23. Broken

“It has become clear to me that The Small King possesses a singular will. The likes of which will never be matched by another of our kind.

I had long thought that Agrak’s manner spoke to a languid, almost miserable, individual who was slowly letting the Grorginite Empire slip out of grip. An immortal creature who had only a passing interest in keeping our peoples together.

But now that he is gone, everything has split and fractured in the blink of an eye.

Where once hundreds of Chiefs bowed beneath a singular ruler, there are now mere dozens. Countless kin across the disparate clans have been reduced to the tens of thousands, only a fraction of which could be reliably forced into a passable army.

Yet King Zalak is undeterred.

He has a plan, given to him by the disembodied words of ancient Malek, to birth a new shaman, who will in turn rebirth something ancient and long ago lost to our kind.

This creature, he believes, will unite the goblins in a way that The Small King never could. And raise our people above to heights so high and soaring that the humans, and dwarves, and all other races will be so far below us at to be indistinguishable.

So long have I secretly resented, even hated, my immortal monarch, who I thought would be there to rule over for me times unending.

Yet now… now I almost… miss him. As if I am some sentimental human. And I wonder now fear that he was my friend. My only friend. But I swore that I would uphold Zalak and follow Malek’s wishes in exchange for being freed.

And now I am freed. But I do not feel free. I feel sick. I feel a level of discontent and worry that should be reserved for those not of goblinkind.

Before I thought I wished to rebel, and now I know that I do. But how can I rebel when I am one frail shaman alone? All the influence I have ever possessed was lent to me by The Small King. And now I bow and scrape at the bidding of new masters.”

Gudmund sat in the place of honour, his ears ringing from the din of celebration, knock of mugs, clatter of plates, and endless murmur of conversations. He had made his face ache with smiling, his lungs hoarse with hollow mirth. He wore the same, now grimy, clothes of blue and white, and the trappings felt false.

A horseshoe of marble tables lay ahead of him, separating his high-backed chair from the pit of fire that clogged the air with smoke to make every man and woman in attendance bead with sweat. Gudmund had not been drinking, but had seen and heard the steady descent into drunkenness of all those around him. He could see their flushed faces through the hazy blur of warmth that writhed from the fire.

Heat blinded him to the marble hall, shadows twisting and dancing away from the crimson glow of flames. Darkness and brightness left the grand walls of veined white with a sense of enclosure.

Gudmund had the thought that where he sat, in company of no one he knew, might be some eternal form of torture. The company of strangers made him feel more alone than when he sat on his own.

Every now and then sorrow would sweep over him like an icy wind. When he would look around the room, half hoping to see the wild grin of Grettir, or the smirking or somber faces of his beloved sons.

“Are you well, Gudmund?” asked the lilting voice of a young woman.

Gudmund glanced to the rosy beauty at his right, then turned his gaze to the remnant meals on his plates. “I’m not used to such rich foods,” he answered, clearing his throat to try and rid the sorrow from his choked tone. “But I’m sure I’ll recover.” He glanced once more to Jarl Thrand’s youngest daughter, her full lips pursed in way of studious disbelief. “Are you well, Luta…?”

Luta’s delicate brows dipped in consideration. “I am, Gudmund,” she gently answered. “Would you like to take a walk? So that you can breathe deep the open air and better recover?”

“Did you say that you are leaving?” Jarl Thrand asked from Gudmund’s left, his rasping voice displeased. “It would not look well for you to both leave early for a feast hosted in your honour.”

“We will return,” Luta assured, simpering at her withered father. “I find the heat stifling, father. I fear I will faint should I sit here without pause.”

Jarl Thrand managed a bitter smile. “Of course.”

Luta offered her hand, taken by Gudmund, who rose from his chair. As if prearranged, those in audience paused and watched the grizzled warrior and the beautiful wife promised him.

“Leaving already?” Ekkill called, words slurred by liquor, rising in his seat on the left side of the horseshoed tables.

“Return to the celebrations,” Jarl Gudmund insisted. “I need to step out for air. Horvorrians rarely suffer heat.”

Ekkill swayed where he stood, his robed belly bloated by wine and meals. He opened his mouth to say more, but was silenced by a scowl from the Jarl of Timilir. “Of course.” He collapsed back onto his seat, nearly bucking it over, landing with a solid strike of stone.

Gudmund and Luta had crossed, hand in hand, to the main doors of the dining hall. He paused under the archway, witnessing the suspicious gazes of the hundred folk come to celebrate the abrupt union between Horvorr and Timilir. There was no love in the eyes that still followed him, but a mix confusion, frustration, and hatred instead.

Gudmund met eyes with Fati, who sat beside Young Thrand, as he spoke at length with Sybille. The skinny, grey-garbed man dipped his head in respect, but Sybille’s father barely noticed. He had the sudden fear that one day she would love her Thrand the Younger more than him. And he suffered the worser feeling that if she did then he would hold all the blame. For being so hard to love himself, and for leading her here to this place, for his sake, and for his vengeance.

Luta’s grip tightened around his arm. “Are you coming, Gudmund?”

Gudmund turned with a smile, then followed the grey-dressed woman into the lantern-lit corridors of marble. Footfalls grew ever more pronounced now they left the din of the feast behind them, and then their steps served to punctuate their uneasy breaths.

“You seem displeased, Gudmund,” Luta’s lilting voice broke the silence. “Am I not what you expected?”

“More than.”

Gudmund held to silence while they crossed through a large archway, and into a sheltered marble garden. Clouds shrouded the moon above them, creating a surround of muted whites and pronounced darkness.

He turned to see her rosy cheeks steeped in shadows. “Were I younger, I would thank the gods for gifting me with such a woman.”

Luta met his troubled eyes with mild amusement. “Has your love of women lessened over the years?”

Gudmund rubbed at the mottled scar on his neck. “I more meant that I’ve little to offer you,” he said, deciding not to mention that he meant to murder her father. “And that seems a great shame.”

“Does it?” Luta scrutinised her prospective husband, then turned to take a seat on a bush-encroached bench. She smoothed her dress, and smiled up at him. “I met Adelsteinn before he died… that would have been a shame. But I am glad enough of his replacement. A younger, more handsome man, with scars gained over the years instead of weight. So, I do in fact consider that a blessing, Gudmund.”

“Your words are a comfort,” Gudmund replied, still standing. “But—”

“You are afraid to start again?”

Gudmund flinched.

“I wouldn’t blame you if you were,” Luta continued, her voice softened by concern. “I have had the wisdom to learn of your history before our meeting… and I found it tragic to say the least.”

Gudmund’s heart skipped at her sorrowed smile. “I worry over loss.”

“Yes,” Luta murmured, “but you needn’t worry over the loss you might cause me. I would have suffered baring the children of Adelsteinn, should he have managed it. But I would gladly have your children, Gudmund. And any company offered in the winters to come. A man in your health might well live long enough to see boys grown to men.” She sighed. “I see in your eyes that you think your life is over… when I would like to see hope instead. I can tell you have no love for my father… but if you allowed yourself, perhaps you could feel compassion for me. This is a beginning, not an end.”

“Your words humble me, Luta,” Gudmund answered in earnest. “But this night has reminded me—by merit of new company—of all those I have lost. Which wounds me deep with grief. I would only ask you take that not to heart and give me some time to collect my thoughts before I return to the feast.” He smiled with regret. “I will walk you back.”

“No need,” Luta replied, rising. She stepped forward, studying the proud man, then cradled him in an embrace. “Your pain is so readily seen. I wish I, or anyone, could take it from you.”

Gudmund struggled not to yield to her warmth, contrary to the coldness of his own heart and the shadowed night. “I have sad eyes by birth. There is nothing more to it than that.”

“You are a poor liar,” Luta whispered, letting go. “I shall like you more for that.” She studied him for a moment, then turned to leave. “I will return on my own. There are no enemies in this place.”

“Beyond the one you’re smiling at,” Gudmund thought, watching her skirts swirl while she swept away. “Why does my heart ache? Am I so easily fooled by a show of kindness? Am I so false a man that I assume every other person in this world must be lying? Acting as a troubled husband to this young woman while I plan to carve out her father’s heart. Is this how Brolli came to kill all those men, act out all those black deeds? Did he convince himself he was doing the right thing? Am I no different to the men who tell themselves the virtues of ripping out teeth?”

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Gudmund sighed, stepping out of the darkness of the garden and into the dimly lit corridors.

He decided he would walk the open ground beyond Jarl Thrand’s home. He had the sudden urge to free Hjorvarth from the dungeon only to remember that the man had already walked. “Not free, but to his death,” Gudmund thought, “or to a life not worth living. What a waste that was… submitting yourself to false judgement on the hopes of saving a man from the same fate. Sam, now there was a man with a treacherous wife. Gone from spitting venom to blood—”

Gudmund grimaced, shaking himself. He could see his brother’s hard gaze shining with the light of a moonlit lake.

“‘It happens.’”

“What happens, brother?”

“‘Death. No sense you taking the blame for an accident.’”

“But what if there was sense in blame?” Gudmund worried. “What if all this is judgement of the gods? But that happened after Hilda died, and what had she ever done to deserve death? And Grettir, what misstep did he ever make? Kata, more than anyone, deserved a long life. I walked among cursed men and that’s the simple truth of it,” he decided. “I wonder if Ralf sees that? Does he notice death looming over us like the long shadow of the Eternal Temple? Or is he just busy buying carts, happy to have something to do other than stalk the corridors of Gudmund’s Hall like a draugr among ghosts?”

Jarl Gudmund shook his head. “Gods, I think too much. Gods, the gods aren’t real. I’m proof of that. We’re all proof of that. Hjorvarth rotting under the earth somewhere is proof of that. Isleif the Bard cursed to be a fretful old man. Brolli the Boy turned Brolli the Black. Grettir the Oneswing losing his arm. A women named Mardis—”

“Forget that, Gudmund,” he whispered aloud. “Forget it.”

Gudmund found himself back by the raucous dining hall.

Ruddy light spilled forth from open doors.

Gudmund waited in the shadows. He took a slow breath, drawing and sheathing his sword, then strode forward. As before, those seated seemed to know as one that he had arrived, though now only half rose while the rest smiled or dipped their heads.

Luta had risen, standing in grey beside her gold-robed father. She met his arrival with a beatific smile.

Gudmund smiled with less enthusiasm as he entered the stifling space of sweat and smoke. At the right corner of the horseshoed table, Sybille and Young Thrand discoursed to Fati’s exclusion. The grey-liveried guards of Jarl Thrand’s Estate were drinking and talking, while the three guards of Horvorr stood straight-backed and ready.

Arfast’s aged face was shrouded by shadows, but he met Gudmund’s look all the same. Sybille’s armored guardian strode forward, one hand on his sword, towards where she sat with Young Thrand.

He spoke loudly enough to be noticed, but not enough to be clearly heard above the noisy gathering. Those seated turned in time to see outrage flicker across Young Thrand’s plain and amiable visage.

Sybille sat shocked, as if slapped.

Arfast growled words in a low voice. Young Thrand started to rise, stayed by Sybille’s hand. Sybille tried to countenance Arfast, but the armoured old man shook his head.

Arfast drew his sword, causing fear and unrest to ripple through those seated at the marble tables.

Jarl Thrand had not risen but he stared as if he wanted the death of the old guardian who had so interrupted the celebrations.

Gudmund had strode close enough to hear Young Thrand’s strained effort at reconciliation.

“You have misjudged me,” the man stressed, his words edged with barely restrained anger. “I made no such move. Sybille has told you herself that she is unharmed. You have had too much to drink, old man, and this is no place to—”

“Old?” Arfast spat. “I’ve killed hundreds of men as young as you lad, and best believe I’ve done it for worse reasons than this. Apologise, and leave, or I will—”

“Escort this fool from the premises!” Jarl Thrand commanded, answered by the approach of a dozen grey guards.

Gudmund strode forward, drawing his blade at the same time as Young Thrand, Fati, and the third guard from Horvorr.

The grey guards in Thrand’s service readied their spears and formed to enclose the conflict. “Hold!” Gudmund shouted. “This man is in my service, and I will deal with him.”

“I am in the girl’s service, Jarl Gudmund,” Arfast warned.

“And I have told you to step back!” Sybille shouted, rising to her feet, a newly bought black cloak at stark contrast with her white dress. “Arfast, please, leave here—”

“The family of Thrand cannot be trusted.” Arfast’s hawkish face twisted with rage. “I implore you, Gudmund, take leave of this place, or else I will have no choice but to draw blood in an attempt to save you and your daughter from yourselves. I will not see another good man die while I serve him.”

“While I will suffer no more men dying in my service, Arfast,” Gudmund replied in a level voice. He could feel the eyes of all those gathered watching him, a weight of the mind and heart made manifest in the pain of his neck and back. “You have misstepped,” he warned. “I have allowed your feelings for my daughter—”

“Feelings?” Arfast cocked his bald head in predatory fashion. “You think this is about some old man’s fantasies?” He shook his head. “I’ve seen crows circling this place. Death is on the way. Perched on your shoulder. I will have an end to it now. Stand with me or—”

“Or?” Gudmund cut in. “You saved me once and I’m grateful for that. I’ll pay you back right now,” he added. “But go any further and not even that debt will help you. I don’t need to be saved, old man. Not by you. You’re passed it. Passed use. Passed reason,” he pressed. “You’ve lost your mind over a few drinks, and black birds in the sky. I say again—friend—leave. Leave. By the gods, leave you old fuck! I’m trying to spare you!”

Arfast shook with rage, his aged face flushed red. “This man—”

“Is soon to be my son!” Gudmund rebuked. “You raised blade against my family. By law of the gods I should kill you where you stand. Your services are no longer needed, Arfast. You are done.” The Jarl of Horvorr strode forward, sheathing his brother’s sword. “But if you want to die fighting, then make the first strike.”

“You would choose these strangers over me?” Arfast hissed. “Snakes? Your whole family would be dead—”

“And that is the only reason why I have not cut you down.”

Arfast swept his maddened gaze around the richly-dressed folk and grey-liveried guards watching with expectation. “Gudmund, you need—”

“I do not care for your needs!” Gudmund roared. “How many times, must I say it? I kept you in my service out of courtesy. And now that courtesy is no longer extended. My daughter does not need to suffer the pining of a man old enough to be her grandfather. And I do not want a guard in my service who is as addled as Isleif the Ghost.”

Arfast opened his mouth to protest. Gudmund’s fist thumped into his jaw, sending the old man staggering.

“Jarl Gudmund,” Jarl Thrand began, almost sympathetically, “I appreciate your loyalty to this man, but he is clearly devoid of all reason. I will put an end to his life, so that he can die before he disgraces himself further.”

Young Thrand saw the protest in Sybille’s gaze. “No, father,” he voiced. “The man seems to ready to leave.”

Arfast brushed blood from his split lip, gaze darting in fear as if he were wounded quarry. He then scowled at Gudmund as though he were the only man in the room. “When you die, Gudmund, remember me,” he said. “Remember my warning. Know that I leave now only so that I can live to watch you fall.”

Gudmund offered the slightest of nods, his face twisted into a hateful grimace. “Have no fear, Arfast. I will never forget the day when man of good standing in my service spat back all the good I have ever done him. I will never forget the day you disgraced yourself. I will not forget the disgust and loathing that writhes within me.”

“It will all come out with your blood, my Jarl.” Arfast bowed, smiling in mockery. He turned to leave, way blocked by the leveled spears of six guards.

“Clear the way,” Young Thrand ordered. “This is not the place—and certainly not the time—for violence. We are here to celebrate the matching of Jarl Gudmund, who has shown much tolerance here, and my beautiful sister, Luta.”

“Muradoon take them both,” Arfast intoned, marching forward now the guards parted.

“What was that?” snapped a high voice.

Two of the three members of Horvorr’s Guard came to face one another at the abandoned side of the marble hall.

“Out of my way,” Arfast warned. “I will—” He twisted clear of a sword thrust, drawing his own sword, kicking out the guard’s knee. He paused for only a moment before he swung to cleave off the guard’s head, but his target had already ducked to avoid the sweeping blade.

The small guard managed to counter with a weak arc that bit into Arfast’s heel.

The old guard cursed, and fled forward into the darkness of the corridor.

“My Jarl?” the third guard shouted as inquiry.

“The choice is yours,” Jarl Gudmund answered. “Brikorhaan guide your hand, either way.”

“Jarl Gudmund,” Young Thrand voiced. “I would send guards to aid the pursuit.”

Gudmund turned to regard the man without sympathy. “Then you would do so without my blessing. If my loyal guard does not return soon, then I will search him out myself.” In the corner of his eye, he could see his daughter sat staring after the two warring guards, weeping in appalled horror. “If you wish to help me, Thrand the Younger, then you should escort my daughter back to her room. You should travel with a guard in case Arfast does indeed come for you. Otherwise, rest assured that your father and I have this matter in hand.”

Young Thrand nodded, and tried to coax Sybille up from the chair.

The standing guests made their to back to seats, muttering as politely as they could while the grey guards returned to their positions at doors and archways.

Gudmund turned to see scrutiny, sunken eyes narrowed under grey brows. “I apologise for speaking above you in your own home, Jarl Thrand,” he said regretfully to the old man. “I… Arfast saved my life. And I did not wish to watch him die.”

Jarl Thrand nodded, his garish gold cloak at odds with his withered visage. “Yet you sent a man to kill him?”

“I realised my mercy had been a mistake when he tried to murder one of his peers,” said Gudmund.

Jarl Thrand’s dark eyes narrowed. “An astute conclusion.”

The Jarl of Horvorr met the words with a slight smile, and stepped past the Jarl of Timilir.

Luta stood waiting, hands linked ahead of her grey dress, watching him with unknowable intent.

“I am sorry for the spectacle.”

“Because the fault was your own?” Luta asked, watching her brother lead Sybille out of the firelit hall. “It seems odd for a loyal man to so turn on you.”

“Misplaced trust.” Gudmund furrowed his brows. “He has not served me long. In truth, I have no notion as to when he joined Horvorr’s Guard… but he was one of only five men to survive.”

“You were mauled that badly?” Jarl Thrand asked from behind. “Who were the other two survivors?”

“Hjorvarth, a survivor no more, and an significant blond man that I forget the name of.” Gudmund sniffed. “He too had misplaced infatuation for my daughter.”

“A plight I thought you might have more sympathy for,” Thrand mused.

“Because of Grettir?” Gudmund turned, shrugging. “The difference there is that Kata loved Grettir, and she was the one that begged him to take her away.”

“I expect Jarl Alfgeir would disagree,” noted Thrand.

“I expect he would,” Gudmund agreed. “But if he did so in my company, he would die for the lie.”

“As quick as that?” Luta asked.

Jarl Thrand smiled at his daughter. “Horvorrians are ever well known for their violence and impatience.”

“They are.” Gudmund turned back to the beautiful woman with rosy cheeks. “And I would hate to disappoint.”

Luta regarded him with the same unknowable stare. “Sit, Gudmund. Let us suffer the heat for a while longer.”