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—” 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.
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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—to accompany you wherever you may go. The Crooked Teeth are—”
“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—” 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—” 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—yet to be announced—he’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—”
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.”