21. Blind Eye

“Despite many winters with the both of them, I am still no closer to truly understanding the bond between Brolli and Gudmund.

They speak so openly of their hatred for one another, yet never act on the words. Time and again, I have seen them risk life and limb to save each other on the battlefield in moments where I was sure that they would be lost. Gudmund once hurled his only axe to save his disreputable brother in an arc that by all rights should have been impossible to hit while being savaged by a dozen goblins.

Yet the throw was true, and Gudmund struggled on despite having a great chunk torn from his neck and many other wounds beside. Brolli did not even thank him for this. So I reasoned that he did not know and instead thought that the axe that spared him was errant. But when I mentioned the throw to him, he simply laughed and derided his brother as an idiot for disarming himself on a fool’s gamble.

War gratefully behind us, the now Chief of Horvorr is still protecting his brother despite the cost to his own reputation.

It is by now known to all folk that the Black Hands in Timilir are being led by Brolli from afar. And Jarl Thrand has since offered considerable coin for Gudmund to merely displace him from Horvvorr. Brolli’s crimes within Horvorr’s walls cause grumblings among the settlement, so such an act would serve dual purpose. Yet Gudmund continues to turn a blind eye. He acts, oftentimes, as if Brolli does not even exist. They have not spoke a word in winters.”

Brolli sat in the only chair of his office, hunched over a cluttered black desk. Growing tired of looking at scrawled missives and outdated ledgers, he lifted the brass spectacles from his nose. He didn’t need the papers to know that he was out of pocket, and he could see clearly enough with his own eyes that he had put bad money after bad money; even with the extra from Aksel, he had spare coins to his name.

A soft knock sounded at the door. He could tell it was Ivar by the timid strike.

Brolli looked up at his surroundings, no furnishings at all past his wide black desk. He liked to have the bastards stand, or sit on the floor like boys. He’d had to cut off a man’s hand for leaning on the wall once. Not really because he wanted to. He had made the threat though, and threats, like debts, had to be paid. Even if Brolli was the one owing.

Brolli sighed, rubbing at his aching eyes. He was reaching for his spectacles when he heard the second knock.

“What?” Brolli asked, then shouted when he decided he had spoken too softly.

The door knob twisted erratically, and sure enough the skinny man walked in all clad in black and shaking like a leaf.

Brolli stared at him, waiting, and waiting, and waiting. “What?”

“I know you told—”

“Not to bother me, but clearly you didn’t listen. So now that you’re here, you ought to tell me what it is you thought so important.”

Ivar nodded and swallowed. “There’s a man wants to speak to you about Gudmund. He wouldn’t say any more than that.”

Brolli noticed how badly the lad’s eye had swollen. “You look a bloody mess, boy. Go and clean your face. Oh, and send the bastard up.”

Ivar almost tripped in his haste to leave.

“Lady below,” Brolli muttered to himself. He opened his top draw, the one that never came smoothly open, and put his spectacles out of view. One thing to have a weakness, something else entirely for others to know.

Brolli waited until he was bored, and considered finding Ivar and beating him for being such a useless fool.

“Hello?” came a fearful voice, belatedly followed by a feeble knock.

“Come in!” Brolli growled. “Gods above, do you want me to nail a sign on the door?”

A chubby man crept in through the half-open doorway, as if scared of disturbing the hinges. After he scoured bare walls and empty floorboard for chairs, he chose to stand central, opposite Brolli. Then he thought better of that and side-stepped to the left. “Brolli.” He lifted a flat cap from his greasy hair. “My—”

“I don’t need to know your name. Close the door.”

The chubby man did that, then walked back. He stood there looking like a pig, like a man who had a coward’s heart, by his weak eyes, his weak bearing, and by the way he shook and quivered to himself even though it wasn’t really that cold.

“Usually,” Brolli said. “The person who came here to speak to me would speak to me. So I don’t know if you’re trying to deliver the message unspoken, but if you are then I’m not hearing you.” He scowled. “Open your mouth.”

The chubby man had paled. “I’m sure you’ve heard—” He swallowed. “Heard about what happened with the Autumn Trip, and with Horvorr’s Guard.” He smiled at Brolli’s nod. “Now I know you’ve no love for your brother. And neither have a lot of folk. But this latest, what with not paying us, and canceling trips and all else, well… it won’t stand, will it?” He shook his head. “I’ve been sent—”

“Who sent you?”

“Well, he asked me not to say.”

“I respect loyalty,” Brolli replied with an understanding smile. “I was saying as much just this morning. But the next time you’re asked that question you’ll be strapped down and missing three fingers. So I’ll have your answer all the same.”

The chubby man took a steadying breath, which did him little good. “Lo… Lodin. He was the one who asked me to deliver the message.”

Brolli urged him on with the wave of a hand. “Unburden yourself.”

“He wants to speak about Gudmund. He’s—we’re—of a mind that Gudmund isn’t fit to lead. Lodin wants to meet, and talk about new leadership. Those were the words he used. He wants to know if you’d try your hand at leading Horvorr. And then you’d be able to get your brother back for all the bad blood between you.”

“Bad blood.” Brolli sniffed. He watched the man sweat as the silence stretched. “So which one of us would be Chief? Is it Chief Lodin, or Chief Brolli?”

“Chief Brolli, of course,” the chubby man nearly shouted. He started laughing, or struggling for breath. “So, what do you think?”

“Have you got children?” Brolli asked.

“Um.” He frowned. “Why do you ask?”

“Be at ease,” Brolli said, his voice beyond calm. “I only ask ‘cause I can trust a man better if he has kids. If he’s loyal to his wife, and his family. You know what I mean, don’t you?”

“Oh.” He nodded, creasing his own chin. “Yes. I have kids. Ella’s my girl, and Toma’s my boy. If it’s a matter of loyalty, Brolli, you’ve no need to worry on me.”

“Not going to back out on killing Gudmund?” Brolli asked.

The chubby man shook his head. “Lodin’s set on it, he says so himself. He ain’t going to let this pass. Treating us like that. Not paying us. It ain’t right.”

Brolli let out a long sigh. “I had to be sure… surely you understand that?”

“Of course.” He nodded quite seriously. “I understand a man like you doesn’t like risk.”

“Some risks are unavoidable.” Brolli rose from his chair, walking over to him. “Shall we shake on our deal?”

“Well, you’d be making the deal with Lodin. I’m—”

Brolli stabbed him in the throat, though the man didn’t quite seem to understand. “You said all the right things, really, you did.” He smiled in apology, grabbing a hold of the man’s greasy hair. “You just mistook me for a bastard so black that he would stab his brother in the back. But I would never do that. Because Gudmund is family. Family is blood.” He dragged the dagger so deep that he scraped bone. “And blood is important.”

***

Brolli reclined in his chair, wondering when the smell of blood had so grown to sicken him. He probably shouldn’t have even killed the man but then he’d been in a foul mood, and he doubted that finding and killing the rest of the conspirators would prove difficult.

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Fleet footfalls ascended the stairs and a moment later the door swept open.

Alrik popped his pock-scarred face into the room. He noticed the pool of blood, smeared across the floorboard and up to the window. “Brolli.”

Brolli eyed him with false suspicion. “Something amiss?”

Alrik closed the door behind him. “Those three old men noticed a fat man fall from a window.” He glanced at the open shutters. “Know anything about that?”

“Doesn’t sound like the kind of thing I’d waste my time with.” Brolli drummed his fingers on the dark table. “But if I had to guess the man came in here asking me to betray my useless brother and he didn’t get the answer he hoped. He must have killed himself out of disappointment.”

“How do you want me to explain his throat?”

Brolli waved his hand towards the vacant frame. “Must have cut himself on the glass. If anyone asks, tell them I’m happy to show them the broken pane.”

Alrik dipped his head. “I’ll pass the message on to Ivar and Arnor.”

“Before you go,” Brolli said, “I want you to have Ivar find out anything he can about a man named Lodin. He might be a member of Horvorr’s Guard. Speaking of, get him to make sure the Salt Sage delivered that barkeeper’s letter to Hjorvarth. I don’t want the big bastard to think that I actually went and murdered his friend. Oh, and make sure that Arnor keeps an eye on Isleif.”

“It’ll be done,” Alrik said. “But I’d rather do one or both myself.”

“I need you here,” Brolli said. “We’ve got things to plan, and you never know who might show up to claim the jumper’s body. They might find themselves confused in their grief and try and take more than one. If take my meaning.”

“Folk are unpredictable.” Alrik scratched at his scarred cheeks. “What do you want me to do if he shows up here? Hjorvarth, I mean.”

“I’ll be spending the evening downstairs, so I’ll deal with him.” Brolli waved in dismissal. “I’ll see you down there.”

Alrik nodded and left without further word.

Brolli let out a slow sigh, lifted his hands above the table to see that they were shaking. He wasn’t sure what it was, but something had set his nerves on edge.

He considered warning Gudmund but decided to do that later. He then thought about seeking out Hjorvarth on his own, so that the big bastard didn’t need to have to hear what had happened from a smart-mouthed coward like Ivar, but Brolli dismissed that idea as well, deciding he didn’t lose anything by waiting. He would let the boy come to him, just like they had to when that smiling cunt of a bartender kicked them out on the street. And here they all where with history repeating itself.

In all his musings—as the bottom draw of his desk came easily open, as he reached with his shaking hands for the bone pipe and the brass pot of grey herbs—he never once considered that he had only once left his home in the past week, that he had barely ventured beyond his courtyard the season past, and that he hadn’t crossed through the gates of Horvorr in over a winter.

He stared out at his empty room, sucking on his pipe, breathing out sour smoke that clouded his view of all of the blood.

***

Brolli rubbed at the short stubble of his newly shaved beard. He had put on a fine white shirt, after noticing that he had gotten a lot of blood on the other one. He had blood stains on his leggings as well, but they were black and he couldn’t be bothered to fiddle with the belt string.

He shivered, and sighed through his teeth. “Why is it so fucking cold in here?”

Arnor, still wearing his faded red shirt, stared from behind the bar. “Question or complaint?”

Brolli smiled in annoyance. “Can’t it be both?”

“I suppose,” Arnor admitted, glancing over at the roaring fire of the loaded hearth. He lifted his leather apron to wipe away the sweat beading on his brow. “But then you’ve already stacked it pretty high. It’s stifling in here.”

The three old men nodded in agreement with that sentiment, but dared speak no word of it to Brolli.

“Well,” Brolli spoke through chattering teeth. “I would say that I’m sick, but I don’t get sick.” He clenched his fists, and managed to stop himself from shaking. “Could you boil me some wine, Arnor?”

“Could you boil me some wine, Arnor?” Isleif mirrored his worried tone.

“What?” Brolli glanced at the blanket-wrapped old man sat beside the hearth. “Oh. Come away from that fire, you old fool. You’re going to go up in flames.”

Isleif chuckled to himself. “Don’t we all burn in the end?”

“Some of us do.” Brolli nodded. “All the same, I’d rather you didn’t catch fire in my taproom.”

“Some of us do.” Isleif’s aged face lapsed to melancholy as he stared back at Brolli. “Some of us don’t. Some of us shouldn’t.” He rose up, shedding blankets. He kept one green and one brown, holding both at his collar bone and wearing them like a cloak. “Do you think he went to fetch me wine?”

“No.” Brolli got up to pull out a seat for Isleif. He then tightened and tucked the blankets around the old man. “You don’t get any wine before dusk.”

Isleif squinted at the open window. “Night’s approach is close.”

“Storms coming,” Odi put in from a table away, his two old friends nodding their agreement. “Biggest one for years by the look of it. Bruma Stormcaller must have a grudge against someone in Horvorr.”

“Oh, she does,” Isleif enthused. “Many grudges, deeply held. But this is a charlatan’s storm.” He stared out at the firebright taproom. “What was I saying?”

“Nothing worth repeating,” Brolli assured. “You said it was almost night, but it’s barely past noon. There’s a great big gathering of storm clouds blocking out most the sky.” He snapped his fingers to get the old man’s attention. “Are you in your right mind?”

Isleif shook his head. “I’m certain of nothing… except for that.” He twisted his wispy beard. “Bad dreams?”

Brolli sighed, bowing his head to offer a look of genuine fear. “And you?”

“Would that I could remember them,” Isleif said. “I do have an inkling we’re in the wrong place.”

Brolli nodded. “I get that feeling too. Did you know that Ragadin attacked Horvorr’s Guard on the Snake Basin Path?”

“No.” Isleif shook his head. “But I more meant this table than the town.”

Arnor walked over with a steaming mug and a steaming cup.

Brolli pointed to the table nearest to the kitchen and furthest from the blazing hearth. “Put them over there.”

Arnor narrowed his eyes, but walked over and set them on the empty table.

Brolli checked to see that no one other than the three old men were watching him, then scooped up Isleif and his blankets, and carried him over to the far table. He took the seat opposite, grabbing the mug and passing Isleif the cup. “Well…?”

Isleif frowned down at the dark liquid. “Berry wine by the look of it.” He turned his wrinkled cheek to the steam. “Very hot.”

“I meant the table,” Brolli said. “Are we still in the wrong place?”

Isleif shrugged. “Almost certainly, but not quite as wrong as that other table.” He looked over to the middle table, squinting at the three old men in suspicion. “I think that one might be best.”

Brolli met the sentiment with a wry laugh. “Surprised you’ve still got the heart to play tricks on folk.”

Isleif sighed to himself and smiled. “I would gladly give it away.”

“Do you remember Ragadin?” Brolli asked.

“Didn’t we already speak of this?” Isleif’s owly brows knitted. “I know the name, but no more than that. Is it a place?”

“Forget I asked,” Brolli said. “I’m going to leave Horvorr, is all. Soon. Tomorrow, if I can.”

“Oh.” Isleif nodded in surprise. “And am I coming with you?”

“I hope so.” Brolli spread his hands at either side of his steaming mug. “Still need to convince Hjorvarth. And I need to hire some men for the trip.”

Isleif sipped from his wine. “I would ask Alf,” he spoke quietly, as if his drink ailed him. “Have your men come in?”

“Not a one,” both men said at once. “I hate it when you—Isleif, stop saying what I—”

Brolli struck the table. “Isleif.” He sighed, hearing his own voice alone. “Is there something you’re trying to tell me?”

Isleif peered at him as if through a fog. “Sorry?”

Brolli felt a chill seep into his back, hands shaking in his lap. “I’m saying I need advice, old friend.”

“Oh.” Isleif rubbed at his wispy beard. “Did you try sitting over there?”

Brolli could only laugh at himself. “Never mind me, Isleif. You just drink your wine, and try to get some sleep.”

They sat drinking together in silence, listening to the murmurs of the three old men, the raucous pop of the angry fire. Smoke grew thicker in the air, so Arnor went around opening all the shutters, letting in the dreary half-light of the stormy day.

Brolli set down his spent mug. “Sometimes I think I never should have gotten you the men for that trip.”

Isleif offered no answer. He only stared into his own cup.

“I’ve always been reckless,” Brolli said quietly. “With coin. With drink. With smoking and all else. I won’t pretend that a life means a thing to me, no more than does the man that holds it. But it’s no lie to say I regret what I did. Your life had a worth. And I let you throw it away.” He sighed. “You’re not even listening—”

“Some things can’t be stopped,” Isleif whispered. “Do you mind if I sit back by the fire?”

“I’m trying to say I’m sorry,” Brolli growled.

“A lament I am all too familiar with.” Isleif looked up with solemn, milky eyes. “Would that anyone I apologized to ever believed me… or thought me deserving of their forgiveness. Would that we could force back the wind, snow, and seasons, and look at each other again across this table. And you could shout and spit in my face, like you did, and you could reject me, firmly reject me, like you didn’t.” He let out a long sigh, and pushed up from his seat. “We are friends, Brolli. Old friends. Friends can hold grudges. I want no less and no more than that.”

“Let me help you,” Brolli said.

“I’m quite fine.” Isleif shook his head, his blankets draped over his back. “I’m ready, in fact.”

“For what?”

Isleif glanced back in bemusement. “The storm, of course.”

Storm clouds rumbled with a doleful, earthshaking resonance. The skies then opened. Raindrops cascaded down to make a deafening sound. The old bard appeared saddened by the chorus, reminded of forced applause, while his truest friend heard a foreboding hiss.