17. Seasons

“Many cycles of the Moon have passed, and I have yet to hear the voice again.

I did build a bigger Pool, nearly a score times larger than the usual design, but I soon realized that it was impossible to fill. Even with hundreds of goblins regurgitating their birthing sacks, the liquid never changed to the usual acrid green and the unborn hatchlings withered and died amid the unforgiving earth.

When Agrak visited the vast spawning caverns, he asked why I had ever attempted such a thing to begin with. I answered that I was merely attempting to perfect the design, to experiment, but he seemed unconvinced. Even I, seeing that the next largest pool was dwarfed by this behemoth excavation, thought I had given a poor answer.

I hadn’t even realized how large a design I had commissioned until I was asked to explain it by The Small King.It was as if some quiet impulse in my brain had driven me to do so, consuming my mind for Moons, and I had hardly even noticed.

While I waited to be called out on my obvious lie, Agrak had merely shrugged and offered a curious, lopsided smirk. ‘The elves were obsessed with perfection,’ he said in his strange, piping voice. ‘But their pools were much smaller.’

‘Pools…?’ I echoed, because until that point I had assumed that elves had reproduced by the same method of humans.

‘Much smaller,’ he repeated. ‘Though the merfolk are similar to our own.’

‘You are saying that there are other species who reproduce as we do…?’

‘I suppose I am,’ he quietly answered. ‘In the future, stay within the bounds of our agreed plans.’

This he had gently requested as if we were friends. But I saw a glimmer in his eyes that I had seen once before, which was then swiftly followed by him dismembering a Chief with his razor claws.”

Jarl Thrand sat at the cluttered table of his counsel room. The marble doors to the ornate balcony lay open behind him, which did little to abate the heat.

Lanterns burned atop the grey drawers that lined each side of the room, but their small flames were made needless by the surround of shining white.

Fati and Ekkill faced the Jarl, both men wearing shirts that had long since sweat through. Fati had appearance of a white and wet scarecrow, while Ekkill seemed as if he had covered his rounded belly with a translucent second skin.

Jarl Thrand had not succumb to the weather. He wore a thick burgundy robe. Sweat beaded atop his cracked pate and he silently lamented the unheralded heat of the past week. Atsurr had taken a seat at the Jarl of Timilir’s left. He sat back from the table, leaning on his knees, breathing as if the warmth of the day had stolen into his lungs.

“Should we not wait for a more seasonable day?” Ekkill ventured. “Atsurr seems ripe to collapse.”

“And you seem fit to burst,” Atsurr grated. “But I will suffer the heat.”

Jarl Thrand sighed, musing of how he so tired of present company. “If the heat bothers you, speak quickly.”

“Of course.” Ekkill swept out his thick arms in apology. “Of course, my Jarl. Of most pressing and troubling news, I regret to report that the road repairs have gone… untended. It would seem that the Crooked Teeth murdered the overseer in charge of the work some days ago, along with the foreman… or perhaps that was done by the workers there, and as such they have been—”

Jarl Thrand waved his hand. “Promote whomever tells the truth of what happened. Dispose of all those involved.” He scratched at his sweat-sheened cheeks. “As to the Crooked Teeth, Atsurr will be charged with setting fires among the shacks and hovels of the slums while the heat has so chosen to visit us.”

Fati glanced away, then met eyes with the Jarl. “Is that wise? Ulfsteinn offered no retribution when they attacked the Stone Sons,” he noted. “You can smoke out bees, but they never leave their nest. What if these people suspect, are led to suspect, our involvement, and they decide to meet fire with fire. Death with death.”

Jarl Thrand sneered. “Then I will offer you up as the man that came up with the plan. Or I will kill those who had the gall to rise up against me.” He turned his hateful gaze on Ekkill. “What was the other news?”

Ekkill smiled as if pained. “The prisoners that escaped with… the son of Isleif were—” He glanced up at the white roof. “Well, as we all know, most were caught, bless the gods, but it would appear things got out of hand between the captives and the masters after that… and so most of them are now dead, as are three of the guards.”

“I see,” Thrand hissed. “And what of the man himself?”

“Isleif?” Fati mocked, suffering a withering stare. “Hjorvarth… is still not caught.”

“Why?”

“I suppose because they haven’t found him, my Jarl.”

“Why?” Thrand angrily repeated.

Atsurr then cleared his dry throat. “The tunnels can no longer be mined,” he put in. “They are rife with goblins and kobolds both, rocked by persistent explosions.” The old guard sighed. “There is unrest in the city, the prospect of the Stone Sons moving against us, the fear of the Bloody Teeth, and the persistent messengers from the Low King. We can hardly justify wasting lives searching for a man that the city sees as disgraced and dead. If Hjorvarth is anywhere, then he is a bloody smear across a rock. Or he is in pieces, digesting in the stomachs of a clan of goblins.”

Jarl Thrand’s answering scowl was bitter and seething.

“And on mention of the Low King,” Fati then said, “it would seem that he has refused to send grain for he both fears that we are mistreating out people, and fears that we have lost control of organized law breakers that will only steal his goods. Essentially… I believe he wants to further worsen the unrest among our people. And I have heard rumours that he has been in touch with the Stone Sons as well.”

“The Stone Sons?” Jarl Thrand muttered. “Do they think they can unseat me?”

“I expect not,” Fati replied. “In truth, there is little in the way of Ulfsteinn responding at all. But The Low King is plainly trying to instigate dissent. If he could take Timilir in one fell swoop, it would give him unchallenged control over the High Lands as well.”

“Sirs,” declared a guard from beyond the meeting room’s marble doors. “There is a messenger, from Jarl Adelsteinn.”

Jarl Thrand paused for a long moment. “Bring him in.”

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The guard bowed, backing away, and a ginger man entered in his wake. He wore the green-and-gold jacket to indicate his position in Adelsteinn’s household.

“Greetings, Jarl Thrand of Timilir.” The messenger bowed, sweeping out his arms. He straightened, freckled face turning pained and grave. “I bring word from the lands of Jarl Adelsteinn. The message is most important, meant only for your hearing.”

“I trust all those in my company,” Thrand drawled. “Deliver your message now, or not at all.”

The messenger hesitated, eventually nodding. “As you wish, Jarl Thrand. I have been sent here on the will of Adelsteinn’s oldest daughter, Jodis, to inform you that two nights ago, Adelsteinn died while he was dining in his hall. She wishes you to know that he died happy, and in good company, and offers her young brother—”

“Young?” Jarl Thrand cut in. “How old is he?”

The messenger’s jaw grew taut. “Nefsteinn is a man already grown at his fourteen winters. Well respected, well loved—”

“And not a man that will marry my daughter,” Thrand finished.

“I see.” The messenger bared his teeth. “Would you have me deliver the message as such. Or would you prefer that I word it with more tact… Jarl Thrand of Timilir?”

Jarl Thrand’s aged face twisted into a scowl. “Pardon?”

“I said—you withered old man—would you like me to pretend that you offered my grieving masters some semblance of respect?”

Silence descended on the marble room.

Ekkill and Fati watched the Jarl of Timilir redden with rage.

“Kill him,” Jarl Thrand decided, speaking to Atsurr. “Send a messenger inquiring to Adelsteinn’s good health. Blame this messenger’s absence on the Low King should they question it. We will feign offence that word was not brought sooner.”

The messenger laughed in derision. “You are as a child, old man. Do you think the gods themselves fear you? Do you think that you are Muradoon living? That you see both life and death with the same impermeable gaze?” He shook his head. “I warn you, out of respect for my master’s wishes, retract your threat.”

Atsurr had not moved. He sat still on his seat, thoughts warring in his mind. This man was a household messenger for a storied lineage, not the errand boy of a disgraced son of Geirulf. He rose slowly to his feet, drawing his sword from its sheath.

“I look upon a council of cowards!” the messenger decried. “Do none of you dare speak out in defense of a man who is by all rights god-guarded?”

He glanced at the white corridor behind, as if he might run, while the armoured sentinel approached. The freckled messenger then charged forward instead, leaping onto the table. Fati’s blade raked through his hamstring but he stumbled onward.

Atsurr swung as best he could but he had stepped out of range; even so, the sword cleaved through the messenger’s elbow.

A forearm thumped against the table amid hissing blood and hammering boots.

Jarl Thrand rose now the messenger closed. He drew the blade from his serpentine walking stick, slashing through the man’s stomach. The messenger staggered, leapt, taking the Jarl of Timilir to the floor.

The messenger’s mind swam with agony. He dug his nails into the withered cheeks beneath him. “Bleed. Bleed you—”

***

Gudmund had been summoned to a small counsel room near the back of Jarl Thrand’s Estate. He vaguely recognized the two men in white shirts, one as skinny as the other was fat. Atsurr wore the same unadorned armour as any city guard, but was plain enough to see by his rigid posture and steady suspicion.

The Jarl of Timilir was the only man that looked discernibly different.

He wore a dark red robe that was too thick for the weather.

Gudmund decided he shouldn’t mention the scratches down the old man’s cheek or the smell of shit and blood that hung in the air like sour iron. “Jarl Thrand,” he greeted, “and… friends.” He smiled. “I was summoned, so here I am.”

“Jarl Gudmund,” the white-shirted men answered in amiable unison. They glanced at each other as if annoyed by the shared timing. “It is—”

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance,” the chubby man finished alone. “My name is Ekkill, and I offer advisement on the city’s internal affairs.”

The skinny man raised his brows. “Fati.”

“Good to meet you both.” Gudmund nodded, turning to the armoured man. “And you, friend? Have we met?”

“No and yes,” Atsurr answered. “We have met. But we are far from friends.”

“Ah.” Gudmund smiled. “I hope I’m not here just to give you another chance at stabbing me in the back.”

“I’ll happily match you sword for sword,” Atsurr growled.

“Another time, perhaps,” Gudmund offered. “I come at the bidding of my fellow Jarl.”

Jarl Thrand scrutinised his visitor.

The Jarl of Horvorr had worn the same blue-and-white clothes for the past week.

“Please, Gudmund,” Thrand rasped, “take a seat.” He shook his head when the man turned to sit near Ekkill. “Between Fati and Atsurr, if you please. I reserve the other side for those who deal in city affairs.” He offered a slight smile. “It would seem that most of those have ended up as sacks of teeth.”

“Of course.” Gudmund strode to the other side of the table, pulling out his chair, leaving an empty seat between himself and Atsurr. He pulled his own chair closer to the table. “And how did you manage to be so long-lived, Ekkill?”

Ekkill upturned his fleshy palms. “I would say that only Broknar knows, but I expect Joyto alone is responsible for my fortuitous longevity. A trait you share, Gudmund. I hear you alone, barring your daughter, are the sole survivor of your family. One of a select few of Horvorr’s Guard that remain in the realms of the living.”

Gudmund met the words with an easy nod. “The gods have cursed me with a long life.”

Atsurr grunted. “Call upon me should you need that malady lifted.”

“As to long lives,” Thrand interjected, “I have recently received news of Jarl Adelsteinn’s death.”

“Oh.” Gudmund suppressed a smile. “On the field of battle?”

“Dining at evening meal.”

“Poisoned…?”

Those at the cluttered table answered the question with a collective frown.

“He had passed fifty winters,” Fati said, “I expect it was no more poison than ale.”

Gudmund upturned his palms. “I had meant it more as a question than accusation. Poisoning a neighbor is not that uncommon in the Low Lands… even if it is largely ignored as a man reaching the end of a full life. For his family to claim it as poisoning would invite a border war, of course. I did have three tasters die in my own service.”

“It is something to consider,” Jarl Thrand murmured, distracted by a virulent hatred of the Low King. “As to why I have summoned you here, Jarl Gudmund. Considering recent events, I would like to offer you my youngest daughter’s hand in marriage.”

Gudmund paused as if to consider. He kept his gaze toward the Jarl of Timilir, but at his left he could see the armoured sentinel struggling with rage, and at his right he could see the greedy, almost benign smile, of the chubby man. “Well… I know not what to say, beyond that I would gladly accept this match with a grateful heart. And I hope, dearly hope, that this is an alliance that will see us both rise on the piled ashes of our enemies.”

Jarl Thrand watched the proud man’s face fill with insurmountable pride. He sat in silence, thoughts flitting on the knife edge thoughts of killing the betrayer in his midst or embracing a man that was as he appeared to be. He raised a hand to stay Atsurr’s wrath, and sighed with relief. “As do I, Gudmund. As do I. I am sorry to report that my daughter is out of the city visiting her sister… but I will send word to have her return to Timilir.”

Atsurr sat shaking, overwhelmed by heat, wanting nothing more than to shout out in warning or defiance.

“I would be glad to meet her,” Gudmund enthused, even as Atsurr rose with his hand on his pommel. “I would like to visit the market stalls tomorrow in order to search for a suitable gift. I hope that you could suggest something appropriate—”

“Son of Geirulf,” Atsurr grated, drawing his blade. “I… I—” He reached out for a table just out of reach, and collapsed with a rattle of metal.

Gudmund stared down at the armoured heap, one hand on his brother’s sword. “Oh. He looks to have become overwhelmed in an attempt to pay his respects to me. Moving as that is, I think it would be best for us all if he’s given water and sheltered from the heat.”