15. Restless

“My dealings with Chief Gudmund have become so troublesome that I regret first meeting him at night. To most other men that would be the mark of a tardy or desperate visitor. To a man once meant to be a Jarl of the High Lands, a messenger arriving by darkness is the worst of omens. I suppose I should be thankful that I did not meet him while he still held his old estate.

I would have sorely missed my tongue.”

Gudmund’s Hall had succumb to a fretful dormancy.

Wind broke upon unadorned walls, whistling and screeching, but failed to move the dark-and-silver banners that loomed from sturdy rafters. They had been woven with wolves, hung above the vacant benches of twin feasting tables: both almost as long as the hall, so that they stretched from the huge and ornate doors to the austere reception chamber opposite, which housed two more banners and an imposing chair.

Gudmund’s chair had been wrought wider than any man had need for, crafted with a large backing that had been carved in the likeness of a wolf howling at the moon.

Two curtained corridors opened to either side of the seat, those that led to the other half of Gudmund’s Hall, which housed seven rooms in all. Dust had gathered on the rug-strewn floorboards, along the cupboards and drawers of the guest room, and atop the beds and war-chests that once belonged to Gudmund’s sons.

Gudmund’s daughter, Sybille, owned the only room in Gudmund’s Hall with a lock or a door. A young blond guard sat outside it, his legs crossed, his eyes glazed. He had propped his shield beside the door, and sat watching a fat candle burn atop a wooden platter. Engli appeared a little dour in the mellow light, hoping all the while that he wouldn’t have to spend another night listening to a young woman grieve her fallen brothers.

Sybille suffered her sorrow in silence though. She stared up at a shadowed bed canopy, walled behind curtains and trapped under blankets, her sleep delayed or broken by the threat or onset of harrowing nightmares.

Gudmund lay awake as well, his hairy chest and unruly beard glistening with the dampness of cold air. He panted mist into the darkness, wrestling with grief and fury that threatened to consume him.

Each heard a purposeful clunking of wood, a slow groan of hinges, as the huge doors of the main hall swung inward. Wind howled through the silence and set the wolf banners rippling above twin tables. Firelight painted the walls with a crimson glow, wavering with the flames of blackened braziers. Shadows stretched across empty benches as a robed man and a stout guard made their way into Gudmund’s Hall.

The pair got around the door and tried to heave it closed, pushed back by the wind despite their efforts. The weather then faded and the door swung back into its frame.

Engli flinched as an enormous boom shook the air then echoed twice more before it faded. He crept through the curtains and into the antechamber, his right hand gripping an axe, his left hand squeezing a candle.

Gudmund, Chief of Horvorr, strode out from the curtains opposite, wearing only his sword belt.“To me, Engli.” He stared out into the darkness, his wild gaze lambent with candlelight, his pupils huge in his eyes. “Announce yourselves!”

The Salt Sage and Ralf approached from between the shadowed feasting tables.

“Be at ease.” The Salt Sage offered a shallow bow. “A mishap with the door is all it was.”

Gudmund scowled at the stout guard. “You let a stranger in my hall at night?”

Ralf scratched at his bulbous nose, his ruddy cheeks turning redder. “I—”

“It was my fault,” the Sage said, “entirely. You might be angry that Ralf has let me in at this hour, but I left him no choice in the matter. I told him that the gods would forsake him should he turn me away in this weather. Which they surely would. I know that your daughter is shaken, and that frightening noises in the night—”

“Do tell,” Gudmund snarled, “what manner of stranger walks unwelcome into my home at night, and offers counsel, yet more unwelcome, without greeting? What manner of fool speaks of my daughter when he has never even met her?”

“A Sage of Tomlok.” The Salt Sage dipped his head towards Gudmund’s sword. “So I can be reasonably certain that there are no enemies in your hall.”

Gudmund stepped forwards, not lowering his weapon. “And why have you come?”

“To speak with you… at a more reasonable hour.” The Salt Sage turned towards the flaxen-haired guard. “Engli, would you show me to my room?”

“Room?” Gudmund asked. “What makes you think you can stay?”

“I think that you are a godly man,” the Sage explained. “A sensible man. Such that you would not willingly offend the gods, and the Helmsman least of all.”

Gudmund laughed a bitter laugh. “It is Tomlok that offends me, Sage. Where was his warning when my sons went to their deaths?” He shook his head in disgust. “And as to the gods and my godliness, I think you’ve mistook me for a man that cares a whit. They’ve done nothing for me, and I’ll do nothing for them. So try for a different appeal, or leave this place before I cut you down.”

“Horvorr is at serious risk,” the Sage said with all severity. “And I have travelled a very long way to bring you this warning. But if you wish not to hear it then I am of no mind to force you.”

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Gudmund glared. He reluctantly lowered his sword. “One night. I’ll hear your warning in the morning. Be ready to run if I take no liking to it.”

“Of course,” the Sage said, beckoning Engli. “My thanks.”

“Ralf!” Gudmund called over to the stout guard, who had started creeping back to the main door. “Take my guest to his room.”

Ralf rushed back to the three men. He bowed low to Gudmund, then ushered the Sage through the curtained corridor. He returned not long after, stopping opposite Engli.

The guards shared worried glances, then both men watched the floor while they waited for the Chief of Horvorr to speak.

“You can go,” Gudmund said. “Not you,” to Engli, when both moved to leave.

Ralf bowed before hurrying through the feasting tables.

The door opened to a windless yard lit by two blackened braziers, then came to a resounding close that faded to leave the gloomy hall in silence.

Engli could only faintly see Gudmund the muted candlelight.

The Chief of Horvorr stared, but spoke no words. “Engli,” he eventually said, his proud voice giving the blond man a chill. “Don’t ever forget your shield again.”

“I won’t.” Engli bowed in apology. “On my word.”

“Now I need you to listen to me,” Gudmund explained. “If that Sage leaves his room tonight, then I need you to kill him.”

Engli belatedly shook his head. “I can’t kill a Sage.”

Gudmund loomed closer, and scowled down. “You would defy me?”

“In all else, no.” Engli looked askance. “But for the gods, of course.”

“The gods,” Gudmund mocked. “Then go back to brushing my daughter’s hair.” He spun on his heel, and strode into the dark. “I’ve no use for godly cowards.”

***

Engli watched the curtains long after the naked man had passed through them.

Unease cloyed at him when he did turn back to his own corridor.

He passed by the rooms of Gudmund’s fallen sons, of Sybille’s brothers, and knew emptiness resided behind the curtained entryways.

He stared at the fur-covered floor, but couldn’t stop himself from thinking of how Hjorvarth had saved him, how if he hadn’t needed saving then Hjorvarth would’ve been able to save Geirmund instead. He wasn’t able to shake the thought that he should have just died, so that Geirmund could have lived.

He shouldn’t have called out for help. He should have gone quietly to his death.

Engli sighed, setting the candle back on the platter. He startled at a creaking door.

Sybille leaned out, wearing a tawny gown lined with wolf fur. Her red hair fell over her pale shoulders. “Engli?” she asked in a soft voice quieted by disuse. “What happened?”

“It was nothing,” Engli assured with a smile. “The wind.” Sybille glanced at his axe and he slid it back into his belt. “It scared me, that’s all.”

Sybille covered her mouth to yawn. “Then why were you speaking to my father?”

“He has a visitor. A Sage of Tomlok.”

Sybille rubbed at her eyes. “That can’t be good.”

“Why wouldn’t it be good?”

“He wouldn’t come all this way just to let us know that everything is going to be fine.”

“That’s a fair point,” Engli admitted.

“Why do you think he’s here?”

Engli wanted to speak with her, but Gudmund had warned him more than once about keeping his daughter awake. “You should go back to bed, Sybille.”

“I can’t sleep.” Sybille opened her door wider. “Sit with me?”

“I shouldn’t,” Engli said. “I need to watch the hall.”

“So leave the door open. You were only going to sit outside my room.” Sybille stepped forward, soreness of the raw skin under her eyes now clear in the candlelight. “Please, Engli. I can’t sleep and I don’t want to be alone. Not when it’s so quiet, and so cold.”

Engli frowned as if disconcerted. “I’ll stay until you fall asleep.”

Sybille beamed, even as tears rolled down her cheeks. They left the door open, letting candlelight suffuse into the small room.

Sybille settled back onto her feather mattress and nestled under woven blankets. Engli tucked her in, then sat on the end of her bed. He let the time pass in silence, often glancing over to the shadowed mound of furs and blankets that covered her.

“I hate this,” she spoke in a tearful whisper. “I hate the quiet.”

Engli offered no answer.

She sat up to look at him. “Agnar should be muttering in his sleep, or laughing with a woman, or just laughing at himself. Geirmund and Grettir should be talking in low voices across the hall.” Sybille swallowed and sniffled. “There should be more than this. More than the wind and the quiet and the cold. They should be living and laughing around me… I shouldn’t have to sleep next to their empty rooms. I shouldn’t have to be alone.”

Engli had no words for her, even though her sadness wrenched him. He dare not say that she had him, because he wasn’t what she wanted. She wanted her brothers, and her family. Engli was only the coward that survived while they died.

“I wish Grettir would stay with us,” Sybille spoke more firmly. “But he can’t stand it any more than I can. He said that I could stay with him—that we both could, but Gudmund won’t move. He doesn’t even make his own food. He just spends all his time in his room, not speaking to anyone. Not to me, not even to Grettir.”

“He is grieving,” Engli said. “It’s no fault of yours.”

“He thinks it is,” Sybille whispered. “He doesn’t say it, but I can see it. When he really looks at me, I can see the disappointment in his eyes. He would rather that I died—”

“That isn’t true, Sybille,” Engli argued with as forceful a whisper as he could manage. “And it does no good to convince yourself that it is. If he seems disappointed when he looks at you, then it’s surely because he sees how sorrowed you are.”

Sybille stared at his silhouette. “Do you truly think so?”

“Yes,” Engli assured. He almost spoke of how Gudmund had been much the same when grieving his wife, but remembered she had died giving birth to Sybille. “I think you should go to bed now, Sybille. Gudmund worries you’re not getting enough sleep.”

“Did he tell you that?”

“Yes.” Engli nodded. “And he seemed to think that I had something to do with it.”