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—”

“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—snow bath.” Isleif stared off into the shadows. “I was buried… buried. Buried. Buried, buried—”

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—”

“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—” 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.”

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“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—”

“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—”

“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—what you are—and 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—”

“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—”

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—”

“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.