2. Friends

“I’ve always had great luck in making friends. Yet never any success in holding onto them. Only Brolli seems to favor me after all these seasons, and I often fear our friendship reflects little more than a well latched leech.

Everywhere I go, my reputation precedes me. I am greeted with smiles and fanfare. And yet I always leave in clouds of distrust and hostility. Despite casting for stories and scouring all histories available to me, I have heard of no other man who has been exiled from Vendrick, Timilir and the Low Lands without committing a single murder.

Perhaps this fact requires some self reflection. Or, more likely, it is simply horrid luck. If this carries on I’ll have to join Gudmund of Weskin’s ill-fated conquest in Southwestern Tymir. Or, more preferably, perhaps I should wander off into the western bog lands or frozen north. Better that than to end my days being shared like a slaughtered pig between a ravenous goblin horde.”

Horvorr’s Guard neared the monolithic walls of Timilir not long after noon. They had only suffered the loss of one oxen and one wagon, which left a shaggy animal to roam on its own. Hjorvarth, almost of a size with the beast, walked with it beside him, having volunteered to hold a lead rope as they climbed the final approach.

The mountainous path lay behind the trudging caravan of Horvorr’s Guard, snaking amid stones, scree and boulders until it reached the snow plains of Southwestern Tymir. Smoke drifted up from the remnant camp that sheltered those of Horvorr’s Guard who couldn’t, or didn’t want, to visit Timilir.

Ahead of the caravan, rose a wall of dull grey stone that seemed to eclipse the heavens and leave all those that approached in the shadows of insignificance. The great gates lay unadorned, and closed. The battlements extended beyond the wall, so high up that any guards stood waiting could not be seen.

Hjorvarth left the shaggy ox with Horvorr’s Guard as they brought the caravan to a grinding, shouting, clopping stop. He made his way up a steep stone rise beside the road, which tapered off into a narrow peak that almost touched the battlements.

Agnar frowned, watching as the huge man leapt onto the wall. “Did you see that?”

Geirmund glanced at his brother, paying more mind to the disgruntlement spreading through the caravan. “It’s not a long jump.”

“I’ve a mind to follow him.”

Agnar turned away from the gate. Stone rises enclosed the road on both sides. The path behind them was an array of rough faces, shaggy oxen, and loaded wagons.

The beasts looked no happier than the men.

“I bet those poor bastards at the back are having fun trying to keep the oxen still and stop the carts rolling back,” Agnar mentioned.

Geirmund offered a shallow nod. “They’ll let us in soon enough.”

“Soon?” Agnar asked. “They haven’t even called down to us.” He craned his neck to see the gleaming rim of a large cauldron. “Maybe they’re all dead. Maybe all the other Jarls got tired of trade tithes and decided it would be cheaper if they conquered Timilir.”

Geirmund stared. “Did Jarl Thrand piss in your porridge?”

“What?” Agnar rubbed at his bruised cheek. “Not that I know of, brother. Though maybe that’s to blame for the bad taste in my mouth.”

Geirmund’s proud face hardened. “I begin to notice every second word out of your mouth has some mention of him, or at the very least of Timilir.”

“I’m just making conversation,” Agnar insisted. “Should I not speak of Timilir or Jarl Thrand? When the whole purpose of this trip is to travel here to see him.”

“Remind me. Why did Grettir hit you?”

Agnar smirked, his lip split and swollen. “I’ve already told you that he didn’t.”

“Ah, yes,” said Geirmund doubtfully. “You tripped and landed on his knee.”

Agnar shrugged. “Goes to show folk tell it true when they call me a slippery fuck.”

Sybille tutted as she walked up beside them. “You curse too much,” she said. “You do know there’s more to being a good man than talking crass, don’t you, brother?”

Agnar stepped back as if struck. “Truly?” he asked. “I had no clue, Syb’, no clue at all. But, if you’ve the generosity of spirit to unburden my ignorance, and so that I have an example… is Geirmund a good man?”

Sybille studied her statuesque brother. “I think he is. Yes.”

“That helps, then.” Agnar nodded, making a great effort to straighten. “So I should stand like this.” He turned to scrutinize a distant boulder. “I should look off at everything and anything as if an unfathomable mystery well worth considering.”

Geirmund met the sentiment with a thin smile. “It would be an improvement if you considered anything at all.”

Agnar’s roguish face turned solemn. “Should I speak like this?” he asked in a low, slow tone. “So that folk know I’m voicing words of great importance.”

“You could.” Sybille pursed her lips. “Or you could simply stop acting like an ass.”

Geirmund’s smile broadened. “A little harsh, Sybille.”

“I will stop.” Agnar turned back to the grey gate. “But only if the gods give me a sign that I should change my ways. If this gate opens before one of our men come up here to complain about the wait, then I will do my best to be a good man for very nearly a third of each and every day.”

Geirmund and Sybille followed their brother’s gaze to the towering gate that had been wrought with a round shield crossed by two axes: one for mining and one for war.

“Well,” Agnar said, “I really thought that would--"

A monstrous thunk shook the air. Hinges cried out and stone shuddered. Mechanisms and weights started into motion, then great chains sounded out in a rhythmic clangor. The gate groaned inward, shaking the ground of the mountainous path. Shaggy oxen cried out in slight distress, loosing their bowels and urinating, while a dozen men of Horvorr’s Guard stumbled in place.

Hazy light lanced through the opening crack, blinding Agnar while his brother and sister walked forward before the gate lay fully open.

“Agnar!”

Agnar turned, frowning down at a short blond man. “Hm?”

Engli warily smiled. “The gate opened!”

“Oh.” Agnar smiled back as he nodded. “Thanks so much for pointing that out,” he replied, sure enough that he wasn’t heard. “You helpful little bastard!”

“What?” Engli mouthed.

“I said, thanks,” Agnar answered, as the gate stopped with a reverberative clunk, "for nothing!”

Engli frowned as the irritated shout played back from the mountains amongst booming stone and hissing dust. “What’s for nothing?”

“A drink. I meant that I’d buy you a drink… for nothing.”

“Oh,” Engli said with hopeful confusion. “After we’ve been to Jarl Thrand’s Estate?”

“Exactly that, Engli.” Agnar clapped him on the shoulder. “First we better take young Sybille to her betrothed.”

They both turned towards the gate, where a few grey guards ambled around a small paved square. Five streets separated three main buildings from each other and the monolithic walls of the stony city.

Agnar had frequented the tavern of white stone ahead. He had bought clothes, for women he knew, in the wooden building that towered to the right. He had never visited the stone storefront opposite that, because it had been built beside a noisy forge. An intermittent din of metal rang out into the square, above the huff of bellows and the hiss of water.

He turned to the distinct tinkle of a bell. Hjorvarth emerged from the doors of Matilda’s Finery, having to duck and turn to better fit through the frame.

Agnar strode forward to meet the huge man. “Hjorvarth!”

Hjorvarth paid no mind as he strode past a grey fountain. He wore his hair tied back in a tail, clasped by three bronze bands, which swayed across his large painted shield.

“Hjorvarth!” Agnar called once more, quickening his stride.

“Hjorvarth,” Engli echoed, now the three men converged ahead of the white tavern.

Hjorvarth turned, his pale eyes regarding both men without inclination. He had combed his thick red beard and appeared imposing despite the wear to his well-worn jacket of leather and fur. “I thought you might have wanted another man with the same name,” he explained without inflection.

“No harm,” Agnar assured. “I have a question for you, is all.” He waited for the huge man to prompt him further, before deciding to continue. “Myself, and Engli, are on our way to Jarl Thrand’s Estate. I wondered if you wanted to accompany us.”

Hjorvarth nodded, his pale eyes stirring in thought. “To what end?”

Engli straightened. “Agnar and his brother have a troublesome relationship with Jarl Thrand and his family.” He smiled when the huge man stared down at him. “I think he’s worried that I might not be of much use if it came to a fight.”

“A little of that,” Agnar admitted, “but I’ve actually been thinking of traveling—to make a name for myself—and for that I would need good men.”

Hjorvarth raked at his beard. “You have my thanks for the offer, but I must refuse.” He dipped his head, and turned to leave.

“To be clear,” Agnar said, following, “you understand that I would pay you for your company?” He winced at his own phrasing, but kept step while they strode out of the square and onto a paved street flanked on both sides by sturdy stone homes.

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“Really?” Hjorvarth frowned, not bothering to stop. “Even so, I have things that I must attend to. If you wish, I can find you after that.”

“Good enough.” Agnar slowed to a stop. “I’ll be at the Toothless Grin later tonight.”

“Should I know where that is?”

“It’s a whorehouse in the southern rise.”

Hjorvarth shrugged, and departed. “I’ll find it if I’m still able to walk.”

“Right.” Agnar frowned at Engli. “The man must be a drunk.”

“I don’t think he meant like that.”

“Women?”

“I thought it was more if someone hadn’t broken his legs.”

Agnar laughed.

“What’s funny about that?”

“It’s because Grettir—” Agnar shrugged. “Never mind.”

He turned back, and crossed into the square with the grey well, heading towards the white tavern.

Engli paused, watching the rest of Horvorr’s Guard bringing wagons through the stone city's great gates. “Shouldn’t we be helping with the wagons, or catching up with Geirmund and Sybille?”

Agnar had almost reached the tavern, but slowed to a stop. “True enough.”

A shrivelled man, wearing fine dark clothes, stepped out from the shadowed doorway. He paused at the top of the steps, casting a withering glance to the fur-clad fighters handling the carts. “Horvorrians.”

“What was that, you old prick?” Agnar asked.

The old man’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “I was merely lamenting the advent of you and your company,” he coldly explained. “Agnar, is it? Gudmund’s uglier son. Prone to tall talk and small action.”

Agnar raised his brows. “Man with a walking stick should better measure his words… won’t be too easy for you to run if you overstep. Or maybe you’ll do just that and fall flat on your face. That could hurt you, old man, I’m sure of that.”

The black-clad man lifted his dark cane, golden head worked in a serpentine fashion. “I do wish you would call me by title, Agnar.”

“Title?”

“Jarl of Timilir,” Engli whispered.

“There we are,” Jarl Thrand rasped when Agnar’s smile slipped. “It seems the gods robbed your friend of his height, but left him with some wisdom. I’ll forgive your insults, Agnar. No need to worry. I was a young man once, hard as that might to believe.”

“I am humbled by that, then," Agnar agreeably answered. "Though I’m surprised you decided to wait for us on your own. I expected a welcome.”

“I am here to drink, and to eat," Jarl Thrand dismissed. "I come here every morning. It’s a ritual of mine. All part of a trick I like to play on myself. If you wanted a welcome then your father should have bothered to attend instead of sulking in Horvorr.”

Agnar managed a slight smile even as the rest of his face darkened.

“What trick is that?” Engli asked.

Jarl Thrand’s aged face twisted in disgust. “You really shouldn’t interject when your betters are speaking.”

“My mistake,” Agnar said. “About you waiting, I mean. Would you like us to accompany you to your estate? Or shall we meet you there?”

“I have no fondness for either option.” Jarl Thrand descended the tavern steps with aid of his cane. “I will be leaving on my own, and I will be sorely disappointed if your friend is at my home when I return to it.”

“Safe travel, then,” Agnar said. “As to Engli, my father always tells me that life offers a man little more than disappointment.”

Jarl Thrand turned from them, clack of a cane marking his departure. “Disappointment,” he murmured, glancing back at the tavern as a tall man in full armour strode out to follow the Jarl of Timilir. The guard regarded both men as he passed, his expression hidden behind polished metal.

“It’s a mystery to me,” Agnar muttered.

“What is?”

Agnar turned to the flustered blond man. “Why my father would ever want the friendship of man like that.” He raised a hand to halt a reply. “Not a question that needs answering, Engli. I understand the practicalities of it.” He sighed. “Let’s see if we can’t catch up with my most noble brother and my dearest sister.”

“I’m not sure that I should go.”

“I’ve no mind to force you.” Agnar ambled away, towards the street between the tavern and the tailor. “So long as you’ll be able to live with yourself.”

Engli hurried to catch up. “What do you mean?”

“Thrand is a snake. You can see that by his cane.” Agnar turned, brows furrowed in contemplation. “I wouldn’t want you to blame yourself, that’s all. Should this whole betrothal be an elaborate betrayal.”

“If you believed that you wouldn’t risk the visit.”

“No?” Agnar humbly upturned his palms. “So long as you’re sure.”

***

Geirmund and Sybille had passed through paved streets, between stone homes banded by metal that gleamed with the noon sun.

They reached an open plaza, pausing to survey a crowd of rowdy, plump folk that were dressed in thick cotton clothes of all colours. Wooden stalls were arrayed under the shadows of storefronts, warehouses and workshops. They were tended to by merchants of all appearances, who sold wares from all across the disparate regions of Tymir.

The gathered folk created a fearsome din and drone with their combined shouts and conversations. Geirmund stood watching, letting the noise wash over him, hearing the thud of a butcher cutting through meat, the muted slap as fish were sifted into a basket.

He met eyes with a tethered goat and was sure that he saw desperation.

Geirmund tore his gaze away, recognising a familiar sight through the sea of people. A man tall enough to be seen over most men, his red hair tied back into a tail, his pale eyes wild. Geirmund glimpsed gleaming metal as gaps formed and closed in the jostling crowd. He worried that the huge man was surrounded by thugs with knifes.

“Geirmund?” Sybille asked over the noise. “Are you well?”

“Hold up!”

Geirmund turned to see his roguish brother approaching at a run. Engli struggled to keep step, short and smiling.

“Leaving without us?” Agnar asked.

Geirmund looked back to where he had before, but could no longer see Hjorvarth. He stepped forwards, searching the shifting faces of the crowd and the unchanging walls of tall structures that enclosed the plaza.

“Geirmund,” Sybille and Agnar pressed as one.

“Gudmund told us to buy no gift,” Agnar reminded alone.

Geirmund stared at the colourful people of the stone city, some of them bellowing and screaming, all of them striving to reach a destination that seemed ever at odds with that of another. Their chorus underscored by vegetables rumbling into sacks, by the grating slice of a cloth seller’s measuring blade.

“Brother?” Agnar asked, his tone worried.

“It’s nothing.” Gudmund turned, forcing a smile. “I thought I saw a man being robbed.”

“Hardly a surprise.” Agnar shrugged, and turned to his sister. Sybille smiled as she spoke quietly to Engli. Agnar found himself unnerved by the warmth in his sister’s eyes. “Are we going?”

Sybille noticed his scrutiny. She started off down the paved road. “Come on, Engli.”

“Are you coming, Geirmund?” Agnar asked, while the young man and woman crossed onto a shaded street.

Geirmund nodded and the brothers followed after their sister.

“I met Jarl Thrand on the way in.”

Geirmund glanced at his brother. “Did you?”

“He didn’t say much. Not much at all. Beyond a firm, unspoken declaration that he was a bastard beyond measure.”

“I see,” Geirmund sighed. “Do remember that we’re here to make friends.”

“I remember. No need to worry on that. We’ll soon have another man to call a brother as well, and won’t that be fun?”

Geirmund nodded. “Though I wouldn’t call him that. I don’t think he’ll want to be reminded of his ties with the likes of you.”

“A miscreant?” Agnar asked, answered by a shake of the head. “A braggart? A cheat at bone rolling? A man that’s quick to anger and quicker to laugh? A good brother? A bad brother? A frequenter of whorehouses and a man of little worth?”

Geirmund smiled. “In my eyes, you are none and all of those things. Though I would take issue with your estimation of worth.”

“Too high?” Agnar reasoned.

“Too low, brother.” Geirmund’s smile faded to leave his face cold and regal. “Far too low.”

Agnar laughed a quiet laugh and the brothers walked on in silence. The older brother did not notice the younger brother’s pensive regard as they traveled. Nor the fleeting mix of grief, love and regret that flashed through Agnar’s misty eyes when he sighed.

“Something the matter, brother?” Sybille asked from beside them.

“‘Course not, Syb’,”Agnar tried to assure, despite the slight quaver to his lie. “I’m just feeling sentimental. We’re off to meet your husband, after all.”

Sybille fixed him with a quizzical stare, so intent upon reading his face that she didn’t notice her brother’s fingers dancing above his sword’s pommel. “Lucky me.”

***

"Here I thought Thrand wasn't giving us a welcome," Agnar remarked. He and Geirmund reached the top of the stone slope that led up to the vast marble estate of Jarl Thrand.

Up ahead, over a score guards stood waiting with spears drawn. The armoured man who was following Thrand earlier stood ahead of the group. "Sons of Geirmund," he greeted without warmth, his aged voice warped by the confines of his helm. "Jarl Thrand welcomes you to his home. And offers to take your weapons into safe keeping."

Agnar was about to argue, but Geirmund spoke first. "Jarl Thrand want us to surrender our swords?" he asked as if doubtful. "Or is this a request of yours, Atsurr?"

Atsurr made a disagreeable murmur. "I am the Captain of Timilir's Guard. Whether the request is mine, or Jarl Thrand's, it should be honoured."

"You are armed and armored with a dozen men. You cannot fear the three of us. The request is ridiculous... and cowardly."

The score guards bristled at that, taking tighter grips on their spears, and Agnar found himself smiling. He had not expected his brother to be so bold. Outnumbered as they were, they'd end their days skewered like an archery bale. But Agnar had never had a real fight alongside his brother. He'd always hoped for a day when the pair would fight back to back against terrible odds.

"Fine," said Atsurr. "Then you are no longer welcome."

"Understood," said Geirmund. "Bring word from Jarl Thrand or one of his sons, and we will depart as soon as we are able."

"That will not be neccessary."

"It will be, Atsurr," Geirmund assured in a hard, almost cruel voice, that Agnar had never heard before. "For your sake much more than mine. You seem to be riled, or afeared... through no fault of my own. And I would not have you risk overstepping and losing your position to someone younger and wiser. Both of which are feats easily achieved."

The guard captain placed one gauntleted hand on his sword. "How dare--"

"I hate to be rude," cut in Sybille, her voice clarion and kind, "but if the only thing stopping us from being welcomed into the estate is a lack of a weapon, then I must be free to enter. Engli," she said to the blond fighter beside her, "hand over your sword, would you...?"

"Sybille." Geirmund stepped forth, but Agnar lay one firmly hand on his shoulder.

"It has been a long trip, brother," Sybille said, striding forth towards the guards who swiftly lowered their weapons and stepped aside to let her through. "I'm ready to meet my husband."

Engli hesitated, looking between Sybille and her brothers, and eventually hurried after her, handing over his sword hilt first. Atsurr stared at Geirmund for a long moment, then fell in beside Sybille along with a pair of other guards. "Do not let them pass through the gates," he ordered to those staying behind.

Agnar regarded his brother, whose cheeks had flushed with the slightest colour while sweat beaded on his brow. He seemed to be working through all the choices available to them in his head. The younger brother did his own quick thinking, considered finding the nearest tavern, and then marched forwards instead.