19. Underestimated

“I have woken up in a fetid pile of goblin corpses.

Though the feast at the dwarven settlement had gone surprisingly well, I sat waiting for swords to sing from sheathes and axes to cleave through green necks. Instead, we ate and drank ourselves into a stupor, unaware that all that we were consuming had been poisoned.

The robust constitution of our kind usually prohibits such treachery, but Headsmen Grunel must be well informed of our genetic weaknesses.

I wonder if they have had aid from the dead god, Muradoon, and acted at his command.

If I have survived, then so too has The Small King. But all the rest of our procession are dead and rotting. I had long thought that I did not have sentimentality left to form friendships, or to care, about my kin, but seeing those I had grown familiar with laying dead, eyes vacant, in a gruesome pile filled me with unfamiliar grief and unbridled rage.

No doubt they have trapped Agrak if they cannot kill him. I am not sure if I should find him, and restore his authority, or try and take over the Grorginite Empire myself.

But I am sure of one thing, I want revenge. The dwarves will go extinct once more.”

Sybille sighed, fanning herself with a dusty tome. She had almost sweat through her pristine white dress. “It’s far too warm.”

Arfast, armed and armored, grunted. “How do you think I feel?”

They were both at the center of a wide library, enclosed in a stone surround, but furnished by woods both red and golden. There were even a few desks made of the black wood that was the most prized and valued export of Fenkirk.

Sybille sat at one of those, squinting at the arrayed books ahead of her, dusty pages laid open at the point where she had since tired of reading. “I had thought you were indifferent to the heat.”

Arfast stood behind her, ahead of a crowded bookshelf. He had view of the entrance to their left, and of most of the marble avenues. “And why would you think that?”

Sybille’s pale face lay framed by strands of slick red hair when she looked back at the old guard. “I don’t really know. You seem—”

“Cold?”

Sybille returned to the book before her. “Immutable,” she corrected.

“You say that as if it is a good thing.”

“Isn’t it?”

“What good is a man that doesn’t change?”

“What good is a man that changes for the worse?”

“Perhaps he’ll change for the better,” countered Atsurr.

“Perhaps,” Sybille admitted. “But then you’re fine as you are… and you’re too old to worry of changing.”

“Am I?”

“Aren’t you?”

Arfast nodded. “I am… but a man can always pretend.”

Sybille glanced back at him. “And women?”

“They never stop pretending,” he dryly answered.

Sybille chuckled. “Words spoken from experience are the truest and the falsest, old friend.”

“And are we friends now, young woman?”

“I was reading an annotation,” she explained. “But, yes, we are. Unless you’re too old to have friends, Arfast?”

“No fear for me,” he said. “The worry is in bonding with the old… and when they pass, well, the young suffer.”

“Lucky for me then that your death will likely precede my own. I’ll have little time to grieve.”

Arfast chuckled. “You have a grim humour, girl. What words are you reading?”

“Nothing, everything.” Sybille waved an idle hand to the books arrayed on the black desk. “Those near the top were histories, on the stone city, and the two regions of Southeastern Tymir. One was a long-winded mention of how the Low King came to be. Another some treatise on the true creators of the city,” she tiredly added. “But what good is it to know that another people lived here before and died?”

Arfast’s armour rattled with his answering shrug. “Perhaps it would allow you to avoid the same fate?”

“Perhaps.”

“And what’s this?” He stepped forward. “A man has scribbled on the edges.”

“Always ‘a man’ with you,” she chided.

“Habit,” Arfast dismissed. “Though most men are scholars, and it’s a quicker word to say.”

“True.” Sybille wiped hair from her sweaty brow. “It is a history of the goblins. Of a settlement under the earth named Grorgin, ruled by a shaman named Lozrig, a warrior named Kragor, and a guardian named Orog. They are all old friends or so it seems, but a runt has been born and Kragor wishes to kill it. Lozrig has already named it Agrak, which is a formal rite, and so he has lessened the importance of a coming ceremony.”

“And what do you think of that?” Arfast asked.

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“There is mention of an old war with the dwarves that crippled the Goblins of Grorgin.” Sybille shrugged. “I expect that the runt will survive, and come to lead the goblins against the dwarves. And thus the moral will be that even a small creature can matter in his own way. Brain over brawn and such like that.”

“I had more meant what do you think of the prospect of killing the runt?”

“Do men not do the same thing with ill-formed children?”

“Men,” Arfast pointedly echoed.

“Men,” Sybille flatly repeated.

“And if the choice were yours?” asked the old guard.

Sybille turned in her chair. “Are you wishing it upon me, Arfast?”

Arfast’s gaze hardened. “Not in any way, girl. Not in any way.”

“I am sorry. That was—” Sybille paused. “I would, yes. The men do it out of custom, but I would not shy away from making the choice. If the babe dies, they will go to the after life and be fully grown. To make them suffer the waking life as less than what they should be… I could not suffer it. I would not let my child suffer it.

“My mother had six children,” Arfast said as if idle mention. “Five were exposed. It is a thing I think on often as I grow older and more alone.”

“I understand that plight well enough.” Sybille nodded, turning back to her open book. “You were not really a member of Horvorr’s Guard, were you, Arfast?”

He stood silent for a while. “I am who I need to be when a situation arises.”

“And why did you need to be in Horvorr?” Sybille pressed.

Arfast searched the surround of packed bookshelves, clear tables, and unoccupied chairs. “I fear the honest answer will not sit well with you, Sybille.”

“I have no great fondness for silence, either, old friend.”

“I came there to die.”

“Something of an irony that you outlived all those that hoped to survive, then?”

“I suppose it is.”

“And when did you arrive in Horvorr?” she asked. “Why, even?”

“I’d venture I came on the last cart before the war. Not long before it started, at any rate,” he decided. “I came because I heard of what happened on the Snake Basin path… and I knew enough of the old war to guess that the Great Chiefs had been gathered. So I came there, expecting a fight… hoping to die.”

“Yet you warned no one?”

“Words are of little use to men who wish themselves deaf,” Arfast dismissed. “I spoke warnings, but none listened. I asked audience with your father, but I was refused. It wouldn’t have mattered. As I travelled from Timilir to Horvorr, the Great Chiefs were already moving, already marauding Southwestern Tymir. I slipped through Timilir’s gates just before they pulled the rope tight around the region’s neck.”

Sybille let out a long sigh. “And why would you want to die, Arfast?”

“You would not believe me if I told you.”

“You believed my tale of ghosts.”

“I did, but… fine,” he conceded. “I am over two hundred years old. I once bedded the daughter of a woods witch that wished my master dead and I was faced with a choice to act against him or murder my lover and the woods witch both. I made my choice, and the woods witch cursed me before her death. She swore I would outlive every master that I loyally served and respected. Her words held true, death after death, from one man’s service to another. I thought, hoped, that old age would take me but I seemed to reach my own limit. Old as I was, I would decay no further.”

Sybille’s laugh was disconcerted. “And have you not considered taking your own life?”

“More than considered, Sybille, I—” Arfast paused, hand resting on his sword. “An unarmed man approaches.”

“Greetings!” came a warm declaration, echoing around the library.

The tall man strode forward in a loose blue shirt. He smiled brightly at the red-haired woman in white, even though she had barely turned to regard him. “I do apologize for my delay,” he politely began, “circumstances prevented me from arriving when I had expected. My father told me where you were, Sybille, and I thought I would come see you right away.” He smiled as if uncertain. “It is Sybille, is it not? Or have I made a fool of myself finding the wrong woman…?”

Sybille arched an eyebrow, her countenance cold despite the heat. “Have we met?”

The tall man’s smile widened, and he laughed. “Thrand. I’m Thrand… Young Thrand. I am sorry… for some reason I assumed you would know who I am.” He straightened, still smiling at the pale woman, then glanced at the guard. “And you are, friend?”

“Arfast of Horvorr’s Guard.”

“An honour to meet you, then,” he replied. “I hear the war in Southwestern Tymir was a close thing.”

Arfast nodded. “You seem to have seen violence yourself.”

Young Thrand frowned, then glanced down at his blue shirt, now staining purple. “Gods,” he muttered, shaking his head. “We had a procession of folk pass us by, and then start dragging men off of horses. Thankfully they were poorly trained or we would all be dead. I must have ridden too hard on the way in and reopened a wound.” He seemed to want to shrug, but stood restless instead. “Have you been well looked after, Sybille?”

Blood tapped against the marble floor, marking it with circles.

“I suppose I have.” Sybille stared up at the kindness in his plain face. “Should you not see to your wound?”

“I have arrived days late, and stood here only for a few moments,” he explained. “I do not wish to leave now and make you think even less of me.”

“I could not think less of you, Thrand. Will not, even. I will admit I was surprised by your lack of arrival, but I do not blame you given what happened.” Sybille narrowed her blue eyes. “And I can assure you I will be greatly displeased should you die not long after arriving. If you wish to see me afterwards, I will be here for the next few hours. And if I am not, then you can find me in the dining hall or in my room.”

“Of course.” Young Thrand appeared disappointed, but nodded and regained his smile. “I suppose it is disconcerting to speak to a man as he is bleeding. Is there anything that you would want me to bring with me when I return?”

“No,” Sybille answered. He winced and she reconsidered. “I would like a new cloak.”

Young Thrand frowned, then nodded in somber fashion. “Very well… anything else?”

Sybille shrugged. “Do you need anything, Arfast?”

Arfast glanced between them. “I believe he meant for you, Sybille.”

“No,” Young Thrand assured. “A cloak is easy enough to carry… and simple enough to find. So long as you’re not going to ask for me for a horse, by all means.”

Arfast offered a slow nod. “I would be grateful for a second drinking skin.”

“On a day like this, who would blame you.” Young Thrand dipped his head, still smiling, then bowed low to Sybille. “I will be back soon, with a skin and a cloak—unbloodied, as well, I hope.” He paused. “I had not meant that to rhyme. Please do not think me a worrisome poet.” He waited a while longer. “I am going to leave now.”

Sybille politely smiled. “Goodbye, Thrand. And safe journey into the city. The streets have been poorly cleaned since a man was paraded for his crimes, and murderers make havoc in the alleys, abducting folk and leaving in their places bags of teeth.”

“Truly?” Young Thrand’s mirth shifted to horror. “A recent development?”

“No.” Sybille shook her head. “Quite old.”

“Oh.” Young Thrand’s gaze fell. “I should have… well—”

Sybille watched with disinterest. “I can tell you more once you fetch my cloak.”

“Yes… yes,” he worriedly answered. “I would appreciate that, Sybille. It would seem I have been ill-informed of recent events.”

“Goodbye, then,” Sybille said. “And, once more, good luck.”

Young Thrand bowed then strode away, trailing droplets of blood as he departed.

Arfast chuckled for a long while.

Sybille turned in her chair, blue eyes narrowed. “He was odd, but not that odd.”

“Him?” Arfast shook his head. “No, girl, I was laughing at you.”

Sybille turned back to the open pages. “I acted as anyone would. He acted as if his life hung in the balance.”

“I would guess he expected a warmer reception.”

“Are you saying that I was cold?”

“Dancing on the knife’s edge between that and outright hostile.”

Sybille frowned down at the book-cluttered table. “So you think I’ve made a mistake?”

“Not at all,” Arfast assured. “I thought it was well handled… especially when he asked if you wanted drink or food, and you asked him for a cloak.”

“Is that what he meant?” Sybille shrugged. “I did ask him for drink in a roundabout way.”

“For me.”

“Yes.”

“And what did you think of him?”

“He was not how I expected him to be.”

“You expected him to be a withered, cruel old man,” Arfast reasoned.

“I supposed I did.”

“And was he better or worse then you expected?”

“Better,” Sybille admitted. “But young men still have time to change.”

“If we’re back to that, perhaps you could do a better job of pretending.”

“Kragor wouldn’t pretend.”

Arfast frowned. “Krag—” He paused. “Oh, the goblin. Probably not a man to aspire to.”

“According to this all goblins breed into the same pool,” said Sybille, leafing through the dusty parchment. “So there are no men and women. Or there are only women.”

“Even so.”

“Maybe the ancestors of Kragor are under our very feet, breeding, discarding runts.”

“Beneath our feet?” Arfast doubtfully echoed. “There only stones, bones, and the earth itself. Amid that, kobolds running around their tunnels.”

“No dwarves?”

“No chance of that.”

Sybille curiously smiled. “Why so sure?”

“You said yourself, Sybille. The runt goblin killed them all.”