked on all limbs instead of upright.This narrative has been purloined without the author''s approval. Report any appearances on Amazon. The monstrous creature had a beetle¡¯s horned head, tiny black eyes, and great powerful hands. Standing rocks toppled and earthen mounds were flattened now it drew closer, making the expansive arena seem far smaller. The creature stopped not far from the huge man, reared up to strike, then unleashed a guttural roar. Hjorvarth staggered back from the noise and force. He glimpsed the wet flesh of a toothless maw then turned back to the balcony where Hubbard and the others watched. ¡°Is this duel begun?¡± he shouted. ¡°It is begun!¡± Loffi¡¯s voice declared. ¡°Fire Giant fights Beetle Chief!¡± ¡°Brikorhaan guide me,¡± Hjorvarth whispered. ¡°Joyto hold my luck. Broknar give¡ª¡± Beetle Chief charged, rumbling the earth with the rhythmic strike of weighty limbs. Hjorvarth ran towards it, hurling his spear at the head. The weight of the socketed blade lowered the shaft¡¯s flight and it buried a harmless depth into the creature¡¯s chitinous chest instead. He smiled in regret, leaping clear of a sweeping hand only to be knocked aside by a hind leg, sent stumbling into an unyielding column of stone. Beetle Chief reared up, turning with surprising grace, and was once more giving chase before Hjorvarth had the time to do anything more than decide to run. He glanced back at the behemoth, which had begun to lower its horned head, then halted, turned, and leapt. Hjorvarth slammed into its hard head, managing to grapple onto one horn while the force of each footfall sent him swinging on aching limbs. He kicked out, searching for a hold, and drove his boot into one of the creature¡¯s eyes. Beetle Chief growled, thundering across the cavern, horns aimed for the rugged wall it now charged towards. Hjorvarth realised he was about to be crushed, but had no strength to pull himself up. He let his grip slip, throwing his weight towards the creature¡¯s face. Grabbed hold of wet flesh, half-clambered into the mouth before the creature collided with the wall. The crunching impact stole his senses and hurled him further into a sticky gullet of sour-smelling flesh. Carnage ensued in the cavern, but all the sounds of crumbling earth and panicked goblins were muffled and hollowed by the prison of thick flesh. Chunks of debris tumbled down the gullet, scraping the huge man¡¯s face, thumping into head and shoulders. Blinded by dust and darkness, he heard the wet splash of what fell past. Hjorvarth then suddenly feared drowning, and smiled wryly in remembrance that he had once wanted to risk that very same fate at the Great Lake. Hjorvarth clawed at spongy flesh, desperate to remain in place, but he slid further and further towards the bubbling water. The creature started to move and his descent quickened. He tried to scrape his way out, but his nails were stubbed and useless. ¡°¡®Let me go I will rip out your throat with my teeth,¡¯¡± Brolli¡¯s old threat echoed in his mind. Hjorvarth started to chew. He bit down into wet meat that didn¡¯t want to yield, grinding his teeth together to tear it free. The numb burning of fingers flared up in his mouth with abrupt agony. He bit through his own lip and warm blood washed over the pain. He began to bite into the warmer, softer flesh of the creature¡¯s throat. He forced fingers into the bloody hole, desperate to stop from falling, and bit and tore and struggled his way deeper. Hjorvarth had no more strength or effort left when he reached hard chitin. He had made enough of a hole to keep from falling while the creature that had swallowed him lumbered around in a mad panic, smashing into this and that, deafening the huge man with the terrible sounds of pained roars while earth collapsed all around them. ¡°I am sorry,¡± Hjorvarth muttered. ¡°I should have accepted my death.¡± He started to pull back his hands only to have his flesh split on sharp metal. Hjorvarth felt for the object despite the pain and remembered his spear. He then made a reckless effort of digging the blade free and managed to wriggle the socketed point and a broken shaft into his ravaged hands. Gripping the splintered end, he started sawing into the flesh above his head while he kept perched with his other arm. Hjorvarth made two handholds for himself, widened his original effort, and then used that for his feet. He took a grip with ruined fingers and bloodied teeth before shifting his weight to kick at the exposed chitin. He was so consumed with the effort, his pain, and his diminishing strength that he didn¡¯t notice the creature had stopped all movement. The barrier finally yielded under repeated blows, cracking open, to leave a break wide enough for his foot and many times too small for an escape. ¡°Oh,¡± Hjorvarth grimly realized. ¡°This was poorly thought out.¡± *** ¡°It was a draw!¡± Hubbard the Hallowed insisted. The white-garbed leader stood over the crumpled and crushed corpse of Beetle Chief. The creature had almost caused the collapse of the entire cavern, but then a great hunk of earth had landed onto Beetle Chief¡¯s head, crushing the skull and snapping the neck. The creature now lay in a huge heap of chitinous flesh. ¡°I did not lose.¡± Hubbard threw out his arms. ¡°Both champions are dead!¡± The Small King did not answer. ¡°Your champion was the first to die,¡± Orog answered, his tone severe. He had walked down to witness the broken body with his monarch, while Loffi had moved to secure his scrawny clan of Moonkins. ¡°That is all that matters,¡± he added. ¡°Lest all duels would be decided as draws because of the inevitable threat of old age.¡± Hubbard the Hallowed had descended with a larger force. A score of armoured kobolds. A dozen others in black cloaks or rich robes, and a handful draped in white. They all watched at a distance from their revered leader. ¡°I will not cede my caverns,¡± Hubbard warned for the third or fourth time. ¡°I will¡ª¡± ¡°Be silent,¡± Agrak finished. ¡°As Orog said your champion died outright. This death was pointless, painful, and protracted. If you wish, we can both select new champions.¡± ¡°Fire Giant is not dead.¡± Those gathered turned to see Loffi atop the broken body. ¡°He is trapped inside of Beetle Chief. Living and kicking and¡­ smelling of sad things.¡± Orog looked to the Small King. Agrak nodded his assent. Hubbard the Hallowed seemed wary of a trick. ¡°If he lives then he is the victor.¡± The Small King remained perfectly still while the titanic goblin began his search. Soon enough, Orog grunted surprise and offered rumbling instruction for the man to be patient. The titanic goblin went to work breaking through chitin with a massive, ornate axe that appeared from nowhere and disappeared when Orog was finished. Hjorvarth was then dragged out, carried like a child, and dropped at the clawed feet of the Small King. He shivered and suffered on his knees. The inflamed crimson of corroded flesh sprawled across chest, shoulders and arms to envelop mottled bruising and overlapped lacerations. He used both hands¡ªone a swollen mass of red, another little more than ruined skin and exposed bone¡ªto steady himself. ¡°By¡ª¡± He stared in defiance despite his shuddering tone. ¡°By your own sworn word¡­ Small King. You must now¡­ you must now leave this peace¡­ in place.¡± ¡°Place in peace,¡± Orog corrected. ¡°Your will, my king?¡± ¡°My champion has been bested,¡± Agrak declared without inclination, his orbish eyes unfocused and disillusioned. ¡°Yet there remains two issues to address. Firstly, you fought as the champion of King Rubinold which leaves Hubbard with no safeguard at all.¡± The Small King leapt so deftly that he seemed not to move at all. ¡°Secondly¡ª¡± Hubbard choked and clutched at his own throat. Blood trickled through furred fingers and stained his white robe. ¡°A moment,¡± Agrak said, turning to the kobolds that now edged back or readied weapons. ¡°By my honour, I will vacate these caverns because I have lost a duel to King Rubinold the Fifteenth,¡± he declared. ¡°I will never again come here while Rubinold, or his descendants, reign. I will never seek to inflict injury upon those that serve under his rule. So I would decide, quickly, whether you are his servants¡ªtravelled far afield¡ªor whether you are the last loyalists of a corpse.¡± The robed kobolds conferred and then they all bowed and swiftly departed. The Small King watched as the figures dwindled into the cavernous distance. ¡°Secondly,¡± he continued, turning to the shivering man, ¡°and this pertains to you, Hjorvarth. When you were in my caverns, you murdered a troll by name of Fragor. That troll, that harmless troll, was my oldest friend. Fragor was my oldest friend since I was a young child. I had known him for over hundreds of years¡­ do you understand? Many times the span of the longest life you could ever hope to achieve. He was older even than that, for when I met him he had been trapped under the earth for ages untold. Do you understand that? Do you understand any of that?¡± Hjorvarth¡¯s glazed gaze spoke to no understanding at all. ¡°You are wrong.¡± Agrak bared his fangs in disgust. ¡°You would presume to tell me of my own friendships?¡± ¡°No.¡± Hjorvarth swayed as he shook his head. Orog knelt to steady the wounded man. ¡°I tried to kill him. But he lives. Fenkirk. I met him there¡­ gorging on corpses. He walks in step with Astrid. Up the Midderlands Pass. He held no ill will. Perhaps he was not a monster.¡± He frowned, and confusedly blinked. ¡°Perhaps that title belongs to me.¡± ¡°What a wondrous revelation,¡± Agrak replied. ¡°But I saw his broken seed. He is quite dead.¡± ¡°I know not what that means. In truth, I do not even care. If the absence of your¡­ Fragor pains you then search the Midderlands.¡± Hjorvarth¡¯s breaths were labored. ¡°Rubinold holds my friend as a prisoner. Dan.¡± ¡°Are you sure that this troll was Fragor?¡± Orog asked. ¡°Dark green,¡± Hjorvarth murmured. ¡°Fine distinction.¡± He inhaled. ¡°I am¡­ I am.¡± The Small King flexed his claws. ¡°You are lying.¡± ¡°I can think¡ª¡± Hjorvarth squinted. ¡°Why¡­? Why would I¡­ lie?¡± He shrugged and grimaced. ¡°I do not care.¡± He searched for the goblin he had met in the forests near Horvorr. ¡°Dan holds my friend as a Rubinold. Will you save him, Loffi?¡± Loffi¡¯s regard was suspicious. ¡°Where is Mugg?¡± ¡°Obliterated. He died in my defense.¡± ¡°The troll lives?¡± Orog asked. ¡°You did not attack him a second time?¡± ¡°He walks in step with Astrid,¡± Hjorvarth wearily repeated. ¡°A man?¡± ¡°A woman. Daughter of Jorund.¡± The Small King swept clawed hands through the air in silence then his smooth face twisted in supreme irritation. ¡°The wards of Jorund¡¯s Hill have been shattered. He is dead. Three of his blood remain.¡± He sighed in earnest relief. ¡°Fragor lives, then. He has simply been misplaced and misused by Chance. I suppose I should have been suspicious of him apologizing for anything.¡± He looked to Orog, Loffi, then Hjorvarth. ¡°I am going to kill you now, human, but you should know that I see that as a favour. You¡¯ve got the hooks of a puppeteer buried deeply into your back.¡± ¡°No.¡± Loffi leapt ahead of the kneeling man. He readied his hind claws and hand claws. ¡°Do not do that!¡± ¡°Loffi,¡± Orog warned, rising to his full height. ¡°You must not challenge your king.¡± Loffi¡¯s gaze grew no less violent. He bared his fangs. ¡°I will die as Mugg did.¡± ¡°I am dead,¡± Hjorvarth assured. ¡°You need not defend me.¡± Orog stood unmoving, tense and conflicted. The Small King grew perturbed and lowered his claws. ¡°This man will die of his own accord, Loffi. I do not wish to kill you. I do not wish to see you waste your life for a barbarian.¡± ¡°He will not die,¡± Loffi insisted. ¡°The red and gold will heal him.¡± ¡°Perhaps,¡± Agrak replied. ¡°But then why would you even want to save a man who has butchered your kin?¡± he asked. ¡°A man that would slaughter you and your clan without remorse or hesitation.¡± Loffi snarled. ¡°You have not given him a second think!¡± ¡°Did the robed man ask you to defend him?¡± Orog asked. ¡°No,¡± Loffi snapped. ¡°Know. I know! Loffi knows! Loffi knows best. The robed man will never think second. He always thinks same. He will always, always, always do that!¡± Loffi shook his head in anger. ¡°Why don¡¯t you know that? Why can¡¯t you smell these things? Easy for one such as me, Loffi. I am Loffi! I am Loffi! I am Loffi!¡± Hjorvarth was so touched by the defiance that he started to weep. He reached out to push the goblin aside and collapsed instead. Charged silence gripped the three goblins while the huge and wounded man groaned against the earth. Orog bent to one knee. ¡°Loffi¡ª¡± ¡°No!¡± Loffi flexed his claws. ¡°I know!¡± Neither goblin noticed as Hubbard the Hallowed rose as if by strings. The red-and-white kobold leapt for Loffi but was ripped off course by the flashing claws of the Small King. Agrak dragged the weight of the living corpse back then dismembered it in a quick succession of slashes. A severed head and torso thudded to the ground. The pink face scowled up at him. ¡°I meant¡ª¡± ¡°If your next step,¡± Agrak piped, ¡°is to possess the larger creature then I would advise against it. You were not invited or welcome to my affairs. Do not confuse melancholy for impotence. Do not confuse patience for forgiving wisdom. I am not wise or weak. I am a vengeful child. And I will not brook being watched by a dozen eyes, or poked and prodded by shadow forces that lack the courage to take action in their own physical forms.¡± The false light fled the dead gaze of Hubbard the Hallowed. ¡°Those were dangerous words,¡± Orog said. ¡°I thought you feared Muradoon.¡± ¡°That was not him,¡± Agrak answered. ¡°Chance has goaded us from sheltered caverns and into an open conflict because he feels surrounded and smothered.¡± He paused. ¡°He was right to feel concerned¡­ but wrong to mislead us.¡± Orog¡¯s nod was slight. ¡°Does this change the fate of the Fire Giant?¡± ¡°It does not, but then I misunderstood what it was to begin with.¡± Agrak turned to wary Loffi. ¡°Have the Fire Giant brought to Izzig and then begin preparations for a journey to the Midderlands.¡± The Small King disagreeably sighed. ¡°As to you Loffi, you will not be my herald for much longer. You will instead aid Izzig in his research, and spend more time with us so that I can teach you to better express yourself.¡± ¡°I am Loffi,¡± Loffi replied in quiet defiance. He assented with a smile. ¡°I will do that.¡± 38. Clothed in Glory 38. Clothed in Glory ¡°I have not written an account in a long while. I had the strangest sensation the other day, sat in the main cavern of Chief Tuku. I had been tasked with teaching the younglings in the clan, and brought them forth to pledge loyalty to their huge, taciturn leader. And what I felt, seeing the happy young goblins, and seeing as well the reserved approval of Chief Tuku, was pride. Happiness. I keep Agrak in the fenced enclosure where I teach the younglings. There is a scrawny goblin, Brak, who helps me to feed and tend to him. Brak talks nonsense all day to The Small King with no way to conceive who Agrak once was or how powerful he had been. And I feel a great burden of guilt that I cannot help The Small King, or that I had not tried to free him sooner, before the weight of such an enclosure dealt such damage. Yet still, I am happy. Joyful, even. In this clan I am free and respected. Tuku made me his advisor and he actually listens to the things that I say as if I am wise and useful. There is but one lingering problem. Magar. Tuku has allowed the young shaman to live with us and even agreed to help him try and birth new hatchlings from the seven sided pool. The huge goblin wishes to make a spawning pool so that the corpse of his twin can be returned to the acrid waters. But I fear¡ªno, I know that Magar does not mean to rear ordinary goblins. He wants to bring something forth that will change this peaceful, isolated clan. That will alter the fate of every clan and every people. For the good of all, he claims. For the goblins, at least. Part of me thinks that I should kill him, though strangely that feels like a betrayal. And I know as well, if I am honest with myself, that this will not last. It never does. Tuku will grow old. He will be killed before age ends him. And so the rest. All the hatchlings I¡¯m teaching will know death before I do. While I persist, made victim by my own hubris.¡± Hjorvarth woke from fretful dreams of green light, green faces, and green smoke. He coughed up the acrid taste of the memory while his head still swam with tiredness. He did not know where he was. He did not remember how he came to be there. He did not even remember what he had been trying to do. A tall silver torch leaned on the nearby tunnel wall, and a steady flame burned atop the ornately worked shaft. He felt his grief first, for Isleif, for Brolli, for Arnor, for Linden, and then a great muddled cascade for the scores more who had fallen in Horvorr. Hjorvarth remembered the hooded face of a giant rat and that made him feel all the worse. Thoughts seemed to spark in his mind and then catch fire. He could hear someone screaming and that served to unsettle his sense of calm and safety. He reached for a weapon, touched bare flesh, and realised he was naked. He realised, as well, with a dousing of horror, that all his body was webbed with scars, scars that seemed months old. A stretch of depressed and livid flesh ran the length of his shield arm. He thought on fire once more, on searing heat, and on the mangled metal of a heavy shield. He remembered Sam and Dan. He remembered kobolds. He remembered folk shouting and hurling things as he made his way down stone streets. Hjorvarth grunted in partial understanding and started to rise. He must have gotten lost in the tunnels. He would take the torch, which he also remembered in a vague way along with the wax figure of a troll, and start searching the cavern where the men he sought resided. Hjorvarth strode in silence, his breaths steady and painless, despite a constant fear that some agony was ever on the brink of being reawakened. ¡°Loffi,¡± he murmured, remembering dancing goblins screeching and laughing as sour smoke shrouded them. ¡°I am Loffi¡­ no, I am Hjorvarth. Son of Isleif. Foster son of Brolli the Black.¡± He would close his eyes and each time see the spark, hear the roar, of flames, and he would hear a sickly child speaking words of divine conflagration. ¡°¡®Pink is ever at odds with green.¡¯¡± Hjorvarth tried to rake his beard and instead scraped fingers down stubbly flesh. He reached behind his neck, closing his grip on nothing. He pawed at a head covered in uneven patches of bristling hair. He almost thought that this skull wasn¡¯t his own until he found the depression where an old bard had struck him with a glass bottle. ¡°That would have been a simple end to things,¡± he thought, reminding himself not to discount the risk of any man, woman, or child. He saw Jorund¡¯s family sat across from him once more at the stone table, remembered Astrid¡¯s concerned gaze when she saw him bruised and wounded. He thought on the dozens of drawings he had seen of himself, some were he was badly scarred and had shaved hair. Hjorvarth had a sudden urge to check his eyebrows, and frowned when he realised they were mostly missing. He could feel scars under his ears, along the middle of his lip, and at the corners of his eyes, as if flames or worse had managed to engulf him yet decided to spare what was easily reached. The green face of an old goblin flashed through his mind, bringing the touch of wet and withered fingers. Hjorvarth scratched at his own cheeks to be rid of the sensation. He worried that he had been in the care and keeping of goblins and then wondered why that should worry him, given that they must have made best effort to heal him. He realised he had stopped walking, and started once more. He could hear distant screeching that made him wonder if he was about to enter a cellar full of rats. He kept walking until mellow light bled into the tunnel ahead of him, until he recognized a flustered shout that he had heard before.A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. ¡°Am I not king here?¡± Rubinold asked, answered by the distant affirmation from dozens of kobolds. Hjorvarth crossed into the large cavern, walking onto an earthen path flanked by two stone rises with only the sight of a throne¡¯s earthen backing. He walked until he had sight of the tiered benches of dirt where sat the rest of the well-dressed kobolds. Hjorvarth thought that the place looked very much the same. He had to clamber up beside the throne to get into the main space. King Rubinold startled and hundreds of glistening eyes turned to regard the newcomer. ¡°Who are you?¡± the red-robed monarch demanded. ¡°What were you doing in my nesting cavern?¡± ¡°I am the son of Isleif,¡± Hjorvarth¡¯s words were slowed by confusion. ¡°We have met before.¡± Rubinold levied his golden scepter in accusation. ¡°You are a lying goblin!¡± ¡°A jest?¡± Hjorvarth grew less amiable now armoured guards rattled forward. Fearful murmurs rippled through the seated spectators. ¡°You sent me on a quest with Russ and four other kobolds to steal a group of pink goblins back from the usurper Zelerath. Russ died on that journey and sacrificed himself to slay Zelerath. Since then, Hubbard the Hallowed has been killed by the Small King and the Small King has swore peace to you and your borders. I have come now to collect my friend, Dan, who you promised to care for until I returned to bring word of success.¡± King Rubinold glanced away as if in consideration. ¡°Am I not king here?¡± ¡°You are,¡± Hjorvarth rumbled as warning, ¡°and that is why the Small King has chosen not to slaughter your people and take your caverns. Now I have done as you asked, King Rubinold, and I will see you make good on your word.¡± Rubinold¡¯s eyes widened in alarm. ¡°Do you threaten the king? Here? Of all places?¡± Hjorvarth glared. ¡°I tell you plainly that I have slain your enemies, dissuaded a threat you could never best, and I have now come to retrieve my friend so that I can take him back to the stone city. If he is dead, if you deny me, then I will do more than threaten.¡± King Rubinold looked to his readied guards, to the kobolds watching him. ¡°The stone city?¡± ¡°It lies above your head and beneath the blue ceiling.¡± ¡°I know that!¡± Rubinold snapped. ¡°Am I not king here?¡± Hjorvarth sighed through communal affirmation. ¡°I wish to return to the stone city.¡± ¡°Oh¡­ ah, oh,¡± said the red-robed monarch. ¡°Of course! Of course you do¡­ for Isleif was the most respected of all the pink goblins and you, as his son, must be¡­ king there?¡± ¡°Yes,¡± Hjorvarth spoke his lie without enthusiasm. ¡°I am the ruler of the stone city. Why do you ask?¡± The kobolds sighed and stared as if relieved and impressed. ¡°Do you wish me to arrange a peace? As my father once did?¡± ¡°Yes!¡± King Rubinold swept his scepter through the air. ¡°Yes, goblin. That would be most welcome. We must return to the times when you allowed us to give back our goblin prisoners in exchange for much needed clothes and pastries.¡± He shook his head in regret. ¡°Our people are beginning to starve!¡± ¡°I would not want your people to suffer, Rubinold.¡± Hjorvarth nodded in all severity. ¡°Though it may be simpler to trade without taking captives. Your armoury is vast and I would guess you¡¯ve able miners. The stone city¡­ my stone city, would trade pastries for certain rocks and metals or able blades. Of that I have no doubt at all.¡± ¡°A very novel idea, goblin.¡± King Rubinold bared sharp teeth in an ugly smile. ¡°What is your name?¡± ¡°Hjorvarth.¡± ¡°Hjorvarth the¡­?¡± Hjorvarth upturned his hands. ¡°Red.¡± ¡°You don¡¯t seem very red. Would you like my robe?¡± Rubinold cackled. ¡°That was a joke. This is the king¡¯s robe.¡± *** Dan rubbed at his greasy beard. He was tired, and alone, and fairly certain that he was slowly dying from a lack of air, water, and food. He was grateful, extremely grateful, that the kobolds remembered to feed and water him like a loyal animal. But he wasn¡¯t sure whether that would last or whether he would ever be set free. He lay in the uncomfortable stone bed in the small stone room. He stared up, studying the neat brickwork. Dan hoped, wanted to believe, that Hjorvarth was still out there looking for his father, that both those men weren¡¯t laying dead beneath the earth, but he could never convince really himself of that. And staying optimistic grew harder and harder each night. He was trapped like a rat in a place full of rats. Dan decided, for the third or fourth time, that he was going to try to escape. He wondered if it might be better to try and talk to King Rubinold but decided that the kobold would likely offer no real answers and instead shout that same question over and over. ¡°Am I not king here?¡± he asked aloud. ¡°No.¡± Dan¡¯s head struck stone now he startled. ¡°Are you alright?¡± Hjorvarth asked, his deep laugh close to concerned. ¡°I had no mind to cause injury.¡± ¡°I¡¯m fine.¡± Dan turned, scowling deeply in earnest confusion. He was sure he knew that deep voice but the man looked unfamiliar. Dan almost thought it was someone else altogether until he realised it was the same hard face stripped of old traits and scarred by new markings. Faint patches of webbed flesh marred his face as if he had been burnt only in those places, while a missing beard and hair made a large head seem shorter and wider. He seemed to have lost more than half of his eyebrows and the lashes as well. Hjorvarth offered a slight smile. ¡°Do I look different?¡± ¡°Not by much,¡± lied Dan. ¡°Though that¡¯s a cruel scar on your arm. I¡¯m more confused because it looks like you¡¯ve been burnt in patches, and across your hair, but then the rest seems¡­ normal.¡± He pushed onto his side, further scrutinizing, then his eyes widened. ¡°Wait¡­ are you really here?¡± Hjorvarth nodded. ¡°I¡¯m not dreaming?¡± Dan rubbed at his own face, and then slapped Hjorvarth. ¡°Sorry. I meant to do that the other way around.¡± He slapped himself. ¡°See. Hah.¡± He smiled broadly. ¡°Does this mean we get to leave?¡± ¡°Soon enough,¡± Hjorvarth rumbled. ¡°Though first they¡¯ll host a feast in my honour and then we¡¯ll have to establish peace between Jarl Thrand and King Rubinold.¡± He furrowed his odd brows. ¡°I may have simplified that task in my mind. In any case, I suppose the answer is yes. We have the meal and then a final task to attend.¡± ¡°But we¡¯re both still outlawed from Timilir,¡± reminded Dan. ¡°We can flee the city after we arrange the peace,¡± Hjorvarth suggested. ¡°If my luck holds, they might not even recognize me.¡± ¡°Right.¡± Dan was swept up with a sudden dread. ¡°And did you find him? Did you find Sam?¡± ¡°I have good reason to believe he escaped the tunnels where he was imprisoned. I also trust in his ability to keep himself and those with him safe.¡± Hjorvarth glanced down at his bare, muddy feet. ¡°But I am also reasonably certain he believes that I am dead.¡± Dan¡¯s smile was disconcerted. ¡°And why would he think that?¡± ¡°Because when he found me I was.¡± 39. Unspoken 39. Unspoken ¡°With preparations fully underway to finish and fill Magar¡¯s enormous spawning pool, the question of what I should do with Agrak looms ever larger in my mind. The rage that Tuku held towards Magar has softened, and he listens to the young shaman¡ªthough not so young, anymore¡ªas often, or perhaps more often, than he listens to me. If I could show Tuku some sign that The Small King was recovering, or would began to speak and act and rule again one day then it would be much easier to convince the Chief. But whatever small hope I had held at first that Agrak might wake from his silent stupor has long since shriveled and died. The youngling, Brak, who spends so much of his time with The Small King came to me and asked me where he could find Orog. This renewed my hope. The youngling had long claimed that Agrak spoke to him, and this name seemed to be proof of that. Because there was no goblin in our settlement named Orog. And that name belonged to an old huge goblin who served as one of the original guardians of Grorgin. Yet I spent nearly two fully days doing nothing but asking questions and speaking and pleading with Agrak, and he did not utter a word nor even look at me. He sat propped, eventually sliding over into the earth, where I left him. I must have told the children of Orog before. Or Brak has some ancestral memory of the enormous warrior. Hope destroyed once more, I know of no way to waken Agrak. Nor how to spare him from being dissolved in the acrid waters of the Pool. And I begun to wonder, as well, whether this might be the best end left for his storied legend. Better that than live forever. Trapped, useless, and mute.¡± Anna woke in an unfamiliar bed but she could still hear Linden sharpening a blade. She turned to look at him and her heart sank. Gudmund sat on an ornate storage chest instead, rasping stone against metal, dressed in blue and white with his red hair and beard already combed. ¡°Are you feeling better?¡± she asked. Gudmund paused, staring down at his leather boots. ¡°It was an odd night.¡± ¡°Odd?¡± He offered her a doubtful smile. ¡°I¡¯m no bard.¡± ¡°Not clever, either. Don¡¯t you think they¡¯ll see it as a bit strange that you¡¯re sharpening your sword?¡± Gudmund set the blade down. ¡°Strange that I¡¯m so loyal and well prepared to fight the Crooked Teeth?¡± He set the whetstone down as well. ¡°I would like to tell you something.¡± ¡°You¡¯re with child?¡± Anna asked, to no answer. ¡°What, then? What is it?¡± ¡°Do you know Sam?¡± he asked, without looking at her. ¡°The Mayor¡¯s dead son or the spear-wielding tavern owner?¡± ¡°The one with a missing wife.¡± Anna flinched at his grim tone. ¡°I know him as well as anyone else.¡± Gudmund stared at the ashes in the hearth. ¡°I didn¡¯t know him at all,¡± he said. ¡°Didn¡¯t recognize his wife when she came to my hall and she told me that she wanted rid of him. I didn¡¯t care. I didn¡¯t like her face or her voice. But the children were sleeping and I didn¡¯t have much else to do other than hear her out.¡± His brows furrowed. ¡°But it wasn¡¯t my business and I told her that. She couldn¡¯t seduce me, and that angered her. I told her to get off of me, but she wouldn¡¯t. So I shoved her off. And then¡­ then she was just dead.¡± He upturned his palms. ¡°She stumbled back¡­ tripped. Then that was it.¡± Anna scowled. ¡°Why are you telling me this?¡± ¡°Because he needs to know,¡± said Gudmund at length. ¡°I went to Brolli. I should have gone to the Ritual House but I went to Brolli. And we took her body and we took a boat and we rowed out to the middle of the Lake. And that¡¯s where she is. She never left Horvorr. She¡¯s never coming back. And he should know that.¡± ¡°You¡¯ve had winters to tell him yourself,¡± Anna snapped. ¡°Why should I have to tell him?¡± ¡°I thought I was helping him. What man wants to learn that his wife didn¡¯t love him? But then you told me about Brolli and I realised that it¡¯s better to know the truth¡­ whatever the truth may be. I will tell him. If I live through this, I¡¯ll tell him. But if I don¡¯t¡­ then you¡¯ll be the only person who knows.¡± ¡°So I get to suffer your burden?¡± Anna shook her head. ¡°I¡¯m your guard, Gudmund. If you die tonight, so do I. Gods, you¡¯re a selfish bastard.¡± Gudmund sat in silence while she readied her armour and put on her helmet. ¡°I¡¯m going to go look in on Sybille,¡± Anna said, striding past in her armour. ¡°I¡¯ll meet you at the gates.¡± ¡°Anna?¡± Gudmund asked and she paused at the door. He was looking at her now, with a softness to his green eyes that she had never seen before. ¡°You were right about the Lake. I¡¯m not funny. And I never forgot the day because I never forgot your face.¡± Anna left without offering answer. Gudmund shrugged, and returned to sharpening his sword. *** Gudmund felt a man alone now he strode across the open ground of Jarl Thrand¡¯s Estate. He walked so slowly that he had almost stopped. Structures of stone rose to either side of him, towering or squatting, in rows or wide and alone. Ahead, before the white walls fenced off the lofty estate, a pompous procession of armoured guards and rich men and women, in fanciful clothes or colourful robes, had gathered, and chattered, around two monstrous black carriages led by six mundane oxen, swishing their tails to bay away flies that had gathered on fresh droppings. ¡°Six honest men among the lot of them,¡± Gudmund thought. ¡°And one young woman.¡± He paused, seeing his small guard. ¡°And an old one too¡­ I suppose.¡± He smiled at Anna but she offered no answer. He smirked at Sybille, dressed in a red dress that reminded him of blood, and she matched his expression in earnest. ¡°Are you well, daughter?¡± Sybille raised her brows. ¡°As I ever could be. And you¡­?¡± Gudmund felt an intruder among the group. A rainbow of perfumed folk had turned to look at him and seemed intent on hearing his answer. ¡°Me? I was thinking about the rain.¡± Ekkill laughed, hands rested on his rounded belly. ¡°But the skies are clear, Gudmund.¡± Gudmund glanced up at sparse clouds, swirling into an expanse of blues. He returned his gaze to the sweating councilor, and nodded. ¡°And you, Ekkill? How are you?¡± ¡°I am a grand fan of the Bard¡¯s Circle, Gudmund. I am as fine as I would ever be. And in good company.¡± Ekkill stretched his arms out to encompass two lovely young women. ¡°As you can see.¡± ¡°Your daughters?¡± Sybille asked, answered by chorused mirth that Ekkill didn¡¯t share. Fati stepped forward, wearing black despite the heat. ¡°They are in his employ, Sybille.¡± ¡°Oh.¡± Sybille shrugged. ¡°Where is Thrand the Younger?¡± ¡°Ah.¡± Fati¡¯s smile was pained. ¡°I¡¯m afraid he has had to leave the city on urgent business.¡±Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings. ¡°Yes,¡± Ekkill agreed. ¡°Nonetheless, I¡¯m sure Fati would be glad to accompany you.¡± ¡°No need,¡± a voice rasped. They turned to Jarl Thrand who stood beside the lead cart and struck a stark figure in his white shirt and green cloak. Gudmund thought that he looked like a ghost and then realised that they probably shared the semblance. ¡°Sybille will ride in the lead carriage with myself, Atsurr, Fati and Ruby.¡± Jarl Thrand clasped both hands on his serpentine cane. ¡°The rest of you will have to pile into the second or walk on foot.¡± Gudmund paid little mind to affronted grumbles and upset whispers. ¡°Is Luta meeting us there?¡± Jarl Thrand shook his head as if it were an unimportant matter. ¡°She has decided to extend her stay in the Midderlands.¡± He smiled. ¡°No need to worry, though. She will be back in time for the wedding.¡± ¡°Ah.¡± Gudmund managed a laugh. ¡°I was only worried for her temperament if she had to sit in a crowded space.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t mind sitting in the back,¡± Sybille said. ¡°Ekkill could take my place with his daughters.¡± ¡°I appreciate your noble spirit, Sybille,¡± Thrand replied, ¡°but it is already decided. Come along, dear.¡± ¡°Go ahead, Sybille.¡± Gudmund struggled to steady his heart. ¡°I¡¯m sure Fati won¡¯t bite, and I could use a walk after all these long days in captivity.¡± He watched as his charming daughter nodded, smiled, and stepped towards likely death without flinching or blinking. He felt so proud of her, and so sorry for her as well. *** The pair of massive black carriages clattered along the uneven stone streets. A box of armoured guards kept step, adding their own rattling footfalls to the din of the procession. Gudmund paid the sounds little mind, nor the quiet conversation and raucous laughter that was muffled by thick wood. He tried not to listen to his own mind so found himself singularly annoyed by the panting breaths of Ekkill, who struggled on alongside him, trudging and huffing, as he tried to keep pace with the clopping oxen. ¡°Can you believe it?¡± Ekkill asked for the fourth time. ¡°The nerve of it. It was a false offer. Of course I didn¡¯t want to walk. And then my own escorts leave me out here on the cold streets.¡± ¡°It¡¯s a warm day.¡± ¡°Well¡­ warm streets, then. Too warm. I¡¯m sweating rivers.¡± Gudmund glanced at the rounded man and didn¡¯t disagree. ¡°I can knock at the lead carriage if you like.¡± Ekkill¡¯s laugh was bitter. ¡°No¡­ no. Clearly I¡¯m not good enough for them. He has only two counsellors left alive and he can¡¯t spare me a seat? Preposterous. Insulting.¡± He paused. ¡°Do you not agree?¡± ¡°Were the choice mine, you would ride at the front.¡± ¡°And what of you?¡± Ekkill asked. ¡°Made to walk apart from your own daughter. Does that not bother you?¡± ¡°Honest truth, Ekkill? I find sitting on a rattling seat causes me no end of sickness. I¡¯m glad to walk.¡± ¡°Would that I shared your leanings, then.¡± Ekkill glanced at the battered shield on Gudmund¡¯s back. ¡°Why did you ask for the shield? Do you fear an attack from the Crooked Teeth?¡± ¡°I asked because I was hoping the shield would still be there and that they¡¯d give me it.¡± ¡°Oh¡­ and why would you want a shield that¡¯s nearly broken?¡± ¡°I had it made for Grettir,¡± Gudmund said. ¡°He lost his arm before he ever got to use it. I gave it to him all the same and he must have passed it on to Hjorvarth last winter. I only noticed when I saw him outside the Estate.¡± ¡°Things come full circle, then,¡± Ekkill observed. ¡°Though now I almost wish I had my own shield.¡± *** Sybille winced, jarred by the wooden seat beneath her. She already felt like retching up her porridge, but wasn¡¯t sure if that was because of the carriage ride or because Luta and Young Thrand were absent. She wasn¡¯t so foolish as to think that wasn¡¯t an unfortunate sign. Jarl Thrand did not trust her or her father and he was now set on springing a trap while keeping his children out of harm¡¯s way. But he didn¡¯t know Sybille. He didn¡¯t know her father. He didn¡¯t know her family. They would not rest until their enemies were dead. Geirmund and Agnar had come back from ashes to protect her and now she would protect their father in turn. ¡°You seem unwell, Sybille,¡± Fati mentioned. ¡°The movement upsets my stomach.¡± Sybille smiled at a man who had a kind and handsome face, who she thought was dangerous and treacherous all the same. ¡°I¡¯m sure all will be right when we arrive.¡± Jarl Thrand smiled at her. ¡°I¡¯m sure it will, dear.¡± The lean woman beside him, Ruby, had spoken little at all. She smiled smiles that seemed false and laughed hollow laughter. Sybille recognized the restless posture of her family, of dangerous folk that were ever ready to fight. ¡°Are you well, Ruby?¡± Sybille asked. ¡°Worried,¡± she replied. ¡°The streets seem too quiet and I fear the Crooked Teeth.¡± Jarl Thrand scoffed. ¡°Do not¡ª¡± An arrow split into wood. A man cried out. More missiles followed and guards started to shout orders. Sybille held to her seat as the carriage lurched to a stop. She watched more metal points bite through the wood and had a sudden worry for her father. She leapt for the ornate door. Fati grabbed her mid-flight. ¡°You cannot help them.¡± Sybille had no mind to hurt him. She returned to her seat and waited. Marching boots sounded out in chorus around the carriage. The shouts grew calmer and more routine, conveying plain facts that the attackers were dead or retreating and that the streets were clear. ¡°A minor mishap,¡± Jarl Thrand muttered, though the fear was plain in his withered face. Ruby nodded but looked ready to pounce. Fati seemed to hold the hilts of blades concealed. A hand struck the door in rapid sequence then it creaked open to an armoured guard. ¡°Distraction,¡± Atsurr informed. ¡°Three archers attacked from the rooftops then fled. Gudmund and three guards followed after them.¡± He paused. ¡°Three dead, brought down by arrows, and one missing.¡± Jarl Thrand¡¯s eyes narrowed. ¡°The missing?¡± ¡°Gudmund. There was a trail of blood leading down into the sewers. I did not think it wise to pursue it.¡± Those in the carriage turned to Sybille as if in scrutiny of her grief. Horror welled in her throat and she thought that she was going to scream but her vision blurred instead and she felt herself falling. *** Jarl Thrand sighed and waited with impatience as Ekkill clambered into the carriage. Fati sat at the back with Sybille in his lap and Ruby beside him. ¡°Where did you get that shield?¡± Ekkill¡¯s rounded face had paled. He wore a battered shield that had been punctured by three arrows. ¡°Gudmund offered it to me. I was afraid that¡ª¡± ¡°That is answer enough,¡± Thrand assured. ¡°Take a seat and have Ruby pull them out.¡± He turned to Atsurr, who stood waiting on the road below. ¡°Well¡­?¡± Ruby moved quickly to pull the arrows free, but seemed to pause in recognition of the shield. ¡°I recommend we move on,¡± Atsurr answered. ¡°The Bard¡¯s Circle is as defensible as the estate, and turning these carriages around would be a hard task in a narrow street. Gudmund is dead or he is hunting. I¡¯m afraid now there¡¯s nothing to do but see how this plays out.¡± Atsurr rested one hand on his pommel. ¡°They are thugs and thieves. They are cowards. If they would come at us in force then we may well end all this nonsense in a quick slaughter.¡± ¡°Very well.¡± Jarl Thrand nodded. ¡°Close the door and we will move on.¡± ¡°My thanks for that,¡± Ekkill murmured, smiling at Ruby despite his queasy visage. ¡°Are you well, my friend?¡± Fati asked. Ekkill¡¯s nod lacked enthusiasm. ¡°I have Gudmund to thank for that. I made for a fine target on the open streets, I assure you.¡± He shook his head. ¡°We should turned back. This is now a fool¡¯s errand. There is no one here to impress. There is no gain¡ª¡± ¡°Ekkill,¡± Jarl Thrand cut in. ¡°You are welcome to walk back. Or else sit in silence.¡± He regarded the others. Fati seemed ripe to rise up and start cutting throats, but he stayed by the same look in the predatory gaze of Ruby. Sybille slept, no doubt dreaming sweet dreams of deceit. Jarl Thrand could not trust any of them. He knew for a certainty that Ekkill or Fati was working for the Crooked Teeth, which left him in company with one loyal fool, the leader of the Gem Cutters, and the daughter of a man that wants to kill him. Fati sat back against the carriage wall. ¡°What is the plan, Thrand? Do you even have one? Walk into a trap and walk out again? Sometimes they simply serve their purpose and snap your neck. Have you considered that?¡± ¡°My plan is to draw out and cut away the rot that is infecting my city.¡± Jarl Thrand smiled. ¡°And while that happens I intend to spend the night being entertained. Sadly, given the temperaments of you two, it means you¡¯ll have to find your own places in the public seats.¡± ¡°And the girl?¡± Fati asked. ¡°She needs to see a priest.¡± ¡°She will wake or she will not wake. With her father likely dead, I am not sure which would be the kindness.¡± 40. Interlude 40. Interlude ¡°Dear reader, as Finnius might say, Time is a fickle beast. Memory more so. Which is why I ensured that the goblin shaman, Izzig, record this account. But often it is our most difficult moments that are the hardest to recount. All stories unfold, but not all stories are retold. While The Watcher records all things as they happen, with alarming accuracy and acuity, I have always preferred the biased, ever flawed, accounts penned by the hands of the characters themselves. Though some might say that Izzig was a minor player in this grand tapestry of events, I would heartily disagree. The decisions he made, and will go on to make, influence all that will follow in a manner most significant. Thus I collect and compile to make a collection of tales which is, admittedly, dwarfed¡ªnot a pun¡ªby all the other metaworld scribes. But to my view, all the others write by compulsion and live in a way of languid passivity that I could not abide. Even here, I felt compelled to insert myself into yet another work. And you may likely view this as a strange, unnecessary inclusion. And, dear reader, you are very likely right. But Izzig was due to destroy this volume in a fit of rage, so you should forgive me for leaving my mark. Forever faithful, The Alchemist.¡± Sybille thought the world was slower, blurrier, and quieter than usual now she was led from the solid walls of the cart and onto the darkening streets of the stone city. She almost wondered if she were dreaming, because Ekkill was wearing Hjorvarth¡¯s ruined shield and those in the back cart poured out, leaking blood and tears. One of Ekkill¡¯s daughters had been struck by an arrow but her father seemed not to care. Jarl Thrand cared not at all, either. He led Ruby and Fati forward, which caused Sybille to move as well because she was holding onto both their hands. The Bard¡¯s Circle loomed above as a circular monument of stone, propped up by ornate columns that had been worked with carvings of stars and battles. Sybille had the thought that the structure made those beneath it insignificant, small people that were withering and fading, that would rot or burn to ash long before this masterwork ever collapsed. She thought she could hear Atsurr shouting in the distance, and was surprised to see him standing beside her. Grey guards waited at either side of the paved approach to the Bard¡¯s House. They stood together and brandished spears towards men and women that looked displeased with the inconvenience. Sybille was glad that they would walk straight through because the entrance ahead glowed with the warmth and light of torches and braziers and she realized, shivering, that she was quite cold. ¡°I¡¯m hungry, as well.¡± ¡°I¡¯ll find you something to eat,¡± Fati assured in a loud whisper. Sybille squinted as they crossed into a wider chamber of stone, populated by disgruntled folk in fanciful clothes that were now being pushed aside by guards in mundane armour. She swept her gaze about, searching for something, or anyone she recognized, but there was no one. She could smell food, and soon had warm bread in her hands. Sybille sat down in a secluded place, separated by a purple curtain, and she ate. She hadn¡¯t noticed the furor of nose until she was free of it and now the world felt eerily silent. She was terribly sad of something, something that made her eyes well and her lips tremble, but she couldn¡¯t place it. She had the sudden urge to search for her brothers when Fati swept in through the curtains only then she realised that it was another man dressed in black. A man with one arm and a gaunt face. ¡°Have you come to kill me?¡± The man seemed to her the words at delay and then suffer devastation. ¡°Of course not, Syb¡¯. I shouldn¡¯t be here but I saw you in the streets and you looked terribly unwell. Where is Gudmund? I need to warn him. I need to find him.¡± ¡°He is dead¡­ along with my brothers. Along with everyone.¡± ¡°Dead?¡± The man shook his head. ¡°No¡­ no, I would have heard of it.¡± He reached out, but hesitated. ¡°I have to go. Stay safe, sister. I doubt we will meet again. If you see Geirmund, do not trust him. Do not even let him get close. Do you understand me? And ware of men in robes. Or anyone that covers their face.¡± Sybille took a long while to understand his words, and by the time she understood them her young brother was gone. A new black clad man arrived, and this time it was Fati. ¡°Did a cripple come in here?¡± ¡°No.¡± ¡°Have you ate your food? Are you feeling better?¡± ¡°I am,¡± Sybille evenly replied. ¡°My father has not been found?¡± ¡°No search has been made for him,¡± Fati said. ¡°I do not believe he is dead. I do believe that he is involved in a plot to murder Jarl Thrand. But the reason I am alive while the other counselors are dead is because I do not care enough to stop it. So either I applaud you for your acting, Sybille, or I hope I have¡ªfor the moment, at least¡ªalleviated your grief. Though I would still prepare yourself for his passing and for your own imprisonment. Jarl Thrand has seen off stauncher foes and more cunning assassins than the likes of Gudmund.¡± ¡°Perhaps he has,¡± Sybille admitted. ¡°But if my father fails then I can always stab Thrand in the throat.¡± ¡°Be wary of the woman, Ruby, then. And of the blade that the old Jarl hides in his cane.¡± Fati shrugged, offering his hand. ¡°Come. I¡¯ve been instructed to take you to your seat on the balcony. I myself am no longer to be counted among trusted company, so Atsurr will hold the main burden of thwarting attempts on Thrand¡¯s life.¡± *** Sybille had been led by the hand through wide stone halls that were clogged with crowds of people, some sweaty, some perfumed, all of them noisy. She had been blessed with a semblance of quiet when she crossed by the wall of guards that blocked off a small section of the Bard¡¯s Circle. Sybille had crossed into a small room, furnished by chairs of green leather, led through a corridor, then up two stairs and through a modest kitchen before she arrived at a wide chamber where dozens of guards lounged in stone seats, while they laughed and joked and were served ale and wine by a pair of buxom green-dressed women. The hall extended ahead of her, and opened to the balcony on the right. ¡°This is as far as I go,¡± Fati said. ¡°There is a place for pissing at the end of the hall, and the balcony, obviously, is to your right.¡± His smile was almost kind and almost regretful. ¡°I¡¯m sure Atsurr will accost you when you reach the precipice. Joyto¡¯s Luck,¡± he added. Sybille watched him go then regarded the guards who now stared at her. She frowned at them and then turned to the balcony. Atsurr marched up to meet her before she made a second step. He grabbed at her with gauntleted hands and pressed down around her dress to check for weapons. ¡°Take a seat,¡± he instructed. ¡°On Jarl Thrand¡¯s left, if you please.¡± Sybille nodded, smoothed her red dress, and walked over to take a seat. Jarl Thrand and Ruby pretended to appear rapt with the performance on the grand stage below but they still managed a suspicious glance. She counted a score of chairs arrayed on the balcony in all, which meant that seventeen were left vacant. As she sat down beside the old man, the thought of the surrounding empty seats sent a chill up her back. She pictured, briefly, all those she had lost the seasons past around her. Grettir grinning despite being uneasy at any formal gathering. Geirmund reposed, and quite at home. Ralf and Eirik doing their best not to draw any attention. The red-haired giant, Ragi, who would struggle to fit in the ornate seats. He had been kind, and brave. She wondered if he would have still wanted her hand had he survived the war. And Agnar, if he could be here, wouldn¡¯t be. He had skipped so many feasts and gatherings. And now, it seemed, he was skipping another. Her brother hadn¡¯t died. Unless she¡¯d imagined that. But it wasn¡¯t like before when she was hurt. He had seemed real this time. Older and haunted. But entirely alive. ¡°Glad you could join us,¡± Jarl Thrand eventually rasped. ¡°I assume you¡¯re feeling better?¡± ¡°I am.¡± ¡°That¡¯s good news, then,¡± Ruby said. Sybille could not see her, only the cruel eyes and withered cheeks of Jarl Thrand. ¡°I suppose it is.¡± She looked down on the scene below, where hundreds of stone benches curved around in rising tiers that faced the main stage, which was draped in colourful curtains and painted ornamentation that belied the cold stone of the timeless structure. ¡°There aren¡¯t many people here,¡± Sybille mentioned. ¡°The opening performances are ran by amateurs,¡± Thrand explained. ¡°Most will arrive later, when they are drunk or robbed of sense from substance. So that they can eschew watching or listening in earnest and still make claim to possessing some semblance of learnedness or culture.¡± ¡°I see.¡± Sybille nodded. ¡°And are we not worried about the Crooked Teeth?¡±Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site. ¡°Why would we be?¡± the old Jarl snapped. ¡°I have no fear of them. I am in plain view. If they wish to walk in here with a bow then I will sit and watch as they take aim from beneath my feet.¡± ¡°Perhaps the arrow would fly high enough to win your consideration.¡± Jarl Thrand answered that with a scowl. ¡°Be quiet, and watch the performance.¡± ¡°And what is it?¡± Sybille asked. ¡°A new thing,¡± Thrand replied with obvious distaste. ¡°Made by some young fool that thinks he knows better than to imitate the old masters. Yet they were masters for a reason, and this¡­ story of his is a joke.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± Ruby said, ¡°I quite like it.¡± *** The Bard¡¯s Circle had filled out so that there were few seats spared below and the air was filled with a steady clamour of mirth, charged conversations, shouting matches, and uproarious laughter. Sybille¡¯s stomach struggled with the cloying mix of perfume and sweat, wine and ale, greasy meats and pungent cheeses, and other less savory thing things that all folk made regardless of their social standing. The old story had ended and now the stage lay unattended. Sybille hadn¡¯t followed it. She didn¡¯t really understand why it was that the same people were changing clothes or why they had young men playing as women, or handsome men made up to look like ugly men. She thought it would be simpler to invite the drunken onlookers up onto the stage, and let them act out their natural parts. Lanterns, those that burned untended along the curved walls of the Bard¡¯s Circle dimmed, brightened, then did the same twice more. Those seated seemed to take that as a sign to quiet down, though only by a small measure. ¡°Finally,¡± Jarl Thrand muttered. ¡°I wish for this night to be over.¡± ¡°I think it is unwise to wish for anything,¡± Sybille said. ¡°You almost said that as if I should care what you think.¡± ¡°As did you.¡± ¡°Now, now,¡± Ruby chided. ¡°Stop snapping at one another. I¡¯m trying to watch.¡± Sybille blinked and the light faded to leave the place almost in darkness, save for more balconies that were lit, as hers was, by the muted flames of covered lanterns. She almost thought those that sat high up were part of some grand conspiracy. They could see everyone and everything, while those below could only see what they were meant to see, what they were supposed to see. Perhaps, she decided, noting wrestling of all kinds in the shadows, it was better not to see anything at all. Flames bathed the stage in anticipation of an arrival. A graceful man with golden hair strode out onto the stage, his warm smile at contrast with shadows and cold stone. Sybille had never seen a man so beautiful, but no part of her considered him to be good company to keep. She felt only vicious revilement and terrible sorrow. The golden haired man cleared his throat. ¡°Good evening, to you all. I regret to inform you that tonight¡¯s performance has been canceled. The original actors were bound and replaced by members of the Crooked Teeth, whom are no longer in the waking life.¡± He raised his hands to stop alarm and protest. ¡°Have no fear, have no fear,¡± she loudly announced. ¡°They are already taken care of, and you are all safe in this place. I even have a story if you¡¯d like to hear it¡­ alas it might lack the lyricism and costumes and pomposity that you expected on arrival¡­ but for some it may suit.¡± ¡°Atsurr,¡± Jarl Thrand snapped. ¡°What is happening?¡± ¡°It is the story of the sons of Weskin,¡± continued the golden haired man. ¡°One son, in particular, Gudmund son of Geirulf, who was born as the middle son to a middle son. I expect you all know his younger brother, Brolli the Black of the Black Hands who now rests within the cold waters of Horvorr¡¯s Great Lake. But what you may not know is that Brolli and Gudmund killed their older brother in his sleep. It was by that act that all things began, that this city is under threat from the Low King, who was able to conquer the lands of Weskin after making a sordid deal with Jarl Thrand.¡± The man took a breath. ¡°But now that deal is broken. Now Gudmund is in this city for revenge. Now the Low King is one day away with an army that numbers over two thousand and he has come to topple the pretender Jarl of Timilir. Mark my words, Jarl Thrand dies tonight. The Low King marches for the stone city. And, for those who do not wish to hide within the stone walls of their shadowed homes, I will tell you how all these things came to be¡­ beginning with how the forefathers of Jarl Thrand betrayed the true rulers of the stone city, of how he stole this place from the venerable ancestors of the Landing. For what kind of people, other than callous thieves, could take the sigil of the World Worm Ouro?¡± He smiled up at the balcony where Sybille sat. ¡°Take peace in the knowledge that Jarl Thrand will have choked on his own tail by the time dawn rises.¡± ¡°It is time to leave,¡± Atsurr grated. ¡°If no guards have moved to attack him then there are none left.¡± He helped Jarl Thrand up and the two women rose on their own. They each stopped dead when they came to the adjoining room. The guards lay sprawled across the floor and on their seats, while the two women were long gone. There were a few puddles of vomit but no blood to be seen. Atsurr drew sword and turned to footsteps at their right. ¡°Captain?¡± the arriving guard asked in an old voice that Sybille almost recognized. ¡°Lady below¡­ what happened? I swear by Broknar, I was only gone for a moment.¡± ¡°It¡¯s poison,¡± Sybille said. ¡°Are you all so simple?¡± Atsurr nodded to the guard. ¡°Call for the men at the carriage. We will wait here for your return.¡± The guard hurried off, stumbling on a fallen man, then righted himself and disappeared into the kitchen. Jarl Thrand began laughing. ¡°To believe I thought you could protect me, Atsurr. And all your men have been brought down by a pair of serving women. I suppose it is a lucky thing that you do not drink, isn¡¯t it?¡± ¡°These men may yet recover,¡± Atsurr said. ¡°No.¡± Ruby lay over a pallid man with purple lips. ¡°They¡¯re all dead.¡± ¡°In any case,¡± Atsurr said. ¡°We have another way out and there are carriages waiting. And as to you, Ruby, I¡¯ll need you to stand near Sybille. We know well enough you¡¯re working with the Crooked Teeth.¡± Ruby¡¯s eyes widened and she reached for a dead man¡¯s dagger. ¡°I am¡ª¡± Atsurr kicked her so hard, sending her head bouncing into the stone wall, that Sybille thought she might be dead. Blood pooled from Ruby¡¯s brow and she groaned on the floor among the silent guards. Jarl Thrand¡¯s laughter grew both desperate and manic. Atsurr moved to face his old master. ¡°This was a considerable mistake but not one that will undo us. In all likelihood the carriage is safe.¡± He paused. ¡°We should still leave by the back way¡­ the last guard is likely now as dead as the others.¡± The rattle of an armoured man sounded at a distance, soon followed by panting breaths. Atsurr stepped forward to block the corridor with a drawn sword. ¡°Halt.¡± ¡°It¡¯s me,¡± said the same old voice as before. ¡°The carriage was there¡­ all fine. They¡¯re sending men up. But they gave me the old signal word and there were men there I didn¡¯t recognize. In armour that didn¡¯t fit them.¡± ¡°He saw all¡ª¡± Ruby murmured from the ground. ¡°Do you wish to die?¡± Atsurr growled, kicking her in the stomach. He turned back to the guard. ¡°We will leave through the tunnel.¡± Sybille helped Ruby walk and they both followed Atsurr and Jarl Thrand down the short corridor and into a square room with a wash bucket and a stone seat with a hole. She wondered for a moment if they meant for her to climb down through the seat but then stone clicked and the wall grated inward to reveal a darkened staircase. ¡°You lead,¡± Atsurr said to the guard. ¡°I will close it behind us.¡± Sybille crept forward into musty shadows, mindful of treacherous steps. She struggled to keep Ruby upright while the pair made an awkward descent of the spiraling stairs. The door groaned to a close and left them all in darkness for the long trudge downward. Ruby murmured warnings, Jarl Thrand shouted in anger, and the two old guards spoke in worried tones about their dire situation. By the end, only the armoured men appeared any happier when they finished the climb. The stairs opened out to a dark night that stank of refuse and rotting food, and they each stepped out from under the looming walls of the Bard¡¯s Circle. A small black carriage, led by a single oxen and guarded by ten men, waited near a broken stone bridge. Both of the guards drew sword when the group approached. ¡°Have you all made your prayers?¡± Atsurr asked loudly. The carriage guards seemed to startled at the question but then one of them stepped forward. ¡°To Ilma and Luna both.¡± He frowned as the group approached the bridge. ¡°What¡¯s happening here, then, captain? I¡¯ve heard some fighting in the streets¡ª¡± ¡°Put these women inside the carriage, and have them bound,¡± Atsurr growled. ¡°It is time for Jarl Thrand to leave. We are to return to the Estate at all haste.¡± *** Jarl Thrand sat without humour or patience in his carriage while it rattled along the stone streets of Timilir. He had watched one young woman make a vein effort to bandage the head of the other. He had waited for his death to come, for all their deaths to come, but no such arrival was heralded. Atsurr had already made the slowest possible approach to the gate. He had checked the men¡¯s faces, and asked question after question only to find that they were who they claimed to be and that that all had been quiet at the Estate. Jarl Thrand might have almost been happy were it not for the embarrassment, were it not for the waste. The carriage ground to a final halt behind the closing, and he rose with muted irritation and stepped out into the cool night. ¡°Home safe, then?¡± ¡°I do not believe that to be the case,¡± Atsurr spoke in all severity. ¡°I know your trust in me is shaken. But I will ask you now to spend the night in the safe room until the other carriages have returned, and I have ensured the loyalty and identity of all those with us.¡± ¡°Very well,¡± Thrand answered, not bothered where he slept for the night. He simply wished to be alone. ¡°Have someone see to Ruby and then have both the women imprisoned. When the guards are recovered, ready as many as you can for a dawn raid on the north quarters, then the south quarters, then the slums. I wish to see an end to the Gem Cutters, and the Black Hands, and the Crooked Teeth. Offer a sum of gold for whomever turns in their leaders or offers information of use, and offer a smaller sum for any members that are given to us dead or alive.¡± He paused. ¡°Understood, Atsurr?¡± ¡°Yes.¡± ¡°Once that is done, have Luta and Thrand returned to the estate,¡± the old Jarl instructed. ¡°Have the word spread that Gudmund died fighting the Crooked Teeth and that his daughter is still to marry my son. And please ensure that the speaker who disparaged me at the Bard¡¯s Circle is killed.¡± He paused. ¡°Also¡­ send scouts to verify the falsity of his claims regarding an approaching army of the Low King.¡± ¡°I will have it all done,¡± Atsurr assured. ¡°If you come with me, I will arrange loyal guards to watch over you.¡± Jarl Thrand idly nodded. He obliged other requests without little thought or argument. He watched, with some satisfaction, while Ruby and Luta were trapped like caged birds. And then he followed Atsurr down the long halls of his marbled halls until they came to a wall that by all appearances seemed solid. A brick clicked and it opened to a modest room with rich furnishings. Jarl Thrand smiled at the cushioned bed and decided he would be glad of a long sleep. ¡°The guards can wait outside, Atsurr. I do not trust them and I do not want them keeping me awake. If Gudmund returns to the Estate while I¡¯m sleeping, have him killed and say he expired from his wounds on arrival. A hero¡¯s death.¡± Atsurr grunted. ¡°Do you wish for food to be brought?¡± ¡°In the morning.¡± Jarl Thrand didn¡¯t bother to look at his protector. ¡°Make sure that Sybille does not escape or take her own life. I will try to reassure her that she may still have some semblance of a life left ahead of her.¡± ¡°Yes, my Jarl,¡± said Atsurr. ¡°I will check in on you when I can.¡± Jarl Thrand wanted to protest but stepped forward instead. The door closed behind him and he rebelled in the silence and darkness. He was safe in a room with no doors or windows, no friends or enemies. He was alone. He could sleep without worrying that some emergency would wake him or that some coward would cut his throat. He did not bother to take off his clothes. He simply ambled over to the bed and collapsed. Jarl Thrand was not aware of falling asleep, but he woke with a groggy mind all the same. He could hear hushed whispers, soft footsteps. He opened his tired eyes to a burning torch. ¡°Atsurr?¡± ¡°You¡¯ll need to shout louder than that, friend.¡± Jarl Thrand¡¯s stomach sank when he saw the smiling smudge-cheeked man. 41. Defiant 41. Defiant ¡°A message was brought by a smaller goblin sent by King Zalak. The messenger explained that Zalak had prevailed against the uprising, and that the collapsed tunnels once separating our domain from his have nearly been excavated. Zalak has demanded that Chief Tuku hand over Magar, which the huge goblin seemed almost agreeable to. Until he has asked, as well, that I be handed over. Tuku has refused and challenged Zalak to a duel instead. Though Tuku is the larger goblin by far, and not unfamiliar with violence, I find myself suffering despair. It is as if I have come to realize that I am a cursed creature. And that whatever fleeting moments of joy I might experience are only there to better sharpen the contrast between that shortlived happiness and my own eternal misery. Magar does not seem worried. Tuku appears almost eager to fight. While I sit and fret and lament, as I feel any hope I once had trickling through my withered fingers like grains of ash. By all rights, Chief Tuku should win and bring an end to the pretender monarch. There is a part of me that almost wants to seer again on that meager chance that my visions have returned to me. But even if they have, I won¡¯t be able to change things. Magar said that time has a shape to which it always tries to return. But that an unseen force called Chaos¡ªnot in the abstract sense¡ªseeks to undo the natural order of events. Which means that there is room to circumvent fate and change certain outcomes. But I do not believe this. If time has a shape, then it is a shape in which I suffer. Countless others with me. None more so than the mute lifeless goblin who was once The Small King.¡± Jarl Gudmund, son of Geirulf, brother of Brolli the Black, father of three fallen sons and a loving daughter, had become a man whose world resided within the rugged confines of a narrow cave. Two rotting crates flanked a worn chair that stood wrapped with fraying ropes. A pair of brass lanterns, metal beading with condensation, lent light to damp stone, glistening ice, and the hazy air of a frigid night. Gudmund could feel nothing but worry and heat. Sweat trickled down his skin, leaving fur linings with a frozen wetness that struggled to permeate into the inferno of his hairy chest. ¡°Not long now,¡± he barely heard his own words, and his ears rang over any reply. He was waiting, had been waiting, for what felt like far too long. A pair of young men from the Black Hands waited in the distance, where mellow light gave way to chill darkness. He glanced at the small guard standing behind him, her words reserved by choice, her beautiful face hidden behind a dented helmet. Gudmund thought to ask about the damage, opened his mouth, was unsure if words came out. He struggled not to vomit. Somewhere in the city, his daughter was at risk. Somewhere in the city, the Crooked Teeth had either made good on their bargain, were bringing Jarl Thrand, or they had committed betrayal. Gudmund¡¯s wait served as torture. He stood with warring thoughts and troubled sickness as he and all his friends were put at risk. He would claim a long sought vengeance here today, or else his daughter would be sentenced to death, at best, or a long life as a glorified prisoner. Wheels ground in the distance amid the faintly stirring wind, whispers that spoke to sadness. Quieted words were shared and the two men of the Black Hand stepped away from the cavern, into the darkness. Jarl Gudmund drew his sword as his guard did. He waited, holding his breath, until the black-clad pair returned. He forgot to breathe altogether when he recognized the fanciful robe of the man they carried between them. A sack covered the prisoner¡¯s head, showing only the wrinkles of an old man¡¯s neck. Gudmund stood in silence while the youthful pair forced the prisoner into the chair. He paid little mind as they bound him, not noticing their intended inefficacy. The Black Hands stood waiting for orders. The blond man reluctant to meet eyes. His black-haired companion stepped forward, reaching for the muddied sack. ¡°Shall I?¡± Jarl Gudmund took a slow breath. He nodded his head and the man lifted the sack. ¡°You.¡± Jarl Thrand¡¯s withered visage twisted into disgusted smirk. He laughed, unperturbed by bruises that mottled his cheeks, a split lip, by dried blood caked into wispy hair. ¡°I must apologize to Atsurr when I see him next.¡± Gudmund matched the smile and more. He grinned, growing ever more relaxed now relief flooded through his weary frame, serving as a balm for both body and mind. ¡°I doubt they¡¯ll let you share words in the Lady¡¯s Shadow.¡± Jarl Thrand¡¯s smile slipped. His fine black clothes had been torn, scuffed, and covered in mud. ¡°No words?¡± Gudmund asked. ¡°I suppose I should ask why.¡± ¡°Why?¡± Jarl Thrand¡¯s sunken eyes narrowed. ¡°Please don¡¯t tell me it¡¯s a simply matter of why not?¡± he complained. ¡°That would be droll.¡± Jarl Gudmund wished he could see his own face, so as to see the pure vehemence of hate so plainly written. ¡°Seventeen winters ago, you conspired with the Low King to rob me of my lands. You helped to bring about the death of my first wife and my first child. You conspired with goblins to do the same again. You wanted to steal my sons from me and use them as bits to bargain with,¡± he growled. ¡°You wanted to force my noble daughter into a marriage with a worm of a man.¡±Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings. Gudmund sneered. ¡°You ruined my brother¡¯s reputation until he had no choice but to live up to it. You have murdered, wrongfully, countless men, women, and children. Your city is corrupt. You are corrupt. You are beyond redemption. You are, above any other man, fit for the darkness of the Lady¡¯s Shadow. You were born weak, so you pursued cruelty. You murdered the woman my son loved. You murdered their baby,¡± he snarled. ¡°All because you are a deviant. And the woman learned you slept with boys.¡± ¡°A long list.¡± Jarl Thrand¡¯s bruised cheeks now burned red. He deeply sighed. ¡°I almost wish you were a simple opportunist. Have you said all you mean to say?¡± Gudmund barked laughter. He readied his brother¡¯s sword. ¡°Have you?¡± Jarl Thrand smirked. ¡°Words are wasted on you, Gudmund. You are a barbarian whose only investment is towards mutual ruin. My being here is proof of that. You being here is proof of that, standing in the company of thieves, thugs, and murderers.¡± He shook his head. ¡°I once dismembered a man who believed of a communal honour between the dregs of society. Do you believe in that, Gudmund? Do you believe that a man, a man that does not follow the code of law, can ever find himself a code of personal honour?¡± Gudmund frowned in disbelief. He glanced at the wary faces of two young men, then the helmeted visage behind him. ¡°Is this really how you want to spend your last seconds in the waking life, Thrand? Don¡¯t you want to plead for your son? For your daughter?¡± ¡°Oh, Gudmund.¡± Jarl Thrand smirked, his eyes sparkling with delight. He made a lazy sweep with his hand. ¡°I will remember this precious moment for the rest of my life.¡± All at once, the pair from the Black Hands surged forward, four armed figures in leather crested into the cavern, and a single set of metal footfalls began. Gudmund leapt into a thrust that broke through the guard and punctured the throat of the blond man. He wrenched the blade free, forcing it into a horizontal swing that hewed through the shoulder of the attacker on the right, getting lodged amid ribs. The blond man collapsed, choking on blood, while his dark partner wailed. The armoured footfalls stopped, too soon to be in aid of Gudmund. Remembering the damaged helmet, he tried to twist, sword leading, but a leg tied up his own and a gauntlet clamped down on his unarmored shoulder. Gudmund drove his head back into a helmet, but the guard did not relent. He tried once more, and his mind shifted into a dazed realization that he was splitting his own flesh and breaking his own skull. The four members of the Crooked Teeth drew close. Jarl Thrand had drawn the serpentine head of his black walking stick. A blade flashed. Cold pain tore a line through Gudmund¡¯s stomach. He suffered a sickening sensation of misplaced weight. Innards bulged from his belly. Blood and bile struck the cavern floor like tear drops. Gudmund realised he was crying. He clamped a hand to his own throat. Fingers met flesh in time with a blade. Metal sliced through raw nerves and small bones. Blood curtained his neck and crotch. Agony had become him. Gudmund was nothing more than the desperate will of a dead man. He drove his head back once more. Metal seemed to yield now agony punched into his skull. The iron grip relaxed. He made a blind struggle to break free of whatever held him. He knew then, for a moment, that he had succeeded. He could see men coming, ugly men, ugly women. Dirty faces. They were here to help him or kill him. It didn¡¯t matter anymore. Jarl Thrand¡¯s withered face was a confused snarl now he punched a blade through Gudmund¡¯s chest. Sybille¡¯s father lurched towards the old man. He forced him back into the chair. The mismatched Jarls toppled. Wood struck stone, causing pain beyond understanding. Gudmund felt the coiled flesh of wet snakes, the bony body of the man beneath him. A withered hand punched a dagger into his eye. Gudmund saw half of a face that he recognized and hated. He grabbed a blade and hand that seemed to come from nowhere. He turned it, tried to turn it, struggled to turn it, towards the terrified visage beneath him. He remembered being stronger than this, needed to be stronger than this. A cat was on his back. Shouting loudly. Clawing into his flesh. ¡°But my cat is dead,¡± Gudmund thought. The dagger punched into Thrand¡¯s shoulder. ¡°Hah!¡± ¡°Kill him!¡± a hooded man commanded. ¡°By the gods, cut off his limbs!¡± Jarl Gudmund collapsed onto Jarl Thrand. Sybille¡¯s father had worn red and now he was red. Bone glistened amid ruined flesh. ¡°Get him off,¡± Jarl Thrand hissed. ¡°Get him off of me!¡± The four folk of the Crooked Teeth sheathed their bloodied weapons and lifted the ravaged corpse off of the wounded old man. The ragged line of a dragged dagger shone through soaked black fabric like a crimson smile. ¡°How did this happen?¡± the hooded man demanded. ¡°Lift him to his feet! Bring him to the cart!¡± The two men and two women in leather nodded their accord. They hesitated when Jarl Thrand swore them death.¡°Ignore his laments.¡± When the other four departed, the hooded man stood witness to the fallen. The guard, helmet bent in on itself, slept flat on his back at the cavern¡¯s end. Two dead men in black sagged onto a crate each, aimless gazes shining with lantern light. Jarl Gudmund lay on his side in a dark pool. Entrails snaked out from his belly and towards the broken chair. All the rest of his flesh had been slashed, stabbed, and hacked with swords and daggers. He looked like the work of a fledgling butcher, yet his proud face seemed almost the same, still resolutely smiling despite a smearing of his own blood, despite the loss of an eye. Frozen, as if he would be satisfied for all time. The hooded man stepped forward, bending down, to turn the corpse¡¯s lips into sadness. ¡°What are you doing?¡± the armoured man asked in a daze. ¡°You shouldn¡¯t play with the dead.¡± ¡°No?¡± The hooded man spared a glance. ¡°If I were you, friend, I would abandon this city. Jarl Thrand is badly wounded and you are the one to blame. When he recovers, if he does, you will be the one that suffers.¡± ¡°I followed orders,¡± he muttered in reply. ¡°I would have gladly ran him through.¡± ¡°Orders?¡± The hooded man straightened. ¡°If you¡¯re a fan of those then would you help me lift this corpse? I¡¯ve been instructed to take it beyond Timilir¡¯s walls and offer it up as bait for trolls.¡± ¡°No.¡± The guard lifted off Anna¡¯s broken helm, tossing it onto the ground. ¡°That¡¯s Lady¡¯s work. If you had any sense at all, you¡¯d burn the corpse and say you did the foul deed. Better to lie than send a man to the Lady¡¯s Shadow.¡± ¡°This man is due his destination, either way. Not even flames will burn away his sins.¡± The guard staggered past without speaking, his eyes narrowed in judgement. The hooded man sighed, and linked hands with the corpse. He dragged the weight, watching the smear of red stretch and grow but never reach him. He wondered, for the first time in a long time, whether he had simply gone too far. 42. Left Behind 42. Left Behind ¡°When the duel began, King Zalak leapt higher in the air than I could ever have imagined. Bone knives ready in either grip, he seemed set to open Chief Tuku¡¯s thick neck from either side only a few moments after the fight had begun. But Tuku did not seem to suffer such a lapse in imagination. He readily snatched Zalak from the air, hoisting him over his shoulders, and then brutally snapped the monarch¡¯s spine. Dropped to the floor, I thought Zalak was dead, but he murmured and moaned on the ground. There was a fear in his keen eyes that I had never seen before and I almost felt regret. Chief Tuku¡¯s heavy foot soon covered the sight and caused an awful crunch. Tuku was swiftly pronounced King, but declared himself instead as Great Chief. Events unfolded at pace. The Chiefs of Zalak yielded without further bloodshed, and then they all left our small settlement, the Great Chief leading the procession, to return to Zalak¡¯s former domain. Magar and I were simply left here, and Tuku instructed me to care for the younglings. In his stead, he explained that I had charge of the modest clan. For the first few nights, I felt relief. Now nearly a Cycle has passed, and I wonder if the Great Chief is returning or if he is even still alive. The young shaman appears completely unperturbed. He is feeding up goblins so they can regurgitate sacks into his great pool. And he is having others gather strange ingredients that stink of salt and the sea. So sure was I that Tuku would fail and I would be taken as a prisoner, I destroyed all my things in a spiteful rage. I wanted to burn my recordings, so King Zalak would never possess them. Not that he even knew the language written therein. But I found that the journal was already missing, and have begun again in my second journal instead. It seems that the robed human told the truth when he said he would steal my work. This marks him as yet another in my long life that I will likely never see or speak with again.¡± Smiler sat in his shack, staring up at the hole in the roof. The fire had long burned to an end, and dozens of bottles had been rolled atop of the ashes. Ten stools had been arranged to face him and they were all vacant. He didn¡¯t mind that, because he preferred to keep company with unburdened furniture. And, right now, he was busy in waiting for an answer. An answer that would come in form of an arrival, or in form of absence. He stared at the glistening glass and the scattered ashes. He reached down for the greasy flakes, smeared them on his cheeks and then he resumed his wait. Smiler¡¯s answer came as no more than a mutter, a fearful utterance between conspirators, followed by the soft, hard-to-hear steps of a dozen men venturing forth as assassins. ¡°I know you¡¯re out there!¡± Stilted silence. ¡°You¡¯ve good hearing, then.¡± ¡°Ah, hah. Come in then, my hooded half. I won¡¯t lash out. Not quite right yet.¡± Footfalls drew close to the door. Wood shuddered now it creaked open. The hooded man stepped into the room. He looked down at the stools. ¡°Had a gathering planned?¡± ¡°A celebration. One of irony. True irony. Difficult to explain. I don¡¯t need the chairs if I¡¯m going to celebrate¡­ because I only celebrate the rule of Gudmund. But if there¡¯s folk here for the stools then Gudmund is dead and there¡¯s no celebration to be had. Do you understand? I only need the chairs if I don¡¯t need the chairs. Isn¡¯t that peculiar?¡± The hooded man sighed. ¡°And it¡¯s nonsense like that why I can¡¯t leave you living and breathing.¡± Smiler¡¯s grin was vicious. ¡°I swore that man an oath. On my honour. You have lost me my honour!¡± ¡°You never had any. You¡¯re a vicious animal cutting out people¡¯s teeth. I¡¯ve seen you sing songs while you dismember men.¡± The hooded man upturned his gloved palms. ¡°The problem here isn¡¯t what I¡¯ve done but what you¡¯ve done. You¡¯re mad. You¡¯re rabid. And it¡¯s time that I put you out of your misery.¡± ¡°My friend,¡± Smiler snarled, his eyes feral and wild. ¡°There is no man alive that could cure me of my misery.¡± ¡°We are not friends,¡± the hooded man said, stepping back out of the doorway. ¡°We never were, we never would be, we never will be.¡± Smiler¡¯s mad cackle echoed through the darkness of the city slums. He rose from his chair and walked out into the open streets. To his disappointment, the hooded man was gone. So he danced, danced alone with those other dozen men, them offering him their daggers blade first only for him to refuse and apologize with his own dangerous gifts. ¡°Stab stab stab,¡± Smiler thought. ¡°Gone are the necks, gone are the smiles, gone are the lights in the eyes. No friend, no friend, no friend¡­ please don¡¯t cry. What do you mean stop? I¡¯m stopping you right now. It can¡¯t get any¡ªah, that was a coward¡¯s attack and now I¡¯m bleeding. Hah! And now you¡¯re bleeding! And you¡¯re screaming! You¡¯re an odd one! Show some courage, man!¡± Smiler realised he was shouting aloud. He parried a blade, sawed through a woman¡¯s wrist then twisted and punched through her neck. A chorus of groaning had sounded out around him like the tales of the risen dead. He turned to see nine bodies lying on the dirt outside the shack, bleeding, choking, clutching at guts or crotches. ¡°Who has done this?¡± Smiler roared. ¡°Who has killed all of my friends?¡± He blinked. ¡°Wait, no. Not my friends. My enemies. But my friends are in danger,¡± he frantically declared. ¡°Save them, Smiler. Save them!¡± Frightened folk had watched the maddened slaughter through rag curtains and cracks in shutters. They thanked all Eleven Elders when the knife-wielding maniac ran off down the dirt street, shouting at himself in encouragement all the while. *** Engli and Alrik had chosen to sit in the taproom of Sifa¡¯s Tavern along with the rest of the Black Hands. There were eight other men, Sifa, and Sifa¡¯s young daughter, who shared her mother¡¯s name. Engli wondered if that was planned from the beginning to avoid renaming the tavern. He sniffed, finishing a stone mug of ale, and squinted around the smoky surroundings of grey walls and black-clad folk drinking at tables. A fire burned ahead, up against the wall, and the sight made him hungry. The sheep that had burned there had long been eaten and the bones and scraps remained on scattered plates, shadowed beneath huddled mugs and cups. Engli found the air stifling, even though he was too drunk to pay mind to most the smells of folk around him. He hadn¡¯t even wanted to drink, but then they all seemed reasonably certain that this was the day that Jarl Thrand would die. And there was no doubt among the gathered folk that such a thing would be worth celebrating. So Alrik had drank and Engli had drank and all the men had drank. And now they were all drunk and rowdy and Engli was hanging his head at the corner of a stone bench, elbows resting on a table of the same make. ¡°Engli.¡±The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. Engli was surprised to see Alrik¡¯s scarred face. The young man had spent most the night with Young Sifa. ¡°Yes?¡± ¡°Are you all right? You look like you¡¯re about to throw up.¡± Engli forgot the words after he heard them. He mumbled and nodded. ¡°I¡¯ll take you outside, then.¡± Alrik pushed up and offered his hand. Engli grabbed it and managed to get to his feet. He thought it odd how many of the Black Hands were watching him, as if they¡¯d never seen a man drunk before. Then he had the odder thought that none of them looked much drunk. He then saw the bulky man collapsed on his back in a puddle of his own sick, and decided he was mistaken. ¡°Where are you two going?¡± Sifa asked. Alrik steadied Engli¡¯s swaying weight before he turned. He held the woman¡¯s hard gaze, but he could still see men growing tense along the benches. ¡°He¡¯s going to be sick all over. I thought he could use some fresh air.¡± ¡°No need.¡± Sifa¡¯s arms were crossed over her apron. ¡°I¡¯ll fetch him a bucket.¡± ¡°No need,¡± Alrik echoed. ¡°I¡¯ll take him outside.¡± ¡°I¡¯ll take him,¡± a slender man offered. ¡°No need for you to do it, boss.¡± ¡°Damn,¡± Alrik thought, ¡°That¡¯s me dead.¡± He considered leaping the counter, or fighting for the door, but then chuckled in assent. ¡°I suppose I¡¯m just not cut out for being the man in charge. And I thought that Brolli was too hard on them. Wish he was here now.¡± Engli toppled back when Alrik let him go. Alrik had to kneel to slow his fall. ¡°Easy there, Engli!¡± He leaned close to his ear. ¡°Be ready for a blade.¡± Engli¡¯s sweaty face creased. ¡°For¡ª¡± He seemed to sober. ¡°I¡¯m going to throw up.¡± ¡°Hold on,¡± Alrik urged, lifting him and handing him over to the slender man. He patted Engli on the back and watched the pair of them stumble towards a door that lay open to shadowed streets. ¡°Fetch me a drink, Sifa.¡± ¡°What do you want?¡± ¡°Surprise me.¡± Alrik turned back to a crowd of rough and restless men that were closer to standing than sitting. ¡°I¡¯m going to go for a walk.¡± He shrugged, and smiled. ¡°I¡¯ll be back soon enough.¡± The Black Hands traded glances with the hard woman behind the bar. They all seemed ready to move but Alrik was making a slow effort of stepping backwards while still smiling at them. He decided to run to the door, look for Engli, cut the first bastard¡¯s throat and then either hunt for the rest or go and live in another region. He was about to act when he bumped into a large belly. He almost laughed but a bear hug crushed the air from his lungs. ¡°Joyto¡¯s Piss,¡± Alrik thought, ¡°I¡¯ve been had by a man that just spent the night sniffing his own sick.¡± ¡°Ease up,¡± Sifa said. ¡°They offered to pay more if we bring him alive.¡± Alrik managed a wry exhalation. ¡°Who offered to pay?¡± ¡°Your good friends the Crooked Teeth.¡± Sifa didn¡¯t even bother to walk around the counter. She stood there wiping dry stone with a dry rag while the black-clad men strode forward with a sack and rope. ¡°Are you surprised?¡± ¡°I am.¡± Alrik nodded into a pair of burly arms. ¡°Didn¡¯t think you had it in you.¡± Sifa answered with a shrug. ¡°I don¡¯t think Gudmund¡¯s going to like it when he hears¡ª¡± ¡°Gudmund is dead.¡± Sifa smirked. ¡°I wasn¡¯t afraid of the man and I¡¯m not afraid of his corpse.¡± She shook her head. ¡°Did you really think that¡¯s how this ends? That Gudmund of Horvorr, of all people, trades places with the Jarl of Timilir? That a man as soft as you gets to fill the boots of Brolli the Black?¡± ¡°Brolli¡¯s¡ª¡± ¡°Don¡¯t Brolli me, you pock-scarred runt. He¡¯s as dead as dead gets. And Hjorvarth¡¯s the same. He escaped the mines and they never found him. So either he¡¯s living with the kobolds now or he¡¯s just another dead man that can¡¯t help you.¡± Sifa bared her teeth in a cold smile. ¡°I really didn¡¯t want to kill you, Alrik. But I gave you chance to leave and you didn¡¯t take it. Instead you murdered Afi, his son, and his grandson. They were men of the Black Hands. More than you¡¯ll ever be.¡± ¡°And you¡­?¡± a man¡¯s curious voice asked. The burly man lapsed in his grip so Alrik drove his head back. Flesh met with teeth and he regretted the act. He was shoved forward. A fist smashed into Alrik¡¯s cheek and hard stone leapt up to meet his hands and knees. He coughed and reeled with the pain, squinting to see a young man standing in the shadowed corner. ¡°Good woman,¡± Smiler pressed, ¡°you did not answer my question. They are men of the Black Hands¡­ but you are not a man. A fault in him must be a fault in you, yes?¡± The Black Hands drew knifes, clubs, and daggers. Then moved in on Smiler. Alrik didn¡¯t realize that the black-clad man was armed until he lashed out and the burly man clutched at his throat. The other men paused for only a moment before rushing in for an attack but Smiler was already among them, ducking, dancing, incessantly stabbing and slashing. He was laughing as well, jeering and shouting at them. Boots trampled over Alrik and a fat man collapsed atop him. He almost reached for his own blade but the outpour of blood from thigh and neck assured him of death. Sifa¡¯s daughter was screaming, while Smiler had started to sing. Alrik couldn¡¯t shake the thought that the leader of the Crooked Teeth was an able bard. ¡°Don¡¯t!¡± ¡°Don¡¯t what?¡± came the curious voice of a man he could no longer see. ¡°Don¡¯t kill the girl,¡± Alrik managed. ¡°I wasn¡¯t going to.¡± Smiler paused. ¡°I was going to kill the mother.¡± ¡°No.¡± ¡°No¡­?¡± Alrik tried to force the dead man off, but he was half-dazed and the burden seemed impossibly heavy. ¡°Don¡¯t kill the mother or the girl.¡± ¡°Is that a threat, friend?¡± Smiler asked, his voice drawing closer. ¡°I commend your ingenious efforts at stealth, but I can see your shoulder and boots and I fear your surprise attack might not work as well as expected.¡± ¡°I¡¯m not hiding,¡± Alrik spat. ¡°I¡¯m being crushed.¡± ¡°Oh.¡± Smiler hooked his boot between two bellies, then kicked the man off. He offered a hand that glistened dark red. ¡°Are you crippled, friend? Do you wish for me to end your existence¡­?¡± Alrik grabbed his hand but the grip slipped. He struggled up on his own. Smiler laughed. ¡°Perhaps they should call you the Red Hands. You¡¯ve made quite a mess here, friend.¡± He murmured in surprise. ¡°Look at this one here, you¡¯ve punched out both his eyes when he¡¯s already had a mortal cut to the throat. What a senseless act of violence. You must be from Horvorr¡­ are you from Horvorr?¡± Alrik staggered when he reached his seat. He lay back on a stone bench. ¡°I am.¡± ¡°That¡¯s good.¡± Smiler¡¯s grin creased cheeks and made wet blood mingle with dried ash. ¡°I thought for a moment there I¡¯d saved the wrong one,¡± he worriedly explained. ¡°There was another man with the blond one, Engli, and I thought perhaps I¡¯d killed one of the ones I was meant to save¡­ but then I thought, no, why would they be trying to murder one another? And then I came in here to see the same thing, and I decided that I must be here to save the victims.¡± Alrik only then realised he was standing amid ten butchered men. The stone tavern was suffused by smoky orange and dead gazes glistened with firelight. They were all still, not a one groaning or suffering a slow death. ¡°How did you do all that?¡± Smiler blinked. ¡°What?¡± He glanced down at the floor and his eyes widened. ¡°Lady below, what¡¯s happened here?¡± He laughed. ¡°My friend, you should bring down whoever has committed this atrocity. But I fear I must be away. I have mislaid my other half and now I need to go and find it and carve it out of me.¡± He started to move then froze, and glared. ¡°My friend,¡± he growled. ¡°You have not yet wished me luck in my quest.¡± ¡°Good luck.¡± ¡°Good?¡± Smiler spat. ¡°I wish you the best luck, friend. And I curse you with remembrance of this uneven exchange.¡± Alrik frowned. ¡°You do have my honest thanks for saving my life.¡± Smiler frowned at the dead men. ¡°Did one of these lot save your life? What a shame that he died.¡± He tutted. ¡°Goodbye, then, Alrik of the Black Hands. Engli of Horvorr¡¯s Guard awaits you outside in a bed of refuse.¡± Alrik wanted to watch the man go, to be sure he had left, but he started retching instead. He struggled up after he had finished, strode across the taproom, and told himself he would never return. He found the blond man lying in a filthy alley, fists bruised and face bleeding as if he had managed to a put up a drunken struggle. ¡°You did better than me,¡± Alrik muttered. He hauled Engli off the ground, and started looking for a safer tavern. 43. Unfinished 43. Unfinished ¡°Magar has asked for my help in finishing his work. Now a goblin grown, he still remains skinny but has grown tall. He towers over me yet remains deferential. I had not visited his vast caverns in sometime, and what surprised me most was the smell. The sour, acrid scent of the pools had been replaced by a strange smell that was if bat droppings had been crushed into overland berries. And there was the faintest taste of salt ever present upon my tongue. Then I saw that the liquid had not turned luminous green but a deep and ominous blue. So bold in colour that the sacks below the water could barely be seen. All save one, which was huge and central, and made all those around it seem even smaller. ¡®What is that¡­?¡¯ I asked of Magar. ¡®Unfinished,¡¯ he answered, staring into the blue pool. ¡®Help me feed him.¡¯ I was unsure of what he meant, and wondered if he intended to push me into the water, but instead he marched off and returned with a freshly honed staff of bone. Hooked at the end for a shaman to use lifting or cutting sacks. ¡®Here,¡¯ he said. ¡®We left your old one behind. But a new one is better. A pair,¡¯ he explained, glancing to the matching staff strapped across his bony shoulders. ¡®They are not ready,¡¯ I answered, as the hatchlings needed time to grow. ¡®We will split them.¡¯ ¡®Which¡­?¡¯ ¡®All of them, Izzig,¡¯ he explained as if to a child. ¡®Only one will be birthed from this pool. Help me feed the others to the vessel.¡¯ ¡®I will not split that many.¡¯ ¡®Izzig.¡¯ Magar cocked his head, and he studied me for a long while. ¡®It will happen. With you, it will be quicker. The only way to prevent is to kill or imprison me.¡¯ He thrust the bone staff towards me once more. ¡®This will help you with either decision.¡¯¡± Snow swirled down in delicate flakes as an uncovered cart covered the unwelcoming ground that stretched from the stone city¡¯s southeastern gate. The pair of leading oxen lowed out in anguish while white covered their bristling coats. Two men in tattered cloaks, both colourless in the dark night, walked alongside the cart, while the hunched rider kept a tight grip on the reins. These men would be, or hoped that they would be, paid well. They at the least thought that this was better work than trying to murder Smiler. The Crooked Teeth were being ripped from festering gums and by the end of this night there wouldn¡¯t be enough left to make an ugly smile. Yet these men, carrying a corpse as cargo, would drop their package off in some troll¡¯s cavern and return to be paid. They would profit while their peers rotted. They would drop the mad facade and go back to life as regular folk once more. Yet when they considered a return to normality they had to wonder on those that were taken. Bags of teeth didn¡¯t return to crying children or grieving widows. They were just that. Small stones in bags, cracked, stained red. The man they carried wouldn¡¯t return to any wife or daughter, wouldn¡¯t rise up from the bile of some troll¡¯s belly. The men shivered, they considered, they lamented. They each looked forward to the day¡¯s ahead and worried on the time¡¯s behind them. They told themselves that it was the dark night, the howling wind, and the cold weather. That when the sun shone once more above the stone city they would be father¡¯s and husband¡¯s again. They would be men again. Good men, for at least a while. Gudmund of Horvorr¡¯s body rolled and thumped within the rattling cart. Intestines had been crushed and split, spilling sludge onto dark slush that had once been a coating of snow. The ravaged corpse lay frozen, lips dipped into sadness, hand outstretched as if in reach for the sword brought with him. ¡°Brolli¡¯s sword. The sons of Geirolf all turned to corpses.¡± That malformed thought was a twisted whisper made intangible by screeching weather, no more noteworthy than the shivering breaths of men that wished keenly they had instead been tasked with building a pyre. ¡°Here!¡± The driver shouted, pulling the reins. ¡°This¡¯ll do!¡± The cart clattered to a stop and for a moment the three men seemed frozen within the snowstorm. They soon rallied to life and started dragging the corpse from the wagon. The driver remained seated. ¡°Don¡¯t forget the sword!¡± The tallest man eyed the snow-specked blade. ¡°Better to sell it!¡± ¡°I wouldn¡¯t.¡± The warning tone was enough for the third man to belt the sword. They carried the body through the swirling blackness and into a nearby cavern. It was narrow but sheltered from the weather. Both men sighed with relief, and dragged the corpse to the end of the cavern. A wolf stood there. Dead, starved and frozen. The pitiful beast looked ready to rise. ¡°Bad omen,¡± the third man muttered. He laid Brolli¡¯s sword across Gudmund¡¯s corpse. ¡°Let¡¯s leave while we can.¡± ¡°Need a piss.¡± The tall man rubbed at his reddened ears. ¡°I¡¯ll be out soon enough.¡± He waited for the other man to leave, then bent down over the broken body. He spared a glance for the frozen visage of the dead man before reaching for the ornate sword. ¡°I¡¯ll take this,¡± he whispered. ¡°No sense in the troll eating it along with your corpse.¡± The tall man whistled while he departed, a distracted tune that blended with the malicious wind. He had barely suffered a buffet when he walked into the third man. ¡°Take the sword back,¡± the driver shouted, ¡°before Muradoon takes us all!¡± The tall man wanted to argue, but he didn¡¯t want to risk dying or walking back alone. He decided he would come back for the blade in fairer weather. The third man accompanied him back into the cave. ¡°Lady below,¡± he whispered. The ravaged corpse now knelt at the back of the cavern, one bleeding hand resting on the starved wolf.¡°Throw the damn sword, and let¡¯s get clear of this place.¡± The tall man obliged, his hands shaking now he settled the blade on the ground. He ran out along with the other man, gladder than ever to be back in the blizzard. ¡°The corpse is rising,¡± the third man declared. ¡°We need to get to the Eternal Sanctuary!¡± ¡°Muradoon shelter us,¡± the driver intoned. ¡°Or take the man that¡¯s to blame.¡± ¡°What was that?¡± the tall man shouted above the doleful wind. ¡°I said it time to leave!¡± The three men, two oxen, and the rattling cart departed as soon as they were able. They thanked the Spirit Talker for guarding them from the draugr and made their way through the cold snow and towards the monolithic walls of the distant city of stone. A fourth man, one-armed and wrapped in a black cloak, arrived at the cavern not long after. He had almost turned to enter when a fifth approached, tall and broad, sheathed in armour that shielded features and flesh. ¡°Canny timing, brother,¡± Agnar shouted. ¡°Here to help or hamper?¡± The armoured warrior did not move or flinch in the cold wind. ¡°Prevent.¡± Agnar barely recognized his brother¡¯s iron voice. ¡°He¡¯s your father.¡± ¡°He is a restless spirit that needs to be put to peace.¡± ¡°Unleashed.¡±If you come across this story on Amazon, it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it. Geirmund drew his sword by half. ¡°I am here on the bidding of the true God of Death. You live in service of the false deity Muradoon. I would ask you now, once more, to trust your older brother¡¯s judgement.¡± Agnar''s smile was wry. ¡°Yet by your own words this is not your judgement.¡± ¡°I have no wish to kill you, brother.¡± ¡°If you would even consider it then you are not my brother at all! That would only make you the rotted body and defiled spirit of a man I once knew.¡± Agnar paused. ¡°Perhaps you need to put yourself to peace, brother?¡± Geirmund¡¯s gauntlet tightened around his sword¡¯s pommel. ¡°I have work to do. I have a debt to settle. One I made on your bidding¡­ to spare our sister,¡± he reminded. ¡°Would you have me break my word ?¡± ¡°If you do this then our sister will suffer far worse than what you spared her.¡± Geirmund screamed in anguish and staggered forward. ¡°I wish to stop but I cannot.¡± He drew his sword, and settled into a determined stride. ¡°Run from here, brother.¡± Agnar drew his own blade, an antiqued sword that had been gifted by the Small King. He stepped back into the cavern. ¡°You¡ª¡± ¡°He is gone.¡± Geirmund stopped, and just as swiftly disappeared. Agnar frowned at the darkness beyond the cavern. He turned to the cold and lonely visage of a starved and abandoned wolf. *** The hour had grown late, ominously so, and most homes in the stone city lay wreathed in darkness. As thousands slept within monolithic walls, forces converged towards Timilir. A modest procession that lay camped, along the ravaged lands of Ouro¡¯s Scales, not a day to the North, and a larger army, to the East, that marched through the night, slaughtering scouts and passing coin to silence word of their coming. Only two groups within the city knew of the approaching army, those spies and assassins of the Low King, and the living members of the Crooked Teeth that moved to meet them. The hooded man walked with hopes of having a debt settled, with no knowledge of the smiling man that stalked behind him. While men with daggers met in the dark, scores still sat listening to the blond orator in the Bard¡¯s House as he told the long and unhappy tale of brothers Brolli and Gudmund. Far from that place, Atsurr stood guard near the marble gates of Jarl Thrand¡¯s Estate. He had checked the carriages that returned, without reports of compromise or attack, and he had decided that all the men there were servants of Jarl Thrand in truth. The armoured sentinel made his way towards the looming structure where he thought his master now slept, only to hear shouting from behind him that claimed the Jarl of Timilir had just arrived and was now grievously wounded. Atsurr turned back to the gate, which was opened before he could order a refusal. He gathered guards and took all care in approaching a cart that had by all appearances been abandoned. Then he heard the pained rasp of Jarl Thrand and hurried forwards to collect the wounded old man. Atsurr strode and spoke in a daze as he ordered a healer for Jarl Thrand and had him secured in safety and comfort within the walls of the stone barracks. He could not shake the worry that he had been tricked, and he thought again on the old guard who had brought him report of the carriage guards¡¯ false word and poorly fitted armour. Realization dawned and gave way to a rise of anger. The main carriage guards had never been replaced. It was just one swapped guard, one old guard, who fed Atsurr lies about the others and made him think that they need flee in fear. The Crooked Teeth must have known, somehow, of another way into the safe room. Their intention had never been to kill Thrand out in the open. Atsurr had placed the old Jarl exactly where they had hoped he would. He had been utterly fooled. Atsurr raged within himself, but needed to handle the crisis. He left Jarl Thrand under care of loyal guards and a competent healer, knowing there was nothing more that he could do. He then strode out into the cold night and turned towards the towering structure of Jarl Thrand¡¯s home. He crossed under the imposing entryway and into the wide, white hall where lay the ornate statues of all Eleven Elders. Stone likenesses, commissioned by Thrand, which had riled all the temples in the city, none so much as the Servants of Muradoon. They would rather hoard their idols. Atsurr turned towards the right wing of the estate, to the torture room, where he had stored the treacherous women that had meant to betray his master and his city. He thought that the halls were quiet, unnaturally so, and rested a hand on his sword¡¯s pommel. Fears were alleviated when lantern light bled into the corner ahead, but then he heard the familiar voice of an old man. Atsurr drew his sword and turned to see two guards collapsed near the open door. Shadows stretched from the room and out into the corridor. He could hear the hushed voices of both young women, as well as the older one, and he knew he had not yet failed. ¡°Guards to arms!¡± he roared. ¡°Intruders in the halls!¡± The shout echoed along shadowed halls and out into the bitter night, plainly heard above the staggered steps of the vengeful corpse now trudging through the open gate. *** The hooded man squinted up at the night sky, keening his ears towards the Estate¡¯s alarm. ¡°Are your men to blame for that?¡± asked the man opposite, shrouded in a smooth black cloak. The Crooked Teeth had met with the agents of the Low King. They appeared ragged and unprofessional against the straight-backed, well-armed and well-clothed, folk that stood to face them. They had all gathered amid a broad square surrounded by wooden houses and derelict shacks. A crumbling well separated the two circling groups. The hooded man shrugged. ¡°Jarl Thrand must have reached have reached his Estate.¡± The lead man moved his hands under his cloak. ¡°You say that as if he lives.¡± ¡°He does.¡± ¡°That was not the agreement.¡± ¡°His leadership has been entirely undermined. He is mortally wounded. He will die today, or tomorrow.¡± ¡°You were close enough to examine him but not close enough to kill him?¡± ¡°Indeed,¡± Smiler enthused. ¡°We were paid more than you¡¯d think for that!¡± He stumbled out from the shadows and those gathered turned to regard his blood-smeared visage. ¡°Am I late¡­?¡± ¡°Is he?¡± the lead man asked. ¡°He¡ª¡± ¡°No longer works for us!¡± Smiler finished. ¡°I would have killed Jarl Thrand, but this one, this man, wanted to be paid by three hands. Three Thrands. Three¡ª¡± He shouted wordlessly. ¡°Leave this city! Now! I have come to take my revenge!¡± He scowled around at them all as they all drew knifes, swords, or daggers. ¡°I am no fan of violence or cruelty,¡± the lead man answered. ¡°But I have no intention to pay you or your people.¡± ¡°Good!¡± ¡°Ignore him,¡± the hooded man snapped. ¡°The city is ripe for conquer. We have done as you asked. If you do not pay us now then you will have broken trust with us.¡± The lead man laughed and his fellows echoed the hollow mirth. ¡°My friend, your own mad dog has barked towards your treachery.¡± He turned and bowed to Smiler. ¡°Do you need help, stranger?¡± ¡°Smiler,¡± he corrected. ¡°You should leave before I slaughter you. The Low King is not welcome in this city.¡± The lead man met the warning with an unimpressed smirk. ¡°I expect to see you again, then. Good luck to you, Smiler.¡± ¡°Good¡ª¡± Smiler began, cutting himself off when he blocked a thrown dagger. The agents of the Low King departed in the shadows but the lead man remained behind. He watched with an uneasy mix of awe and disbelief now the manic man fended off dozens of haphazard attacks from untrained men and women that had dressed themselves up to resemble a gang of fearsome fighters. They soon started to suffer, some were mortally wounded, and their enthusiasm waned. The man in the hood had thrown the first dagger and tried to land some opportunistic blows but now he was edging clear and looking for a likely hiding place. Smiler had not watched the retreat but when the hooded man broke to run so did he. The wounded members of the Crooked Teeth did not chase either of them. The lead man could only thank Joyto for the lucky night. He hadn¡¯t brought any coin and he had expected a fight, but he and his followers would have been sorely pressed had this ragged band been unified. Not far away, Smiler sang an eerie song as he ran between shadowed shacks that were mostly abandoned. He had made sure to wound his hooded half¡¯s leg and so the chase was an easy one. Follow the blood or the noise, stand about and shout about until he scared him from another hiding hole. He was a cat and his hooded half was a mouse, but that made Smiler angry because he liked mice. He wanted to be a mouse. He would be a mouse. But first, he needed to win his revenge. Smiler stopped, side-stepped, tripped the hooded man by the leg when he came slashing past. The hooded man snarled, staggered, and stumbled into a wooden wall. He scuffed into a dirt road pocked by stones. Smiler lamented scraped knees. ¡°My hooded half, what¡¯s happened to you? You look wounded? Is the assailant¡ª¡± ¡°Enough!¡± The man¡¯s hood had fallen back. He looked like any other man. Smiler was disappointed. ¡°Go on and kill me, then, you mad bastard.¡± He shook his head. ¡°But you¡¯re the one that needs to die here.¡± Smiler smiled. ¡°If that were true the gods would will it so. Yet I warned you. I did warn you¡­ didn¡¯t I?¡± ¡°All you ever do is talk in nonsense or riddles.¡± ¡°You took my honour from me. You killed that man I quite liked. You tried to kill me. You tried to kill Alrik of the Black Hands and Engli of Horvorr¡¯s Guard. You should have followed my lead, hooded half. There is majesty in darkness and method in madness. I would have seen the Crooked Teeth to a lifetime of smiling.¡± The hooded man steadied himself against the ground and the wall. ¡°Don¡¯t.¡± ¡°Honour? You want honour?¡± ¡°All men want what they don¡¯t have,¡± lamented Smiler. ¡°And they never get it. Not truly. Not ever. Not then, not now. Not even before.¡± ¡°The Low King betrayed us.¡± Smiler nodded. ¡°He would have wanted Gudmund dead.¡± ¡°So why don¡¯t you help me up and we¡¯ll go squeeze the honour right out of that bastard¡¯s heart.¡± ¡°Why?¡± Smiler cocked his head. ¡°Because there¡¯s a bastard in your heart and I need to squeeze it out.¡± 44. Grudges 44. Grudges ¡°Message has sent been that Great Chief Tuku wishes for me to join him in his new court, to advise him and to serve as his Great Shaman. Though I felt some pride, and was gladdened to know that Tuku still lived, I was surprised that Magar had not been invited at all. When the younger shaman asked, the scrawny goblin who delivered the message informed him he was to remain in the small village indefinitely. And even went so far as to warn him not to leave. Magar, for his part, simply shrugged, and returned to his spawning cavern. I am not sure whether Tuku still harbors hopes of vengeance for his dead twin, or whether he places great import on Magar¡¯s work instead. To my mind, Magar and Zalak¡¯s plans have been met with failure after failure. Even if the huge sack hatches, I do not see how a giant goblin who can barely fit through must tunnels is going to restore a now shattered empire.¡± Gudmund prodded at the cold flesh of his own heart, as if expecting it to beat. He seemed to look at nothing yet see everything with his one glistening eye. He stepped forward, testing his brother¡¯s sword in the air, always testing the sword, while he searched the shadowed estate for more unmade corpses. He had slew men, more than he knew to remember. He had come here in search of an enemy he had not yet found. In search of allies he had not seen either. He trod blood through furnished kitchens and wide halls, staring at the stone visages of all the gods he had sworn to destroy. Gudmund raised his brother¡¯s sword, meaning to test the weight once more, and then he heard shouting. He lowered the blade and followed the sounds. ¡°Announce yourself!¡± Gudmund was in a shadowed corridor. A man with a sword waited behind him. ¡°Gods, you are wounded,¡± the man whispered. ¡°Lower your sword and I will take you to a healer.¡± Gudmund shook his head. He turned back to where he was going. He saw light, heard fighting, footsteps, and then a blade punctured into his back and out of his stomach. He rounded on the attacker, anger in his sword hand, and watched a head and body topple out of rhythm. *** A pair of lanterns, one atop a barrel, the other hanging from a stretching rack, lit a narrow room of stone walls, small cages, and grim contraptions. Arfast stood, armoured shoulder to boots, ahead of three chained women that struggled to break their bonds with a dagger and a helmet. He shielded them from the gathered guards that had tried time and time again to break him. He had killed two men, wounded others, and they had been content to swap in more swordsmen, but now they had brought bows and the old guard would need to break forward or else those he strove to protect would die here. He knew it was a risk, a misstep, a glory chaser¡¯s error. He had faith in his own immortality though, even as a sword slammed into his shoulder, even as a spear pierced his hip. He had hacked two men down when a reckless arrow grazed his neck. He hewed through the bow and into the young man that held it. Arfast wrenched the blade free before he was forced to his knees. Bone jarred into stone and shook his fading senses. He thrust into the groin of the last archer, tried to glance back at Sybille, but all he saw was expressionless metal, sharpened blades and unyielding armour. He thought that death had finally claimed him when the ravaged ghost of Gudmund appeared in the doorway, belly sliced open, arms hacked and slashed, one eye punctured by a blade, lacerated flesh covered in blood both fresh and frozen. The grim apparition swung a sword as if in mockery. The man it hit screamed. Arfast¡¯s heart sank. He was watching another man, a corpse, who had not yet yielded to death. ¡°Muradoon spare us!¡± a man shouted. ¡°Kill the thing!¡± Atsurr ordered. ¡°Kill¡ª¡± He blocked the first strike, but was staggered by a kick, and then split from shoulders to hip. He seemed to want to speak but Gudmund stamped on his own sword to force the blade all the way through. Arfast was surprised at how quickly his thoughts shifted from hatred to pity. Those guards that stayed to fight soon died. A pair managed to flee into the shadowed corridors, whispering prayers or yelling for help. Arfast could see the horrified eyes behind visors, could see the pallid faces of the archers. He was laying among the dead, but would never find their equal shares of horror and peace. He struggled up to one knee. ¡°Father¡­?¡± ¡°Gudmund!¡± Anna¡¯s scream was beyond sorrowed. ¡°What they done to you?¡± The women were still bonded. They could not rise or flee when the draugr stalked forward with his bloodied sword. Gudmund broke the bonds with his blade though, hacking and hacking, unresponsive to their pleas and protest. He had freed them, but the very sight of him had shackled them with a greater grief. ¡°Gudmund.¡± Arfast had managed to stand with aid of his sword. ¡°I ward this place in name of the Spirit Talker. Son of Geirulf, your ancestors weep for your passing, but you are no longer welcome here.¡± Gudmund turned slowly, one eye closed and one eye open. He stepped closer, until the two men were close enough to strike. He glanced at Arfast¡¯s sword then at his own. ¡°I will fight you if need be.¡± Gudmund sucked in a shivering breath that made him tremble with raw agony. ¡°Draugr,¡± he croaked. Arfast flinched but the dead man only grasped his shoulder. Gudmund nodded, and staggered off down the corridor. The old guard moved to dismember him, to put his spirit to rest, but the corpse disappeared into thin air just as soon as he passed the precipice. *** ¡°Where is Atsurr?¡± Jarl Thrand rasped, his eyes barely focused on the hooded healer above him. ¡°How long will this take¡­? I need to rise. I have things¡ª¡± ¡°Hold him still,¡± the healer instructed a nearby guard. ¡°The wound is cleaned, my Jarl, but it still needs to be properly sewn. I would not have you bleeding in your sleep. I will send a man to fetch Atsurr.¡± The healer stepped back, washing his hands in a bowl of red water that glimmered with candlelight. Modest beds had been crowded into a corner to make room for the large and blanketed table where the old Jarl laid. The healer had opened his oak chest and the air was filled with a mix of pungent herbs and unguents. Lifting a bone needle, he used nimble fingers to work in the thread. The healer frowned towards the door, where a broad guard remained unmoved. ¡°Why haven¡¯t you left?¡± ¡°A man has already been sent,¡± he said quietly. ¡°He has yet to return.¡± The healer noticed that the men with him had diminished to three. ¡°And the others?¡± ¡°They have not returned either.¡± The guard¡¯s weathered face grew hard. ¡°That is why we have stayed.¡± ¡°I see.¡± The healer paused. ¡°Bar the door, then. If Atsurr¡¯s comes, you can clear it.¡± He turned back to the old man on the table. The Jarl had turned deathly pale, save for the cut itself that seemed shaped as a red crescent moon. The guard holding the Jarl lessened his grip. ¡°Is he going to die?¡± ¡°He is,¡± a man croaked. The healer was torn between cold dread and hot rage at the grim presumption. He lost all anger when he saw the ravaged corpse amid the room. He turned to the closed door where the guard stood alive and well, as did the man by the stairs. The draugr remained unmoving. Gudmund of Horvorr¡¯s vengeful corpse stared at the healer with one glazed eye. ¡°Open the door,¡± the healer whispered. ¡°Open the door! We are leaving.¡± Gudmund of Horvorr nodded, drew his sword, and turned to the old man shivering on the blanketed table. The guards departed, whispering prayers to Muradoon, and closed the door behind them. Gudmund poked at his heart once more, still unmoving, and bent down to press the old Jarl¡¯s wrinkled chest. ¡°What¡ª¡± Jarl Thrand¡¯s murmur stopped. He froze, eyes wide, stricken by terror. He opened his mouth as if to call out but he seized and grimaced instead. Gudmund reached for a nearby knife, and used it to saw through the flesh of his own chest. He paid no mind to wordless pleas of the wounded man. He held Thrand down when he tried to roll, baring his teeth in a macabre smile. Blood dripped from grip now Gudmund tore his own heart out and pressed it against the old Jarl¡¯s breast.This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version. He held it there, grasping his brother¡¯s sword, and drove the blade into the table. Steel tore through flesh, struck stone, scraped, and snapped. Gudmund witnessed the desperate death throes of a withered man who had reached the end of a long life. He glanced at the ragged edge of his brother¡¯s sword. ¡°Son of Geirulf.¡± Gudmund turned his dead gaze towards the door. A large man in a purple robe blocked the welcoming darkness. ¡°I thought that it would come to this,¡± said the robed man. ¡°I almost killed you when we met in the Sanctuary, but then I didn¡¯t. I had, in truth, ample time to save these people, but then I often warned them about making their own likeness of my god. I hope now that the lesson will be well learned.¡± The Spirit Seeker laughed. ¡°By looking at you, I can almost guess that they deserved it.¡± He paused. ¡°You hold your own will, yes? Or else why spare so many?¡± Gudmund upturned his bloodied hands. He readied his broken sword. ¡°There is no need to fight, Gudmund,¡± assured the Spirit Seeker. ¡°Your daughter has left this place, along with two other women, in safety. You were betrayed, and you have avenged. Your family awaits you beyond the divide.¡± Gudmund stepped forward. ¡°Each moment twists your very spirit,¡± warned the Spirit Seeker. ¡°Go further in your quest for revenge and you will never come back. You will never see your family again. Not those dead nor those soon to die.¡± Gudmund glanced back at the dead Jarl on the table, at his own skewered heart. His lungs rattled as he drew in a long breath. Time passed in a long silence, broken only by the soft patter of blood. The dead warrior then knelt, nodded, and bowed his head. The Spirit Seeker stepped forward. He drew a bone-hilted sword from his purple robe. ¡°This is a first for me, Gudmund. I will inform your daughter, and remember you as a wronged spirit that willingly surrendered.¡± He straightened, taking a slow breath, and raised his blade. ¡°May the Spirit Talker take your soul.¡± *** Alrik had carried Engli to the nearest place that was open, which happened to be a tall structure, standing near the city¡¯s southern wall, named the Toothless Grin. The owners had done away with the bare furnishings of most places and carpeted the floor with rugs and furs, which seemed to each have their fair share of stains. Etched plates of metal and colourful tapestries had been hammered into the walls, along with hunter¡¯s trophies¡ªteeth, skulls, and claws¡ªand sets of heavy curtains that shimmered in candlelight as if coated in dust. The air tickled Alrik¡¯s lungs and made him more nausea than he would¡¯ve been. He could smell sweat and sex and sick and piss. Old food and spilled drinks. He could smell a poor man¡¯s brothel. He could smell his troubled childhood. Engli was done for a night or two, slumped sideways across a pair of chairs, sleeping. He and Alrik were two of five folk in the main room, which housed two circular tables, a long counter for serving drinks, and pair of benches that faced a waning fire. The other three comprised a heavy man with a club by the door, a chubby drunk staring into the flames, and an old woman, her lined face covered with powders, that tended the bar. Alrik sat straighter in his chair when an old guard walked in, armour glistening with blood. He looked both badly wounded and unconcerned. He searched the place, eyes scouring each corner, and then spoke out the doorway. Alrik smiled in good humour as three working women crept into the place, thinking it odd that two of them could stand in as twins for Sybille and Ruby. He noticed their wounds though, and their fear, and his mirth soon faded. ¡°Ruby?¡± he shouted and they turned to look at him through the smoky haze. ¡°No shouting,¡± the heavy man at the door warned. ¡°No fighting, either.¡± The old guard kept his hand on his sword. The blond woman crossed the room, staring in confusion. ¡°Engli¡­?¡± ¡°Engli?¡± Sybille echoed. ¡°He¡¯s fine.¡± Alrik realised it was Gudmund¡¯s daughter in earnest. ¡°He had a fistfight with a man is all.¡± ¡°Who are you?¡± the blond woman snapped. ¡°Alrik of the Black Hands,¡± Ruby answered, her voice strained. ¡°I should kill you where you sit.¡± ¡°Be quiet,¡± Sybille¡¯s venom tone brooked no argument. She smiled exhaustedly at Alrik. ¡°Tell me what has happened.¡± Alrik let go of his knife when Ruby did. He nodded, but felt crowded by the people looking down at him. ¡°Could you all take a seat? I don¡¯t want you standing over me. And you all look ripe for falling over.¡± He waited for them to grab chairs. Ruby hadn¡¯t moved but she sat, almost relieved, when one was brought. Alrik wanted to ask after Gudmund, but he could tell by the young woman¡¯s pretense of strength and the blond woman¡¯s plain sorrow that he was dead, and he had no wish to reopen fresh wounds by confirming that fact. ¡°There¡¯s a woman in the Black Hands named Sifa. She wanted to lead, so she, along with a dozen other men, tried to kill Engli and me on behalf of the Crooked Teeth. Or at least she claimed that they offered to pay.¡± Arfast struggled up from his chair. ¡°I¡¯ll fetch drinks.¡± ¡°And¡­?¡± Ruby asked. ¡°You¡¯ve not a scratch on you.¡± ¡°They¡¯re all dead.¡± Alrik shrugged. ¡°But I didn¡¯t kill a one. Engli fought with a man in the streets and the rest were killed by Smiler. He spared Sifa and her daughter and slaughtered the rest. Never seen anything like it.¡± ¡°Smiler?¡± the blond woman asked. Half of her hair had been stained red by blood. Alrik now remembered her from the night when they had been captured. Anna, Engli¡¯s mother. ¡°The one that talked most on the night they took us. He didn¡¯t offer a reason¡­ just showed up, killed them, and wished me good luck.¡± He paused. ¡°The best luck, even.¡± He glanced at Ruby. ¡°You do know she¡¯s working for Jarl Thrand?¡± ¡°Jarl Thrand is dead,¡± Sybille¡¯s voice was cold. ¡°He butchered my father and my father rose from death and brought vengeance to his household. Atsurr is dead, as are most of the guards. A Spirit Seeker entered as we were leaving, so I can only hope that he has been laid to rest. My father, I mean. Obviously I hope those that served Thrand, or help Thrand, end their days in shadows.¡± Alrik nodded at the sentiment. ¡°Jarl Thrand is dead?¡± ¡°Yes,¡± Ruby answered. ¡°And now this city will suffer.¡± ¡°You are a tiresome idiot, Ruby,¡± Sybille replied. ¡°Be gone. Go and find company better suited to your particular brand of cowardice. I am but a moment from beating you senseless.¡± Ruby answered with a laugh. ¡°I would like to see you try.¡± Sybille rose from her chair. ¡°If you insist.¡± ¡°Hjorvarth would not approve,¡± Alrik said, meaning to stay Ruby, but both women paused. ¡°He serves Gudmund¡¯s daughter and if he ever returns from the mines he will hunt you down with a blind vengeance. He will rip the Gem Cutters and their foundations out of the earth.¡± Ruby paused, and begrudgingly nodded. ¡°This is no time for violence. I cannot prevent what is already done. You have my sympathies¡ª¡± ¡°And you near the end of my patience,¡± Sybille cut in. ¡°Your opinion, thoughts, and sympathies are meaningless to me. You tried to save the life of Jarl Thrand. For that you are destined to suffer.¡± Ruby rose up to her feet, startling when she saw Arfast. The old guard stepped past and settled half a dozen huddled mugs on the table. She glanced back at the haggard gathering then walked towards the door, her heart almost stopping when a young man walked in, smiling, his face a mask of soot and blood. ¡°Ruby of the Gem Cutters,¡± Smiler enthused. ¡°Hands off your blades or I¡¯ll cut off your hands.¡± He sighed. ¡°The Crooked Teeth are no more and so I need not slay you. Go on in peace, with the knowledge that this city is ceded to the Gem Cutters. Go on in fear, with the knowledge that the Low King rides in force to arrive at dawn.¡± Ruby wanted to kill the man, wanted to end his madness, but she wanted to live more. She held tight to her knives as she stepped past him, and then she walked out into the dark streets, intent on finding Ragni. Smiler searched the place, smirking at the man at the door, frowning at the sleeping drunkard by the fire, grinning at the tired woman behind the bar. Though she looked energetic compared to the five folk gathered around a crooked table. ¡°Crooked,¡± Smiler voiced as he approached. ¡°Good evening, night, morning.¡± They looked at him, one and all, looked at him, with no warmth or enthusiasm and friendliness. They almost seemed to want to kill him but sat frozen as if afraid to act. Only the old man, bald and ready, showed no fear at all. ¡°Has a cat been in here?¡± Smiler roared. ¡°Has he stolen all your tongues?¡± He laughed a mad laugh. ¡°That was a jest. I am a funny man. I always was, I always am, I always will be.¡± He paused, and turned to the youngest and prettiest among them. ¡°Oh. Sybille, Jarl of Horvorr, I come to inform you that I have failed in the tasks I set myself. Namely, to protect your father and to murder the old man known as Jarl Thrand. It would seem that your father was equally distressed and chose to finish the work for me.¡± He smiled. ¡°I am, of course, very grateful.¡± He waited for someone to speak. He shook his head in warning when they reached for weapons. ¡°Because of my failure,¡± Smiler said, ¡°I have disbanded the Crooked Teeth. Hapless amateurs, and I have it on authority that they have been murdered.¡± He started prodding at his own skull. ¡°Yet¡­ yet, yet, yet. I am¡­ deeply, deeply troubled. I am taskless. I have nothing to do. I have no honour. It eludes and escapes me like a rabid cat. So I have come here, in all humbleness and with all apologies, to ask if I can make amends.¡± He paused. ¡°To be more specific¡­ is there anyone that you would want me to murder?¡± Sybille regarded him without sympathy. ¡°Yourself?¡± ¡°Hm.¡± Smiler frowned. ¡°And then you will consider us settled? Will that give me back my honour?¡± ¡°I will consider us settled.¡± Smiler bobbed his head in deliberation, shook his sleeve, then drove a blade towards his own skull. He paused just short, pricking skin, and blood trickled down his furrowed brow. ¡°But, why? What did I ever do to you?¡± ¡°You murdered Ralf.¡± ¡°That¡¯s not true at all. I even slew his murderers.¡± ¡°You set my father upon a path to his own death.¡± ¡°That¡¯s not true, either.¡± Smiler paused while she scowled. ¡°I was betrayed. I stabbed the betrayers. I only ever really wanted to stab Jarl Thrand.¡± ¡°You have killed scores of people,¡± Alrik said. ¡°Yes.¡± Smiler happily nodded. ¡°Thus I suggested repaying my debt with a task in which I am most proficient. Killing other people,¡± he clarified. ¡°It doesn¡¯t take any sort of skill to kill one¡¯s self. Only a certain sort of madness.¡± ¡°So you refuse me?¡± Sybille asked. ¡°No.¡± Smiler shook his head. ¡°I simply wanted to ensure satisfaction. I was on my way to slay the Low King, as Gudmund would have wanted, but then I thought you might not want that so I came here to check.¡± Anna looked up at him. ¡°You should slay the Low King.¡± ¡°Hah!¡± Smiler seized. ¡°An endorsement from Gudmund¡¯s lover! I always knew that, that was the right choice. I never should have doubted myself. I will find you all again once my task is complete!¡± They all watched him stroll out of the Toothless Grin as if he were an ordinary person about normal business. ¡°A troubled man,¡± Arfast muttered. He regarded Anna. ¡°Gudmund¡¯s lover, is it?¡± He frowned when his wry joke was met with anguish and tears. Alrik had no words to console her. He felt a quiet sorrow now he studied his odd company. Engli murmured awake to the sound of his mother crying and tried, drunken and tired, to console her, while Sybille, pale and crestfallen, stared off at nothing. Arfast sighed, sat down, and took up a stone mug. Alrik rubbed at his aching eyes then did the same. 45. Pursuits 45. Pursuits ¡°I arrived at Great Chief Tuku¡¯s domain to find that the huge goblin was not in audience. The throne room lay mostly abandoned, covered in dust and debris left over from the tunnel Magar had collapsed and Zalak had reopened. I am told that Tuku is busy making peace with the remaining Chiefs, or else hunting down those who are refusing to join us and planning some later rebellion. For my part, there is little left to do. I was left alone to wander, and found my way back to my old chamber, where an uncomfortable earthen hump served as my bed. Though I thought I would struggle to sleep, I found that the Moon had been and gone since I closed my eyes. There was little left to do but to restart my recordings, writing that which had happened and that which was hopefully well remembered. But as I recall all that has happened, I begin to think that Magar¡¯s work remains a threat to us all. And I wonder if I should go back to the modest clan and kill him. I brought the young shaman into the world, so surely the burden falls on me to remove him.¡± Great Chief Harak sat cross-legged on the dried, bristling grass that covered his hut. His wrinkled shaman, Dargo, sat opposite, mirroring his position. Disparate in size as they were, they might have seemed like father and child, while they each stared down at the dwarven wrought box of steel placed between them, which shuddered intermittently. ¡°Why¡­?¡± Harak grated. His keen gaze stared towards a crack in the ceiling, from which trickling rainfall had gathered, forming into droplets which landed with a splash. Dargo¡¯s large eyes remained fix to the box. He had explained much to Harak in the moments passed, but then the pair had sat in silence for a long while, so he was not sure what it was that Harak was asking. He knew the Great Chief well enough to guess that he need only remain silent to be given further explanation. ¡°First, find the box,¡± Harak growled. ¡°Then, protect the box. Now, hide the box. Are we younglings? Is this some game to you, shaman¡­?¡± ¡°Things are not as they should be. The dark one brings many otherworld wizards with him. And the womanling goes to places she should not. And¡­¡± Harak scowled. ¡°And¡­?¡± ¡°I know what is in the box now. We were supposed to protect it, yes,¡± Dargo assured in a ponderous voice. ¡°So that we could hand it over to¡­¡± Harak bared his teeth in a snarl. ¡°¡­to the womanling.¡± The Great Chief rested his elbows on his knees, looming over the small shaman. He opened his mouth, then gritted his sharp teeth instead, and clenched his great fists. ¡°Should I continue, Harak?¡± asked Dargo, smirking up at him. ¡°Or¡­?¡± Harak grunted disagreeably in answer. ¡°The girl can find the box if we hide it. But if we keep it here, then the wizards will take it instead. And that would not be good. For any of us.¡± ¡°What is in the box?¡± ¡°A hand.¡± ¡°It moves,¡± reminded Harak. ¡°The hand is severed, but sustains itself. There are many such boxes¡­ all still buried.¡± The Great Chief rested his heavy chin in one weathered palm. ¡°Why do we care? Why should it matter to us? Is it a goblin in the box? Is it The Small King? Is it Kragor One-Eye or Orog the Guardian? Why have you involved us in this, shaman? Risked the clan for a hand. A useless hand even if it moves.¡± He shook his head. ¡°You are a fool! Worse, I am a bigger fool for ever listening to you,¡± he added regretfully. ¡°Maybe Ugu was right to kill his shaman. It would have served me¡ª¡± ¡°It is not a goblin.¡± ¡°See!¡± Harak seized, baring his teeth. ¡°I should beat you¡ª¡± ¡°But you have shaken this hand before.¡± Harak¡¯s angry frown gave way to a look of doubtful confusion. ¡°Why would I¡ª¡± He paused, and blinked. Then Harak slowly shook his head. ¡°No,¡± he quietly insisted. ¡°Yes.¡± ¡°He is dead.¡± ¡°The manlings could not kill him,¡± assured Dargo. ¡°Not truly.¡± The Great Chief¡¯s shoulders sunk, and he looked so unsure of himself that Dargo, despite his slight stature, now appeared the older of the pair. ¡°You are sure¡­?¡± ¡°I am sure.¡± ¡°Then we should¡ª¡± ¡°It is not our place. The womanling will free him.¡± Harak glared down at the wrinkled shaman and looked primed for violence, but then his gaze turned to the steel box instead and he rested a hand, almost fearfully, against the cold metal. ¡°Gahr¡¯rul,¡± he intoned with all respect. ¡°Chief of Chiefs.¡± *** ¡°We¡¯re being observed.¡±Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author. High Wizard Lara frowned, unsure of what the speaker meant, but then felt the lingering presence of a distant entity. The one who had spoken, Frederick, was a useless know-it-all. The others liked him because he was tall, handsome, and had well kept brown hair, but Lara despised him. He was a Level 3 Prophetic, which meant that without the enchantments provided by all them by the Wizard of Avenpark, he would just be a powerless fool with good instincts. ¡°So¡­?¡± she demanded. The other four of them, three men and another woman, gave her a mix of quizzical or worried looks. They were all middling wizards as well. And they had started this venture with high hopes of catching The Void Walker. She was grateful that the bodies had started to pile up, courtesy of their quarry and of that merciless rogue troll, because until now the mood of her charges had been buoyant and almost childish. ¡°It could be The Void Walker,¡± said Frederick. ¡°It isn¡¯t,¡± assured the High Wizard. ¡°And even if it were, what do you imagine he might glean from watching us?¡± She waved out her arms, heavy robe sagging, as if to encompass the dreary bogland in which they squatted. Most of them had been sitting, silent and sullen, on a pair of mossy logs, while the tallest man insisted on standing. For her part, Lara had seated herself on a less than comfortable boulder, waiting for orders from senior wizards, and idly dipping in and out of the Ether to see if there were any sign of The Void Walker¡¯s comings and goings. But with The Protectorate presence unusually high, she didn¡¯t want to delve too deep and run afoul of the dead eyed lizards. She was relatively sure, at least, that The Void Walker had returned to this plane. Which was unusual for him, as he rarely ventured the same place twice. But a great power had departed this world, and an equally great power had returned. ¡°He could be preempting an attack,¡± insisted Frederick, as if he knew better than her. ¡°It is The Watcher. A benign entity that observes events from an inaccessible dimension. Such facts are well known to those who actually¡­ well, know things.¡± ¡°Found him,¡± said Kyra suddenly in her meek voice. ¡°They arrived on the other side of the caverns in which they disappeared, and have been heading northwards. They seem to be traveling to a goblin village that looks largely abandoned.¡± The young woman was talented at scouting through the Ether. Not as talented as Lara, but then the High Wizard didn¡¯t care if Kyra died. Lara narrowed her eyes, and the robed girl shuffled on the log, uncomfortable under the scrutiny. ¡°You are sure it is him¡­?¡± ¡°Yes,¡± she answered with a swift nod. ¡°Well¡­ no. It was a little strange. There was The Void Walker¡¯s mark, but also¡­¡± ¡°Also?¡± ¡°Give her a moment to think,¡± cut in Frederick. ¡°You¡ª¡± ¡°Frederick,¡± Lara snarled. ¡°Dozens of wizards are already dead. Do you truly imagine that anyone will ask if another like you goes missing?¡± The tall man frowned, shrinking back, but then balled his fists instead. ¡°But also a foreign magic,¡± said Kyra as if meaning to distract them both. ¡°Highly orderly and precise. And an Altonian taint as well. From The Goddess of Death.¡± ¡°Orderly and precise,¡± mocked Lara. ¡°And how can you tell that¡­?¡± ¡°In the Ether,¡± she said as if it were obvious. ¡°The Void Walker¡¯s magic is potent but messy, while the death magic is overbearing and dense. But this other magic was all gold, and silver, with straight lines and fanciful patterns as if he were an artist or jeweler.¡± The High Wizard frowned. By this description, perhaps Kyra was far more attuned to the Ether than was Lara. Worse still, there had been talk of an independent wizard of great power who travelled around in a fanciful cart full of fine wares. The Wizard of Avenpark had charged all in their order with the sole purpose of hunting down The Void Walker. Until recently, when he had tasked others with finding this new wizard as well. Hunting The Void Walker was likely a straight path to suicide. But if she could bring in this new meddler, then perhaps she might be raised to a position where she need not risk herself in the field against such dangerous practitioners. Though it was some sort of mockery from The Seven Wizards that a bog dwelling shaman had accrued so much power in so short a time. Perhaps that was why he visited here to begin with, because it reminded the primitive of his insect infested homeland. Lara sighed, and realized all the others were looking to her for answers. Or else annoyed by her introspective silence. ¡°We will ambush them at the village. Let the other High Wizards know. And tell them all to be ready for a fight.¡± *** Chief Ugu raked his hand through the earth, clawing up warm mud and damp ash from a sodden campfire. He scowled around him, seeing a makeshift camp that had been scattered. Huge footprints were spread around him, as if the troll had returned, and seemingly regained his size, crushing one or two goblins underfoot as he stomped about. Though it was unusual that a troll would leave corpses behind without eating them. The scrawny ugly faces of Ugu¡¯s clan looked to him in hunger and anticipation. He grunted, and waved an idle hand. They rushed force to consume their broken kin. Saka, the treacherous snake, had promised to meet Ugu here. Perhaps he had been here, but there was now no sign of him. Though that as well could be easily explained if the troll had plucked the useless Chief up and devoured him whole. Ugu watched the other goblins fight for scraps, biting and scratching one another so that they could scamper away with a severed limb. But he had no appetite of his own. He had only been following the womanling for a few Moons, but he already regretted the pursuit. All along the Midderlands Pass were the corpses of scores of his kin. Some the work of the troll. Others the work of strange manlings with impossible powers. He had wanted to rule over them all. He had wanted to kill Harak and be the Great Chief of the Midderlands Pass. But now he feared that there would be nothing left to rule over. Worse, he had begun to feel alone. The shaman had deserved to die, but at least he was not as foolish and inane as all the others. He had something to say, words worth hearing, even if those those words always went against Chief Ugu. By the heart in the earth, the camp had not been broken too long ago. If Ugu wanted, he could pursue the troll and the womanling. Or he could follow them into some trap set by the magical manlings, and be burned or blasted like all the others before him. The Chief¡¯s scarred lips drew up over his dirty fangs, trembling in anger. This all began with the womanling, he realized. It would only end when she was dead. Her presence here had brought death and chaos to the goblins of the boggy valley. He would hunt her down and kill her, and then all this would be over. He could go back to his cave, and sleep, and eat. Or he could go hunt down some other manlings instead. It would be hard now, he realized, to go back to how things were. Kill or be killed, it was better than falsely living. ¡°Come,¡± he snarled to his clan. ¡°We hunt the womanling!¡± Distantly, Chief Saka hissed laughter as he watched the departure of Ugu¡¯s clan. He had considered killing Ugu, who was a big as he was foolish, but decided this would be better instead. He had sent scouts ahead to Harak¡¯s clan and found that the village was abandoned beyond the Great Chief himself and the shaman, Orgo. The womanling and her pet troll had been spotted heading towards Harak, and now Ugu was following after them. They would all arrive at the village, and one or both of the goblin Chiefs would likely die. This is sort of thing that Ugu might like, but Saka did not care. He knew about the box that Chief Harak unearthed and he knew what was in it as well. Saka¡¯s shaman had said that it was most important that the box be opened. And Saka would usually listen. But he had heard another voice that told him a different tale. How the Chief of Chiefs must stay buried. And how the world would soon be changing. If Chief Saka stole the box, and kept it hidden, then events would unfold in a different way. And he could do much better than being the Chief, or even Great Chief, of a boggy valley. He could help earn the favor of a god, and live a life of riches like a manling king. 46. Heros Welcome 46. Hero''s Welcome ¡°Spending an indeterminable amount of time in my chamber, records long recreated, I resigned myself to never leaving. Though my recounting the past made me regret ever bringing Magar into the world, there were countless other mistakes that I had made. I had failed to save the one goblin with the will and wisdom needed to maintain the Grorginite Empire, and then I had simply stumbled through events answering to one goblin¡¯s will or the other. Even though I thoroughly enjoyed teaching the younglings, it was Tuku that put me up to the task. Thus it seemed to me that my presence was not only not required, but detrimental. It would be better for everyone if I either stayed here forever or else wandered to the overworld and avoided my kind instead. Eventually though, a goblin was sent bringing word that Great Chief Tuku had returned and was hosting a great feast. When I declined, the huge goblin arrived himself, squeezing through the narrow tunnel to my chamber, and tried to reason with me. Failing that, he simply plucked me up from my sleeping mound and carried me like a human baby until I found the method of transport too embarrassing and agreed to walk ahead of him instead. Eventually, entering to cheers and fanfare, I realized the feast was for me. Great Chief Tuku declared that I was the oldest and wisest shaman in all goblin history, and that I would serve as the Great Shaman, ruling over all over shamans, answering only to Tuku. I had finally got the respect and adulation I long sought, living in The Small King¡¯s shadow. But I remembered his mute figure staring off at nothing, and felt deep unease. Tuku thought he needed my support, and I would provide it. But first Magar would have to die, and The Small King would need to be placed in safe keeping. I merely needed to convince The Great Chief. Failing that, to act on my own.¡± Hjorvarth walked alongside the shriveled kobold known as Rudrun the Old. He and Dan now wore fine green robes that had been forced upon them by King Rubinold the Fifteenth. The other kobolds with them wore similar robes, trimmed by white fur, of different colour, or they wore sets of rattling armour. No cloaked pipers had come along, so the figures were a mix of dull metal and bright-if-dusty garments. They were thirty in all. Two men and twenty-eight kobolds. Hjorvarth was the largest of the group, by a good margin and as such he had the poorest fitting clothes. The robe fitted him like a long jacket with short sleeves. Still, given his present company, he expected to appear unlike a prisoner escaped from the mines. He only regretted that he didn¡¯t have the other escaped prisoners in his company. ¡°The pink goblins are master diggers,¡± Rudrun murmured. They crossed into the shadows of the stone city¡¯s monolithic walls. Dawn was rising above the scarred plain behind them. The gate lay open to visitors, as it often did, but there were no guards to be seen, no travellers readying themselves for a passage down Ouro¡¯s Scales. No people at all. Stone streets that lay empty, sturdy homes that appeared as abandoned. ¡°You are master hiders, as well,¡± he added. ¡°I am most impressed.¡± Hjorvarth answered with a slow nod. The old kobold had come to accept silent replies. Dan came up alongside them. ¡°Where is everyone?¡± ¡°Hiding,¡± Rudrun answered. He glanced up at Hjorvarth. ¡°Should you not check that you are still king?¡± Dan frowned. ¡°King¡­?¡± ¡°I may have been usurped,¡± Hjorvarth admitted. ¡°But I expect the new king will be eager to make a peace. I will fight to protect you and your people in any case, and I will give word if you are in danger.¡± ¡°Oh.¡± Rudrun¡¯s pink face creased with unease. ¡°I do not mind. I am old. But there are young ones with us.¡± Hjorvarth¡¯s frown was grim. He strode forward with his kobold escort through streets where he had once suffered thrown stones and worse, where he had been jeered at and beaten. He saw men and women heading towards Jarl Thrand¡¯s Estate and they each looked at him, and the kobolds, with plain unease or an urge for violence. He reached a wide street where an ornamental fountain stood untouched between two towering rows of gold-banded structures. Up ahead, where the path winded between squat houses, and ended in the slope that lead up to Jarl Thrand¡¯s Estate, he could see and hear a jostling congregation of fearful and angry folk. Hjorvarth no longer had faith that he could protect the kobolds on his own so walked by the fountain and up the steps to the home of the Stone Sons. He knocked on the wide stone door and hurt his knuckles. ¡°Hello?¡± he shouted. Dan pressed a brass-fitted button on the wall. A bell rang within. ¡°The pink goblins are innumerable,¡± Rudrun declared with fear and awe, standing near the fountain with the rest of his kin, most of whom swatted at or drank from the running water. ¡°You were once a mighty king, Hjorvarth the Red.¡± The wide doors shuddered, then groaned open. A middling woman, armed with an axe, armoured in chain, stood to greet them with suspicion. She then noticed the kobolds gathered below, and walked into a nearby corridor. ¡°Where¡¯s Ulfsteinn?¡± she shouted. ¡°He needs to comes to the door. There¡¯s a huge man out here with a crowd of kobolds.¡± Folk laughed in answer, then footfalls sounded out as they made their way to the door. The newcomers wore plain clothes, unarmored and unarmed, and appeared more curious than suspicious. A dark-haired man of middle age kept his gaze towards Hjorvarth. ¡°Have I seen you before, friend?¡± ¡°You may have escorted me to the mines some weeks ago.¡± ¡°Gods.¡± The man stepped closer, eyes narrowed in scrutiny. ¡°Isleif¡¯s son? You have lost your hair and your beard.¡± Hjorvarth nodded. ¡°Time will recover those for me. I have come here to ask for an escort once more, to protect these kobolds, so that I can arrange a peace between King Rubinold the Fifteenth and the Jarl of Timilir.¡± ¡°Jarl¡¯s dead,¡± the first woman said. ¡°Young Thrand is trying to take control.¡± She shrugged. ¡°It ain¡¯t going to work. Low King¡¯s coming to the city and the walls will only stall him for so long.¡± ¡°What¡¯s the trouble?¡± a deep voice asked. The others parted to let Ulfsteinn through. He wore only a pair of plain trousers, and scratched at his broad chest. Dark hair covered dozens of scars made by blades, claws, and teeth. ¡°You helped me once before,¡± Hjorvarth said. ¡°I would ask for help again.¡± Ulfsteinn took a slow breath, regarding the gathered kobolds, and the angry folk gathering on the fringes of his street. ¡°You are your father¡¯s son,¡± he said, ¡°and I would be glad to help you. But I have accepted coin, from your father, on the promise that I would never aid the kin of Jarl Thrand.¡± ¡°You are also sworn to protect those of Timilir.¡± Hjorvarth shrugged. ¡°I will walk on without you. If I am attacked, then I will strike back. I wish only to assure those with me that a peace has been reached, between the pink goblins and the kobolds. I care nothing for who rules over Timilir.¡± ¡°The show would aid Jarl Thrand beyond measure.¡± Ulfsteinn¡¯s regard was cold. ¡°It might even allow him to muster a force against the Low King. Those lives would be lost without real reason. Your own master has given his life and death to slay Jarl Thrand,¡± he gravely added. ¡°Do you truly wish to undo his work?¡± Hjorvarth flinched. ¡°Gudmund is dead?¡± The Stone Sons nodded in unison, then bowed their heads.This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. ¡°I would happily shelter the kobolds here until the city changes hands.¡± Ulfsteinn upturned his weathered palms. ¡°But I can act in no way that would support Young Thrand¡¯s claim.¡± ¡°Because you have been paid by the Low King as well?¡± ¡°By your father alone,¡± Ulfsteinn evenly answered. ¡°It is an old oath. But those are the ones that old men should hold to.¡± ¡°Your followers are here, King Hjorvarth,¡± Rudrun announced, now a restless crowd were gathering nearby. ¡°They seem upset with you. Were you a bad king¡­?¡± Dan laughed in a mix of disbelief and exhaustion. Hjorvarth remained stolid. ¡°This city will be conquered?¡± ¡°Yes,¡± answered Ulfsteinn. ¡°Young Thrand will be murdered?¡± Ulfsteinn nodded. ¡°That is likely enough.¡± ¡°And which one of them is the better man?¡± The woman laughed. ¡°Young Thrand is hardly a man at all.¡± ¡°Youth is no failing,¡± Ulfsteinn said, ¡°but I have made no judgement. As to the Low King, he is a cruel man. He leads with strength and without hesitation.¡± Hjorvarth¡¯s brows furrowed. ¡°So he means to conquer Tymir in entirety?¡± ¡°Of that, I cannot be sure.¡± ¡°Chief Gudmund hated the Low King, did he not?¡± Ulfsteinn¡¯s nod was reluctant. ¡°I expect that he did, yes.¡± ¡°Then my path is clear, Ulfsteinn of the Stone Sons.¡± Hjorvarth bowed, and straightened. ¡°I have come here to make peace and that is what I will do. Young Thrand is the rightful ruler of Timilir.¡± ¡°Given that he is bastard born, I would say that Jarl Thrand¡¯s grandson holds an equal, if not greater, claim.¡± Ulfsteinn¡¯s hard visage seemed to struggle against great emotion. ¡°Should he will it. Then I would support that man and break my oath.¡± Hjorvarth nodded in consideration. ¡°And where is this grandson of Thrand?¡± ¡°Standing at my doorstep,¡± Ulfsteinn answered. Hjorvarth recognized the unearned respect in the gazes of a dozen sturdy fighters. ¡°I see,¡± he said quietly. ¡°Yet I am not that man and I never will be. And if I were, then I would move to aid my uncle. You have my thanks for hearing my request.¡± He turned to the wide street, which was now flanked on both sides by waiting crowds. ¡°If I move quickly, they may struggle to find things to throw.¡± ¡°That is doubtful,¡± Ulfsteinn replied. ¡°That was a joke.¡± Hjorvarth bent to one knee to look Rudrun the Old in his small eyes. ¡°We will suffer attacks once we leave this street,¡± he explained. ¡°I would ask that you and your men leave your spears here.¡± ¡°Your words go against one another, Hjorvarth.¡± Rudrun looked at his worried kin. ¡°If attack is likely then weapons are needed. This is the way. The way of all folk¡ªpink goblins, green goblins, and kobold. It is even the way of the standing lizards, giants, and of the yetis. The merfolk even swim in their oceans with strange spears in hand.¡± ¡°It is not my way.¡± ¡°Nor is it the way of a golem. But you are both weapons by nature.¡± ¡°I will go alone,¡± Hjorvarth then decided. ¡°I can inform Young Thrand, and have him come here to collect you.¡± ¡°I did not refuse you,¡± Rudrun the Old reminded. He turned to the gathered kobolds. ¡°Release your spears!¡± *** ¡°My counsel is this,¡± Fati said, pacing across the open grounds of Jarl Thrand¡¯s Estate. ¡°Gather what coin and valuables you can. Change your name and your clothes and flee through the tunnels. Go and live in Fenkirk, or in Wymount. Go and live in a place where no one cares to look¡­ or cares at all.¡± Young Thrand sat perched on a barrel, his clothes black for mourning. ¡°You would have me give up my home, my honour. You would have me betray my father while his corpse is still warm¡­ and for what? To spare my life?¡± ¡°To spare you a stoning,¡± Fati answered. ¡°To spare you from burning while you¡¯re still living.¡± He turned and stared in all severity. ¡°To spare your sister the same fate.¡± Luta wore white, sitting cross-legged on the dirt. ¡°I do not fear death.¡± Ekkill cleared his throat. He sat, rounded legs outstretched, under the shade of storage house. ¡°That is because you will offer your body to anyone that wishes to save you.¡± Luta smirked, not bothering to look at him. ¡°Would that your own body could be used for more than worthless meat.¡± ¡°I would decide quickly in any case,¡± Fati pressed, walking over to the closed gate. ¡°I can hear the crowd shouting from here, and they grow ever more restless. You cannot simply convince them of all they have heard. The Low King is on his way. Muradoon unleashed slaughter upon your household. You are cursed by the gods. And unless they destroy you, unseat you¡ªstone and burn you¡ªyou will bring that curse upon them.¡± Luta chuckled. ¡°It is almost as if you¡¯ve said that before, Fati. To more willing ears.¡± ¡°Indeed,¡± Ekkill murmured. ¡°Why is it, Fati, that you did not hear of the Low King¡¯s coming?¡± ¡°Put plainly, I did,¡± Fati answered. ¡°My wife and child were captured, taken hostage, by the Crooked Teeth. Thank the gods that they were returned to me this morning, that they are now safe, and I can finally tell you the truth. I have been working against your family this entire time.¡± Young Thrand pushed to his feet, one hand resting on his sword. ¡°You openly admit to treachery?¡± ¡°I admit to caring for my family above your own, yes.¡± Fati upturned his palms. ¡°I do not fear suffering punishment for it. I have betrayed those I swore to serve and that is a crime I cannot undo. Though I would still try and save my master¡¯s children, who would rather wait for a maddened crowd to break in and take them.¡± Ekkill¡¯s damning visage softened. ¡°I am guilty of similar crimes. I feared for my own life and they paid me.¡± ¡°So I take counsel with snakes?¡± Thrand snapped. ¡°How am I supposed to trust a word you say? Why should I not open the gates and watch the lot of you get torn apart?¡± ¡°Our loyalties are restored!¡± Ekkill assured. ¡°And Fati and I will gladly die with you, my Jarl.¡± Young Thrand scowled in disgust. ¡°I trusted you both. My father trusted you both.¡± ¡°Indeed.¡± Ekkill¡¯s nod bulged his chin. ¡°Yet had I not took the bribes then the city would have fallen into disarray far sooner, and I would not live to admit to my betrayals. In truth, the names I handed over, of key officials, were largely folk that were too long-lived in their roles to be easily removed. It was if anything a grim convenience.¡± ¡°And you Fati?¡± Thrand demanded. ¡°What good did your betrayal do us?¡± Fati shrugged. ¡°I am almost certain we would have fared better without my treachery. Though some blame could be laid to all those too foolish to notice my actions.¡± ¡°If we¡¯re admitting to sins,¡± Luta said, brushing dust from her white dress now she rose, ¡°then I poisoned Jarl Adelsteinn.¡± ¡°Oh?¡± Thrand asked with a sardonic smile. ¡°For any reason, sister?¡± Luta squinted at the cloudy sky. ¡°I hated the smell of his breath.¡± ¡°Visitors at the gate!¡± The guard¡¯s announcement brought the four to silence. Then they each turned to the gate. ¡°They bear the shields of the Stone Sons!¡± *** Luta made her way up the white stairway first, while the other three followed her onto the wall walk. She gained view of the restless crowd that spread across the slope to their left and of the smaller group now gathered on the clearing beneath them. A man stood on the raised podium, huge, his hard face determined. Luta had wondered why the guard had mentioned shields, but now she understood the necessity for distinction. Either the Stone Sons had given their shields to giant rats or the hairless vermin were proficient thieves. Fati leaned over the parapet, as if in scrutiny, while Ekkill paused to catch his breath. The guards readied bows atop the walls or marched noisily into position beneath. ¡°Greetings, Jarl Thrand,¡± the huge man declared. ¡°I bring with me Rudrun the Old, favored adviser of the kobold monarch, King Rubinold the Fifteenth. He is here to arrange a peace so that the raids on the mines can be ended. So that all the folk who work beneath the earth can once again know safety.¡± Luta decided she favored the man by merit of his stolidness. She smiled but he did not notice. Young Thrand straightened beside her. ¡°Will those who were taken be returned?¡± The huge man paused. ¡°I am sure he will return all those still in his care.¡± ¡°And who are you?¡± Thrand asked. ¡°To stand as a man and speak for the kobold king?¡± ¡°I am Hjorvarth of Horvorr. Founder of the Brotherhood of Brikorhaan. Son of Isleif the Bard. Foster son of Brolli the Black,¡± he added as if that were a mark of pride. ¡°I was tasked, by Gudmund¡¯s own urging, to bring peace to the stone city. The news reaches me that the Jarl of Horvorr has fallen, yet this task must still be fulfilled. Do you not wish peace, Jarl Thrand, when an army approaches your city? Jarl Thrand scowled at the brute who had murdered his young brother. He wanted nothing more than to decry the man and have him killed for his crimes. ¡°I would advise you to open the gate,¡± Ekkill murmured. ¡°As would I,¡± Fati echoed. ¡°If only to kill him out of sight.¡± He waited. ¡°He has been lent the shields of the Stone Sons. He has passed through crowds unscathed. He stands below you by sight but in the hearts of Timilir he is now far above us. He need only denounce you, and that would be the end of you and your family.¡± Jarl Thrand took a slow breath, and bitterly sighed. ¡°Jarl Gudmund was ever a considerate man. Come in.¡± He gestured him forward despite the closed gate. ¡°I would welcome any offer that would better the lives of my city and my people.¡± 47. Fateful 47. Fateful ¡°Once the feasting was done, I had intended to speak with Great Chief Tuku to let him know of my desire to stop Magar. But Tuku was the first to tell me that he intended to return to the village to decide whether or not to help the young shaman or whether it would be better to kill collapse the new spawning cavern. I told Tuku of the huge sack that had been birthed and of all the others that had been split to encourage it to grow. By my estimation, it would birth a goblin that made even Tuku appear small. It was hard to tell whether this worried or pleased the Great Chief, but he was insistent that be leave as soon as we were able. To my surprise, he wished to travel alone, and left charge of his domain to a trusted Chief. ¡®We should be careful, Izzig,¡¯ he warned as we travelled. ¡®Zalak underestimated Magar and now he is dead. I do not wish to make the same mistake.¡¯ ¡®Then why didn¡¯t you kill him sooner?¡¯ I asked. ¡®For Tugu,¡¯ he explained, speaking of his dead twin, rumbling words weighed with regret. ¡®He told me he could bring him back. That he could raise up a goblin god who could reshape the world just by thinking.¡¯ ¡®Then why would you kill him now?¡¯ ¡®You,¡¯ Tugu eventually answered. ¡®I saw you with The Small King. Desperate to bring him back. And I realized that some things are already done. Cannot be undone. No matter if we would will it. Together we can make our own world. We do not need Magar or a god. We may never rival The Small King, but we can at least make a world worth living in for our kin.¡¯¡± Chains rattled and metal groaned until the gate thundered to a close. Hjorvarth stood unmoving while the ground shook beneath his feet. He was surrounded on all sides by armoured kobolds that struggled to carry heavy shields. Jarl Thrand¡¯s Estate seemed abandoned, nothing beyond that initial scene of guards and advisers. He had looked upon all of his enemies already, and now they moved around him, spears gripped, on all sides. The kobolds squeaked as if they lamented the loss of their own weapons. ¡°To be clear,¡± Hjorvarth said, ¡°I would consider any attack a breaking of trust. I can, and will, kill every single one of you if you attempt to attack me or those I am sworn to escort and protect.¡± He paused as the guards marched closer, as bows were drawn. ¡°And if I do not manage it in the waking life¡­ I swear by Muradoon that I will rise again and finish what Gudmund of Horvorr started.¡± Jarl Thrand met the threat with an angry smile. ¡°Are you quite done?¡± He was a young man, handsome, broader than his dead brother. He waved the guards back, allowing a clear view of an overly fat man in a blue-and-gold robe, a lean killer in brown clothes, and a lovely woman in a white dust-spotted dress. ¡°In honest truth, I am tired,¡± answered Hjorvarth. ¡°I only wish not to be murdered before I arrange this peace.¡± ¡°You share a trait with my brother, then.¡± Jarl Thrand¡¯s mirth grew bitter. ¡°He did not wish to die, either.¡± ¡°Which one of you is king here?¡± Rudrun the Old asked quite quizzically. ¡°Why do the shining goblins ready weapons?¡± ¡°You must trust me a while longer, friend.¡± Hjorvarth glanced down at the withered kobold. He looked up in all severity. ¡°If you have a question, Jarl Thrand, regarding your brother or ought else then ask it. Because I know of no words that I can offer in answer. I did kill your brother, and there can be no denying the fact.¡± Jarl Thrand pursed his lips. ¡°Do you even regret his death?¡± ¡°His death, of course. But he tried to stab Geirmund in the back. And I had to act. And I do not regret that.¡± ¡°And why should I not kill you where you stand? Kill these wretched rats and have done with it? Die, or flee, in the knowledge that I have avenged my brother?¡± Hjorvarth shrugged. ¡°Those are questions that a man must ask of himself.¡± Jarl Thrand held his steady gaze then looked to his advisers. ¡°Well¡­?¡± ¡°He has come here to help us,¡± Luta answered for them. ¡°What else is there to consider?¡± ¡°There is much to consider,¡± Hjorvarth argued. ¡°As there often is.¡± He glanced to his hairless companions. ¡°It may be, Rudrun, that this man is unseated soon enough. I will endeavor to prevent that, but should he fall you would do well to try and negotiate with whoever kills me.¡± ¡°I will kill the goblin that kills you,¡± Rudrun assured, baring his sharp teeth. ¡°Prevent it?¡± Thrand asked. ¡°Will you slay the Low King¡¯s army on your own? Or do you have your own force of kobolds lying in wait?¡± He upturned his palms. ¡°Or are you simply an arrogant fool?¡±If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. ¡°Prevent it,¡± Hjorvarth echoed. ¡°No. None more than you see here. Perhaps.¡± ¡°You treat this as a joke.¡± ¡°No.¡± Hjorvarth¡¯s brows furrowed. ¡°Though I question the worth of the world when a man¡¯s honest answers are treated with hostility or suspicion. Do not ask questions if you do not want the answers.¡± He paused. ¡°In my mind I entertain the possibility that the Low King will arrive outside closed gates and be open to a duel.¡± ¡°I see.¡± Jarl Thrand nodded. ¡°And you think that I would have you duel on my behalf?¡± ¡°This may be foolish arrogance,¡± Hjorvarth replied, ¡°but I would be surprised if I was not the best choice available to you, particularly with so many already being dead, and so few willing to stand on your behalf. The Stone Sons have also refused to help. And there is little time to call any heroes down from Vendrick.¡± Luta¡¯s laugh was soft. ¡°You are a bold man.¡± ¡°I would not deny it.¡± Hjorvarth nodded. ¡°I suffered burns that took away most of my hair.¡± Luta smiled in confusion. ¡°I had meant¡ª¡± ¡°I know,¡± Hjorvarth replied without inflection. He regarded Fati and Ekkill in turn. ¡°Your thoughts?¡± Ekkill had spent his silence thinking on the shield that Gudmund had given him. A shield that had saved one of the leaders of the stone city, a shield that belonged to Hjorvarth. ¡°I believe he is gods-sent to protect us.¡± Fati¡¯s laugh was almost raucous. ¡°I didn¡¯t know you had so much faith, old friend. I would say that this man is, as he says, an arrogant fool. But if I needed a man to duel on my behalf then I¡¯d be more than happy with him.¡± Jarl Thrand sighed, standing among a company of fools enamored by a murdering brute. ¡°You came here in good faith, Hjorvarth. That much I will accept. And I would gladly arrange a peace between your friends here and the stone city,¡± he added, shedding his pride. ¡°But I fear that I will not be around to ensure any arrangements made.¡± ¡°I have no fear of that, Jarl Thrand,¡± Hjorvarth replied. ¡°Because I will die before that happens and I know I will live a long life because I have already seen drawings of myself as an old man.¡± Jarl Thrand¡¯s confused stare veiled anger. He seemed unable to answer the sentiment. ¡°Messenger at the gate!¡± a guard announced. ¡°A busy day,¡± Ekkill muttered. ¡°I wish we could stop for something to eat.¡± *** ¡°Fragor is hungry,¡± declared the huge, whiny troll, before emitting a sharp, ear splitting hum. Astrid winced. ¡°When eating?¡± he then asked, more plaintively. The huge wax figure lumbered beside her making thunderous steps. He had been eating goblins the whole journey, but he had made himself too large to sustain. Astrid slowed to a stop, and looked up at the dark green troll, barely able to see his featureless head above his great shoulders. ¡°You were a good friend, Fragor. You are,¡± she corrected, and he stumbled to a stop ahead of her. ¡°Yes!¡± Fragor agreed, humming with a resonant happiness. ¡°You are, Acid. Also!¡± ¡°But you need to leave me now. I¡ª¡± Fragor began to complain, but she shook her head and waited for him to be quiet. ¡°Up ahead, we will reach the village of Great Chief Harak. If you go with me, you will die. Within you, there is a small magical seed. If it is broken, you will be destroyed. And the humans who are coming from other worlds will use silver and magic to do just that. So I need you to go ahead alone, and I will meet you on the other side of the village.¡± ¡°Fragor not dying!¡± he insisted. ¡°Your brain is freezing again, Acid.¡± ¡°I am thinking very clearly,¡± she answered resolutely. ¡°You got me warm again, and you saved me, and for that I am very grateful. But I do not want you to be harmed. You must trust me. If you truly believe that I am your friend, then you will listen to me.¡± Fragor made a strange disagreeable hum of pained confusion. ¡°Acid is friend,¡± he carefully agreed. ¡°But¡ª¡± ¡°Please, my friend,¡± she kindly cut in. ¡°We are friends. And you must believe me.¡± ¡°I do¡­ believe,¡± the troll assured. ¡°So you will go on ahead, and meet me further down the valley¡­?¡± ¡°Oh¡­ no!¡± he happily answered. ¡°Friends,¡± he repeated. ¡°Together. Acid and Fragor.¡± Astrid sighed, and made her case again, and again, and the conversation went in circles until eventually, as the sun wheeled slowly through clouds overhead, the huge troll seemed to come to understand. ¡°You will come¡­?¡± he doubtfully asked. ¡°Together. Again. Forever¡­?¡± ¡°Forever,¡± Astrid echoed. ¡°I promise,¡± she lied, which made her feel sick. But she was beyond relief when the troll finally began to depart. Looking back, running towards her, and then turning around again and thundering off down the boggy valley, veering off to the leftmost mountains so that he might avoid the village hidden by a horizon of long grasses, jutting bulbous plants, and withered trees up ahead. Eventually, the troll had faded into a small figure, and then disappeared for so long that Astrid was sure she was alone. And there was nought left to hear but the wind whistling along the valley, and the ever present buzzing of small flies. She shivered, and wrapped her arms around her filthy grey cloak. Astrid had nearly suffocated in the troll¡¯s relentless embrace, and she had only been roused when he finally arrived at a broken camp where waited a fledgling campfire. But while she slept in his wax arms, she had dreamed so many things that she now finally understood what she must do, and what would likely happen after. She would either die, or be robbed of her memories, and that would a different kind of death. But she knew what resided within the box. The right hand of Chief of Chief¡¯s, Gahr¡¯rul. And she even knew who Gahr¡¯rul was as well. Though it was hard to believe. And because of all that she knew that he must be freed from the awful fate placed upon him by the sons of Geirolf. Hacked into pieces by cover of darkness, divvied between steel boxes, and ferried by dozens of men across the disparate regions of Tymir. ¡°I am ready,¡± she declared to no one. And then she looked to the vast skies as if she were Lucius Chance and asked, ¡°Are you watching me, Watcher?¡± Yet there were many other gazes upon her. For Gahr¡¯rul was still fated to kill a god. 48. King Risen 48. King Risen ¡°Great Chief Tuku and I arrived at the village to find it abandoned. When we discovered the dark trails of blood, bile and excrete we came to the grim realization that Magar had poisoned them all. And when we reached the pile of rotting, lifeless bodies, I recognized the method of his murders. The same foreign poison that the dwarves had used to kill our procession and capture The Small King had been used by the young shaman. A loud splash, followed by an awful sizzle, greeted us as we entered the cavern of Magar¡¯s seven-sided spawning cavern. He was busy dragging the dead bodies into the pool, heaving breaths with the effort, where they swiftly dissolved in the blue water. Before I could even speak, Tuku rushed forward with a rage that I had never seen in him before. Magar turned to meet the oncoming hulk with a regretful smile. ¡®It is already done,¡¯ he assured, ¡®and killing me will only ensure your death, and that your twin is never returned to you. If you wanted to stop me¡ª¡¯ The young shaman had always seemed so sure of himself. But Tuku did not stop in his charge, and he bulled into the shaman with a heavy foot leading. Magar cartwheeled through the air, eyes wide with terror, before he plunged into the deadly blue pool. There was a terrible hiss, skin burning away to bone, which settled, until a different fizzing sound began. The blue pool, stillness broken, then began to roil, as smoke twisted up from the pool as if it were a small burning ocean. And the heat and noise soon grew deafening and blinding. Fiery pain engulfed my withered flesh and bore down into old bones, until the agony grew so great that I was sure I would die. Then the sensation ebbed, and my sight returned to me. Tuku was gone, replaced by a charred pile of liquid flesh and bone. Standing ahead of me, reared up the largest goblin that I had ever seen. A proud, squared, almost human skull, with keen merciless eyes that glared down at me. If this was a goblin god, it did not mean to spare me. But then I realized he was not staring at me but at the figure standing beside me. Whose long sharp claws flexed as if ready for violence. ¡®Agrak,¡¯ I murmured in disbelief. ¡®Izzig,¡¯ answered The Small King.¡± Hjorvarth stood atop the white wall walk, in a line among those who had sentenced him to death in the mines, thinking it odd how fates are so easily changed. He looked down on the messenger, a small man, handsome, with short black hair. ¡°Saxi¡­?¡± The messenger looked up, squinting in defense of the sun. He stood on the raised platform where Hjorvarth had earlier in the afternoon. ¡°Yes?¡± ¡°I have nought else to say. I simply thought it was you.¡± ¡°Oh.¡± Saxi frowned. He straightened, and regarded Jarl Thrand. ¡°Jarl Thrand of Timilir, I have brought a message from the Low Lands. It is of a worrying nature and I would rather voice it in a private hearing.¡± Young Thrand smiled. ¡°Look around you, friend.¡± He swept his arms towards the slope, where a crowd still gathered, though they seemed as if they shared Ekkill¡¯s sentiments of wanting food and rest. ¡°There is no privacy in this place.¡± ¡°I see.¡± Saxi cleared his throat. ¡°I have travelled at haste from the Low King¡¯s own lands, and bring news of a gathered army that will reach Timilir not long after midday,¡± he announced. ¡°It is also my belief that the Low King has agents in the stone city and that they work to murder or undermine you. I would recommend you close the eastern gates then await his army. I do not think that you can stand against his gathered force, and even if you could it would end in mutual slaughter. As such, I think it best if you try and convince him to settle things in a duel.¡± Hjorvarth¡¯s deep laugh startled them all. ¡°I did not mean to speak above my station,¡± Saxi added, offering a shallow bow. ¡°I simply wish to ensure the safety of this city and its leaders,¡± he explained apologetically. ¡°And I offered advice with that in mind.¡± Young Thrand turned to Hjorvarth. ¡°Have you paid this man?¡± ¡°I came of my own urging,¡± Saxi answered. ¡°I was in truth last paid to bring a message to the Low King.¡± ¡°And what was this message?¡± Fati asked. ¡°I cannot tell you. But I can say that he started his march upon hearing my words.¡± Fati frowned. ¡°He was ready to set off as quickly as that?¡± He nodded when Saxi did. ¡°It is as I feared then,¡± he said quietly. ¡°The Crooked Teeth were hired by the Low King and this conquest has been long in the planning.¡± ¡°Saxi,¡± Young Thrand shouted, ¡°what makes you think he would offer us a duel if he so outnumbers us?¡± ¡°Because he is the Low King,¡± Saxi answered as if it should be obvious, ¡°and that is the Low Lands way.¡± *** The Low King had returned to the shadowed warmth of his woven tent. The sun was high in the sky, the day was humid, and he was tired of sweating under his armour. He was tired of the march, and had almost dared to hope that he would be greeted with an empty gate. Instead, the monolithic walls of Timilir lay closed to him. He could send men into the city simply enough, but that would end in dozens of small battles and the process might take weeks. He did not have that much time. The rowdy lords of the High Lands would soon be looming at his back. ¡°Well?¡± the Low King asked, not sure who had spoken last. Three men stood before him, each lean and bearded, each wearing his green-and-brown livery. They were grizzled men, trusted, scarred and greying. Their loyalty could not be questioned, but they would all sooner voice their own words than echo their monarch¡¯s. ¡°It is as you expected,¡± responded Ketill, who wore the heaviest armour and had charge of most the fighting men. ¡°The gates are closed and no answer has been given. Farmsteads have been abandoned or opened to our soldiers with pledges of loyalty. The camps have not been set to my satisfaction, but they will serve for a few days.¡± ¡°It is not as I expected.¡± Gisli stood between the two other men and wore no chain over his leather armour. He was the master of spies but had left his smooth black cloak in his tent. ¡°The man, Smiler, who I mentioned, has not been caught. Those that volunteered to go after him have not returned¡­ at least not in full. I have had reports of pulled teeth being left in sacks.¡± The Low King leaned into the high-backing of his cushioned chair. It was the only furnishing in the modest space, beyond a low table where men would sit on the earth. He was an old man, older than his advisers, but he almost appeared the youngest. He wore fine clothes, embroidered with gold, and had lightly oiled his sandy hair. His thick lips were turned downward, lending a glum cast to his lined face. ¡°One man working alone?¡± ¡°The men that I sent were my friends,¡± Gisli replied, pausing for a while. ¡°I do not want to offer excuses. I want to see the bastard dead. But the more he dances around us, no less tangible than smoke, the more I worry this man was in earnest born in the Lady¡¯s Shadow. That he has been sent here to plague us. That he is walking death.¡± The Low King glared. ¡°These words from the man who advised me not to pay the Crooked Teeth.¡±Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings. Gisli started to scowl, but acceded with a nod. ¡°A mistake I dearly regret.¡± ¡°And have you tried to pay him?¡± Ketill asked. ¡°We have, more than before, and it has not been accepted. Those men I sent were instructed to offer peace.¡± Gisli upturned his gloved palms. ¡°Smiler has killed every other member of the Crooked Teeth. He does not act from a place of reason. He has simply decided that we are his enemy and he is going to kill us.¡± ¡°And can you stop him, Gisli?¡± the Low King asked. ¡°Or do I need to have Gnupa lay traps and set patrols as if we are being harassed by a band of local men on treacherous ground?¡± Gnupa, who held responsibility for archers and scouts, stood leftmost. ¡°Such has already been done, my king.¡± ¡°We believe that the man lives among the camp,¡± Gisli explained. The Low King¡¯s jaw grew tight. ¡°Then spread the word through the camp and offer reward for any man that finds or kills him.¡± He raised his hand to halt reply. ¡°Honest men may die, true enough. I will leave the issue in your capable hands,¡± he decided, almost avoiding a mocking tone. ¡°Gisli¡­ given what you¡¯ve said, am I safe to assume that you will not be able to have the gate opened?¡± ¡°That now seems unlikely, yes.¡± ¡°And the gate cannot be breached,¡± said their monarch. ¡°And it is too high to strike reliably with arrows,¡± Gnupa added. The Low King rubbed at his wrinkled brow. ¡°Ketill¡­ ready men to ascend the slopes and breach the smaller gates. Gnupa and Gisli, I would very much like to hear good news soon. And I will have to sit here and pray to Joyto that Jarl Thrand¡¯s young son sees me as an insurmountable threat and tries to end this conflict in a simple duel.¡± Gnupa and Gisli exchanged disconcerted looks, and nodded. Ketill hesitated. ¡°A duel against Ulfsteinn would not be simple.¡± ¡°It would not,¡± the Low King agreed. ¡°But the Stone Sons will not fight for Jarl Thrand, old or young. Atsurr is the only other man worth mentioning from the city and he too is dead.¡± He straightened in his chair. ¡°We can thank all the gods that both the sons of Geirulf have fallen as well.¡± ¡°And what if this Smiler decides to fight under the sun instead of in the shadows?¡± ¡°Then all of our problems would be solved.¡± The Low King shrugged. ¡°In the event of a loss, I would simply not suffer the outcome. We will begin a siege if needed,¡± he added at length. ¡°Jarl Alfgeir can block Ouro¡¯s Scales readily enough. With Harrod the Younger distracted as he is in the Midderlands, the stone city would soon suffer starvation.¡± *** Saxi had travelled to the southwestern side of Timilir, where rich houses had view of the stone city below, and access to a slope of flowers and greenery that overlooked the croplands and large farms of Ragni¡¯s Gift, those acres that were gifted to Timilir upon the original conquest and settlement of Southwestern Tymir. The land ended further afield, where a jagged line of cliffs separated the High Lands from the Low Lands, which could be reached by the rocky climb known as Ragni¡¯s Rise. Saxi thought it looked as if a god had stomped down on one side of the region, splitting the land and crushing it to a lower elevation. The High Lands appeared as a distant mix of spaced settlements amid yellow and greens, while the Low Lands was a place of clustered towns and dusty mines that sheltered near mountains and rock faces. Saxi had travelled their often. He could see the white beaches of the Low Lands, and the sheltered cove where his family had lived and fished before the arrival of a rogue hill giant. Saxi¡¯s heart sank as he realised that, that was the first message he had delivered. ¡°A giant, my lord¡­ attacking us. Eating people. Eating¡ª¡± Saxi staggered on a rock, and almost went tumbling down the treacherous slope he followed. He lost sight of the beaches. The Low Lands grew into a scene of overlapping grey rock, while the High Lands dipped into a distant sea of greens. Ragni¡¯s Gift itself was pocked by dozens of brown tents, walked upon by hundreds of men. Smoke twisted up from campfires that seemed less bright and meaningful in the daylight. ¡°Stop or you¡¯re dead, stranger.¡± Saxi managed to stop. Unease crawled at his back while he waited, eyes searching the grass and dirt ahead. ¡°I¡¯m behind you.¡± Saxi frowned at that. He turned to see a man covered in mud, wearing a cloak made out of grass, holding a bow that was already drawn. ¡°I am a messenger.¡± The brown man nodded in consideration. ¡°Swear that for me, would you?¡± ¡°I swear it by Broknar.¡± ¡°Right, then.¡± The man lowered his bow. ¡°Message for the Low King? Or are you traveling further?¡± ¡°The Low King.¡± ¡°Just my luck, that,¡± he muttered. ¡°Come on, then. I¡¯ll lead you down the slope.¡± *** The Low King finished eating smoked fish on buttered bread, then rose to meet the messenger that had been brought into his tent. They were the only men there, save for a guard waiting near the flap, who was then dismissed. He walked over to his high-backed chair and gestured the messenger forward. ¡°Have we met¡­?¡± ¡°I delivered you the letter from the Crooked Teeth.¡± ¡°And then you fled from my hospitality.¡± The Low King chuckled. ¡°I wondered at that, and now I suppose I know. Odd, though, isn¡¯t it? You¡¯ve a Low Lander way about you. Why risk yourself and waste your loyalty on the city of stone snakes?¡± ¡°The Low Lands never did me any favours.¡± ¡°Nor I,¡± the Low King assured. ¡°Things do not grow from rock as they do grass. You do not drink from the cup of success. You smash it apart and chew on the shattered pieces.¡± He waited for a reply, sighed when none came. ¡°Deliver your message, then, messenger.¡± ¡°As you wish.¡± Saxi dipped his head in respect. ¡°I bring word from Jarl Thrand of Timilir.¡± ¡°The young one or the old one.¡± ¡°He is older than I,¡± Saxi replied. ¡°He wishes to thank you for the excess of your concern in regards to the Midderlands. He is gladdened that you wish to march to help Jarl Harrod the Younger in order to spare him of his troubles with the rebellious goblin tribes. Unfortunately, he feels that the honour is his,¡± the messenger added at length. He also feels that it is he who is responsible for helping his staunch ally, and brother by law. Yet he does not wish to insult or diminish your efforts, so he has offered a contest of strength. A duel. Whomever wins will clearly have the better fighters and they will be best suited to traveling to the Midderlands. If you lose, then you and your army will have no need to pass through the stone city, and things can return as they were.¡± ¡°As they were?¡± ¡°As they were.¡± The Low King sat very still, as if struggling with sudden anger. ¡°You remembered that clearly.¡± Saxi¡¯s answered nod was swift, and his face held no warmth at all. ¡°As clearly as I remember you telling me that dead families could not be made undead.¡± The Low King frowned. ¡°Tell Jarl Thrand the Younger that I would be glad to accept his offer. But I would have it as a contest of blood. To determine which of our families is better fit to lead.¡± Saxi was surprised the man would risk himself in a duel. He bowed, and ducked under the tent flap. ¡°That was a mistake.¡± The Low King turned to the brown-robed man that now sat at the low table. ¡°Uncle¡­?¡± ¡°Do you expect me to fight on your behalf?¡± ¡°No.¡± The Low King appeared as a child chided. ¡°I have no fear of Jarl Thrand¡¯s son.¡± ¡°He will not be fighting.¡± ¡°I have no fear of his daughter, either.¡± ¡°You will be fighting the son of Jarl Thrand¡¯s dead daughter, Sibbe. And he is a man that you should dearly fear.¡± The Low King straightened in his seat. ¡°Who are you to tell me who I should fear? You appear after all these winters to offer me advice, to tell me that I am going to be defeated, when I have done more than all my ancestors combined.¡± He shook his head. ¡°Why have you come?¡± he demanded. ¡°Why now? If not to spare your descendant from this enemy.¡± ¡°Spare?¡± the robed man had laughter in his voice. ¡°You are the aggressor here, nephew. I have come to tell you, in no uncertain terms, that you are going to die if you do not withdraw your forces.¡± The Low King rose to his feet. ¡°Then I will refuse the duel.¡± ¡°Do that and the man named Smiler will kill you.¡± ¡°A friend of yours, is he?¡± The Low King angrily ventured. ¡°Or is it you in truth? Are you every murderer in the night dressed in another man¡¯s garb, using another man¡¯s name, wearing another man¡¯s face?¡± The robed man shrugged. ¡°Odd accusations.¡± The Low King stood over him now, only the table to divide them. ¡°Or plain truths?¡± ¡°Truths stretched.¡± The robed man spread his gloves palms across the table. ¡°Smiler is known to me. I have met him. And I am sure that he will kill you, or Hjorvarth will, unless you return home with all your men and then you can live to old age¡­ content with the knowledge that you have already surpassed your ancestors.¡± The Low King grew stern. ¡°I have read our histories during your long absence.¡± ¡°You voice that almost like an accusation.¡± ¡°You are an ill omen, uncle,¡± The Low King declared. ¡°One worse than a wingless crow plucking out the eyes of a malformed child.¡± The robed man quietly laughed, upturning his palms. ¡°Then heed me.¡± 49. Sixth Blessed 49. Sixth Blessed ¡°Though it easy to forget that Agrak is unreasonably swift, because his manner and mood is oft languid, he was quick to leap forth onto the gargantuan goblin and deliver a dozen deep slashes to throat, face, and shoulders. Landing handily back to the earth, I might¡¯ve questioned his decision to kill the enormous hatchling without provocation, but then the dark blood that flowed freely began to slow, stop, and then travel in reverse. The fatal wounds healed, and all the dark ichor was soon reabsorbed by the monstrous gargantuan. The Small King met the sight with a slightly disappointed exhalation, and then leapt forth again. This time, the gargantuan struck out, with such force and speed that Agrak was sent hurtling into the nearby wall with a raucous outburst of dirt and rock. When choking dust settled, I saw the small figure of Agrak, wedged in his own crater. He was alive, but straining and seemingly stuck fast. ¡®What are you¡­?¡¯ a cold voice asked, distorted and warbling and confused. ¡®Where is Magar?¡¯ he demanded, words shaking the cavern with a resonance that sent great chunks of earth tumbling from the ceiling. ¡®This is not the power I was promised.¡¯ The great head, predatory eyes now alive with rage, turned to me. ¡°You have¡­ power. And you,¡± he said, almost hungrily, as he faced The Small King. ¡°Have been corrupted. Let me take this from you. Shape it. I can make better use of these anomalies.¡± I had never seen him as meek, or less than, but now Agrak was stuck and trapped and appeared as small as he had ever been. But then he spoke a word that did not come out in his usual piping tone, but in a strange sonorous tone of divine pride. ¡®Sig Varda.¡¯ It was at once both entirely foreign and entirely familiar. Which I could not reconcile. Until I realized Lucius Chance had uttered words in the same language when he blew apart the glaciers and evaded our capture. A simple spark appeared as if from nowhere, then flashed out and flared like lightning in the night, exploding outward in a furious conflagration of irrepressible thunder.¡± The Spirit Seeker had prepared the body of Gudmund, son of Geirulf. He had taken two hours rest, ate, washed, and stretched. He had decided that he would spend three days searching, offering a reasonable sum of coin, to find the man¡¯s daughter. Though he was reasonably certain she would still be in the city, because the Western Pass would be blocked by snow, he feared that she would be in hiding and that his own efforts to uncover her might put her at risk. Still, he had spoke words of intent and now he had to live up to them. He straightened his purple robe, and made his way down a winding stairway of cold stone. He came across his peers, men in purple robes, acolytes in black ones, but they paid him little mind. He was not a man revered among his order, more of a man feared. He strode through the wide kitchen where the others gathered for their morning meals, through the ancient library where more studious peers read from dusty tomes, through more corridors and sitting rooms, until he reached the ground floor. The Spirit Seeker crossed into the entry hall, where he had once seen Gudmund sprinkling hair into a bowl, and almost walked straight out the door. But there was an old man there, hawk-faced and bald-headed, and a woman with dark blood caked into her hair. A woman that was lax, carried by the old man and a blond man. ¡°What business?¡± Both men glanced back but did not turn. The woman remained still. ¡°Spirit Seeker,¡± the old man offered as greeting. ¡°Come to deliver this good woman to your care. She faded from the waking life as she slept last night.¡± The Spirit Seeker¡¯s nod was slight. ¡°I saw her walk clear of Jarl Thrand¡¯s Estate.¡± ¡°Aye,¡± he replied with clear regret. ¡°I should have paid her wounds more mind.¡± ¡°I see. And of the other girl?¡± The old man sighed, letting go of the woman¡¯s weight. He turned and stared without warmth. ¡°Other girl?¡± ¡°Gudmund¡¯s daughter,¡± he answered. ¡°Is she well?¡± The Spirit Seeker was amused and bemused when the old man reached for his sword. ¡°I had not meant my words to cause harm,¡± he carefully added. ¡°I was the one that put her father to rest. I promised Gudmund, when he surrendered himself, that I would search out his daughter so she could witness his burning.¡± ¡°Oh.¡± The old man relaxed. ¡°And when were you burning him?¡± ¡°I had hoped to wait until she arrived. I have been¡ª¡± The Spirit Seeker paused. ¡°My judgement has been brought into question. As such, my usual duties are less usual, and I find that this sole task now occupies my time.¡±Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website. ¡°Why?¡± the blond man spoke in a broken tone. ¡°I offered explanation as to why.¡± ¡°Why were you brought into question?¡± ¡°I killed people, living people, that I believed to be possessed. My account is considered unreliable.¡± The Spirit Seeker stretched his neck. ¡°I have no affiliation with¡­ anyone, really. If you do not wish to trust me then simply tell me now and I will burn his body after you depart.¡± The blond man offered no answer. The old man shrugged. ¡°We¡¯ll be back later today.¡± ¡°That pleases me.¡± The Spirit Seeker stepped forward to take the woman¡¯s body. ¡°This is your mother?¡± The blond man met his steady regard, and nodded. He seemed to try to smile wryly, but his lips faltered and shook instead and his tired eyes then welled with tears. ¡°Anna,¡± his wobbling words held pride. ¡°My mother.¡± The Spirit Seeker felt uncomfortable. He had chosen a life in pursuit of the risen dead for a reason. He reached out to grab the man¡¯s shoulder, while hooking the woman¡¯s weight with his other arm. ¡°Muradoon will watch over her. I am sure she has friends and family waiting beyond the divide.¡± He took the weight of the body entirely. ¡°Would you like me to burn her alongside Gudmund? Or to make two separate pyres?¡± The simple question seemed to weigh heavily in the young man¡¯s mind. He looked to the old man, who upturned his palms as if he too struggled with the answer. ¡°I may not have a choice,¡± the Spirit Seeker then realised. ¡°I will see how much wood has been gathered.¡± *** The Spirit Seeker sat on a worn stool in the Eternal Sanctuary¡¯s admittance chamber. He watched folk come and go over the carved tongue of the Spirit Talker. There had been more going than coming as late, because, or so he had been told, the Low King had arrived outside the stone city¡¯s walls with over two thousand men. He had little interest, knowing that his own home would remain untouched, but he was glad enough that a duel had been arranged. He had no mind to suffer months of rotting flesh and burning dead because hundreds of fools had butchered themselves for the sake of coin, or honour, or any other thing that would be useless after death. The Spirit Seeker was patient. He did not truly expect the old man to come, nor the blond man, nor the daughter, but he enjoyed waiting. He found it put his mind at peace, which he realised was much needed after three decades spent hunting down vengeful spirits and the risen dead. He had struggled through nights upon nights where they fought against his own will and twisted his mind. Yet he was ready to suffer it again, ready to rid the world of more spirits, to restore balance, and he would say just that to his masters once his current task was done. Three folk arrived in hooded cloaks, each a different hue of brown. ¡°I always find it humorous,¡± the Spirit Seeker said without inflection, ¡°when disguises work at cross purpose.¡± He then felt like an idiot when two men, one blond and one old, and a young woman strode in after the robed visitors, whom paused for only a moment in confusion before they walked forward. ¡°Spirit Seeker,¡± the old man offered as greeting. ¡°Oddkell,¡± the Spirit Seeker replied. ¡°Oddkell the Sixth Blessed.¡± The old man seemed, for only a moment, afraid. ¡°Arfast.¡± He gestured to his youthful companions. ¡°This is Engli, son of Anna, and Sybille, daughter of Gudmund. Both from Horvorr.¡± ¡°Horvorr,¡± Oddkell murmured. ¡°I had almost forgotten that Gudmund no longer hailed from Weskin. I am surprised, then, that you are both not standing as witness to the duel. Or is it already over?¡± ¡°What duel?¡± Sybille asked. Oddkell¡¯s smile felt unfamiliar on his face. ¡°The duel for the stone city. Between the Low King and whoever Jarl Thrand the Cursed has chosen for his champion. A man from Horvorr, as I understand it. A huge brute of a man. Though often enough when I¡¯m told that they end up being smaller than I am¡­ which makes me wonder how I appear.¡± Engli¡¯s blond brows furrowed. ¡°A huge brute of a man?¡± ¡°I meant no insult. I simply spoke words heard.¡± ¡°What was his name?¡± Sybille pressed. Oddkell paused in thought. ¡°I thought that I heard it, but all I remember is the town¡¯s name.¡± ¡°Hjorvarth?¡± ¡°Ah¡­ yes. That sounds close enough. Hjorvarth of Horvorr. Son of Isleif the Unwanted.¡± Engli seemed to suffer doubt. ¡°You¡¯re sure of that?¡± Oddkell rubbed at his stubbly jaw, and realised he had forgotten to shave. ¡°By my recollection of overheard rumours, he arrived in the city this morning with a group of kobolds, which coincided with the Low King¡¯s force reaching the walls. He then travelled to Jarl Thrand¡¯s Estate, under protection of the venerable Stone Sons, and talked with the faithless fools who refused to let us cleanse the spirited place.¡± ¡°Hjorvarth is fighting for Jarl Thrand?¡± Sybille asked in disbelief. ¡°He may have already fought¡­ but, yes. That is what I have heard.¡± ¡°Before one of you two start running,¡± Arfast put in, ¡°by the time you reach the gate any duel will be long over. Wouldn¡¯t be wise to walk out there without wearing hooded cloaks, either.¡± Oddkell¡¯s chuckle surprised them. ¡°Hooded cloaks,¡± he offered as explanation. ¡°Nobody knows who I am,¡± Engli said, already crossing the stone tongue. ¡°I need to go and see if this is true.¡± ¡°I would also like to go,¡± Sybille decided. She regarded the Spirit Seeker. ¡°Are you able to wait¡­?¡± ¡°Indeed.¡± Oddkell shrugged under his purple robes. ¡°I am nothing if not a patient man.¡± 50. Honourable Combat 50. Honourable Combat ¡°When I next opened my eyes, I lay flat upon my back, staring up at a ceiling that had been blackened by goblin blood and strewn with chunks of thick flesh. More strangely, I still felt lingering pain. When I managed to stand upright, I realized this was owed to a burn, still flaring, upon the length of my arm. I watched and waited in confusion for the wound to heal as had all my others since I recreated The Alchemist¡¯s formula, but there was nought but a pulsating ache. ¡®It worked,¡¯ came the piping voice of Agrak. He had freed himself from the nearby cavern wall, and stood overlooking his work. The gargantuan goblin had been exploded utterly, leaving only the burnt and broken pieces of hips and thighs, exposed bones jutting up and out of them. The rest of the hatchling had been scattered across the cavern, rent into countless pieces, ranging from scraps of flesh to severed limbs. The pain of my arm distracted me, and I was too confused to speak. The Small King came to stand before me, long claws flexing. ¡®Izzig¡­ I think we should leave here. And then you can explain to me how it is we came to be here to begin with.¡¯ ¡®I¡­¡¯ Before I could think of an answer in earnest, I noticed movement in the corners of my vision. And watched as the dark blood and scattered flesh were moving of their own accord along the cavern floor. All heading, I realized, to the remnant hips and legs. The broken pieces slithered into one another, and the ruined corpse of the gargantuan goblin began to reform itself. ¡®Oh,¡¯ muttered Agrak. ¡®Nevermind, then. But do leave now, Izzig. I will try to bring the roof down over our heads, and there is no sense in you being stuck here with me.¡¯¡± Hjorvarth stood in the shadow of monolithic walls, deafened and shaken as the great gate groaned open to reveal blue skies and green fields, which lay dotted with unripe crops and sprawled upon by a wide encampment of hundreds of men and dozens of brown tents. They were so close, so peaceful, that they almost seemed there to defend Timilir. They were waiting for him though. Hjorvarth had gotten his way and now he would fight for a city that he was not a part of. He would fight for people he didn¡¯t know, while his own town, his own folk, had suffered because of his absence and, in the case of the miners, for his company. He could not be certain whether his cause was just, whether he fought for good reasons, or whether he simply feared to submit, to pause, to breathe deep his grief. He was surrounded on all sides by the sturdy men and women of the Stone Sons, by the grey and gleaming guards of Timilir, by a crowd of folk, most plainly clothed, while more important people travelled at a distance. There were still fears of the Crooked Teeth, still random murders, despite word being spread that those mad men were dead. Hjorvarth had never been among such a throng of people, never heard such noise, such heat, such fervor for life. And, at the same time, he had never felt more dead or alone. He had asked Dan to search for those from Horvorr, and left the kobolds in a safe place on Jarl Thrand¡¯s Estate. He thought it an oddity that he had more care for those that looked like hairless rats than for his own kind. He was not sure, any more, on anything. He convinced himself that this might avoid slaughter, whether mutual or otherwise, and that for him was more than enough. He might lose, despite assurances he made to the others, and he had come to terms with that. Hjorvarth did not fear his own death so long as it happened for good cause. ¡°You are quiet,¡± Ulfsteinn mentioned. ¡°I am,¡± Hjorvarth agreed. The great gate groaned to an earthshaking stop. Hundreds of boots crunched in step and the procession marched forward onto fertile ground. Hjorvarth quickened his pace, passing beyond the Stone Sons, and he embraced the briskness of the cold wind that swept down from mountain ranges at his left. Sparse trees hissed with the weather while grass writhed around him and fledgling crops danced in the distance. Farmsteads had been surrounded, by armoured men as well as old stone walls, but the folk seemed to be still about their business, tending to animals, keeping company, and carrying spring supplies from one outbuilding to the other. Smoke rose up from dozens of workshops and houses but the grey was soon twisted away with the weather. Scores of soldiers were arrayed ahead of the encampment, most wearing mail armour over brown leather and green wool. They had swords sheathed and weapons slung but the Stone Sons still seemed to ready themselves for a coming charge. Hjorvarth rested his hand on the axe at his belt, then he waited for Jarl Thrand, Fati, and Ekkill to join him before the four of them marched forward. They were matched in number by the men that stepped ahead of the Low King¡¯s encampment, though those men seemed like brothers to one another, bearing the same strides and similar appearances, while Hjorvarth felt a man apart from his disparate company. Hjorvarth tried to fall into line as the seven others started shifting positions. He ended up at the second to right, beside Jarl Thrand. Ekkill then Fati stood to his left. The skinniest man from those approaching came to face Ekkill, while a man in leather stood opposite Fati. The armoured warrior had been set to meet with Hjorvarth, but he swapped with the Low King before they slowed to a stop. Jarl Thrand¡¯s young visage turned grim. ¡°You insult me, already, King Hagni.¡± The Low King chuckled. ¡°It is a long time since a man of the stone city has called me that.¡± He paused. ¡°No insult was meant, Thrand the Younger. I chose to face the man that faces me.¡± He frowned at Hjorvarth. ¡°This is your nephew, is it not? This is the man that will fight on your behalf?¡± ¡°This man is not my nephew,¡± Jarl Thrand replied. ¡°He murdered my brother. He simply wishes to fight on my behalf.¡± ¡°If he is not your blood then he cannot fight.¡± ¡°You specified that the duel would be to the death.¡± The Low King laughed in derision. ¡°I said it would be a contest of blood, of lineage, of family. Not a contest of spilling blood. I will have no forced death in my name.¡± He scowled. ¡°Is this man not the son of Sibbe the Snow Maiden?¡± ¡°That was my mother¡¯s name,¡± Hjorvarth answered. ¡°And Isleif the Bard?¡± ¡°Yes.¡± ¡°Then he is of your blood, Thrand the Younger,¡± said The Low King. ¡°No matter how your father might have denied the fact.¡± Jarl Thrand shook his head. ¡°My father was a good and honest man.¡± King Hafni¡¯s dark eyes widened in delight. ¡°That there is a lie so grave it would make the Lady weep in her Shadows.¡± Jarl Thrand grew tense, one palm resting on his sword. ¡°You mean to fight yourself, Low King?¡± ¡°That depends,¡± Hafni mused, ¡°have you now decided to wield your own sword?¡± He waited for the answering nod. ¡°Then I will fight in pairs. I will not go so far as to embarrass myself by cutting down one barely grown.¡± He turned to the man in armour. ¡°Ketill, my old friend, are you keen for one last duel?¡± Ketill¡¯s smile was slight. ¡°I am, King Hafni.¡± Jarl Thrand stood silent, not in patience, but as if a war of reckless emotions roiled inside to mirror the whistling twists of the wind-whipped grasses. Hjorvarth cleared his throat. ¡°I will gladly stand beside you, Jarl Thrand of Timilir.¡± ¡°A noble gesture,¡± Ekkill enthused. ¡°Jarl Thrand?¡± Fati pressed. ¡°Do you accept¡­?¡± Jarl Thrand still held tight to his sword as he turned to Hjorvarth. ¡°Do you believe that my father was a bad man?¡± ¡°I knew your father even less than I knew the Jarl of Timilir.¡± Hjorvarth struggled to provide the affirmation sought without telling a plain lie. ¡°If I were to judge him by his son, then I would do so favorably. If I were to guess at his nature then I would say he would be shrewd enough to accept my help,¡± he added, ¡°regardless of whether or not my mind walked in step with his own. In honest truth, I think the question is meant for yourself. Do you think that I would care at all if you, or anyone, thought my father was fit for the Lady¡¯s Shadow?¡± ¡°Isleif was a hero,¡± the Low King assured, now standing further away with his three companions. Jarl Thrand sighed. ¡°I will not¡ªI cannot,¡± he amended, ¡°fight alongside the man that killed my brother.¡± ¡°Then I will make one last offer to fight alone,¡± Hjorvarth replied. ¡°At least then, one of your enemies will be bested here no matter the outcome. If you die now, I will go on living my life, and so will the Low King.¡± ¡°Jarl Thrand,¡± Ekkill¡¯s tone had lost all sense of joviality. ¡°Your father would not shy away from sending Gudmund, or even Brolli the Black, to fight on his behalf. Atsurr would not have even flinched if asked to fight beside them. You were quick to anger when the Low King called you a youth and now you stand and act as a child.¡± ¡°And if he wins?¡± Jarl Thrand asked. ¡°Will he simply fade out of memory?¡± Hjorvarth shrugged. ¡°I am of the Brotherhood of Brikorhaan and I have been tasked to fight on your behalf. What more do your people need to know than that? The Low King has agreed to face me under false belief.¡± ¡°I have never heard of your brotherhood,¡± Fati mentioned. ¡°That is because it has not yet been made.¡±The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation. ¡°And will you renounce all blood claims to my city?¡± Jarl Thrand asked. ¡°I have none, but I renounce them all the same,¡± Hjorvarth assured. ¡°By all Eleven Elders, I swear that.¡± ¡°Then as Jarl of Timilir I will offer you a chance at freedom. Win this duel for me, for the people of the stone city, and you will be cleared of all crimes. You will be rewarded for arranging a peace with the kobolds.¡± ¡°If we are bargaining,¡± Hjorvarth replied. ¡°Then I wish for Sybille, Engli, Anna, and Arfast to be safeguarded. I wish for all of Southwestern Tymir to be recognized as belonging to Jarl Sybille, free of Timilir¡¯s stewardship, and I want you to swear that no reprisals will be made for those her father murdered at your estate.¡± ¡°Done,¡± Jarl Thrand readily answered. ¡°Done, even if you lose. I swear that by Broknar and Muradoon both.¡± ¡°We are agreed, then.¡± ¡°We are. So long as you fight in honour of Ouro.¡± *** Hjorvarth stared down at grass that glistened with blood. A circle had been marked out, larger than normal to accommodate his four opponents, and now he waited. The farmers watched from the modest homesteads, while the soldiers of the Low King stood arrayed ahead of him in an endless horizon of hard faces. Coin changed hands, and words were shared, as if they were placing bets. The Low King had not chosen his best warriors, or even a fifth, as was the custom when fighting by Ouro. He had simply asked his three advisers to fight alongside him. Hjorvarth was glad of that, for it bettered his odds, but he still thought it likely that the four men were all competent fighters, and that he himself was badly outmatched. Folk had come from Timilir by the scores, and they all talked loudly among themselves. Hjorvarth had not turned to see them, but he could feel the reverberation of their conversations and smell, thick in the air, sweat, dirt, and perfume. A stretch of grass separated the gathered crowds, and that stretch was only trod upon by Jarl Thrand. The young leader stood atop a stone rise to Hjorvarth¡¯s right, his arms sweeping through the air as he span a tale about the purpose of this duel. He spoke of the goblin threat to the Midderlands, but made no mention as to why it was that Hjorvarth was fighting in honour of Ouro, which would leave them to think it a simple act of arrogance. He would be seen as lucky as well, as though five was the custom with which to fight, none could question it if The Low King had fielded scores more. Hjorvarth let the words and voices wash over him, let the shared gazes fade away and the movement of the armoured men blend into one another. The wind had calmed but long tufts of grass still shifted in the wind, and leaves and debris were still ferried through the cold morning air. He was no long certain of his decision. He was not even sure that he wanted to fight men, or fight at all, anymore. Yet he had borrowed weapons from the Stone Sons, and he now stood before gathered thousands while the Jarl of Timilir claimed him as the stone city¡¯s champion. Hjorvarth could not turn back. He was prepared to die, but he did not want to kill. He was prepared to lose, but he did not simply wish to give the duel away. That would be a dishonour and betrayal beyond measure. He almost decided to throw his axe at Jarl Thrand the Younger and bring an end to the whole ordeal, but that too would be an act of treachery and cowardice beyond reckoning. Jarl Thrand¡¯s voice had grown low, the folk around him had quieted, the warriors opposite had grown tense and severe. Hjorvarth glimpsed a gesture to begin. He stepped into the ring of blood. The four veterans had room to move aside. Three looked the same, two armoured in leather, one in plates and chain, while the Low King now wore little more than a thin white shirt. Hjorvarth realised, as a bitter gust caused him to shiver, that he had no armour of his own. He readied the axes he had borrowed, one short and single-bladed, the other long and with twin crescents, then clashed them together to announce he was ready to begin. The four weathered warriors nodded their assent. They then stepped forward to encircle the huge brute. Hjorvarth pictured Brolli¡¯s hard face: his dark eyes glimmering and his bearded smirk knowing. ¡®You know what to do,¡¯ he would¡¯ve said. Hjorvarth rushed for the Low King. *** Metal hacked into wood with a crunch that splintered across the silent ground of Ragni¡¯s Gift. Engli was surprised by how quiet the gathered crowd was, but then he couldn¡¯t really see anything. He had crossed under the shadow of the walls when the duel began, and now he was trying to run around the crowd, breaths haggard, to get his way close to the front. Though that proved harder than he thought because the soldiers and townsfolk closed the gap they had left between them, and so now all he had view of was a wall of men taller than he was. For a brief moment, he recognized a young man with a soot-stained face and cold fear surged through his veins, but then he blinked and the figure was gone. Shouts went out, some wordless, others between gruff men. ¡°Yield!¡± Engli¡¯s hopes were lifted by the familiar deep voice. ¡°Yie¡ª¡± A man snarled. Wood split with a crack and metal clanged as if axe against axe. Engli lifted his shield from his back and tried to push his way through the crowd. He staggered when a sturdy old woman fought back, then he lost his footing, and he was almost trampled underfoot. Engli struggled back up, holding his ground now the folk shifted around him. He had a fleeting worry of what would happen if the Low King decided to order a slaughter of all the spectators. Wood crunched once more, flesh met flesh with a clap, and then a heavy man collapsed into the grass. ¡°The duel is done!¡± a proud voice declared. Engli had sight of the small rise where stood Young Thrand. He was looking down in disappointment and confusion. Engli heard the same feeling in the loud words spoken around him, and had the terrible fear that Hjorvarth was dead. He shouldered through the crowd now they began to step back and break apart, and he stumbled forward into the long grass. A huge man lay face forward ahead of him, an axe buried into his back. ¡°No.¡± The Low King was standing, muttering to three other bruised and bleeding men. ¡°No,¡± Engli said again, scrambling towards his fallen friend. ¡°Hjorvarth!¡± ¡°Yes?¡± Hjorvarth¡¯s boots shook and then the huge man started to paw against the grass. He struggled up to his knees and then to his feet. He was scowling when he turned. ¡°What¡ªOh, Engli. Good to see you, my friend. I¡ª¡± ¡°You¡¯re not dead?¡± Engli frowned. ¡°You¡¯ve got an axe in your back.¡± Hjorvarth shrugged. ¡°The shield took most the blade. If I was dead, I doubt they would have declared me the winner.¡± ¡°But¡­¡± Engli recognized the concern in the Low King¡¯s face, shared by his advisers, and by his gathered fighters. He turned to the people of the stone city to see their disappointment was mingled with relief. Jarl Thrand the Younger still stood on the rise, but Ekkill and Fati and Luta had come to congratulate him and were smiling. ¡°I suppose they wanted to see more blood,¡± said Hjorvarth. ¡°But I did not. And I won without butchering men.¡± He laughed a joyous laugh that shook the air and verged on madness. The Low King shook his head at the huge man. ¡°No need to boast.¡± ¡°I meant no disrespect,¡± Hjorvarth respectfully assured. The Low King disagreeably grunted, and led his companions towards the nearby sprawl of tents. ¡°If that¡¯s true, then you should follow.¡± He spared a cold look for Jarl Thrand. ¡°You as well, Thrand the Younger.¡± *** Hjorvarth felt uneasy in the wide woven tent of the Low King, and regretted not bringing his weapons. The air was cold, more so than outside, and charged with tension. He had come along with Jarl Thrand while the others had stayed behind. They were two men, in a camp of countless enemies, facing four. There lay a low table to their left, with no chairs, nor even any rugs to soften the earth, and a high-backed chair opposite the tent flap, which fluttered like a wing in the wind. ¡°What is it you want?¡± Jarl Thrand asked. The young man kept one hand on his sword, and his words were edged both by fear and anger. ¡°I was offered a duel. I accepted. I have come here under your safeguard and now you stare and look at us in silence as if you¡¯re intent on senseless violence.¡± The Low King still wore his white shirt, stained by red. ¡°That is not true.¡± ¡°Then speak of your intent.¡± ¡°I had meant,¡± he said, striding closer, ¡°that you are not under safeguard.¡± Jarl Thrand stepped back when the Low King swept closer. He tried to draw his sword, stopped by a hand, and coughed when the Low King punched him in his chest. Jarl Thrand fell to one knee, blood spilling down his black jacket. Hjorvarth blinked, watching the man¡¯s pleading eyes in confusion. ¡°By your own word,¡± the Low King said, ¡°the man you chose was not of your family. And the answer to that, in our ways, is to pay in the blood you failed to offer up before. There was no safeguard, because you acted in poor faith, and all of that was made plain in the speech you gave to all the folk of Timilir.¡± He kicked Jarl Thrand in the head, and then smiled regretfully at Hjorvarth. ¡°As to you, son of Isleif. Set your anger aside¡­ this man was dead no matter what you did. It was fated. But that need not be your fate. Not if you hear me out and accept my offer.¡± Hjorvarth felt the fire of rage writhe inside of him. ¡°I wish for you to rule the stone city in my stead,¡± the Low King explained. ¡°I will make your claim by blood plainly know, and you will have to marry Jarl Thrand¡¯s daughter to reduce the likelihood of uprising.¡± The Low King upturned his palms. ¡°I have discussed this with her already, and¡ª¡± ¡°You broke faith,¡± Hjorvarth growled. The Low King, and his three advisers, grew wary. ¡°I never swore him safety, Hjorvarth. My death, the death of any man, cannot bring him back.¡± Hjorvarth shook with a sickening anger. ¡°You are a coward.¡± He curled his fingers into fists. ¡°I spared each of you in the duel. I offered you a chance at peace. Jarl Thrand came here under pretense of safety and you murdered him.¡± ¡°Hjorvarth, son of Isleif,¡± the Low King warned in a loud voice. ¡°I accept your rejection of my offer. I have misjudged your leanings, and now grant you a chance to leave my encampment in peace. You are outnumbered, outarmed, and outmatched,¡± he gravely reminded. ¡°Your death will accomplish nothing.¡± ¡°Nothing?¡± Hjorvarth grated. ¡°I look upon nothing! I look upon a coward monarch! I look upon a man who has no word, courage or honour. You are not fit to speak of worth, King Hafni. You are not fit to rule. You are not fit for the sun on your back or the wind in your hair. You, stranger, will¡ª¡± he stepped back as the others surged forward, grabbing Gisli by the arm and stretching it loose from its socket¡ª ¡°end¡± ¡ª he tossed Gisli into Gnupa, while suffering the very limits of Ketill¡¯s horizontal swing, and stepped into reach to break his knuckles against the man¡¯s helm ¡ª ¡°your days¡± ¡ª he turned to see the Low King¡¯s thrust, side stepping, driving his boot into the monarch¡¯s knee ¡ª ¡°in shadows!¡± The Low King screamed now his leg crumpled under him. ¡°You are making a mistake!¡± ¡°The mistake was yours.¡± Hjorvarth stomped on the man¡¯s head. He heard the spine break and sickness surged within him. He then turned to the unmoving body of Jarl Thrand, and lifted him carefully from the blood stained floor. Two guards marched under the tent flap, drawing swords. ¡°Stop where you are, Horvorrian!¡± Ketill and Gnupa had both risen. They looked to one another, to their fallen king, and then to Hjorvarth. Hjorvarth met their judgement without sympathy. ¡°The Low King murdered a safeguarded man. Cut me down as you please, but I am in the right here. And I will be free from Broknar¡¯s judgement when that time comes.¡± He scowled when they offered no answer. ¡°Well¡­? What are you men to do without your master?¡± he demanded. ¡°Will you march upon the stone city while the gates lay open? Will you try to avenge him by bringing slaughter upon those who have nought to do with my own actions¡ªmy actions that were well within justification?¡± Gnupa¡¯s aged face creased in skepticism. ¡°What will you do¡­?¡± ¡°I wish a peaceful life with little or no responsibility. I wish to take the Jarls¡¯s body back to be burned so that I can leave Timilir. I wish not to have to kill any other man. I wish peace for our people, and I cannot even fathom why you would want to bring war upon Timilir when all Tymirians are already suffering from monsters and worse.¡± ¡°You will not become the Jarl?¡± Gnupa asked in disbelief. ¡°Luta is welcome to it.¡± Ketill slammed his sword into its scabbard. ¡°Escort this man, and Jarl Thrand¡¯s body, back to the stone city. Inform the camp that Jarl Thrand and the Low King have slain each other in a private duel. As such, we will be honoring the borders as they currently stand. Have the men prepared to return to their homes. Bring word to the Low King¡¯s son that he is now ascended to his father¡¯s seat and we will all support him in his claim.¡± The guards seemed to hesitate, eyes resting on the twisted neck of their fallen monarch. ¡°It will be done.¡± 51. Convergence 51. Convergence ¡°Though I should have heeded Agrak¡¯s advice and abandoned him, as I was of no particular use in a fight, I found myself unable to leave him again. The last time I had lost sight of The Small King, I had found myself adrift and suffering for unending moons. And if he were to die here, of all places, then I wanted to witness his death. Even if my own death would likely follow shortly thereafter. The Small King waited for the gargantuan to regenerate, and regain its wits, and then leapt forth as he had before. Though this time he twisted to divert the intercepting blow, and though he was crunched once more into a distant wall, he was able to readily free himself. The gargantuan goblin grew impatient with repeat attacks, swinging out and smashing down, while I decided it was indeed time to leave. Debris tumbling overhead, and nearly all of the seven walls smashed to pieces, I rushed as fast as I could out of the cavern and into the neighboring tunnel. I had not gotten far when a raucous, earth shaking collapse began from behind. Gladness washed over me that I was not buried, though dirt still sifted down from the tunnel roof overhead. And a sense of relief and pride as well that The Small King had survived and had seemingly succeeded. There was just the problem of how I would recruit a team of diggers to retrieve Agrak, and then the further complication of if that might incur the wrath of the now buried gargantuan. But then a figure slashed forth in a dusty blur, sending out a blinding cloud, and I found The Small King standing beside me once more. ¡®Come,¡¯ he instructed. ¡®There is work to be done. And explanations to be given.¡¯¡± Great Chief Harak towered ahead of his crude hut of interlaced branches and dried leaves. He had let his great club of bone drop to his side, watching the huge troll thunder off beyond the village and further into the Midderlands Pass. ¡°I told you,¡± chided Dargo from behind, ¡°he was not coming here to fight. He is just very large and the valley becomes quite narrow.¡± ¡°Well¡­ I would have fought.¡± ¡°Of course,¡± agreed the much smaller shaman. ¡°And you would have died.¡± Harak disagreeably grunted. ¡°You say we will die no matter what happens.¡± ¡°That is true, my Chief,¡± conceded Dargo. ¡°But I think there are better deaths than being ground to pieces in the maw of an enormous troll.¡± Harak grunted once more, though this time without inclination. He sniffed, shrugged his shoulders, then lifted his great club above his head to stretch. ¡°You are sure that we buried the box in the right place, shaman?¡± ¡°I am sure as I can be.¡± ¡°Encouraging,¡± Harak mocked. ¡°I am encouraging as I can be,¡± said the small shaman. He stepped forward from the hut, not taller than the Great Chief¡¯s hips, and swung his own club of gnarled wood through the air. It had a short handle, and the wooden head was roughly carved. ¡°You were a strong leader, Harak. A true Great Chief.¡± Harak let out a sharp laugh. ¡°What did I do, shaman? Sat here watching over a meager clan. We should have gone with the Moonbear and died with all the rest of them. Now we get to face manlings with powerful magic instead. To fight with no honour or hope.¡± Dargo winced, closing his large eyes, but he did not speak. ¡°Better yet,¡± mused Harak, ¡°I should have challenged the Moonbear and led the clans myself. But now there is nothing to do. We made our choices. I hope one day Gahr¡¯rul can return and avenge us all. The manlings are a vicious people. Stealing land, slaying younglings. They would end us all and take the whole Quiet Isles for themselves.¡± Dargo simply quietly nodded beside him. ¡°We will die to strangers, Dargo. The clan will forget us. We will not be remembered.¡± ¡°I will remember you, should I survive.¡± ¡°What good is that to me, shaman? Other goblins will eat you before they realize you have magic. And you are too weak to hunt and survive on your own.¡± Great Chief Harak scowled down, but he saw what looked like discomfit in the small shaman. ¡°Still¡­¡± he added, more kindly. ¡°I hope that you survive. Maybe you are stronger than I think.¡± Dargo considered the words for a long moment. ¡°I am strong as I can be,¡± he said. Great Chief Harak laughed. ¡°Fool,¡± he said. ¡°Now when will the manlings come?¡± *** ¡°How long?¡± asked High Wizard Lara of the younger woman, Kyra. They all now wore their silver masks, hoods up, so their faces could not be seen. Kyra¡¯s mask bore the visage of a soft smile, while Lara¡¯s was a cruel, mocking grin. ¡°They want us to go as soon as we can,¡± she answered, her voice soft and trembling. ¡°But¡ª¡± ¡°Don¡¯t worry,¡± Lara dismissed. ¡°We will not be going in first. I¡¯m not going to end up like the last High Wizard that tried that.¡± ¡°We cannot ignore orders,¡± insisted Frederick. His mask bore a proud, resolute look. ¡°You cannot,¡± Lara corrected. ¡°But I am the one who gives the orders. If we are late, then we are late. I do not expect that anyone is going to be eager to volunteer to lure The Void Walker out. Though there is no guarantee that he has any intention of protecting the mundane. This whole plan could be for nothing,¡± she added. ¡°So we need not rush at all.¡± The High Wizard knew all that was true, but she knew in her heart of hearts that The Void Walker would be coming. The other powerful wizard was nowhere to be seen, while The Void Walker had been keeping his eye on the girl. Which was strange because as a mundane she had no magical talent, and served no useful purpose which Lara could see. And she did not want to face off against The Void Walker at all. Least of all when he was at his most powerful, with all the awful magics in the world to dispense against the first waves of wizard that came to defeat him. Though rumor was that The Void Walker had not had time to recover, and he would not have much fight left in him at all. Even so, Lara much preferred others to gamble their lives on her behalf. She would arrive as late as she could, but avoid being last. ¡°You are a coward,¡± hissed Frederick. ¡°Open the portal,¡± he instructed to Kyra. The masked woman looked between them both. ¡°Gainsay me again and I will kill you, Frederick,¡± declared the High Wizard without any emotion at all. ¡°The same goes for all of you.¡± She raised a hand to stay any further protest. ¡°Say another word, and I will kill you as well. And do not think that a silver mask will stop me from boiling the blood in your skull until your brain cooks through.¡± The taller wizards looked to the other four, but they all turned their masked faces. He swallowed audibly, and cleared his throat. Then he offered a stiff nod. ¡°Good,¡± said Lara. ¡°Kyra, let me know when the first High Wizard arrives.¡± *** The sun had brightened in the sky, and Astrid had begun to sweat under her mildewed cloak. Though feeling warm was a welcome novelty after so long, the uncomfortable itching was far less pleasant. But she supposed that she would likely be dead soon, so it was best to enjoy any sensations while she still could. She hardly realized when she drew close to the village of Great Chief Harak. The huts were made of the roots and branches of the boggy valley, and grasses and leaves covered the roofs, so each of the modest structures could barely be seen apart from a distance. Eventually though, she crossed into an open stretch of cracked mud, amid which squatted a crude well of mossy rocks. The foremost structure, a crude hut thrice the size of the others, stood atop an earthen rise with two opposing ramps of slight incline. So soon as Astrid stepped into the village, figures emerged all along the ramp, appearing one or two at a time, until nearly a score of them were arrayed ahead. The figures, varied in height in build, all wore dark hooded robes and gleaming silver masks. She could not see the designs, because the sunlight reflected keenly from each.Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation. ¡°Stay where you are, mundane!¡± a stentorian voice demanded of Astrid. This man stood foremost on the rise, his posture proud and unwavering. ¡°The goblins are gone,¡± said a wizard beside him, after having checked the now abandoned hut of the Great Chief. ¡°You know it doesn¡¯t work,¡± said Astrid, stepping towards the stone well. Hundreds of thin seeds had been scattered all along the dry earth, which cracked underfoot. The strangers regarded her in silence, though a few shuffled their feet. ¡°Avenpark¡¯s plan,¡± she explained, more loudly. ¡°It never works. Chaos and Order walk the winding road of time in lockstep, hands linked, one growing as the other shrinks. Do you fools really think that a magic tyrant can impose his own will on existence itself?¡± Hushed whispers met the words with confusion. ¡°Ignore the mundane,¡± the lead man suggested. ¡°Do you any of you sense him?¡± ¡°No sign of The Void Walker,¡± a woman¡¯s voice answered. ¡°Nor the other one,¡± offered a younger man. ¡°Fine,¡± said the lead man. ¡°Kill the mundane. I¡¯m not waiting¡ª¡± ¡°Easy, brother,¡± came drawling words in answer. Standing ahead of the rock well, the dark skinned figure of The Void Walker stretched his neck, and brushed dust from his straw skirts. His crude club hung loosely at the fibrous belt along his lean hips. The tall robed figure hesitated, and seemed to take a step back. ¡°Void Walker.¡± ¡°High Wizard,¡± the shaman lazily greeted. ¡°You¡¯ve been looking for me, eh?¡± ¡°Yes,¡± the High Wizard answered, his tone regaining confidence. ¡°I bring a message on behalf of The Wizard of Avenpark. A final entreaty. Join us now and your resistance will be forgiven and forgotten.¡± The Void Walker¡¯s wry chuckle was so quiet that Astrid barely heard his mirth. ¡°Forgiven and forgotten, eh? If only it were so. But in this life, brother, the only one who can forgive us is ourselves. And I am not so inclined.¡± He stretched once more, lifting the bloodied club of gnarled wood from his belt. ¡°Now,¡± he added, in an altogether different, darker tone. ¡°If you leave here, Avenpark will hunt you. And you will likely die. But if you stay here, I will kill you, and your death is a certainty. So make your own decisions¡ªall of you! Die today, or live to the morrow. I promise you when the time comes that you will wish you bargained for just one more second. And I can promise you¡ªas well¡ªthat there is no besting me. Not for you. Not for him,¡± he assured of the lead wizard. He cast his harsh gaze along all those robed figures arrayed along the earthen slope. ¡°They call me The Void Walker. Because I walk the Ether like you cross a street of stone. And I have seen what awaits you. Run with breath in your lungs, or rot with worms in your eyes. This is my entreaty. And it is final. And is terrible. But it is the best that any of you will get.¡± The black man¡¯s words faded into the breeze, and the score of wizards stood silent. Astrid watched as pair reached for each other¡¯s hands. But none of them fled. ¡°Are you finished?¡± asked the tall wizard atop the rise. The Void Walker quietly laughed, and shrugged. ¡°I haven¡¯t even started.¡± ¡°Do not attempt to bring him in alive,¡± instructed the High Wizard. ¡°I will pay whatever cost is owed for returning his corpse.¡± He glanced towards the distant surround of huts, and Astrid watched as more and more robed figures appeared on the periphery of her vision, until the entire village was full of masked wizards. Then he dipped his head. Astrid looked forward to find The Void Walker looking back at her, bitterly smiling. She nodded, and crunched her heel into the seeds beneath her feet. The shaman took in a deep breath, his skinny chest rising and falling, and he whispered to himself, ¡°They die, or everyone dies.¡± The conjurations of great magics¡ªfire, earth, water¡ªbegan on all sides, ripping power from the Ether and into the hands of dozens of wizards. The Void Walker swept up a single lazy hand, and magic swept out from him in a wave, like dropping a stone in a pond, and as the ripples went, so too did the seeds scattered along the village tremble. The gathered wizards, initially fearful, had hesitated, but then answered his magic with their own conjurations of flames and hurled rocks. But those projectiles were answered in kind by the sudden eruption of huge blades of grass, blocking fire and stopping stones. The foliage grew so tall that it reared over Astrid¡¯ slight shoulders, and blocked all sight of those around her. Behind her, where she had had tread, a messy path cut through the living maze. As quickly as the plants had surged to life they began to wither, fading from lush yellow to a brittle brown, which soon began to catch alight all around her. She ran back the way she had come, reaching a crossroads, and turned to her right. Screams sounded out while bitter smoke filled the air. ¡°Hunt him in the Ether,¡± ordered the High Wizard from atop the rise, surveying the chaos below as dozens of wizards stumbled into one another, or tripped and fell into the thick grass while flames danced from the tips of each tall blade. ¡°Populate waiting!¡± warned another voice, filled with panic. ¡°Get out of the village!¡± the High Wizard demanded in answer. ¡°Then burn it down!¡± Thunderous footfalls then began, amid a great crunching and rustling, and Astrid feared that Fragor had not listened and had come back to help her instead. But then she spotted the newcomer up ahead, towering far above the walls of grass, and saw that it was not a huge troll but a giant goblin, with a great muscled frame. The brittle tips barely reached his waist, and he was surging straight towards the rise. ¡°Kill the goblin!¡± The High Wizard conjured a great ball of flames in his hands, swiftly and expertly, which he unleashed towards the Great Chief. But Harak barely staggered in his charge, and swung down his great bone club in answer, which struck the High Wizard in his hips, nearly breaking him in two, hurling him from the rise and through a wall. *** ¡°Seven Wizards,¡± Kyra cursed in disbelief. ¡°What is it?¡± High Wizard Lara demanded. ¡°The fight is going poorly?¡± ¡°They¡¯ve lost track of The Void Walker and the girl, and a huge goblin killed Byron.¡± ¡°Open the portal,¡± demanded Frederick. ¡°We need to go and help them.¡± ¡°No,¡± ordered Lara. ¡°We will go last at this rate. I¡ª¡± ¡°I¡¯m opening the portal, High Wizard,¡± said another wizard. ¡°Kill me if you must.¡± Lara¡¯s mind flitted towards outrage and violence, but she wasn¡¯t hopeful she could kill her entire group, and even if she did The Wizard of Avenpark would have her hunted. ¡°Wait,¡± she said. ¡°Find the girl. He came here to protect her. We need to capture her. Open the portal to the village¡¯s periphery and we will track her down.¡± The other masked wizards looked to one another in consideration, and eventually Frederick gave a swift nod. ¡°Do it,¡± he instructed. ¡°Don¡¯t reach too deep into the Ether,¡± said Kyra. ¡°The Populate have at least a dozen lizards waiting.¡± ¡°That¡¯s an act of war,¡± said Frederick in disbelief. ¡°It doesn¡¯t matter,¡± assured Lara. ¡°Avenpark doesn¡¯t want to fight them. No one does. Once their pet human is dead then they will go back to leaving us alone.¡± ¡°Open the portal,¡± repeated Kyra to the other wizard, and all of them stood up to face the now rippling rectangle of air which gave view of a chaotic village choked by smoke and pocked with flames. Shouts of warning and agonized wails quietly issued forth. ¡°Stay together,¡± instructed High Wizard Lara. ¡°The Void Walker ready for us. He wants us to come for him. The girl is the only person he has ever tried to protect since we pursued him. Capture or kill her, it matters not. We will ruin whatever plans he has.¡± *** Great Chief Harak snarled, dark blood dribbling from his lips. Pain radiated from his great frame, though not badly enough to worry him. Stone projectiles thudded into the flesh of his back, and he turned to kill his attacker, but the coward ducked into the grass, impossible to see through the growing haze of flames and smoke. He had feared the outworlders at first, but once the first he died he realized that no matter what magics they possessed, they were still just manlings with brittle bones and weak flesh. They were not were not worth fearing. They were not the Blackheart, or the Wolf, or the One Swing. They would be nothing without their powers. Flames burgeoned, searing the flesh of his shoulder, while a great rock soared towards him and narrowly missed his head. ¡°It¡¯s wounded,¡± a womanling shouted. ¡°Keep going. Stay low! We¡ª¡± A crunch ended her words, and Harak spotted the dark one running through the grass, sending up a spray of broken teeth and blood with his gnarled club. It reminded Harak of the small weapon that Dargo wielded. Then he remembered his goal. He wanted to scythe through the grass and destroy everyone around him, but he swore not to hurt the girl and he had no great urging to wound the dark one, either. He was fighting outnumbered already, after all. He spotted a small figure, clad in a grey cloak instead of black, by the edge of the village. ¡°Shaman!¡± he roared. ¡°Where you lost your first fight!¡± This he said because the small goblin had nearly been beaten to death near that hut, but the shaman who reared Harak had asked the then huge youngling to watch out for the smallest of their litter, because he believed Dargo would one day be a great seer. The dark one had been running away from the grass as well, so the Great Chief hoisted up his great club and began to swing and tear through the grass, sending broken bodies flying through the air amid fiery debris, which landed and danced across the rooftops. Flames raged all around the giant goblin. ¡®The whole village burns,¡¯ Harak realized. ¡®I have destroyed everything that I was given. I failed the clan. I am not a Great Chief. I should not have been a Chief at all.¡¯ He paused then amid the stone well which he had helped to repair so many times, and which appeared insignificant squatting beside his burnt, bleeding legs. A soft susurration began, and welcome cold spread across Harak¡¯s aching shoulders. The sky darkened overhead, making the village appear even greyer and bleaker. Before a great thunderous downpour began, soon smothering the flames and extinguishing them with such ferocity that all the burned and broken grass was flattened and trampled. Dark cloaked figures, robes sodden, masks glistening, were revealed around the Great Chief. But Harak and the others were all turned to a grey cloaked figure standing atop the rise instead. His mask was carved with three straight lines for a closed eyes and mouth. ¡°Stormcaller!¡± a voice called with evident relief. ¡°Bring the goblin down!¡± another suggested. The Stormcaller raised one gloved hand towards the sky, and stormclouds rumbled overhead. Chief Harak bared his teeth, surging forward, as the man¡¯s arm came down. Lightning splintered earthwards with blinding speed. Harak barely glimpsed the spear of vengeful radiance. 52. Love 52. Love ¡°Dear reader, I used to think that love was an inconvenient illusion. While now I know that hate can only take a man so far. Only time will tell how far abhorrence can take a vengeful god. I interjected before that I prefer narrations recorded by the characters themselves. But there are issues with this approach. Particularly if the recorder clashes with a shaman who has an affinity for memories. It is impossible to scry with the level of magical interference generated by the battle previously described, but it is clear to me that Izzig¡¯s account is not entirely true. This I know because Magar is, at the time of this recording at least, not dead. It is true that he failed. And almost certainly the case that he will try again. But the real danger to us all would be if The Small King took up the young shaman¡¯s cause. Because of that, I had to convince Izzig that some things, for The Small King at least, are better off forgotten. Let us soften the trauma of his imprisonment, and wipe away some less than favorable memories for Izzig while we¡¯re there. This, of course, is a convenient illusion. One that must eventually be shattered. Let us dearly hope we both live long enough to see that story though.¡± Dargo stood stunned while wind and blinding light surged towards him, unable to tear his gaze away from the burned and blackened figure of Great Chief Harak. He barely noticed the girl in the grey cloak as she passed by so closely that they brushed shoulders. The bolt of lightning had struck the giant goblin on his shoulders, tearing through his great frame with bright fire. Harak had been charging the newcomer, but now stood frozen as if he might move and then toppled over in a heap instead. The small shaman felt a strange, paralyzing feeling that was foreign to him. Like disappointment and sadness with a far greater weight. But he thought that the manlings called it grief. He had seen this happen when he seered, but in his visions he could not smell burnt flesh, or bitter smoke, or the cloak of cold brought by a sudden downpour. He stood by the hut where he had nearly been beaten to death, likely to be eaten soon after, and where Harak had come to save him, fighting as a youngling against goblins fully grown. Then he remembered the girl, now running out of the village limits. Dargo reminded himself that these things were more important than either he or Harak. And that the Great Chief¡¯s death would be for nothing if the girl were to die. He hurried after her, as quickly as his short legs would allow, and left the beginnings of raucous cheering and clapping behind him. ¡°This is not over!¡± an erudite voice declared. ¡°Find the Void Walker!¡± The shaman did not understand the great magics these manlings wielded. Nor could he fathom why they would come to their valley of all places to settle their grudges. He left the conjured grasses and burned buildings behind him, crossing onto sodden mud. The womanling was headed to the right place, ascending a nearby slope of slick stone, which gave the shaman hope. And he tried his best to keep up with her frantic pace. Slipping and stumbling, he managed to clamber up the rise at the cost of only a few bleeding fingers and some scraped knees. But when he reached the rise above, the girl in the grey cloak had already stopped, surrounded by a circle of black robed figures. One of them stepped forth, knife in hand, and though the womanling tried to fight, she slipped and stumbled and was soon wrestled to a stop with a gloved hand over her mouth and a shining knife to her pale neck. ¡°Void Walker!¡± another womanling called out. ¡°Enough of your games. Show yourself or I kill her. And if I feel even an inkling of your magic, I will kill her as well.¡± ¡°No need for that,¡± assured a manling¡¯s voice beside Dargo, now the dark one ascended the rise beside him. The shaman had heard manlings speak before but his words were strange, speaking the words of his language more slowly than the others, and more rhythmically as well. And there was a crudeness to his voice that was more goblin than manling, as if he did not speak often and did not like to do so, either. ¡°Shaman,¡± he said to the small goblin, and he dipped his head as if in respect. Dargo was surprised to see how skinny the manling was. Though his club was stained with fresh flesh and fresh blood from blows that spoke to significant strength. The rain made his dark skin glisten, and the whites of his eyes were stark against the rest of him. The other robed figures did not seem to know what to do now, as if they had not expected their plan to work. And were now unsure of how to proceed. ¡°I hear Avenpark wants me alive, yes¡­?¡± ventured the dark one. ¡°So¡­ I will surrender. And come with you. If you spare the girl.¡± He brushed rain from his wiry chest, which seemed needless, because the rain still hissed down on all of them. ¡°No,¡± said the womanling in the robe. ¡°I do not trust you.¡± ¡°Trust?¡± the dark one echoed as if amused him. ¡°Then reason instead. Your betters are down the hill, but will soon catch up. And if you hurt her, then I can be vengeful. Or you can take my word and be the victor here. Glory for you and yours.¡± ¡°You are spent,¡± said a manling in a robe. ¡°You can¡¯t fight us.¡± ¡°Maybe so. Maybe not so,¡± said the dark one readily. ¡°Maybe the Populate topped me up. And I am as ready to fight as I have ever been. Why take the risk?¡± ¡°Fine,¡± said the robed womanling. ¡°You have a deal, Void Walker. On your word.¡± ¡°On my word,¡± he agreed. ¡°I come with you¡ªno harm, no foul. As your prisoner. And you can present me to Avenpark.¡± ¡°It is a trick,¡± warned the robed manling. ¡°He clearly wants to assassinate Avenpark. Listen,¡± he began as if to the other robed figures. ¡°Kill him, and¡ª¡± The shining knife flashed through the air, cutting short his words and opening his throat. ¡°Take in the Void Walker,¡± the womanling instructed. ¡°Open the portal.¡± The girl in the grey cloak had fell to the mud with the sudden shift of weight, and had begun to protest, but soon enough all the robed figures were gone with the dark one. She seemed confused for a long moment, watching Dargo, but then began running towards where the shaman had buried the box. Higher up in the hills, far from the village, but not so far as to make the journey too difficult for the shaman. He followed her as best as he could, and eventually she dropped to the dirt, scrabbling and scraping, until her nails grated against hard metal, and she wrenched it up from the earth. She then looked at Dargo, who was by now exhausted and out of breath, and there was anger in her eyes as if she was mad that he had buried the box so deep. Before Dargo could realize he had confused fear for anger, the burning bite of a blade sank into his back, and out through his chest. Confused, Dargo now lay in the mud, blinking rain from his eyes, as warmth spread out from his aching shoulders. *** Astrid had tried to warn the small shaman that a blade was coming, but she¡¯d been grabbed by throat and her voice was weak. Even if she had shouted at him, the poor goblin appeared broken and distracted. And now he was even worse for wear, laying in a pool of his own spreading blood. A lithe figure, viciously smirking, stood atop the shaman. The goblin wielded a sharpened bone knife and had garbed himself in the poorly wedded skins of snakes and lizards. ¡°Slower for you, womanling. Or¡­ give me the box. For a swift death.¡±Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. The goblin was over twice the size of her, and even a smaller goblin would have been much stronger. There was no real way for her to hurt him, let alone to kill him. But all that mattered was the box. Which was sealed like all dwarven lockboxes by a code pattern, formed by rotating plates which could result in countless imagery, of which only one would open the lock. Luckily for her, she had already seen the image. And it was already half formed. She frantically twisted the metal, this way and that, to try and get closer to her vision, but the direction of each plate confused her and the slapping steps of her attacker drew closer. Fire raged on her shoulder, and she panicked, but by the vivid pain it was not a deep cut. The goblin behind her laughed, then slashed again, across her back. Her fingers stumbled on the box, but she kept adjusting the plates. The goblin stood over her, slashing her again, across the arms and hips and heels. Astrid soon lost count of the wounds, and disorientating nausea began to overtake her. Strength fled her fingers, and as they trembled they began to slip away each time she tried to click a plate into place. Her vision grew blurry, and she was not sure whether she was getting closer to opening the box or further from where she¡¯d begun. A plate clicked loudly into place and she thought for one hopeful moment that she might have aligned the right image, but then the goblin kicked the box from her trembling, frigid grip before kneeing her in the head. Teeth clipping her tongue, ears ringing, she slammed back into the cold mud. *** Chief Saka hissed laughter to himself, grinning down at the bleeding figures of Dargo and the womanling. The shaman was so small, they were almost of the same size, lying beside one another as one leaked red blood and the other leaked black. Everything had gone well for Saka. Better than he expected. He not only got exactly what he wanted, but he now had two weaklings to torture for the bargain. They would be dead soon, but killing those with true intelligence was a rarity for a goblin Chief. He was about to kneel down over the both of them and start cutting, but he decided to retrieve the metal box instead. Overcome by momentary worry, he found the dwarven worked steel resting, half buried in the mud. The lid was still closed. Chief Saka laughed to himself again, picking up the box, but then his ears were met with a creaking hinge and a shuddering rattle. And he looked down in fear and disbelief to see that the lid hung open, swinging back and forth in the rain. He scowled, searching the earth for any sign of Gahr¡¯ruls hand, but he did not see it. He got to his knees and sniffed and pawed in case it had been buried in the sodden mud, but there was nothing to be seen. Saka chided himself for his arrogance and idiocy, and surged to his feet, craning his neck to see if he could find the hand in the distance, and to check for any oncoming enemies. But he did not look behind him, and with the ever present hush of the rain, he had not heard Dargo rise. The old shaman, unsteady on his feet, swung his small club in a tight two-handed grip. The weapon struck true, thumping into Saka¡¯s skull, but the force caused the shaman to slip and both goblin¡¯s tumbled together, landing in a tangled pile. Dargo¡¯s club slipped from grip, and he tried to use all his strength to push Saka off of him, while the Chief was still dazed, but then Saka¡¯s keen eyes sparked back to life and he grinned down at the shaman. Sharp claws latched onto Dargo¡¯s shoulder, easily worming their way through withered flesh and raking against bone. Chief Saka decided to kill the shaman, quickly and painfully, but felt a cold hand upon his ankle. He kicked out, turning back, expecting to see the womanling trying to fight, but there was nought there and she still lay idle in the mud. The sensation travelled up his leg, and across high thigh, and Saka leapt up in a panic, realizing that it must be Gahr¡¯rul¡¯s hand. He reached for his own crotch, trying to intercept the limb, but then he felt fingers on the bottom of his spine. The Chief desperately reached for his own back, but his fingers could only graze the hand as it travelled further up his back and towards his shoulders. Desperate, he hurled himself hard onto his back, hoping to dislodge the hand with the force, but he landed heavier than he hoped and by the time he came to his senses, he could feel fingers reaching around his neck. Saka grabbed at the limb with his own hands, and tried to prise it free, but the grip tightened and wrapped tightly around his neck. The Chief tried harder, clawing and scrabbling, but could get no purchase as the hand clamped down on his throat. He struggled up to his feet, running for his dropped knife, as his vision wavered and he felt starved of air. Saka dropped to his knees, grabbing the hilt, and drove the blade into his own neck. But the hand had released, dodging deftly, so the knife cut Saka¡¯s throat. While the scale-clad Chief clutched at the wound and choked on his own blood, the filthy, scarred hand crawled over Dargo¡¯s stomach, leaving him be, and then headed towards the pale, cloaked figure of Astrid lying unconscious in the mud. The shaman tried to stop the hand, fearing it would hurt the girl, but he had barely had the strength to turn and when he grabbed for the limb, it was already beyond his reach. The hand alighted onto Astrid¡¯s arm, wandering up her shoulder, and eventually crossed onto her neck. Dargo tried to crawl forwards to help, but the hand moved upwards to gently cup her jaw and cheek as if with loving affection. The hand then leapt back into the mud, soon out of sight as well as reach. *** Dargo knew he had lost too much blood to survive, but he still tried to pack the wounds of the girl to try and give her a chance at survival. Her wounds were healing quickly, and he suspected that she had more powers than might be outwardly seen. Perhaps that was why she had been chosen to help Gahr¡¯rul. Though he could not shake the thought that the hand seemed to know her. Or else the severed limb was aware that the girl had helped release it, and was merely grateful. Still, he was hopeful the womanling would survive. He had left her under cover of some stunted trees, and struggled back down the hill despite his pain. Ahead of him, rainfall slowing to a trickle, lay their ravaged village. The strange grass that the dark one had conjured had been flattened, crushed, and burned, which made for uncomfortable and noisy footing. The walls of nearly all of their homes had been broken or blackened, while the stone well had collapsed in on itself. There was a strangeness to the ground that made the shaman¡¯s foot tingle. And he realized the dark one¡¯s magic was burrowed through the whole village like a spider¡¯s web. Dargo wondered if the manling shaman had meant to collapse more than a well. He slowed to a stop near the one thing his eyes had avoided. He could smell Dargo¡¯s burnt flesh clearly, amidst the faint scents of blood and sweat, washed away by rain. Harak coughed, wincing in agony, causing the shaman to flinch. ¡°Well¡­?¡± ¡°It is done.¡± The Great Chief nodded, not lifting himself up from the floor, watching the shaman with one trembling eye, while the other had been scorched shut by lightning. ¡°Good.¡± Dargo groaned wordlessly in pain as he settled himself beside the giant goblin. He rested his back upon the Great Chief¡¯s stomach. ¡°You are dying.¡± ¡°Of course.¡± ¡°So am I.¡± ¡°Of course. As I seered.¡± ¡°You said¡ª¡± Great Chief Harak lapsed into a coughing fit, and he cried out in pain before the spasms abated. Blood trickled out from his lips, landing in fat drops beside the shaman¡¯s muddy. ¡°Seering is¡­¡± ¡°Fickle.¡± Harak grunted as if to agree. ¡°This time it was not.¡± Harak grunted again, neither pleased nor displeased. ¡°This one¡­ Stormcaller. Powerful. Others¡­ weak.¡± ¡°I did not think,¡± Dargo began, but his thoughts skipped away from him, and the lids of his eyes began to feel terribly heavy. His eyes fluttered open and closed, and time passed him by without notice. ¡°Dargo,¡± Harak¡¯s words were strained, but concerned. ¡°Are you dead¡­?¡± The shaman blinked, grimacing at the pool of his own blood beneath his crossed thighs. ¡°No¡­ not yet.¡± ¡°Do you remember¡­¡± ¡°Remember?¡± ¡°The word,¡± Harak managed, his scorched head lolling. ¡°The word¡­ I hate.¡± Dargo frowned, unsure what he meant. He craned his neck to look up at the Great Chief but Harak¡¯s eyes were fluttering, and his breaths were coming out in a feeble wheeze. ¡°Manlings,¡± the Great Chief muttered. ¡°You hate manlings?¡± Dargo mused, still confused, but that did not seem like the right answer even though it was likely true. Then the shaman guessed that the Great Chief meant that there was a manling word that he hated. And the answer clicked into place. ¡°Love¡­?¡± ¡°Love,¡± he agreed in a faraway voice. Harak blearily blinked. He reached out to place a hand on the shaman¡¯s small shoulders, but fell back instead, thumping into the earth. Dargo tried to turn but he too slipped, and the pair drew their last breaths together. Stillness settled over the village, until a strange, reptilian creature appeared as if from nowhere. Scales of silver, humanoid and bipedal, with great golden eyes, the lizard looked down at Dargo for a long moment. Then he pilfered the shaman¡¯s small club. In the distance, Chief Ugu watched all this with a mix of relief and confusion. His clan had ran off amid all of the death and fighting, but now Saka and Harak were gone. He would finally become the Great Chief of the Midderlands Pass. 53. Full Circle 53. Full Circle ¡°The Small King, having swiftly slain those who refused to attend or recognize his authority, has gathered all the remaining Chiefs of the Grorginite Empire. The mood in the throne room was quiet and resentful, with those in attendance taking up only a paltry tenth of the space available. Agrak announced the the Empire is dissolved and that all Chiefs should go off and do as they please. He warned that if any goblin leader attempted to force all the others under their will then he would return and kill them. He had offered me an opportunity to rule in his stead, but I refused. And this was an answer that he laughed at. His breathy laughter bitter and mocking. Confused and unhappy, the Chiefs grumbled amongst their clans or shouted questions, but The Small King simply descended his throne and departed. I gave chase, as quickly as my old bones allowed, and asked where he was going. ¡®To see the dwarves,¡¯ he answered. ¡®I will come with you.¡¯ ¡®You will leave me alone, Izzig.¡¯ ¡®I saved you,¡¯ I angrily reminded. ¡®Did you, Izzig?¡¯ he hissed. ¡®Or did you leave me trapped in a box for as long as it safeguarded you? And let me loose only when there was no apparent threat.¡¯ Though I was angry at the claim, I could not readily refute words. ¡®I¡­¡¯ I began, words full of bitter anger, but then I realized I was in some ways at fault. ¡®¡­am sorry, Agrak. I was afraid, and¡ª¡¯ ¡®Sorry is a human word, Izzig. I allowed myself to be captured. So I should blame myself,¡¯ he conceded, walking away from me. ¡®Come along, then, if you so wish.¡¯¡± Hjorvarth strode through the shadowed streets of the stone city, holding the Jarl of Timilir in his arms like a sleeping child. Old blood had soaked through Hjorvarth¡¯s clothes, and his body ached with the weight. He walked all the same, with a procession at his back, and folk questioning him for more than the sparse answers he had given, until he reached the enormous stone visage of Muradoon. The Eternal Sanctuary towered at monumental height in the rock face. The Spirit Talker seemed ambivalent towards the arrivals, but there was one man, a man in a purple robe, almost as large as Hjorvarth, that strode out to meet them. ¡°Do we now bow beneath the Low King?¡± ¡°This city is now under rule of Jarl Luta,¡± Hjorvarth answered. ¡°The Low King is dead.¡± He paused. ¡°I am told I have friends here waiting for me?¡± The purple-robed man nodded, and led them inside. Luta, Fati, and Ekkill accompanied, as did a handful of others, while the Stone Sons bid their farewells and returned to their own homes. Hjorvarth handed the body over to a pair of waiting Godis and then he followed the large man further into the underground structure. Their footsteps echoed from dark tunnels, breached by lantern light, and filled the cold silence. The man had since said that he was a Spirit Seeker by name of Oddkell the Sixth Blessed. Hjorvarth did not warm to the man, nor did he dislike him, but he had the feeling that he was very dangerous. The Spirit Seeker paused in the tunnel, leaving them both within an endless darkness that was spared only by a flickering flame. ¡°Has anyone you loved ever died in your company? You seem to be spirited.¡± ¡°Proceed, Spirit Seeker. That is not a question that I will answer.¡± The Spirit Seeker almost turned then started walking forward. ¡°Do animals show you fondness?¡± ¡°I am uncertain. They have never shown me undue hostility.¡± ¡°And fish?¡± ¡°What of them?¡± ¡°You live in Horvorr, do you not? Have you ever come into contact with a living fish?¡± Hjorvarth took a deep breath. ¡°I am tired, Oddkell. I am beyond tired. I do not care for questions.¡± He thought on it all the same. ¡°I once fished for a month, and I caught one fish. It was already dead.¡± He slowed to a stop when the purple-robed man grew tense. ¡°I wish not to fight you, Spirit Seeker.¡± ¡°Interesting.¡± The Spirit Seeker relaxed, and carried forward. ¡°I am almost certain you are spirited. It is often by a parent, normally imparted if holding hands or in embrace during death. I recommend you visit a Godi to have yourself cleansed. For now, the spirit may prove useful, but after that it may become twisted, and come to have a negative influence on your mind. As a practical measure, if animals dislike you then the spirit that rides your back has become¡­ well, it would be best to have it removed. Do you understand me, Horvorrian?¡± Hjorvarth heard the threat in his words. ¡°Clear as ice water, Spirit Seeker.¡± ¡°Is ice water particularly clear?¡± Hjorvarth quashed his slight smile. Long had he used that phrase but none, other than Brolli, had ever questioned what he meant. He shrugged, which appeased the priest. They walked on in a silence of footsteps until the wind began to whistle in the distance. The tunnel curved and then opened out into a small cavern that overlooked an endless horizon of wintry mountains; of ice, rock, and snow. Sybille, Engli, and Arfast waited within, wearing thick hooded cloaks. A pyre had been made up, wide enough for Anna and Gudmund who had been washed and oiled and dressed in white. ¡°This must have taken you days,¡± Hjorvarth murmured. He stared at the fallen man and woman, pale and silent, stillness in death so unlike their temperaments in life. He suffered unequivocal sorrow when he realised that all those of Horvorr, that the town itself, was truly gone. Engli had told him of the deaths, of Gudmund, Anna, and Ralf, but the sight of their readied bodies sent cracks through the numb logic with which he had used as a shield. He wanted to weep or to scream or to fall to his knees but he managed none of it. He could only watch with welling eyes as fire crawled over the pyre. The wind swept in on them, rending the flames, ripping robes about arms and ankles. Hjorvarth could see fire dancing in Sybille¡¯s eyes but her gaze was hollow, her face was pale, and he had never seen her look so broken. Engli had lost his smile, and his handsome visage seemed weighed by the harsh truths of the unforgiving world. ¡°You should all leave,¡± the Spirit Seeker spoke over the flames. ¡°These bodies will be long in the burning, and the heat will soon be too much to bear. I will keep the fire tended and make sure that their ash is scattered,¡± he loudly promised. ¡°Or, if you wish, I can gather it up and deliver it to you.¡± The children of the dead offered no answer. *** Hjorvarth sat a wonky table within the main room of the Toothless Grin. He wondered how his life would have changed had Agnar managed to meet him here. He dismissed the thought, as he had plenty of others, and shared his gaze between the sorrowed faces of Engli and Sybille. He had not said a word since leaving the Eternal Sanctuary and neither had they. Only Arfast had spoken, and he was now standing near the counter, ordering food and drinks for all of them. Sybille sniffed, frowned, and seemed to reach a decision. ¡°Engli,¡± she began. Hjorvarth rose at the careful tone. He had the sudden certainty that she was about to end whatever relationship they had once had. ¡°I have business to attend. I will be back here later tonight.¡± ¡°Oh.¡± Sybille blinked. ¡°Good luck, then, Hjorvarth.¡± Hjorvarth answered with a careful nod. Engli glanced up at him. ¡°Do you want me to come with you?¡± ¡°No¡­ I¡¯m sure you both have things to discuss,¡± replied Hjorvarth. ¡°And this is business better handled alone.¡± Engli smiled at Sybille, and, frowning, seemed to realize his misfortune. *** Hjorvarth crossed through the stone city without incident, beyond people recognizing him and applauding him as a hero. He had ignored those folk, stepping clear of them to avoid contact and conversation, and made great haste to Jarl Thrand¡¯s Estate. Hjorvarth found the gates open, no guards guarding the white walls, so entered without announcing himself. He thought it worrisome that Jarl Luta had put such a lack of thought into her own safety, as if the Crooked Teeth or any other attackers had simply vanished with the rising sun. He turned right, to the small stone structures that were rowed ahead of and towards the cliff¡¯s edge. The barracks lay behind him, door open to let the chanting of Godis carry out onto the open air. He caught the scents of herbs and incense. Hjorvarth wasn¡¯t sure which structure was the dungeon, so, sweating under the noonday sun, he started knocking on each of the doors. He had reached the eleventh when the seventh opened, and made his way back to the latter. ¡°Did someone knock¡­?¡± Fleinn asked, leaning his head out the doorway. Hjorvarth recognized the young guard who had helped pull him from his prison before. ¡°Fleinn.¡± Fleinn turned, almost worried, then replied with a careful nod. ¡°Yes?¡± ¡°My name is Hjorvarth. I was a prisoner here before and you led me out from my cage,¡± he explained, which seemed to inspire fear in Fleinn. ¡°I have been set free and cleared of my crimes by Jarl Thrand¡¯s family¡­ but I was wondering if the items taken from my person are still here.¡± Fleinn looked skyward then frowned. ¡°Jarl Gudmund took your shield. I¡¯m not sure what happened to it after that.¡± ¡°I was searching for the knife.¡± ¡°Oh¡­ right.¡± Fleinn nodded. ¡°We¡¯ve about a dozen of those. Do you want to come in and take a look?¡± ¡°So as long as you don¡¯t lock me away again,¡± Hjorvarth joked. ¡°I wouldn¡¯t try even if I was supposed to.¡± *** Hjorvarth had been led down a stone stairs, through low-roofed rooms and corridor that had air warmer and dustier than that of the world above. He realised he now had a deep dislike of being under the earth, so he made a brisk effort of searching when he was led to the crate of small blades. Fleinn had been speaking of finding new work, of his uncertainty of his current position, and how he considered himself lucky as Joyto to have survived Gudmund¡¯s slaughter. ¡°He may have liked you,¡± Hjorvarth said, trying not to cut his hands as he laid the knifes and daggers out on the barrel beside him. The room was dusky and full of old crates and rotting weapon racks. ¡°Who?¡± ¡°Gudmund. He spared his own daughter and those he knew. If you had given him the shield, he may have remembered you. So it might not be a matter of luck at all.¡± Hjorvarth shrugged. ¡°Could you bring me a candle?¡±Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences. Fleinn nodded, disappearing into the other room. He came back not long after with a stub candle that seemed close to burning out. ¡°I¡¯ll bury this when you¡¯re done.¡± Hjorvarth frowned. ¡°To what end?¡± ¡°For Brikorhaan¡¯s band. You bury the ends of your candles so that they can see in the Lady¡¯s Shadow.¡± ¡°Truly?¡± Hjorvarth scrutinised the blades by candlelight. ¡°I think they might get stolen by kobolds instead.¡± Fleinn seemed to bristle. ¡°What do you mean?¡± ¡°I spent some days under the earth after I was sent to the mines. The kobolds used candles that were all already burned to stubs. I thought it possible that they are digging up wax buried by men.¡± Hjorvarth found Asgeir¡¯s knife, wooden handle carved with the likeness of Brikorhaan¡¯s axe, and slid it into his belt. ¡°I suppose it of little consequence. If you are right then the gods would surely prevent the theft.¡± ¡°I suppose that¡¯s true,¡± Fleinn muttered in a worried tone. ¡°What if they¡¯re helping the Lady, though? What if we¡¯re supposed to be stopping them?¡± ¡°That seems unneeded,¡± Hjorvarth replied. ¡°I will mention it when I see them next.¡± Fleinn frowned. ¡°You¡¯re going to see the kobolds?¡± ¡°I told Rudrun that I would¡­ to properly arrange the peace, and I am a man of my word.¡± Hjorvarth heard the disillusion plainly in his own claim. ¡°My thanks for your help, Fleinn. I can see my way out from here. If you ever need my help, feel free to call upon me. I intend to establish a fighting brotherhood near Fenkirk.¡± ¡°Can I join?¡± Fleinn asked with childish excitement. ¡°I would have to discuss it with Engli. As I said, near Fenkirk. Come in a season¡¯s time.¡± Hjorvarth paused to look back at him. ¡°It will be dangerous business, though. You would be safer staying here.¡± Fleinn nodded in false hesitation. ¡°Fenkirk,¡± he echoed. ¡°In a season.¡± Hjorvarth left the man behind, crossing through three small rooms, before ascending the stairs. A fat man and a skinny man were both waiting outside, wearing black clothes for mourning. ¡°I hope that you¡¯re not¡ª¡± ¡°We¡¯re here to see you,¡± Fati cut in. ¡°Hope wasted, then,¡± Hjorvarth said. ¡°The gate was open.¡± ¡°Indeed,¡± Ekkill replied. ¡°Luta has decided she has no great urging to rule from here. She has given it over to those that serve Muradoon. They will work to cleanse the place from malicious spirits.¡± Hjorvarth waited for a moment longer. ¡°Oh,¡± Fati said. ¡°Luta has invited you to join her for a meal.¡± Hjorvarth nodded, and departed. ¡°Offer my thanks and my rejection.¡± *** Hjorvarth was saddened and confused as he walked stone streets. He had gone to visit Ivar¡¯s mother, to admit to her that he had killed Ivar by accident, but he found that the woman was dead. Long dead. She had died over a winter ago, and now a new family was living in her home. He wanted to know why Ivar hadn¡¯t mentioned it. He wondered if that was the cause for his sudden streak of rash action and cruelty. He struggled with a maelstrom of guilt and anger. He would force himself from one grim subject, only to chance upon another. A loss to a mistake to a regret and on and on until his head spun and his heart beat heavy in his chest. Hjorvarth found himself standing outside of Frida¡¯s home, and decided to pay her a visit. The place looked abandoned¡ªstill lacking the metal banding of the homes at either side¡ªbut then most structures in the city seemed that way, for the stone was thick and unyielding and didn¡¯t readily absorb warmth or loose noise. He knocked at the door, waited, knocked at the door, waited, knocked at the door. This was where the true trouble had began. Before the deaths of Agnar and Geirmund. Before Brolli demanded a debt that he had already given away to Frida for her husband¡¯s death. Hjorvarth was so lost in his endlessly warring thoughts that he didn¡¯t remember how long he had been there or how long he had knocked. He glanced at his hands and his knuckles were bruised and bleeding. Hjorvarth stepped back, and slammed his boot into the stone. He realised his mistake when he landed on his back, and chided himself for not remembering that. ¡°Are you all right?¡± asked a young woman. Hjorvarth was relieved, then confused when Ruby¡¯s lean face appeared above him. ¡°She¡¯s gone, Hjorvarth,¡± Ruby said. ¡°I had her watched while you were in Horvorr.¡± ¡°Oh.¡± Hjorvarth remained on his back, staring up at the cloudless sky, squinting in defiance of an angry sun. ¡°I suppose that is a good thing, then.¡± He could no longer see her, so he rose to his feet. Ruby had left a good distance between them. ¡°You are sure she wasn¡¯t hurt?¡± he asked. ¡°I¡¯m sure,¡± Ruby lied. She had no heart to tell him the truth. She mastered her expression and pulled all the false truth she could into the lie. ¡°Ragni saw her leaving by the north gate. Left in the company of a trader¡¯s caravan. Must have decided that the stone city wasn¡¯t a safe place for a widow and a babe.¡± She mocked him with a smile, willing him not to question it, not to look inside and notice the remnants of bloodstains that she had struggled to clean, not to happen upon an idle tooth that she hadn¡¯t found. ¡°You must dearly care for her,¡± she idly mentioned. ¡°I could always find out the trader¡¯s name.¡± ¡°No need,¡± Hjorvarth assured. He looked at her with sudden anger. ¡°I am told you tried to aid Jarl Thrand.¡± ¡°He was my leader, despite his faults, as much as Gudmund was yours.¡± Hjorvarth¡¯s nod was slight. ¡°You, and all of the Gem Cutters, are exiled from Southwestern Tymir.¡± Ruby didn¡¯t see any need to worry over that. ¡°That¡¯s fair enough.¡± ¡°And have you seen Alrik?¡± ¡°Not since the slaughter.¡± Ruby paused then upturned her palms. ¡°I¡¯ve no hard feelings towards him, Hjorvarth. If he¡¯s missing then I¡¯ve nothing at all to do with it.¡± ¡°Even so,¡± Hjorvarth said, his tone cold. ¡°If I learn that he is dead. Then the killers will suffer.¡± ¡°I¡¯m sure they will.¡± Ruby found herself discomfited. ¡°Without your beard and hair, you¡¯re almost frightening.¡± ¡°Forgive me for the threats, then,¡± Hjorvarth said with more calm. ¡°I have lost much. I wish not to lose, and I will in no way suffer, the death of any more folk I name as friend.¡± He sighed, and rubbed at his bristly jaw. ¡°I think of my father, his long life, how I might live to that same age¡­ and I am beyond terrified.¡± He swallowed. ¡°I murdered the Low King today. I killed him in anger, on purpose. It was not like when I killed Thorfinn. This is something else and it has poisoned me.¡± Ruby watched all the strength flee from the man. He was no longer carved from stone. Or if he was then blood and tears were leaking through the cracks. ¡°He must have given you good reason,¡± she realized. ¡°He must have murdered Jarl Thrand for you to walk out of there under safeguard. He must have deserved to die.¡± ¡°I murdered Ivar as well,¡± Hjorvarth¡¯s words were weighed with regret. ¡°I hit him the once¡­ because he insulted Arnor. The blood turned bad in his eye and he died. He did not deserve that. He was only just a man.¡± Ruby stepped forward, reached out, and he stepped back. ¡°What is it you want me to do, or say? If you cannot suffer the burden of murder then stop killing people. I¡¯ve seen Ivar with swollen eyes before¡­ that he died from one you gave him is nothing less and nothing more than bad luck.¡± ¡°Stop killing people,¡± Hjorvarth echoed, straightening, growing thoughtful and hard. ¡°Sound guidance.¡± He nodded but it lacked his usual certainty. ¡°I have bothered you long enough, Ruby. You have my thanks for delivering the information about Frida. If you hear news of Alrik, I would be glad to know of it as well.¡± ¡°Of course,¡± Ruby replied. ¡°Though I came here because I have your shield. Not with me, obviously, but back at my home. If you come with me I¡¯ll give it back. I¡¯m sure Ragni would be glad to see you.¡± Hjorvarth frowned. ¡°I¡¯m not certain who that is, but I would be glad enough to have my shield.¡± He remembered the weight on his back. ¡°I can then give this one back to Ulfsteinn.¡± *** ¡°Surprised to see you alive,¡± Ragni offered as greeting. The lithe man sat in a plain white shirt, facing a table with two men and one woman. The table stood amid the crates and barrels and stacked supplies that were stored within a wide stone warehouse. Ruby frowned at those seated. ¡°Don¡¯t you all have anything better to do? The Crooked Teeth and the Black Hands are gone, and you¡¯re sat around rolling bones.¡± Ragni¡¯s eyes narrowed on Hjorvarth. ¡°You should wrap that hand.¡± He turned to Ruby. ¡°You¡¯re not exactly about our business yourself, Ruby. No sense overreaching in any case. I¡¯m sure the slums will be full of squabbling gangs by the end of the season, and someone will prop up the corpse of the Black Hands if not simply replace them.¡± Hjorvarth was studying his own swollen fingers. ¡°Sifa still lives.¡± ¡°There you are, then,¡± Ragni said. ¡°The Black Hands and the Gem Cutters both to be ran by women.¡± ¡°And the city as well,¡± Hjorvarth mentioned. Ragni¡¯s laugh was quiet. ¡°Hadn¡¯t thought of that.¡± He frowned down at the bones on the table, then up at Ruby. ¡°Didn¡¯t you say that Smiler was going to kill the Low King?¡± ¡°The Low King is dead,¡± Hjorvarth said. Ragni nodded. ¡°By your hand?¡± ¡°By my hand,¡± Hjorvarth echoed. ¡°Where is my shield?¡± Ruby and Ragni shared a worried look, then the black-clad woman led Hjorvarth towards a small stairs. ¡°I would be careful, Hjorvarth. Smiler might have decided you¡¯ve wronged him.¡± ¡°I have no fear of death or assassins.¡± Ruby reached a door, twisting the latch. ¡°And does that make you brave or foolish?¡± Hjorvarth followed her into a modest, richly-furnished room. Rich rugs covered the floor, while ornate chests lined the walls where space was left between drawers and wardrobes. Opposite the door, a table of black wood took up most the room near the back wall. Papers, ledgers, and ornamentation were strewn across the polished surface. ¡°My father¡¯s room,¡± Ruby explained. She opened one of the wardrobes, struggling to lift a battered shield. The rim struck a rug with a muffled thud and she wheeled it over to him. A glass ceiling allowed Hjorvarth to see the painted scene by daylight. With all the hacks and scrapes, he could barely see the fainted painting of three wolves fighting a bear in a forest of two trees. ¡°I did ask to have it repaired,¡± Ruby mentioned, ¡°but they said I¡¯d be better off purchasing a new one.¡± She reached into the same wardrobe and struggled with the weight of another shield. This one was rimmed by iron instead of fur, made of golden wood and painted to make it seem as if a lone bear up slept against the boss. ¡°I thought the more peaceful scene might serve you as a better portent.¡± ¡°It suits me very well,¡± Hjorvarth assured in all formality. ¡°I thank you for the gift, Ruby.¡± He leaned down, gripping the old one with his right arm and the other with his left. ¡°I now have business to attend.¡± ¡°Business,¡± Ruby muttered as if struggling with remembrance. ¡°Are you sure you don¡¯t want help carrying those? You look a little bit odd.¡± ¡°As I ever have,¡± Hjorvarth replied. ¡°I would think that I now appear cautious as well.¡± Ruby nodded, happy for him to leave, and then remembered. ¡°Gudmund commissioned carts before he died, and ordered supplies. Did you want me to write down a list of names so that you can track them down? I believe he¡¯s paid for some of it outright, and I¡¯d guess Sybille has coin for what¡¯s still owed.¡± ¡°That would be useful,¡± Hjorvarth decided. ¡°You have my thanks twice over.¡± Ruby nodded once more, unsure of what to say. ¡°I¡¯m sure you¡¯d do the same for me.¡± Hjorvarth shook his head. ¡°I think it is more likely that I would pass by the opportunities to aid you without noticing, and go forward with whatever I had decided to to next.¡± He paused. ¡°I will endeavor to be more thoughtful.¡± *** Hjorvarth had drew more attention and well wishers to himself as he strode through the stone city with a shield on each arm. Dusk had approached since his journey back from the warehouses of the Gem Cutters, and he made his way into the wide street that belonged to the Stone Sons. He noticed that the well had stopped running, but thought nothing of it, and approached the wide door. Hjorvarth knocked, and waited a long while for the door to open. He was surprised to see the beautiful face of Luta. ¡°Why are you here?¡± Luta¡¯s brows knitted. ¡°I live here.¡± She paused. ¡°Why are you here? I thought you rejected my invitation.¡± ¡°I came to return Ulfsteinn¡¯s shield.¡± ¡°Oh,¡± Luta replied, looking back into the hallway. ¡°Ulfsteinn!¡± ¡°Did you join the Stone Sons?¡± Hjorvarth asked. Luta laughed then frowned. ¡°No¡­ of course not. They¡¯re leaving Timilir. They¡¯ve disbanded for all purposes and are setting out on a final expedition.¡± She shrugged. ¡°They were kind enough to gift me their homes¡­ which means I don¡¯t need to live in that cold and haunted place. Which is quite good, quite welcome. Ulfsteinn!¡± Ulfsteinn approached, clad in a white fur jacket, wearing a heavy pack and padded clothing. ¡°I cannot find my shield,¡± he muttered. ¡°Oh.¡± He blinked. ¡°That¡¯s why. I gave it to you, didn¡¯t I?¡± Hjorvarth nodded in answer. ¡°The Stone Sons are leaving the stone city?¡± ¡°Stone sons, stone city,¡± Ulfsteinn murmured, his weathered visage conflicted. ¡°We are, lad, we are.¡± He gestured with his hand. ¡°Turn around and I¡¯ll lift it off your back.¡± He stepped forward when the huge man turned. ¡°Close thing when that axe hit your back,¡± he mentioned. ¡°It cut deep¡­ split the boulder down the middle.¡± The scene painted on the shield was of a boulder, now split, atop a wintry mountain. ¡°That¡¯s apt for me to carry.¡± Hjorvarth waited till the shield had been lifted. He turned to the older man. ¡°Where are you going?¡± ¡°I think you already know the answer to that, lad,¡± he replied, then worriedly sighed. ¡°Hall of Hrothgar. We¡¯re going in search of the Stone Sons that accompanied your father on his expedition.¡± Ulfsteinn¡¯s teeth ground together. ¡°I waited for Isleif to mount one last trip, but then you came here and I guessed that he was dead. I took it as a sign that it was time to go in any case. The old guard are getting too old and it¡¯s time for us to find our answers or to die never knowing.¡± Hjorvarth did not want to voice too harsh a warning, for fear that he would curse the trip. ¡°I would strongly advise against your action. I think that it is ill conceived.¡± Ulfsteinn readied his shield. ¡°I don¡¯t deny that, Hjorvarth. Nor would any of those with me. Speaking of, they¡¯re waiting at the gate and I¡¯ve kept them long enough.¡± He clapped the huge man on the shoulder. ¡°I¡¯m dead, either way. That¡¯s the curse of being old but it¡¯s not a curse you share. You¡¯ve still got time to change things for the better. You¡¯ve already made as good a start as your father. I only pray that things don¡¯t end the same.¡± Hjorvarth did not want him to depart. ¡°Timilir will suffer for your absence.¡± ¡°Now you¡¯re speaking in ignorance,¡± Ulfsteinn dismissed. ¡°The Stone Sons haven¡¯t fought since your father¡¯s last trip. We¡¯ll no more cause harm than would a statue that decided he was bored of being looked at and revered.¡± He smiled at them both. ¡°Now I¡¯ll leave youth to youth and you can both leave an old man to his old quest.¡± He bowed low to Hjorvarth. ¡°I think that Isleif would have been proud to have you as his son. I know it, in fact. Brikorhaan keep your shield on this day, and on all the days to come.¡± ¡°And yours,¡± Hjorvarth said, watching as the warrior departed. ¡°Hm.¡± Luta was frowning. ¡°So are you, or are you not, staying for a meal?¡± Hjorvarth realised he was in fact hungry. ¡°Can my friends attend?¡± ¡°I suppose that depends on who and how many?¡± ¡°Gudmund¡¯s daughter, Sybille. Her guard, Arfast. And the other founder of my brotherhood, Engli.¡± ¡°I thought my father poisoned her guard?¡± Luta shrugged. ¡°That¡¯s fine, then. Though I do hope Engli isn¡¯t as tiresome as the others. I already have to suffer Fati and Ekkill.¡± She waved him away. ¡°Come back shortly.¡± 54. A Last Meal 54. A Last Meal ¡°When The Small King and I finally arrived at the mountains where the dwarves made their homes with humans, I was surprised when they opened the gates. Even more unexpected, they invited us in for yet another meal. The mood was tense, and though the dwarves made best effort to seem amicable and chat boisterously among themselves, it was clear that they were not at ease. Headsman Grunel was still in charge among his people, though his dark beard had grown grey, and his eyes were wary and tired. ¡®You want revenge?¡¯ he ventured, sitting opposite the pair of us while all along the long stone table, the other dwarves craned their heads to listen. ¡®I would not blame you, if I did. But I betrayed you, so I should pay the price. Let the rest of them keep their lives.¡¯ ¡®I want revenge,¡¯ Agrak quietly echoed. Despite being surrounded and outnumbered, I had all faith that The Small King could slaughter everyone in the dining hall, and in the city, if he so chose. ¡®On everyone, and on everything,¡¯ he added, more loudly. ¡®I had planned to dismember you and place the rotting pieces of your corpse in boxes. Fitting, I thought.¡¯ Headsman Grunel swallowed, and gravely nodded. He raised a warning hand to forestall his kin who riled at the words. ¡®If that is your wish, then I only ask again¡ª¡¯ He flinched when The Small King leapt forth, onto the table, but then Agrak leapt over the dwarves head and then ambled towards the great doors from which we had entered. ¡®Thank you for the meal,¡¯ Agrak called in departure. ¡®Do no harm to my shaman, or I will come back here, and will kill you. All of you. And when you cross paths with goblins again, then I expect you to show them more kindness. As I have to you on this night.¡¯ Headsman Grunel watched with fear and disbelief, and kept staring at the open doors long after The Small King had departed. Still hungry, when the dwarf did turn to face me, I asked, ¡®Is this meal poisoned?¡¯ Headsman Grunel slowly shook his head. ¡®Good.¡¯ Then I sat and I ate. Roasted root vegetables and sumptuous meats. And I drank the fermented drinks that the dwarves provided. Eventually, the other dwarves warmed to me and asked me questions of my life and of my people. I was provided with a room, and I departed the next morning, with Headsman Grunel waiting to see me off with a pack of food, and a chest full of jewelry, weapons, and gifts. ¡®Will you be back?¡¯ he carefully asked. ¡®No.¡¯ ¡®Will he be back¡­?¡¯ ¡®No. I have never known him to lie. If you abide his requests, then all will be fine.¡¯ ¡®Hm.¡¯ Headsman Grunel frowned, arms crossed over his broad chest. ¡®I am¡­ sorry, for the treachery. I thought¡­ well, it does not matter. We were the monsters in the end.¡¯ ¡®Sorry is a human word,¡¯ I said. ¡®Be careful with them,¡¯ I suggested. ¡®It is a fickle race that learns so many different ways and phrases to ask for forgiveness.¡¯¡± Hjorvarth sat watching a humid night pass him by, listening idly to mirth and quiet conversations. He pretended to listen, nodded or frowned, murmured in reply. He had been seated beside Luta, at the head of a long worn table that appeared abandoned with only six gathered around it. Four were uproariously drunk, laughing louder with each sip or gulp that passed their lips. Hjorvarth had been surprised to see Fati outdrink Ekkill but the fat man had collapsed on the table all the same. The lean man had stopped drinking while Engli and Sybille carried on. They had been in poor spirits in the first, brought down by the words they had shared before arriving and by the people they dined with. Though Engli seemed to suffer the company of anyone with equal cheer. He had won promises of friendship from Fati and Ekkill both. Sybille had barely spoken to Luta. Luta had barely spoken to anyone; she sat and ate and sighed and smiled and laughed, but Hjorvarth saw his own unease within her. He thought it odd that the two folk who had the most in common, Sybille and Luta, were those most set against one another. ¡°You spend a lot of your time staring at nothing,¡± Luta mentioned. ¡°You look upon the end of the table as if there is anything there but empty chairs.¡± She sighed, gripping his wrist. ¡°Why?¡± ¡°Because staring at any one person would make them uncomfortable.¡± ¡°Stare at me as you please,¡± Luta suggested. ¡°That would lead you towards a false intent.¡± ¡°Or perhaps I would simply stare back at you and revel in the oddity?¡± Hjorvarth spared her a glance. He found her beauty beset him with unease. ¡°I am not a clever man. I cannot focus on any more than one thing at one time. Even that I often struggle with.¡± Luta smiled. ¡°Then you, as an idiot, have achieved a great deal.¡± ¡°I would disagree on both counts.¡± ¡°Then you would only prove the truth.¡± Hjorvarth nodded in consideration, and returned to silence. He looked at her not long after. ¡°I have not offered my sympathies for your loss.¡± Luta¡¯s eyes narrowed. ¡°You can answer murder with condolence or vengeance. You have no need to do both. Were you not sympathetic to the loss, I doubt you would have murdered the Low King within his own encampment.¡± Hjorvarth noticed that the others were staring. Engli and Sybille in particular seemed concerned, while Fati was smiling as if in respect. ¡°I made no claim towards that act.¡± ¡°No¡­ you didn¡¯t.¡± Luta pushed up from her chair. ¡°I am now going to go sleep in a stranger¡¯s room, and perhaps dream a dream where my family are not dead.¡± She looked to Sybille. ¡°Have you any advice?¡±The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. Sybille held her gaze despite being drunk. ¡°I would advise you not to seek out such delusions. Happiness is like the warmth of a fire. By the flames, you are happy and contented. In a blizzard¡­ well¡­ you¡¯ll feel colder.¡± ¡°People sleep, Luta.¡± Hjorvarth looked up at the young woman. ¡°It is not a thing that can be prepared for or avoided. Each night I wake screaming. Each night I die. Each night I witness death. I am scared when I wake, terrified, but when I stare off at chairs I do not reconcile the worth of my dreams but the realities of my own waking life. There is no sense at all in hoping for what is not, and what will not, ever be.¡± Luta¡¯s smile was almost annoyed. ¡°Perhaps you should spend the night in my room and offer further wisdom?¡± Hjorvarth shook his head. ¡°I must spend this night outside.¡± ¡°Why?¡± Fati asked, his tone careful. ¡°My reasons are my own. I would not burden you all with them.¡± ¡°Very well,¡± Luta said, looking to Engli and Sybille. ¡°You two are welcome to stay here. As is your guard, wherever he is.¡± She squinted to the end of the dining hall where firelight gave way to darkness. ¡°Good night.¡± ¡°I will leave as well,¡± Hjorvarth decided, rising. ¡°I do not wish to be followed.¡± He ignored their drunken murmurings and strode over to the shadows, turning into a well-furnished living area and then into the modest reception hall that he had so often looked upon from outside. Arfast was standing in the darkness. ¡°Are you sure you don¡¯t want to be followed?¡± ¡°I am.¡± Hjorvarth nodded. ¡°Pass my apologies onto Engli and Sybille should I die tonight.¡± ¡°I will. Though it seems to me you¡¯d be better off in the bed of that young girl.¡± ¡°Doubtless,¡± Hjorvarth replied. The door groaned open to a gloom made grey by thick fog. ¡°Good luck.¡± Hjorvarth nodded his thanks, shivered with the chill, and stepped forward. He walked until he was certain he was being stalked, and then paused amid a secluded square where a broken well had crumpled in on itself. Squeaking bats and skittering rats made for questionable company, while rotting food and dried refuse scented the air. ¡°Ah, there you are. I almost missed you.¡± Hjorvarth squinted through the mist. ¡°That was a clever play on words.¡± ¡°What do you mean?¡± ¡°Mist. Missed.¡± ¡°Missed¡­? Missed?¡± ¡°It is of little consequence,¡± Hjorvarth dismissed. ¡°Is it? Or is that what you want me to think? Will I live my entire life in regret knowing that I didn¡¯t know what it was you were talking about when you said¡ª¡± Smiler paused. ¡°Oh, I understand now. Mist. Hah. Unintended.¡± ¡°You have been following me.¡± ¡°Yes.¡± ¡°Why?¡± ¡°So that I can kill you.¡± ¡°Why?¡± Smiler made a thoughtful murmur. ¡°Why?¡± he ponderously echoed. Hjorvarth could still not see the man, and the voice seemed to shift in origin. ¡°Why?¡± ¡°Because,¡± Smiler snarled, tone venomous, ¡°you stole my honour from me!¡± ¡°By attacking you at the warehouse? You captured me, I had every¡ª¡± ¡°No!¡± Smiler rebuked. ¡°I was tasked to kill the Low King. It was my purpose! My redemption! And you stole it from me! I would have had my honour back but you took that from me, and now I¡¯m going to take it from you.¡± ¡°By murdering yet another innocent?¡± ¡°Innocent?¡± Smiler asked, his voice sounding at a distance. ¡°Innocent?¡± he echoed, closer to hand. ¡°Innocent?¡± Hjorvarth tensed as a sharpened point pressed up against his inner thigh. ¡°Innocent.¡± ¡°You are a thief,¡± Smiler hissed from behind him. Hjorvarth knew he now had no way to survive or escape. This man was quick, too quick, and even if he could lurch around and grab him his thigh would be opened wide and the loss of blood catastrophic. To end Smiler before his strength fled would prove difficult. ¡°All that you have lost, your honour, if you ever had it, was wrought by your own hands. Either you know that, in truth, or you do not. In which case you are beyond madness and I am already dead. But honour will not rot from my corpse, and it will not rise up from the flames. The man you are angry with is, by my estimation, you. The man who stole your honour can be found only in reflection.¡± ¡°That is not true,¡± Smiler whispered. ¡°Not true at all.¡± ¡°Then let the blood spill and wash yourself in honour, friend,¡± Hjorvarth implored. ¡°If you truly think that is the word¡¯s meaning.¡± ¡°That is what it means to everyone,¡± Smiler snapped. ¡°Or list me a man of honour who has not bathed himself in blood, whether mans, goblins, kobolds or any other monsters?¡± Hjorvarth¡¯s faith in his own people was assailed by a question that he had initially considered trivial to answer. ¡°Gnupa Dyri, the first Godi of Muradoon. He killed no men or monsters in his entire life.¡± ¡°Gnupa Dyri, the oldest man in recorded history?¡± he asked with laughter. ¡°I am not sure what is sadder, friend. That you think me a monster or that you don¡¯t realize that it is simply the way, our way, all the ways,¡± he viciously added. ¡°As it ever has been, as it ever will be, as it is now in this missed mist. The Low King¡¯s death brought you honour and respect and that is a fact.¡± ¡°He deserved to die,¡± Hjorvarth replied. ¡°In the moment when I killed him, he deserved his death. I did not steal honour from you, Smiler, because his death would have been seen as a tragic act of cowardice had you killed him. You would have simply been more hated, more reviled. Perhaps you are right. Perhaps honour is a thing for fools. In which case you should stop chasing it and make your own word, a word that you deem right, and live your own life.¡± ¡°I deserve to die,¡± Smiler said as matter of fact. ¡°Is that not why you tried to kill me?¡± ¡°And I would again,¡± Hjorvarth answered. ¡°And folk would herald murder as heroism. Yet I would rather see you find redemption. Some sort of atonement. I would rather have you live a life where you deliver aid instead of death.¡± ¡°You are right,¡± Smiler spoke with amazement. ¡°The honour is not in your death, it is in mine.¡± He withdrew the blade. Hjorvarth turned to see him kneeling and offering the weapon. ¡°Here, quickly. Stab me in the head.¡± Hjorvarth shook his head. ¡°That is no longer my way.¡± ¡°But you were right,¡± Smiler enthused. ¡°I have killed hundreds. Butchered them. Cut out their teeth. I killed that woman¡ª¡± ¡°Your crimes are your own.¡± Hjorvarth upturned his palms. ¡°You are a young man. I can tell that by your voice and bearing. You can save a life for every one you have taken,¡± he suggested. ¡°It will not wash away the blood on your hands, but at least those hands will be put to good work.¡± He shrugged. ¡°I would think that a better end than you dying at my hands with not a single person spared to speak out in your defense when you face Broknar¡¯s judgement.¡± ¡°Good work,¡± Smiler echoed, eyes widening. ¡°I can feel it. You¡¯ve squeezed the honour back into my heart.¡± He rose in a staggering fashion. ¡°Good work. Murder heralded as heroism.¡± He nodded. ¡°I must find those who are worse than me and then cut out their teeth. It was all so simple, so simple. I¡¯ve been killing the wrong people.¡± ¡°That is not what I meant at all.¡± ¡°Of course not!¡± Smiler declared. ¡°But you and I we speak in riddles, don¡¯t we, friend? Yes, yes.¡± He ran forward into the misted streets. A figure leapt out in ambush. Smiler side-stepped and metal struck bone with a crack. ¡°You¡¯ll die for that, you sneaky fool. Oh, Alrik of the Black Hands! You¡¯re not as bad as me. Never mind!¡± Hjorvarth rushed forward as Smiler disappeared into the mist and darkness. ¡°Alrik?¡± ¡°Shit,¡± Alrik¡¯s words were muffled. ¡°He broke my damn nose.¡± ¡°Thank Joyto for that, then.¡± Hjorvarth stopped above him, and offered his hand. ¡°I did hope that you would leave the stone city after I delayed your death.¡± Alrik clasped his wrist, and struggled to his feet. ¡°I¡¯m clearly not very bright.¡± ¡°He had no trouble spotting you, either way.¡± ¡°I meant¡ª¡± ¡°I know what you meant.¡± Alrik offered a pained chuckle. ¡°So why didn¡¯t you kill him? You really think he¡¯s going to change?¡± ¡°I very much doubt it,¡± Hjorvarth replied. ¡°And as to why I didn¡¯t kill him¡­ I don¡¯t think that opportunity was ever truly open to me. I had misjudged his abilities by confusing my sightings of you as sightings of him.¡± He shrugged. ¡°In any case, if you¡¯re done playing as a criminal, do you have any interest in joining a brotherhood?¡± Alrik covered his bleeding nose with a rag. ¡°Can¡¯t say I¡¯m much good at fighting in the day.¡± ¡°With respect, you don¡¯t seem much better by night.¡± *** Spirit Seeker Oddkell swept ashes into the darkness of a mountainous valley. The cave kept to the memory of heat but a cold wind was sweeping in and would soon erase the past. He found that he mourned these losses, and by that feeling thought this a very odd occurrence. He did not care for the living or for the dead, or at least he had not for a long while. He decided it was by happenstance of him meeting Gudmund as a child, when Oddkell himself was still young and impressionable and still had hope to spare for others. ¡°Brother Oddkell.¡± The Spirit Seeker recognized that grating voice and wondered, for a moment, if he wasn¡¯t being visited once more by the dead. He then remembered what had happened to the youngest Spirit Seeker in known history. He had been sent to spend his best years in the wintry lands of Southwestern Tymir. ¡°Brother Lovrin.¡± ¡°I thought you were above disposing of the dead.¡± ¡°I prefer to be certain when dealing with draugrs.¡± Oddkell shrugged. ¡°You may have known this pair.¡± ¡°Unlikely.¡± ¡°Gudmund and Anna were their names.¡± Spirit Seeker Lovrin paused for a long while. ¡°Oh. I am both glad to know and sorrowed to hear that.¡± ¡°It would seem that nearly all of your charges have died these seasons past.¡± Lovrin¡¯s sigh was unusually honest. ¡°I was assured I had done good work.¡± ¡°The First Godi will not be happy until the world is ash. He confuses management for encouragement. He¡ª¡± ¡°Do not finish that thought, Oddkell,¡± Lovrin warned. ¡°I am no longer your charge and I am no longer sworn to your service.¡± Oddkell¡¯s nod was slight. ¡°If you did not know that I was here burning Horvorrians, why have you come?¡± ¡°I have travelled from Horvorr, through frozen passes, to bring troubling news.¡± Spirit Seeker Oddkell turned to the purple-robed figure. ¡°Trouble me, then.¡± ¡°Thousands of spirits have breached the Lake, while others have taken refuge in what was once Gudmund¡¯s Hall. Horvorr is no longer livable. I made wardings at each gate, which may well hold, but only because the spirits have no interest in breaching them. But the act itself, the defiance, the staking of claims, is¡ª¡± ¡°A symbol of war,¡± Oddkell finished. ¡°Between the Spirit Talker and Muradoon.¡± ¡°I do not share your notions of distinction in that regard.¡± Oddkell shrugged. ¡°Then you should stayed in Horvorr.¡± ¡°Had I done so they never would have reinstated you.¡± Oddkell struggled to stifle rising hope. ¡°I am a Spirit Seeker once more? In earnest?¡± ¡°It would seem that we both are,¡± was the thoughtful answer. ¡°Though one thing has changed¡­. you are now my charge.¡± ¡°You have explicit permission to kill me?¡± Oddkell took silence as affirmation. ¡°That suits me better than you know, Spirit Seeker. Do not hesitate to use that privilege should the time come. I am not nearly who I once was.¡± ¡°So the council warned me,¡± Lovrin replied. ¡°Yet I have faith that you, and I, are not yet done.¡± 55. New Age 55. New Age ¡°This marks the last entry to my journal. Or to this journal, at least. To my surprise, I crossed paths with The Alchemist once more. He feared that though Magar might have failed, that the voice persisted. And that one day a goblin with the means and mind to accomplish the task would resurrect him. I wondered aloud if he was speaking of me, but his raucous laughter put an end to my suspicion and made me feel altogether insulted. Thus I made an unhappy agreement with the robed stranger, which required tracking Agrak down. This neccessitated that some things, on his part, be forgotten. Which is a betrayal that eats at me by the day. But I suspect that The Alchemist is right in his prediction. If The Small King did believe that was a way to resurrect a goblin god, who might finally deliver to our people the glorious empire that he had once sought, then he would feel compelled to repeat Magar¡¯s experiments. While it was clear to me that whatever the young shaman had sought to birth, was not a creature of magnanimity but of malevolence. And that it should remain forevermore as a disembodied voice. The Grorginite Empire has fallen, for the fifth time, and The Small King has secluded himself in a mountain with no clan to speak of. The remnants of the last attempt are now little more than a gathering of scattered clans, often warring with one another. While I wander, without company or purpose, around the overworld, no longer blinded by the bright sky or dizzied by the vast spaces. Every now and then I go to see if Agrak is still in his mountains, and he remains there crushed by a melancholy unfathomable. From time to time, I cross paths with Chiefs, or Great Chiefs, and wonder if I should involve myself in their affairs. But so far I have resisted the temptation. In the end though, I know I will end up back among them. The voice does not call out to me, but the pool still does. Strangely, I have seen more gargantuan goblins spawned since Magar¡¯s experiments. It is as if he has altered the very nature of our people. I wonder if I could alter it as well, and help The Small King to achieve his goals without the need to resurrect a powerful creature who may sooner destroy us than help us.¡± Sam trudged up a steep climb of snowy stone, towards a sheltered basin between mountains, or so he was told. He knew, or hoped, that his tortuous journey had come to an end. He could still hear the smug words of the Salt Sage echoing in his mind and they filled him with an eternal anger, which was buried, smothered, under the endless sludge that now weighed his heart. A sadness that had taken root in his stomach and flourished beyond grief. He had lost too many on his way down through the swamps and forests of the Midderlands Pass. He would have lost even more, his own life, were it not for the help of an odd girl and an enormous black troll. Yet he almost wished he would have died there, because his son and his oldest friend were now long dead. Sam had decided to return to his quiet life, leaving those who accompanied him to go off on their own. But then he had heard news when passing through Fenkirk of the Brotherhood of Brikorhaan. An interesting mention, to any man, that a new brotherhood had been made after all these winters, but Sam was particularly driven to visit the man who had taken his dead friend¡¯s name. He was going to find this Hjorvarth the Red and he was going to make him suffer. Sam only regretted traveling at great haste. He was hungry and cold and tired, and not properly clothed for a climb through cold mountains. Yet, he realised, as the ground leveled out and he got sight of a ornate cabin ahead, he had managed it all the same. He did have doubts at the size of the place, but there had been rumors of underground tunnels and rooms. Sam hoped he wouldn¡¯t have to travel too far under the earth to expose the pretender. He noticed the supplies piled on the other side of the basin, timbers and cut stone, stacked crates and huddled barrels that had been sheltered under newly made sheds. He wondered who was paying for all these supplies when the brotherhood was only newly made. He wondered why anyone would even bother coming this far out into the mountains, when it would have been simpler to construct a place in Fenkirk, or in the new settlement Jarl Sybille was making on the border of the Midderlands Pass. Sam paused at the door, studied the animals and stars carved into the wood, then knocked thrice. He straightened and tried to steady his breathing as he waited. He wasn¡¯t sure exactly what he had planned, beyond perhaps that he might call the man out on his false name and then challenge him to a duel if he denied it. The large doors swung soundlessly inward to reveal a young man. He narrowed his eyes as if wary. ¡°Good day, friend. You here for a reason, or did you just get lost in the mountains?¡± ¡°I¡¯ve come here to talk to the bastard that¡¯s using a dead man¡¯s name.¡± Sam was surprised by the anger in his own voice, but he held his scowl. ¡°Hjorvarth the Red. Where is he?¡± The young man glanced around the narrow reception room. ¡°Why don¡¯t you wait¡ª¡± ¡°I¡¯ve come a long way, lad, and I¡¯m not going to wait out in the cold. You lead me to him and he can deal with me, can¡¯t he? And if he can¡¯t, well, not like you had a chance at stopping me, then, is it?¡± Sam upturned his palms. ¡°Don¡¯t you dare draw that knife. I¡¯ve no weapon of my own, but I¡¯ll bite off your ear just to spite you.¡± ¡°You can wait inside,¡± the man replied carefully, one hand still on the hilt. ¡°But you can¡¯t go down the stairs.¡± Sam¡¯s smile was savage. He nodded, stepped forward, and watched the man hurry through a hole in the wall and down a stone stairway. Sam glanced back at the snow to see he was alone, and then crossed through the narrow lodge and started down the steps. He was impressed by the size of the structure below ground, but part of him was made all the angrier that this pretender had found the place, stealing a home as easily as a name. The youth had disappeared down another flight of stairs, which led all the way down to a training room below where two men, similar in appearance, fought with one another. Sam almost recognized the pair, but he started putting his ears to doors instead. Soon enough, he found a door that was ajar where folk seemed to be taking a meeting. Sam took a deep breath, stepped back, and kicked open the door. It squealed on hinges then shuddered into wood. ¡°Which one of you fools is claiming to be Hjorvarth the Red?¡± He frowned at the seven people seated on a rustic table, most of whom he did know. On the left side, Gunnar, Engli and Ingrid, while Sybille, Alrik and Arfast sat opposite. They all looked at him in confusion or anger, but the huge man at the head of the table was the first to react. He laughed a deep, almost maddened, laugh. ¡°I suppose that would be me, Sam.¡± Sam hesitated at the sight of a man that could have been Hjorvarth¡¯s twin, who shared the same deep voice and rust coloring, who looked entirely the same save for a considerable loss of tailed hair and a thinner beard. ¡°You¡¯re not him. You¡¯re not Isleif¡¯s son. I saw that man lying dead under the earth.¡± ¡°Indeed.¡± Hjorvarth nodded. ¡°You ripped a shield off my arm and woke me with your screams.¡± He paused, reassuring those around him with a measured smile. ¡°I searched for you. I had the kobolds search for you, but you were not found and I feared you were dead. Dan is here, in one of the rooms, but I don¡¯t expect that he will stay. He has told me he has no great urging to be a fighter.¡± Sam was shaking his head. ¡°Dan is alive¡­?¡± ¡°I submitted myself to the justice of Timilir to come and find you in the mines, but I found him instead. I made a deal with King Rubinold, after he had captured myself and Dan, to rescue you from the care of Queen Zelerath. But I suffered fatal wounds before that and Russ went on in my stead. I do not know how I came to wake, or to heal as well as I have¡­ but that is the truth. Ask me any question and I will answer it to satisfaction.¡± ¡°Sam,¡± Engli put in, ¡°if this really wasn¡¯t Hjorvarth, don¡¯t you think one of us would have noticed?¡± Sam blinked, dropped to his knees, and wept. *** Hjorvarth closed the door to Dan¡¯s room, leaving the son to comfort the father in an awkward reunion. He felt supremely glad and slightly worried with the advent of Sam¡¯s arrival. He crossed back into the counsel room, and closed that door behind him as well. Gunnar, Engli, Ingrid, Sybille, Alrik and Arfast were all still seated at the table. They were quieter than usual, and paid a deal of attention to their cups and mugs. Gunnar¡¯s smile was wry, one eye covered by a leather patch. ¡°That was a little odd.¡± ¡°He crossed the Midderlands Pass,¡± Hjorvarth replied. ¡°A mountainous climb before that and spent a good while imprisoned under the earth. He started with two dozen and ended with three, and thought all the while that I was dead and that his son was dead.¡± He paused, settling his own emotions. ¡°I would disagree, is what I mean.¡± Gunnar assented with a respectful nod. ¡°Was there anything further to discuss?¡± Sybille asked. Engli leaned forward on the table. ¡°We¡¯re happy with the coin provided. And we¡¯ll arrange the patrols among ourselves for the wider region, and select some men to live in New Horvorr while you finish building your wall.¡± He glanced at Hjorvarth. ¡°I suppose I should stay there as well, to oversee things.¡± ¡°That suits me well enough.¡± Hjorvarth came to the end of the table, but didn¡¯t take his seat. ¡°I¡¯ll remain here until the building work is finished.¡± Ingrid regarded the huge man with skepticism. ¡°Shouldn¡¯t you be looking for more work? Between what Sybille and I are paying you, you¡¯re not going to have enough coin for wages, and you¡¯ll run short long before you get a chance to erect those buildings.¡± ¡°I can arrange a meeting between the Brotherhood and Wymount,¡± Sybille offered. ¡°I¡¯m sure Roaldr and Aerindis would be willing to at least consider it. Though I expect you have your own coin to account for current losses.¡± ¡°We do,¡± both founders replied. Sybille clasped her hands atop the table, and scrutinised Engli. ¡°I suppose this meeting is at an end, then.¡± ¡°I suppose it is,¡± he agreed. ¡°I¡¯ll see you soon, Sybille.¡± Sybille nodded and rose as Ingrid did. They spoke brief words of departure to the others, and then Arfast opened the door and led both women into the stairwell. The door was closed behind them. ¡°Are you good friends with Sybille again?¡± Gunnar pointedly asked. Engli frowned. ¡°I¡¯ve never not been friends with her.¡± Hjorvarth took a seat beside Alrik, opposite Gunnar and Engli. ¡°I invited Sam to join the brotherhood, but he said he had no heart left for fighting. I thought we could erect a tavern instead¡­ and Sam could run the place.¡±The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. ¡°That¡¯s a costly gesture,¡± Alrik said. ¡°We¡¯ve got a tavern downstairs,¡± Gunnar added. ¡°Too small and too narrow,¡± Engli dismissed. ¡°That¡¯s true.¡± Alrik nodded. ¡°But then it might be simpler to build him a tavern in Fenkirk.¡± ¡°He doesn¡¯t like too much custom,¡± Hjorvarth said. ¡°I think here would suit him better.¡± ¡°Fair enough,¡± Alrik and Gunnar replied at the same time. They eyed one another suspiciously. Hjorvarth took a slow breath, and contemplated his situation. ¡°I¡¯ll want Alrik to go with you to New Horvorr, Engli. Take Fleinn and the twins as well. If you meet any likely men there then feel free to recruit them. I¡¯ll travel with Gunnar to arrange whatever needs to be arranged with Wymount and the fishing villages.¡± Gunnar¡¯s nod was almost reluctant. ¡°And after that?¡± Engli asked. ¡°Ingrid did have a point about the coin.¡± ¡°My mind is towards helping Sybille resettle the region,¡± Hjorvarth replied. ¡°I expect that Horvorr will need to be replaced by a trading village that bridges the gap between Wymount and Fenkirk. So perhaps we could find work helping to protect that. I would guess that the Stone Sons expedition will have either crippled whatever lives to the far West, or we will have more enemies soon upon us.¡± ¡°Cheery,¡± Gunnar said. Hjorvarth barely smirked. ¡°I think, in terms of helping Sybille, our best choices would be to either clear the Midderlands Pass¡­ which is perhaps a terrible choice, or to search the caverns south of Timilir. Brolli thought that there were tunnels which could be used to pass straight through to the Low Lands. I think opening or maintaining trading passages would be the best way forward in any case.¡± ¡°That¡¯s a lot of work that Sybille isn¡¯t likely to pay us for,¡± Alrik mentioned. ¡°Now, now,¡± Gunnar rebuked. ¡°I¡¯m sure Engli will be rewarded.¡± ¡°I was paid a good sum of coin for duelling the Low King,¡± Hjorvarth said, still angered by the violent memories. ¡°I have no concerns over funds for the winter at least.¡± ¡°But,¡± Alrik pressed, ¡°eventually¡­ we¡¯re going to have to make more coin.¡± ¡°The likely choice would be to meet with Jarl Harrod the Younger and help him in his war with the goblins.¡± Hjorvarth rested his palms on the table. ¡°I believe that the far North is well handled by the Golden Men and plenty of others, and, along with the Western Bogs, is a too great a distance to travel. In that sense, only Southeastern Tymir would be easy to reach, but we could spend the mid seasons in the Eastern Plains if needed. They¡¯ve plenty of monsters there and not enough men to protect their holdings.¡± ¡°Simple, then,¡± Gunnar said. ¡°We¡¯ll get our house in order, help Jarl Harrod the Younger reconquer his father¡¯s lands, and then go round the Eastern Plains and save those who are suffering at the hands of monsters.¡± ¡°I take it we won¡¯t be venturing around the Low Lands or the High Lands?¡± Alrik said. Engli dismissed it with a shake of his head. ¡°The region is safe compared to everywhere other than Vendrick.¡± ¡°Any work there would be for butchering men and stealing lands from neighbors.¡± Hjorvarth scratched at his short red beard. ¡°I was hoping we could leave all that to the hands of harder hearted men.¡± He was happy enough when all men nodded in agreement. ¡°There is one further issue,¡± he distractedly added. ¡°Sam mentioned that he ran across Astrid in the Midderlands.¡± Gunnar forced a smile. ¡°We¡¯ve gone over this, Hjorvarth. If I thought she was in trouble, any at all, I¡¯d be out there searching myself. Sometimes you¡¯ve just got to take things on faith.¡± ¡°So says a man that worships goblins,¡± Hjorvarth replied in poor humour. He sighed. ¡°I will trust your judgement, Gunnar. Sam thought she was in good health from his brief meeting. In better health than his group at any rate.¡± ¡°Sam¡¯s proved me right, then.¡± Gunnar raised his brows. ¡°I wonder if Dagny¡¯s still searching for her.¡± He looked away as if in grief then shrugged. ¡°I¡¯m sure she¡¯s fine, as well. Shame about the rest of them but then what can you really do about that?¡± He yawned, rubbing at his smooth cheeks. ¡°I think I¡¯m going to go sleep.¡± Alrik¡¯s eyes narrowed. ¡°It¡¯s not even dark out.¡± ¡°It will be, though,¡± Gunnar said, rising. ¡°It will be. Best to be prepared, as Hjorvarth tells us.¡± Hjorvarth frowned. ¡°I hadn¡¯t meant it in that sense.¡± Gunnar didn¡¯t offer an answer, and he left the door open after he had departed. ¡°I¡¯ll go get ready to leave.¡± Alrik pushed up from his chair, and regarded Engli. ¡°I am right in thinking you mean to travel with Ingrid and Sybille?¡± ¡°Can¡¯t forget about Arfast,¡± Engli replied. ¡°But, since you mention it, I suppose we¡¯d be wise to go together.¡± ¡°Since I mention it,¡± Alrik echoed skeptically, walking away and closing the door behind him. Engli turned to Hjorvarth. ¡°Why do they think that everything I do is owed to Sybille?¡± ¡°We could trade places if you like,¡± Hjorvarth replied. ¡°You¡¯re defter in negotiations than I am. I¡¯ll likely drive Gunnar to frustration as well, but I thought he would serve best to speak on my behalf.¡± ¡°You could¡¯ve took Alrik.¡± Hjorvarth shook his head. ¡°He knows the stone city better than the rest of us, which should prove useful for the men in New Horvorr and for Sybille as well.¡± Engli seemed to be searching for a reason to disagree. ¡°I¡¯ll go to Wymount,¡± Hjorvarth assured. ¡°I¡¯m sure my reputation will serve us equally well as would your words. No sense changing things when we already spoke of them to others. Agreed?¡± ¡°Agreed,¡± Engli said with slight relief. He started to rise but settled back in his seat. ¡°I¡¯m not going to come back and learn that you¡¯ve marched off on your own to the Midderlands?¡± ¡°My odds of finding Astrid would be slim. I¡¯ve a better chance here of doing some good for a wider group of people.¡± Hjorvarth paused, brows furrowed. ¡°In honest truth, I fear if we do not secure this region then all of Tymir will be under threat. Had we been broken at Horvorr, the goblins could have marched up through the Midderlands Pass to take Jarl Harrod on all sides. With that region conquered, they could have commanded Ouro¡¯s Scales, poured into the Eastern Plains, and burned most the grain that feeds Vendrick. I am not sure if it is plain arrogance, but I do fear that all our people would have been faced with a bloody end had we failed here or in Timilir.¡± Engli¡¯s smile was crooked. ¡°That¡¯s hardly reassuring.¡± ¡°It assures me that I can no longer risk my life in reckless quests.¡± ¡°I suppose that¡¯s consolation.¡± Engli chuckled quietly, and then looked around as if taking in their surroundings anew. ¡°Do you ever wonder what happened to the Sage?¡± *** ¡°Uncle?¡± a boy asked in his lilting voice. He appeared far too small as he sat upon a masterwork throne of green cushions and golden wood. He wore a crown that sat heavy upon his blond-haired head. A brown cloak was clasped to his shoulders, draping down to his dark boots. ¡°Where are you, uncle?¡± The hall was dark and the candles had burned low. The boy shivered, and realised he must have fallen asleep. ¡°Uncle¡­?¡± ¡°I am here, my king,¡± came the answer, words sounding from the darkness of a thick hood. The robed man strode up the rugged approach to the raised throne. ¡°I would have lifted you to bed, but I thought it was simpler to let you sleep. Did you want me to take you now?¡± ¡°Yes¡­ no.¡± The boy¡¯s face creased in thought. ¡°I have decided I do not want to be king. Is that alright, uncle?¡± ¡°Of course,¡± the robed man assured. ¡°But we¡¯ll have to take you somewhere else. You¡¯ll have to give away your crown and your robes and your bed and your home. You¡¯ll not be able to see your friends or the men and women that help you. And you¡¯ll have to choose a new name and decide on who you want to be instead.¡± The boy sat staring at the shadowed figure. He hummed in contemplation. ¡°What if you are the king, and then I can stay here with you?¡± ¡°I¡¯m too busy to be the king,¡± the robed man dismissed. ¡°I¡¯m here to teach you, and then I¡¯ll need to leave. And if you were to give your crown to another man then they likely couldn¡¯t afford to keep you. Or at the very least they would have to hurt you before you came of age. And you¡¯re the only one that can truly be king, and truly help people. Because if you aren¡¯t the king, then people will suffer¡­ and that will be all your fault.¡± The boy crossed his arms and scowled. ¡°That isn¡¯t a very nice thing to say. You are a nasty uncle.¡± ¡°I am only telling you the truth. Don¡¯t you want to help people?¡± ¡°Don¡¯t you?¡± The robed man chuckled. ¡°Yes¡­ that is why I wish for you to be king. Because I know that you¡¯ll be the best king that there ever was. Better than I ever would be.¡± ¡°Better than my father?¡± the boy asked. ¡°Of course.¡± The boy lifted the crown from his head, arms straining with the weight. ¡°How does this help people?¡± ¡°It won¡¯t¡­ not right away. But that gives you power, and it lets you tell other people what to do. And you can tell them to help people. And if you¡¯re not king, then someone else might tell them to hurt people. So you see you¡¯re the one who needs to be king because you¡¯re the one that wants to help¡­ not hurt.¡± The boy regarded him with suspicion. ¡°Why?¡± He waited for an answer that didn¡¯t come. ¡°Why do I have to do it?¡± ¡°Let me ask you this,¡± the robed man replied. ¡°What would you rather be? If you can tell me that, with certainty, then I will help you to become whatever it is.¡± The boy¡¯s eyes narrowed. ¡°This is a trick.¡± ¡°It is not. You are my nephew, and I wish for you to be happy. If you decide that you want not to be the king¡­ even though other people will suffer because of it, then I will endeavor to help you.¡± ¡°See. A trick.¡± ¡°The Low King can do everything he wants to do. He can fish, and dance, and sing. He can do whatever he wishes, and while he does that, he can use his power to help people. There are a hundred of boys all over the Low Lands, all over Tymir, that would very much like to be the Low King. There are grown men that share the same ambition.¡± ¡°Why does there even need to be a king?¡± the boy asked, plainly frustrated. ¡°Well, if there wasn¡¯t a king, there would still be Jarls. Those Jarls would fight among themselves, over and over, causing harm to animals and men and women and children. The Low King prevents that because the Jarls are sworn to his service and they are sworn not to attack the other Jarls.¡± ¡°They should not even want to attack one another.¡± ¡°Perhaps not¡­ but they will. They would have, were you not here to claim your father¡¯s seat and crown. They would have fought among themselves to be the new Low King. Simply by sitting there, you have saved hundreds, if not thousands of lives.¡± The boy sighed. ¡°So I need to make all of the Jarls my Jarls, and then there will be no more fighting?¡± ¡°I am afraid it not that quite that simple,¡± said the robed man. ¡°You can unify the Low Lands, which is mostly done, and bring the High Lands under your banner as well. But there would still be Timilir, and the Midderlands, and the Eastern Plains and the Western Bogs and the frozen places in the north.¡± ¡°I see,¡± the boy murmured. ¡°And if I am king for all these places there will be peace.¡± ¡°Peace in Tymir,¡± the robed man agreed. ¡°Which is exactly what is needed.¡± ¡°And I can do that?¡± the boy asked in tentative fashion. ¡°Even though father couldn¡¯t?¡± ¡°Yes.¡± The robed man nodded. ¡°But there are places, beyond Tymir and the endless seas, and there are other peoples. And those people are going to come to this island. And they are going to bring their war and their own gods. And if they succeed, then they are going to kill our people and they are going to kill our gods as well.¡± The boy blinked. ¡°They can kill our gods?¡± ¡°In memory, yes. If all of Tymir is dead then there will be no one left to honour the Eleven Elders.¡± ¡°You trouble me with your tall tales, uncle. The gods would not allow this.¡± ¡°And that is why the gods have chosen you to be the Low King. Because they know that you will unify Tymir, and you will fight back the heathens and protect the memory of our ancestors. They know that you will save us.¡± The boy shook his head. ¡°I think they should choose someone else. I¡¯m only a boy.¡± ¡°There is plenty of time left to prepare,¡± the robed man gently assured. ¡°But first you must decide whether or not you wish to be king. You must decide whether you want to be the man that saves all of Tymir, or whether you want to be someone else¡­ someone without responsibility. If you are in truth the Low King, the son of your father, then I will help you to become the king of all Tymir. I will make sure that you are safe and that all our people are safe.¡± ¡°Wouldn¡¯t that make you the king?¡± the boy asked. ¡°No. It would make me the king¡¯s uncle.¡± The boy nodded slowly. ¡°Why didn¡¯t you keep my father safe?¡± ¡°I wish that I could have. I warned him, but he would not listen. I am here now, to help you, in penance.¡± The boy swallowed, eyes tearful. ¡°Will you keep me safe, uncle?¡± ¡°I swear it,¡± the robed man¡¯s words were fearsome. ¡°I will protect you, nephew. I swear it by the all the gods, by the true gods, that you yourself will in turn protect. Together we will guard the Low Lands, and the High Lands, and all of Tymir. We will unify all the Jarls under one banner. And we will be the bringers of peace.¡± ¡°Peace.¡± The boy¡¯s nod was more certain. He managed a hopeful smile. ¡°And then no more fathers will die because no one will hurt each other?¡± ¡°Exactly that, nephew.¡± ¡°And how do we bring peace, uncle?¡± The robed man upturned his palms. ¡°It is not so different to swinging a sword.¡± The boy cocked his head, crown nearly toppling. ¡°What do you mean?¡± ¡°I¡¯ll explain it another day. Come, nephew, you look tired.¡± ¡°I am tired,¡± the boy agreed with a yawn. He managed a meek smile. ¡°I am the Low King, as well.¡±