20. Signed in Blood

“I must write this to keep a record. The Godi of Muradoon has pronounced Sibbe dead, and refused to hand over her body. Brolli sacked the Ritual House in my name. I know not whether to kill him or kiss him. I must set out immediately, there may still be hope if I can bring her body to the Hall of Hrothgar.

I have entrusted my tavern and my son to Sam. He is a good man, but I fear for the character of his wife.

I have spent most my treasure to fund a force of unprecedented size and quality. I hope to finally discover what has slain those sent on earlier expeditions.

I will not stop until I find the Hall. When my wife is restored to me, I will finally have the time to be the husband and father that I should have been all these winters past.”

Isleif lay by the grey hearth in the taproom, mumbling in his sleep, turning and rolling, becoming entrapped in his fur jacket. He whispered the name Sibbe and his aged face creased with a sleeper’s smile. He was silent for a while longer, at peace, and then he groaned before opening his eyes.

The old man rose, wrong-footed by bundled fur, and steadied himself on the hearth. He yelped, pulling his hand away, and kicked free his feet.

Isleif’s night shirt was so worn and thin that the firelight shone through to his bony frame as he crept forward into the taproom.

Clattering from the kitchen preceded the splash and hiss of boiling water onto floorboards. “Damn,” Sam whispered.

Isleif licked his parched lips. “Where was I?” He wandered through the taproom, caressing the counter as he did. He stopped near the main door, studied it for a long while as if he might leave, and then turned instead to the left, towards a single table with four chairs, which stood wreathed in the darkness of the far corner. He passed by the bar’s dividing wall, turning left again into a shadowed corridor that ended in an open door.

Isleif made his way into the room that had once belonged to Sam’s son.

A small space. The bed on the left took up half the floor.

Inside the kitchen, Sam had gotten to his knees to mop up the spilled broth with a large rag. He paused when he heard rummaging from his son’s room. “Rats?” he asked.

He looked up at the blackened pot hanging over the fire, flames reminding him of a troubled old man. “Isleif!”

“Yes?” Isleif asked, his ponderous tone muffled by the wall.

Sam slipped on the spilled broth when he rushed to his feet, having to slam his hands into the wall to avoid the flames of the cooking pot. He ran out from the kitchen, climbed over the counter, and rounded the corner towards the open door.

He swept his gaze over the robed man, pale robe near blended into the shadows, who sat very still on the corner chair of the corner table.

“There’s no liquor in there, Sam,” the Sage said.

Sam startled, tripping over himself, but caught his balance on the wall.

“That’s twice you’ve done that.” The Salt Sage set a bottle of golden liquid on the table. “Are you worried about this?”

Sam frowned at the shadowed table. “You. You’re not—

“Welcome here?” The Salt Sage barked laughter. “I’ll admit that was an easy one. What about this, then? If Isleif walks out that door with Mardis’ harp, then I’ll stay, and if he doesn’t,” the Sage added with a weighing gesture, “then I’ll leave you alone. For good. I swear it. I’ll even leave this whole god forsaken town.”

Sam knew his wife would never leave Horvorr without her harp, even if she had planned to return. “Fine.”

“Look at this,” Isleif’s excitable words escaped through the open door. “Quite fine. Quite fine. Why ever leave it under the bed?” He emerged, and squinted at Sam. “Oh. It’s you again.” The old man cradled an ornate red-and-gold harp. He plucked a tune while he walked, skipping the strings that were snapped at the back.

The Salt Sage sighed as if deeply amused. “I do hope you’re not considering going back on our wager.”

“That’s not hers,” Sam insisted. “You must have put it there.”

“There’s dust on the wood, Sam. Perhaps you should consider what’s more likely? That I found a harp, identical to your wife’s own—with the same strings snapped—and placed it under her bed, behind a number of other things, without you ever noticing. Or… whether your Mardis simply forgot her harp.”

“She’d sooner forget me and the boy than that harp.”

“She wasn’t playing it that often though, was she?” the Sage asked. “Not for years, really. I think she began to lose her enthusiasm for music when you let Isleif take the stage every night, instead of your own wife. For the sake of profits. But then he always could carry a tune, couldn’t he, Sam?”

Isleif had sat back by the fire, with the harp readied on lap. He began to strum a slow tune, singing a wordless song in a quavering voice.

Sam sneered. “It dumbfounds me that you are not murdered daily.”

The Salt Sage laughed a sad laugh. “I keep a careful balance, though. Did I not speak more plainly yesterday? They were simple truths, and you dismissed them as lies. Tell me this then, at least. What reason would I have to deceive you?”

“What reason would you have to even care?”

“Care?” the Sage asked. “All that was for the price of the food, Sam. As agreed. And I’m here now because I need a place to stay.”

Sam smiled in disbelief. “You want to stay here?”

“I’ve nowhere else to go.”

“Then tell me the real truth,” Sam demanded. “Admit to me that you’ve got no gods given clue about my son or my wife. Whether she’s coming back or whether he’ll die.”

The Salt Sage sighed as he turned over the golden bottle in his hands. “I can do one. Or the other. Not both.”

Sam’s dark eyes trembled. “Why are you doing this to me?”

The Salt Sage shrugged. “Why do people ask if they don’t want the answers?”

Sam simply shook his head, and marched towards the kitchen.

“You really should sit, Sam! Because I’m not going to let you stab me with that knife, and this really is the last opportunity you’ll have to save your son. Listen to reason!” he implored. “Don’t you have enough regrets? Don’t we all have enough regrets? Don’t you at least want to hear me out? Where’s the harm in a word?”

Sam stopped beside his counter, forlorn eyes reflecting the weak firelight.

“The rafter above your head,” the Sage said, “has been abraded by rope. Rope that was wrapped around your neck. Rope that would have choked the life out of you had Isleif not wandered into this tavern under the belief that he was still the owner. And as to why you did it, Sam, you were desperate. And when you kicked the chair away, you were far more desperate than that to live. And you decided, after your old friend saved you, to make right the wrong you made when you kicked him out of your home. When you turned your back at the willing of your wife. You decided that you would try and be a good man, even though you had failed at being a good husband and a good father. And now I sit here, humbly and honestly, offering you an opportunity to right all your wrongs. And for some reason that enrages you.”

Sam met the words with a regard both sorrowed and severe. He had the pallor of a haunted man.

“We’ll need to eat first, of course.” The Salt Sage set the golden bottle on the table. “And we’ll have a drink too.” He upturned his gloved palms. “I’m afraid this isn’t a quick explanation. Things are never simple with King Rubinold or Jarl Thrand. Not to mention that charmer, Smiler. Kobold politics and human depravity.”

Sam stared. “And am I supposed to know what any of that means?”

Isleif’s hands drew idle on the harp. “A kobold is like a giant rat,” he explained, setting the instrument on the ground. “They have such beady eyes, you know, and snouts for sniffing out tubers.” He chuckled and the Salt Sage added to the laughter as if they were the oldest of friends.

***

The Salt Sage whistled a ponderous tune as he walked the courtyard to Brolli’s place. He was quick up the stair, avoiding the broken step, and he smiled before he shoved open the doors, which scraped painfully against misused floorboards.

A rowdy chorus gave pause now men turned to the noise.

The gambling room had been filled with over a dozen armoured guards, drunken for the most part, old men and fat men with twisted beards or rounded bellies, a deal of them wearing swords or axes. Those men of the delayed expedition glared at the Sage for his interruption—then a set of bones clattered and a man cheered; others lamented, and in the following clamour the robed man was quickly forgotten.

Ivar stood behind the counter, left brow narrowed, right unmoving atop a swollen eye. The three old men still sat at that same table in the taproom, while Arnor set a platter of mugs before them. Horvorr’s Guard, those tired of gambling or some other pursuit, drank and ate among surrounding tables.

Ivar reached to scratch his eye, but let his hand fall. “Who are you and what do you want?”

“I’m a traveler.” The Salt Sage dipped his head in greeting. “Here to see a man named Brolli.”

“He’s out,” Ivar said in a flat tone.

“Now, now, Ivar. You really should have learned your lesson with Hjorvarth. I might not hit quite as hard as him, but I’ll no more tolerate your lies than he will.”

Ivar licked his lips. “How did—”

“Tell me where he is,” the Sage growled. “I’ve long days ahead of me, long nights as well, and I don’t want to waste my time, here, talking to the likes of you.”

Ivar blinked. “He’s upstairs.”

“Thank you.” The Salt Sage offered a small bow. “And, Ivar, don’t scratch that eye, or it will turn bad. Lovrin will try to burn it out, of course, when it does. But it won’t work, so you’ll die shivering. No one will come to see you. I don’t think anyone will even notice that you’ve died.”

The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

Ivar noticed his own rising hand, and forced it back to his side.

The Salt Sage walked past the bar, ignoring the hard looks of those eating and drinking at the taproom tables. He crested the corner, and made his way into the walled stairs. The steps opened out into a straight landing, which offered access to four rooms. He turned left into the corridor, once more to face a door.

Muffled screaming sounded through the wood.

The Salt Sage rapped with a gloved hand. He waited while Brolli and Alrik spoke in hushed tones, then the door opened a crack.

“Is Brolli in there?” the Sage asked.

Alrik frowned. He was a lean man, with curly brown hair. He had a kind face, marred by scars and craters. “Who wants to know?”

“I do,” the Sage replied.

“Don’t know your voice,” Brolli put in.

“We haven’t met. I arrived in town yesterday.”

Brolli grunted. “You can let him in.”

Alrik dipped his head before stepping back from the door.

The Salt Sage strode into the small room. Fierce heat stifled the smoky air, along with the scents of blood and sweat. A narrow-chimneyed stove and a single sturdy chair served as the only furnishings. The chair housed a fourth man, his belly and thighs glistening with sweat. Pallid despite the heat, slashes made vivid streaks down his flabby chest. His wrists had been bound to the chair. One hand ended in two trembling fingers and three charred stumps.

Brolli held tight to a cleaver now he crouched over the seated man.

“A pleasure to meet you, Brolli,” the Sage said in a tone more measured than usual. “I am a Sage of Tomlok.”

Brolli glanced at him without warmth. “You don’t much look like one.”

“You’re not the first person to tell me that.”

“I’m speaking a plain truth. I’ve met a Salt Sage. And he looked a lot more impressive than you.”

The Salt Sage did not offer an immediate answer.

“You,” the bound man’s voice shook with pain and exhaustion. His face creased into a desperate smile “You need to help me. I didn’t do any—”

Brolli slapped him in the face. He glanced back at Alrik. “Give him a poke.”

Alrik pulled a glowing poker from the stove fire.

“So you doubt my—” the Sage began.

Brolli stayed both standing men with a raised hand. “Don’t know who you are. Don’t care who you are. Tell me what you want before I get annoyed.”

Alrik stepped closer with the hot poker.

“I don’t—” The fat man stared up, eyes wide with terror. “I don’t. I swear—”

Brolli shoved a rag into the man’s swollen mouth.

“As it happens,” the Sage said. “I came here to help you.”

“I already have a helper. Don’t need two. So you ought to leave while I still let you.”

“I could tell you where Aksel is hiding his gold.”

Brolli smirked. “Let me guess. He’s hid it in Timilir or Fenkirk or some other place that I can’t readily check?”

“No,” the Sage replied. “He still owns his old home in Horvorr. He still keeps to his old hiding places.”

Aksel’s terrified gaze flitted from Alrik to the Salt Sage.

Alrik gestured with the poker. “This is probably going to go cold.”

“So put it back in the fire?” Brolli shook his head. “And as to you, stranger, how in the Lady’s Shadow do you know this fool’s name? Or where he lives—”

“Because Tomlok tells me what I need to know.”

Brolli bared his yellowed teeth. “Does he?”

“He does,” the Sage assured. “But if you’re doubtful then I need only guide you to the buried treasure to prove the truth of my claims. And, if my faith has failed me, you can always strap me into a chair alongside your guest here.”

“A wondrous offer from a fearless man,” Brolli said without enthusiasm. “Those're exactly the kind I don’t trust. For all I know you could be a hired knife just wanting to lure me and my dear helpers into a grim ambush.”

“From what I’ve heard, I expect you’d see that as all the more reason to attend.”

“You’ve read me all wrong, stranger,” Brolli disagreed. “I don’t want anyone I care about to die for my sake.”

“Then you could go alone,” the Sage lightly suggested.

“I could at that.” Brolli sniffed. “And I would. Only I have to wonder why it is you want to help a man like me?”

“I will require a favour in exchange for my help.”

“A favour?” Brolli gratefully sighed. “Good.”

“Two favours, actually. Firstly, I’d ask that you spare Aksel any further harm.”

Brolli shrugged. “I’ll leave him with his life.”

“Secondly, that you use half of the coin to buy Sam’s Tavern. At dawn, tomorrow.”

“That’s not much time to work with.” Brolli’s dark regard turned doubtful. “Add to that, I know he doesn’t want to sell.”

“I can guarantee that he does now. If I’m wrong, a day wasted. If I’m right, then you’ll have the tavern you wanted, and you’ll have been paid to purchase.”

“I don’t trust him,” Alrik put in. “Sounds far too good to be true.”

“He’s got you there, stranger, hasn’t he?” Brolli pressed. “Why me? Why not make this offer to anyone? And don’t bother telling me this is about Aksel.”

“You are only person in this town who has a reason to buy that tavern. Those who are too honest to steal from me will be too soft to hurt Sam. Those who would hurt anyone they please may well hurt me. And then there is the other group who might simply keep the coin and refuse to buy for fear of your retribution. So you stand there and question my choice, but I am certain that this is my only option.”

Brolli nodded. “Not a bad answer. But why do you care so much about Sam?”

“He will not survive the coming war if he stays in Horvorr. Nor will Hjorvarth.”

“So you’ve come all this way to save men you barely know?”

“Well, I did once consider myself a great friend of a man in this town.”

“And what happened to him?”

“So far as I know he is still sleeping by the hearth in Sam’s Tavern. And when he wakes he will not even recognise me.”

Brolli surprised smile slowly shifted to sympathetic. Chin in hand, he studied the robed man for a long while. “Take me to this buried treasure.”

***

Sam, Brolli, and the Salt Sage sat at the middle table of Sam’s Tavern.

Isleif lay in the corner by the unlit hearth, wrapped in his blanket, idly strumming at his harp. He had watched them for the hour past as they made a clink of coins and gemstones. The sight reminded him of an old deal that he had made with Brolli, though he wasn’t sure what it was, or why he made it.

Still, this seemed as if his own memory played itself out ahead of him.

Sam appeared as desperate as Isleif had ever been, running his hands through his black hair as often as he could. He looked like he hadn’t slept a wink and he would keep glancing to the parchment ahead of him, to the gems and coins piled on the table. Then he would drink from his mug.

All the while Brolli stared, grinned and laughed, and the Salt Sage kept on at his talk, his wheedling and his insisting, making a song with his own melodic voice.

“I can’t leave Isleif,” Sam said, not knowing that Horvorr’s Guard had never even departed. “Not until Hjorvarth gets back.”

“No?” Brolli sniffed, his bullish face hateful. He knew well enough that Hjorvarth spent hours on the embankments whenever he was stressed or enraged. He’d had Ivar ready and waiting to delay him despite the Salt Sage’s assurance that Hjorvarth wouldn’t return till noon. “Didn’t stop you before, did it?”

Sam glanced away before scowling back.

Brolli smirked. “I’ll look after Isleif, is what I mean. I’ve done it before, and for a lot longer than you.”

“And how do I know you won’t just leave him out on the street?” Sam asked.

“Careful,” Brolli snarled. “Or I’ll just open your throat and sign this with your blood. Isleif is a friend of mine, as it happens.” He glanced at the bundled man. “And I don’t turn my back on friends, whether they remember themselves or not. Which is a lot more than can be said for the likes of you.”

“Sam,” the Sage spoke softly. “Hjorvarth won’t be back from the Autumn Trip for at least a season. If you wait for him to return then Dan will—well, he’ll die. And Brolli isn’t wrong. He has Arnor to help him. And they were the ones that looked after Hjorvarth when he was a younger, angrier man, and when Isleif himself was far from mellowed.”

Brolli grunted his agreement to that sentiment. “You want to sell or not? Make your choice, I don’t mind which it is. If you’ve not got the courage to save your son, that’s fine by me. But I won’t have you using Isleif as an excuse. Bad enough there’s already a hundred widows blaming him for the death of weak husbands.”

Sam looked to the Salt Sage, who smiled behind his rags. “You’ll make sure that Hjorvarth gets my letter?”

The Salt Sage dipped his hooded head. “Of course, Sam. I swear it by Tomlok and Broknar both.” He paused. “Now are you ready to sign?”

Sam swallowed and barely nodded. “Where’s the ink?”

Brolli held out a slender dagger with an emerald hilt. “Make your own.”

Sam took the blade and pricked a finger. He dipped a quill in the blood, made his mark on dusty parchment, and handed it over. Brolli grabbed Sam’s hand, stabbed him with the quill, then scrawled his own name.

“We’re all done, then,” the Sage declared, almost as if regretful.

Sam stared at the hooded man. “I hope you told me the truth.”

“I’m too honest to lie, Sam.”

“Well aren’t you a joke of a man?” Brolli then angrily asked of Sam, clearly disgusted. “Hjorvarth was telling me just the other day that you’d sworn to take care of Isleif.” He bared his stained teeth in a bitter grin. “You know it does my heart good to know that the real bastard’s of this world are all hiding behind kind faces.”

Sam glared, but his gaze soon fell to the contract on the table.

“You’ve signed, Sam.” The Salt Sage reached forward to roll up the parchment. “With your blood. So there’s no changing your mind now.”

“Right you are, Sage.” Brolli raised his brows. “As to you, Sam, two oxen and a cart are waiting at the gate. Should have all you need, but you can take that dagger as well,” he added with a sly smile. “In case you need to stab anyone else in the back.” He then waved towards the door. “Close that on your way out.”

Sam’s eyes widened in incense. “Who—”

“Another word,” Brolli roared, “and I’ll cut out your tongue!” He slowly shook his head. “I don’t think you understand quite how angry you’ve made me. But then I don’t expect you to know what loyalty is to a man that has it.” Brolli straightened, one hand resting on the onyx pommel of his sword. “Now I’m tired of seeing your face, so you should get out of my tavern. Unless you’re planning on spending the night, and all the nights after, in the Lady’s Shadow.”

“There’s no need for any of that.” The Salt Sage scooped coins and trinkets into a leather pouch. “Go where I’ve told you to go, Sam. Do what I’ve told you to do. And your son will be fine. Of that you can be assured.”

Sam took the pouch, which seemed to weigh both hand and heart, then shouldered a heavy leather pack.

“Sam Longarrow.” The Salt Sage sat back on his seat. “When they ask in Timilir, that is your name.”

Sam turned back when he reached the door. Brolli shot him a black look, flicking his wrist in dismissal.

“Bastard,” Sam muttered, not sure if he was speaking to himself. He only then noticed Isleif, who stared back as if greatly sorrowed. The old man hurriedly shuffled over.

“You look fit to travel.” Isleif knitted his owly brows. “Where are you going with all those things?”

“I’m going to Timilir, to go and help Dan.” Sam smiled to reassure Isleif. “He’s in trouble. But once I find him, I’ll bring him back.”

“Oh. I’ll come with you,” Isleif said.

“You can’t.”

“But I always said that I would,” Isleif insisted, blinking tears from his milky eyes. “Don’t make a liar of me, Sam.”

“I need to do this on my own,” Sam said feebly. “You need to stay here and look after Hjorvarth.”

“Sibbe will do that.”

“She can’t. She’s visiting her family in Timilir.”

“So we’ll take the boy with us,” Isleif argued. “He’ll enjoy the adventure.”

“Not this time,” Sam said. “I won’t even be gone long. Once I find Dan, we’ll both come back to see you.”

“You will,” Isleif said with a nod. “But I won’t be here then, Sam. We won’t ever see each again.”

“That’s fool talk, Isleif.” Sam reached out to embrace him. Feeling how frail he had become under the fur, he hugged Isleif as tight as he dared. “I’ll be back soon.”