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—your words of judgement echoing in my head—and 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.”

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***

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—”

“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—”

“I have work. I am leading The Autumn Trip, but—”

“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—”

Brolli brushed the onyx pommel of his sword. “I’m a coward, am I?”

Hjorvarth sighed in frustration. “That is not what I—”

“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—or 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—”

“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—”

“Mind your own business, you fat bastard,” Ivar cut in. “I’ll do—”

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—”

Ivar scrabbled for the knife at his belt.

“I mean you no harm. I was—”

“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.