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—”

“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.”

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

“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—” 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.