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—”

“Who gave you the message?”

Saxi struggled not to step back. “I’m not allowed—”

“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.

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“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—”

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—”

“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—”

“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—”

“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.”