14. Wandering Prophet
“I have many regrets: causing the death of my drunkard father, swearing and failing to do better for my own son. I regret that my quest to save Sibbe was in the end the death of her. I regret that I have squandered my opportunity at a happy life with a loving family to make a mockery of what was offered me.
Yet I was forewarned of it all, so my greatest regret must be that I paid no heed to the prophecy that came with that cursed map to Hrothgar’s Hall.”
Isleif sat by the taproom’s grey hearth, watching the stranger who had ambled into the shadowed tavern.
The figure wore a thick robe of pale blue, faded to white in places, layered with stains in others. He seemed to watch the old man for a long moment before turning towards the counter in time to see two men step out from the kitchen.
Isleif couldn’t help but feel that all three of these men were familiar, that he almost recognised the gentle barkeeper and the sullen brute.
“Evening,” Sam said with an uncertain smile. “Can I help you in some way?”
The stranger stepped forward, revealings rags wrapped around his hooded face. “I’m not entirely sure. I was told, on some authority, that this was a tavern. And I’d hoped to stay here. But now your friend’s stare is making me uneasy.”
“I thought you might be dangerous,” Hjorvarth explained, before making his way to the table nearest the hearth. He still stared at the stranger from his seat.
“I suppose that’s explanation enough,” the robed man said without conviction. He turned back to the bar with a smile that only showed in his blue eyes. “I would like food if you have it, and dark ale with a handful of salt.”
Sam met the request with an odd look. “Seems like a waste of salt.”
“I’ll pay. But if you’ve none to spare, then forget I asked.”
Isleif, still seated by the fire, peered at the robed man, recognising the ease of his words and the melody of his tone. He held tighter to his fur jacket.
Sam had waited while the stranger stood still. “Do you want to take a seat?”
The robed man glanced at the unlit candles seated in sconces on walls and on stands around tables. Darkness had a hold on each corner of the tavern and on the hazy rafters. “I’d wager you don’t get much custom?”
“No,” Sam answered, turning towards the kitchen, “we don’t.”
The robed man wandered through the taproom, brushing his fingers against tabletops, lifting and inspecting chairs, looking up at the ceiling and down at the dusty floorboards; glancing at bones, paintings and memorabilia hanging from nails or nailed to the walls.
Hjorvarth thought that he denigrated with his touch and gaze, but Isleif felt the opposite: that the stranger viewed each thing with sentimental appreciation.
Hjorvarth’s stern visage remained cold despite the firelight. “Have you been in Horvorr long?”
“Less than a day.” The robed man ambled to the table. “And yourself?”
Hjorvarth frowned. “I’ve been here since I was a boy.”
The stranger turned to the hearth. “And what about you, old friend? Where did you live before Chief Gudmund wrested these lands from goblin hands?”
Isleif’s teeth gleamed in an eerie smile. “I lived in the snow.”
“Oh.” The stranger nodded under his hood. “That must have been cold.”
“It was.” Isleif chuckled. “Don’t you remember?”
“I’m afraid I don’t.” He strode towards the fireplace. “Though I’m not fond of the cold, so that’s probably for the better.”
Hugging himself under the fur jacket, Isleif nodded as if he fully understood. He watched the shadow looming behind the robed man and thought it looked down on its maker in judgement.
Hjorvarth was staring at the meager flame of the candle on his table. “You said you arrived today?”
The stranger nodded. “I did say that.”
“How?” Hjorvarth held his hand above the candle’s burning wick. “There’ve been no traders for at least a week. No carts or travellers. Not from Fenkirk or from Wymount.”
The stranger’s shadow shrank as he approached. “I wouldn’t know anything about that. I travelled alone. And I travelled by foot.”
Hjorvarth looked up at the robed man. “You walked here, on your own, from Fenkirk?”
“I didn’t visit any settlements,” he answered. “I began my trek from Timilir.”
“Timilir?” Hjorvarth let out a slow sigh. “Has someone put you up to this?”
The stranger scratched at the rags covering his face. “I’m not quite sure what you mean.”
“I mean that I don’t believe you,” Hjorvarth said. “Perhaps I misunderstood your joke, but I can think of no reason why, or how, you would travel here from Timilir. With the only routes open to you, avoiding Fenkirk, being the mountains to the north or the plains to the south. Both scarce in food and water, lasting a week at least, all while hunted by wolves and worse.”
“A week?” The stranger looked askance. “Well I now feel embarrassed.”
Hjorvarth grunted. “So you admit you were lying?”
“Oh. No.” He met Hjorvarth’s pale gaze. “Not that. I more meant my journey took over a month, and so your swift estimates shamed me. Though I will admit I found myself lost more often than not.”
Hjorvarth stared. “If you are trying to be funny, then your time would be better spent speaking to a man with a sense of a humour.”
“Perhaps,” the robed man replied lightly. “But then my main interest in coming here lies with you, Hjorvarth. So I’m spending my time as well as can be hoped.”
“My name is Rognar.”
“Hah. And here I thought we weren’t joking.”
“No joke,” Hjorvarth evenly replied. “So your time is ill spent.”
“Isn’t that your father? Isleif the Bard?”
Hjorvarth turned to the bundled man by the grey hearth. “Isleif, have you seen your son, Hjorvarth?”
“I haven’t.” Isleif squinted over at the table. “Is he in his room?”
“Isleif.” The stranger waved to get his attention then gestured towards Hjorvarth. “Are you sure that this man isn’t your son?”
“No. Gods no.” Isleif chuckled. “He’s far too big to be my son. Hjorvarth’s only a small lad, and wiry thin at that.”
“My mistake, then.” The stranger upturned his gloved palms. “I suppose I should have taken the descriptions more to heart. You see I was supposed to be looking for a man as tall as a house… and you’re not really that much taller than a door, are you? You’re not as wide as a barn either—or, as one man quite helpfully put it, ‘as wide as Big Hilda, only all bone and muscle instead of tits and fat.’”
“We all make mistakes,” Isleif murmured, not looking at either of them.
The robed man nodded. “I mistook the hair, as well. They told me blood red, or the colour of copper, yet clearly yours is closer to rust.” He looked behind the huge man. “That he had it tied back, hanging past his arse. Yet your own stops halfway down your back.”
Hjorvarth nodded, neither humoured or annoyed, and his hair swayed, weighed with three polished copper bands.
The stranger sat back down with a resigned sigh. “And the most striking difference… is that they told me he was an honest man.”
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Hjorvarth gritted his teeth. “I treat with men as they treat with me.”
Sam, standing behind the kitchen door, decided to walk out with soup and ale in hand. Both men sat in silence as he set a chipped bowl ahead of the Sage, and a warped mug beside that. “Let me know if you need anything else.”
The stranger dipped his hooded head. “Thank you.”
Sam looked to Hjorvarth and Isleif but the son didn’t notice and the father seemed to be sleeping, so he walked back to the counter.
The robed man pulled his rags down his nose and past his chin. He took hold of the spoon that lay half-drowned in the stew, and stirred it through. He shoveled up what he could, supping and scraping, and then drank the dregs from the bowl. He wiped his face with a thick sleeve, then picked up the mug of ale, quaffed it without a breath, and set it down with a hollow knock.
Window shutters rattled with a whistling wind. Coals crackled in the fire. Darkness shrank and encroached against the undulating flames.
“Your long journey left you with a fierce appetite,” Hjorvarth said dryly.
“It’s like you said, no food on those plains.” He shrugged. “Though the wolves were keen on having me for dinner, so they must have seen something I missed.”
Hjorvarth frowned. “Those wolves were likely trying to eat you.”
The stranger laughed loudly, but quieted when his mirth was not shared.
“Who are you?” Hjorvarth asked. “What is it you want?”
“I am a Sage of Tomlok, and I’ve come here to—”
“A Salt Sage?” Hjorvarth cleared his throat. “‘And so the Salt Sages dine, one and all, supping brine in sea blue robes stained crystalline.’” He raised his weathered hand to halt the Sage’s reply. “‘A song is sung, a racket made. A sea bed feast is then arrayed. Drinks forgotten, lobsters splayed as beards twist down to driftwood plates, ensnaring forks while crabs escape and hands are wrung and soon entrapped, but those old men do not react. Their eyes ensnared by tangled hair… no light ever reaches there.”
The Salt Sage glanced at his own lifeless robe. “That’s a fantasy.”
“Or simply another reason not to trust you.”
Sam watched with a curious smile, drinking from a mug of ale.
“Either way,” the Sage said. “I intend to make a journey, and—”
Hjorvarth regarded him without warmth. “To the Hall of Hrothgar?”
The Salt Sage belatedly nodded. “Indeed.”
“Then you’ve come a long way for nothing.” Hjorvarth glanced over to his sleeping father, then rose to his feet. “I leave Horvorr in the morning, and I’ll be gone for a season at the least.”
“So you don’t want to know what happened to your father?” the Salt Sage asked. “How so large an expedition simply disappeared into the mountains?” He turned as the huge man walked towards the door. “There is gold out there, Hjorvarth! Grand treasure and unimaginable riches! But more important than all of that, here is a chance to restore your father’s reputation. To find answers for the families of all those men that were lost on his trip.”
“Those men are long buried,” Hjorvarth said, his voice deep and rolling, “in the snow and in the past. And I have no desire to follow in their footsteps.” He stopped in the crimson shadows by the door and turned back to the black-haired barkeeper. “Good night, Sam.”
Sam smiled in concern, hearing the tavern shudder and creak under the weight of screeching weather. “I’ll throw him out if you want.”
Hjorvarth shook his head. He opened the door to howling wind, struggled with an inward swing, but dragged the door with him while he walked out into darkness.
The grey hearth rippled with life, then settled with the door’s closing.
“A curious man.” The Salt Sage smiled at Sam. “May I have another?”
Sam narrowed his eyes, considering whether he wanted the robed man to stay. “Fine.” He reached for a mug but hesitated. “You do have coin?”
“On my person?” The Salt Sage shook his hooded head. “Tomlok’s Order is not rich, so we survive on charity.”
Sam scowled. “That might be a fair thing to say, Sage, had you not made specific mention of coin when you first came in.”
“Oh.” The Salt Sage slowly nodded. “I’ll have it without the salt this time.” He regarded the unhappy barkeeper. “What about this? I’ll tell you your future. For the food and for the drink—and because I can tell you’re a good man at heart—what with sheltering this old man and his troubled son.”
“Watch your words, Sage,” Sam warned. “You know their names.”
“My apologies.” The Salt Sage upturned his gloved palms. “I only meant to say that I would be happy to tell you your future, so as to forewarn and forearm you for your good service.”
Sam sighed as he turned to fill a mug. “You can have your ale, but I’ve no interest in your prophecy.”
“Oh?” the Sage asked. “Why’s that?”
“If you could see the future, then you’d have known there’s no chance of Hjorvarth ever agreeing to travel to the Hall.”
“Do you think so?”
“Plenty of others have tried.” Sam took a mug of ale from the counter. “They’ll say that Hjorvarth’s fated to right Isleif’s great failing by virtue of being his son.” He weaved between the tables. “You ask them why they want to help, and they’ll say to honor the gods, or the dead, or the families of those fallen. But what they really want is to build Hjorvarth into a legend.” He set the mug ahead of the Sage. “One that they can be a part of.”
“I can see how he might find that tiresome.” The Salt Sage spread his gloved hands across the table. “But my meeting with Hjorvarth went exactly as planned.”
“Then you’ve an odd plan,” Sam said. “If you’re sleeping here, you’ll have to make do with a chair or the floor.” He glanced to the grey hearth. “I’ll leave the fire to burn, but don’t start piling logs on if gets cold. All the wood comes from Fenkirk. And like Hjorvarth said we haven’t had a delivery in a while.”
“Of course.” The Salt Sage nodded. “But it’s not vague you know.”
Sam frowned. “What isn’t?”
“My prophecy, for you. It isn’t some charlatan’s sentiment painted in broad strokes.” The Salt Sage pulled his mug close. “I won’t tell you if you don’t want to hear it, but I think it would be of interest.”
Sam stood there for a long moment, and eventually took the seat opposite. He gestured his accord.
“You’ve been waiting for your wife, Mardis, to return to Horvorr. She left you, after an argument about whether you should go searching for your son.” The Salt Sage sipped from his ale. “That’s right, isn’t it?”
Sam nodded very carefully, as though words he assumed insignificant were now weighted with lead. “Yes, but—”
“Mardis will never return to you. You will die in Horvorr.” The Salt Sage glanced at the fire. “Cold and alone. You’ll find your death in the bed you go to sleep in tonight. A much older man. Overly burdened with regret.”
The Salt Sage raised his mug, eclipsing a bewildered expression. He took a long gulp, and lowered it to see a much darker stare.
“Is this some kind of joke?” Sam snapped. “How would you know about my wife, or what we argued of?”
“I don’t control the future, Sam.” The Salt Sage smiled. “I can only tell you what I see, and I’ve told you just that. Now I have no more to say about your wife, but I could speak of your son, Dan.”
“Is that right?” Sam asked, tone venomous. “A happier future than my own?”
The Salt Sage studied the rafters. “That would depend on whether or not you’re willing to travel to Timilir to prevent his death.”
“Oh.” Sam bared his teeth. “So my wife is never coming back to me, and my son is going to die?”
“If you travel to Timilir within the next few days, then—” The Salt Sage marked something dangerous in Sam’s black eyes. “I’ll leave.” He pushed up from his chair and backed towards the door. “Perhaps we can speak of this another time. Your son is in danger, but—”
“Get out.” Sam glared at the robed man. “And don’t ever visit here again.”
He was still shaking when the stranger left and the door rattled closed. Darkness drew closer on all sides as the fired smoldered in the hearth.
Isleif sat watching with a lost gaze that mirrored the flames. “Friend?”
Sam looked over as if he had forgotten he wasn’t alone. “Yes, Isleif?”
“My reputation precedes me, does it?” Isleif grinned. “Or have we met before? I don’t mean to be rude but our band grows larger by the day and I’ve never had a quick memory for names. I was simply wondering where everyone had gone?”
“Late night raid,” Sam answered out of habit. “They’ll be back in the morning.”
“Oh. Well then you and I should pretend we went, shouldn’t we? You tell them I was there. I’ll tell them you were there. Then they’ll be none the wiser that we slept by a warm fire while they were sawing through goblin throats.”
“That sounds reasonable.”
“Reasonable,” he echoed with some doubt. “And what’s got you so down?”
“I’ve just been told that my wife’s never coming back to me.”
“Half the women in the Midderlands get told the opposite of that. Or they don’t get told at all. Or do you mean she’s left you for another man? Tragic, is that. But not in the way you might think. Tragic that you misjudged her, is what I mean. Tragic that you loved a woman that wasn’t ever really yours.”
Sam blinked. “She didn’t leave me for another man.”
“No?” Isleif asked. “Well goblins make for messy bedmates, friend.”
“You don’t understand.”
“I don’t,” Isleif agreed. “But I’ll keep trying to cheer you up all the same.”
Sam wasn’t sure if he felt touched or mad. “Do you believe in prophecies?”
“So your wife was a witch?” Isleif asked with a smile. “But, no, I’m afraid I’ve not much faith for that these days. Though I do have two outstanding.” He waited for a reply that didn’t come. “First is that I’ll marry the daughter of a Jarl. Second is that I’ll find the Hall of Hrothgar… costing me everything.”
Sam felt the blood drain from his face.
“But the way this is war going, friend, I doubt I’ll live to find a brothel and fuck a whore. I’m glad of that in a way. Seen some things I can’t unsee. Not sure I want to live to be an old man. Cruelest kind of curse is that.”
Sam sat there, silent, heart thumping in his chest.
“I can see I haven’t cheered you up,” Isleif said with slight lament. “I think I’ll go to sleep and wait for the others. Remember the story, all right? We were both on that raid. We’ll even wake up early and roll around in the mud.”
Sam watched as the old man winked, closed his eyes, and settled into sleep. He likely would have ran out into the screeching wind and dived into Horvorr’s Great Lake had he known that both those predictions had come true. But instead he sat there and hoped for the best. As Isleif long had. As Sam always had. And while he did the robed stranger made his way to another troubled husband whose wife would never be coming back to him.