18. Timely Intervention

“Strange to think that I almost ended my days, after so many reckless adventures, at the hands of a jilted husband. I might have fancied myself in a fight against an angry Gudmund, but when Brolli stumbled upon the scene as well, I soon resigned myself to my fate. No matter how badly he has suffered, nor how much drink or drugs he may have drowned himself with, Brolli the Black cannot—by any man of our era—be beaten in a duel.

Strangely though, Brolli did not side with his older brother. He almost came to blows with him instead. And, as swiftly as I came to terms with my oncoming death, I was then faced with disbelief, and disgust, to listen to the story that Brolli and Hilda span up together from thin air. Here I thought I was the storyteller.

In any case, it was a timely intervention. Gudmund, for his part, swallowed story and anger both. Who knew such a rash man could conjure such self control. Perhaps because he believes as I believe that raising a sword against his younger brother is a fool’s errand. Or, with the war as precarious as it is, perhaps he is not willing to lose the ‘Blackheart.’”

Horvorr’s Main Gate lay open in preparation for the Autumn Trip, which made for no clear path because the churned road lay blocked by shaggy oxen, half-laden carts, and two dozen bearded fighters. Those men were mostly grizzled and bearded, wearing chain shirts, padded leather and thick wool.

Horvorr’s Guard had been busying themselves with preparations, but now they all turned towards Horvorr’s Barracks, which had been built within a mound of earth, so that the black walls of the second floor appeared to sprout from the ground, and the main door could only be reached by a stair that began at a wooden podium.

Grettir stood on that podium, hirsute face wary as he looked down at the gathered men. He had seen Lovrin and the Ritual House and the Godi had been all too panicked when the charges were brought against him. He had indeed brewed a dangerous tincture. “No doubt you’re all wondering what I have to say,” Grettir declared.

A muttered agreement carried through the crowd. Hairy oxen stamped and spluttered amongst those of Horvorr’s Guard.

“Not good news, I’m afraid.” Grettir tried to smile despite the distrustful muttering. “This expedition has been delayed.”

“Delayed?” one man shouted above the other complaints.

“Till when?” asked another.

“For a while,” Grettir replied, uncertain of the answer. “Until then all of this needs to be packed away. The carts and oxen returned—”

“Fuck yourself!” one shouted. “We need work!” said another. “We’ve got to clear the roads!” demanded a third. “Our families need food!”

“I understand all that!” Grettir called back. “I do! But—”

“But what?”

A broad man, who was named Hadin, threw his chain armour into the mud. “This is shit, Grettir!”

“Is it shit?” Grettir descended the stair and strode forward into the angry crowd. “Is it shit, that I’m trying to save your lives?”

Hadin was lean compared to those around him, his black hair tied back into a tail. “From what?” he shouted, rousing the crowd’s anger.

“We know the risks!” another man called.

The Salt Stage stepped to the podium’s edge above, looking down on those gathered. “Goblins were going to ambush you all! They number in the thousands!”

“Who is he?” a young man asked everyone. “Who are you?” he demanded of the Sage.

“He is a guest of Chief Gudmund,” Grettir answered.

“Chief Gudmund,” Hadin spoke the word as an insult. “The man who is no more fit to lead than a one-armed cripple.”

“That is bold talk, my friend,” the Sage shouted. “Yet I fear the gods favour your troubled leader. They would not allow him—” An errant fist clacked shut his teeth and the robed man tumbled onto the stairway.

Runolf, a burly ginger man, took his place on the podium. “And what protection did the gods offer you, stranger?”

“Surrender your weapons, Runolf.” Turning back to the stairs, Grettir drew his axe. “You are to be arrested for striking a holy man and an honoured guest. You no longer have a place on Horvorr’s Guard.”

Hadin came up behind Grettir, to his armless side, and brought a sword to his bearded neck. “You’re the one who can’t hold a shield, Grettir. Maybe you’re the one that no longer has a place. So why don’t you drop your axe and then we can all go and discuss Horvorr’s Guard with the Chief of Horvorr? He’s makes all the decisions, after all.”

“There will be no discussion,” Grettir grated, baring his teeth in a snarl. “Take your blade from my throat or this ends in exile for you both.”

Hjorvarth came upon the crowd then, late as always for the preparations. He had seen the uproar from down the road, which had shifted to a tense silence of quiet violence and hesitant unease. He now shoved his way forward through the men of Horvorr’s Guard.

“Let go,” Hjorvarth warned from behind Hadin. “I will not ask twice.”

The black-haired man glanced back with anger. “This doesn’t involve you.”

Hjorvarth grabbed him by the wrist and shoulder. He wrenched back Hadin’s arm until he cried out and buckled to his knees. He then placed his boot on the man’s back. “Are you done?”

Hadin had gripped a dagger with his free hand. He tried to thrust back, and—shoulder popping loose from the socket—screamed.

Hjorvarth let the man drop, and turned to the wary crowd with a sword in one hand and a knife in the other. “You should all put your weapons away,” his quiet words rumbled through the silence. “I know not what Grettir has said. I do know that he is a man who has saved all your lives, times over. That it is all you who owe loyalty to him. And if that is not enough for you to sheathe your weapons then—”

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Knife gripped, Runolf leapt off the podium and ran at the huge man’s back. He staggered when Grettir kicked out his knee, bringing the blade down lower than he had hoped, only scraping paint from the shield on Hjorvarth’s back.

Hjorvarth rounded on the burly man. He grabbed him by the collar and smashed a pommel into his nose.

Runolf reeled back from the blow, tripping up on his own legs, before toppling onto the mud. Hjorvarth’s grip tightened on sword and knife now he strode forward. Horvorr’s Guard grew uneasy once more, though no man moved to intercede.

“Don’t,” Grettir warned, despite him wanting them dead. “They’re not worth a life of exile, Hjorvarth. They’re not worth the blood on your hands.”

Hjorvarth let out a slow breath. He belted his knife with a shaking hand then buried the sword into the earth.

Runolf lay unconscious, blood pooling from his nose, while Hadin cradled his arm on the floor, hissing curses and swearing vengeance.

“Enough violence!” Grettir strode back atop the podium. “I understand that you are all upset, rightly so, and I will come and see each of you to discuss it further. But you will not be leaving today.” He glanced down at the wounded men. “So go back to your homes, and back to your families, and I will see what I can do.”

Horvorr’s Guard stood silent while those words faded in the sweep of a chill wind.

Men of all appearances exchanged glances and forwent their anger with long sighs or troubled frowns. They nodded assent and the crowd began to break apart, taking the wounded with them, leaving behind the gear and the beasts and the carts.

“You’re a good man,” a bald-headed man said to Hjorvarth, clapping him on the back before leaving with the others.

Shaggy oxen stood tethered in the line of half-readied carts. Tails swished as they stamped and lowed along the mud-churned road.

Hjorvarth stood confused but stepped forward to meet the robed man and the one-armed man who stopped at the bottom of Horvorr’s Barracks. “Grettir.”

“Hjorvarth.” Grettir’s hirsute face seemed wary. “I’d say thanks for your help but I’m not sure you needed to cripple a man.”

Hjorvarth found himself angered by that. “Speak words or don’t speak them. But waste no man’s time by discussing what you might say. As to your concern, from now on I will endeavor to stand and watch when folk cut your throat. But I did not come here for needless praise. I came to ask what all that was about.”

“You didn’t hear?” Grettir asked in a careful tone. “I’ve delayed the Autumn Trip.”

“Why?”

“Allow me to explain.” The Salt Sage raised his gloved hand for attention. “Goblins have reached a unification of sorts, and now they’re planning to wage a war against Horvorr, in order to claim back the region that is their ancestral home. And, as part of that, there was an ambush waiting for your seasonal trip. So, to avoid your deaths, I suggested that Grettir delay your leaving. Thankfully, he listened.”

Hjorvarth unhappily stared. “How would you know that with any certainty?”

“Tomlok whispers and I hear him.”

“He warns you of all danger?”

The Salt Sage upturned his gloved hands. “More or less.”

“But not when rowdy men swing fists at your face?” Hjorvarth ventured.

“That would be the less I spoke of.”

Hjorvarth grunted as if annoyed or amused. “And does this same ambush not now wait for traders, travellers and all the other people that will be needed to spare this place from starvation? What is your plan, Grettir?” he demanded of the one-armed man. “To hide behind walls where folk are at each other’s throats? In what world is that a good idea?”

Grettir hesitated. “I will discuss our options with Gudmund.”

“The option was simple enough. Tell me of your feared ambush and I would have sought it out myself. Or, simpler than that, left through the other gate.”

“I understand that you’re angry and you no doubt think I’ve disrespected you.”

“Disrespect?” Hjorvarth asked bitterly. “Do you think my pride weighs so heavily in my mind? You have endangered these people. As you endangered us all on the Snake Basin Path. I told you, time and time again, that we would be attacked. I told—”

“And I am trying to learn from that lesson!” Grettir cut in. “I am trying to do what is best for this town.”

Hjorvarth could only shake his head. “Then you are failing, Grettir. Pay less heed to the words of strangers.”

“Hjorvarth,” the Sage said. “Since you’re no longer busy, I don’t suppose—”

Hjorvarth silenced him with a black look.

The Salt Sage bowed in apology, stepping back. “Another time, perhaps.”

“I wish never to speak with you again,” he answered, marching towards the oxen.

Grettir made no delays in leaving with the Salt Sage. When they had walked for a short while down the dirt road, he said, “What is it you were you going to ask Hjorvarth?”

“I need his help with something only he can help with.”

“He’s not going to do whatever it is you want him to do,” Grettir warned. “So I’d give up while you’ve still got your good health.”

“He’ll do me no harm,” the Sage assured as if amused.

“Or he’ll break one or two bones. Like he did to Runolf and Hadin just then, and like he’s done to dozens of men in the past.”

“I’m sure he has his reasons.”

“Or he makes them,” Grettir said. “He beat two men senseless on the Snake Basin Path, and put another close to death.”

“What reason did he make for that?”

Grettir sighed. “They had been near to hand when Geirmund fought the troll. When—” He bit down on his words. “Hjorvarth blamed them for Geirmund’s death. He said that they stood around acting as handmaids for Sybille when they should have been fighting.”

“And was he wrong?”

“I wasn’t witness,” Grettir admitted. “But you can’t beat cowardice out of a man.”

The Salt Sage laughed. “I think you’re wrong there, Grettir. And aren’t you the one who asked him to lead the expedition?”

“That’s why it bothers me,” Grettir muttered. “He’s strong. Brave, or stubborn. He’s even swift minded despite his strange way of speaking. But he lives in his own world where right is right and wrong is wrong and only a gods-damned fool would ever confuse the two. The men with him, those meant to follow him, won’t ever understand that. So when he looks or talks to them they can’t help but feel judged.”

“Perhaps because he is judging them?” the Sage reasoned.

Grettir grunted. “True enough.”

“But folk don’t like to be judged, do they, Grettir?”

“Not to my reckoning.”

“Because then they’d be faced with the truth of what a useless excuse for a person they really are,” the Sage fondly mused.

Grettir slowed to a stop amid a dirt crossroad. “I’m not sure I’d go that far.”

“Coincidentally, I must also diverge from your path. I have other business to attend.” The Salt Sage deeply bowed. “Best of luck explaining all of this to Gudmund, Grettir.”