23. The Last Son of Geirulf
“Having spent nearly a season under the command of Gudmund, one begins to wonder how he ever managed to convince so many men to follow him. I also questioned whatever possessed him to spend so much blood and coin on trying to conquer such a bleak, inhospital region to begin with.
I remember before all this began hearing the unwelcome news that Weskin, once the most powerful Jarlship in the High Lands, had been subject to a sudden and bloody uprising. With all those of high station put to the sword, there was not a single survivor. What I failed to realize is that the Jarl’s son, Gudmund son of Geirulf, was stationed in Tymir when this tragedy occurred.
He had indeed survived. Outliving his father, his wife, and his firstborn daughter.
No doubt he thought the Great Chiefs would make for easier prey than a dozen Jarls. And that he could turn his sights to vengeance after a swift and heroic victory in Southwestern Tymir. But since this war began, all the other lords of the High Lands have suffered their own uprisings, or else bent the knee to The Low King. While Gudmund is stuck in an endless war with a relentless goblin horde.
This I learned from his new wife, Hilda, who barely knows him. A swiftly arranged pact with Jarl Thrand of Timilir, who no doubt wished to have a safeguard in place should Gudmund ever lay sole claim to the region.”
Gudmund sat forward in his imposing chair, infuriated by the itchy cushions piled behind him. He sat with his hands clasped on each wooden arm as the people trickled into his hall. He did his best to keep untidy brows and green eyes fixed into a determined stare, to keep cracked lips turned up into a welcoming smile.
Horvorr’s people wore clothes of worn fur, cracked leather and thick cotton. They spoke to one another with plain words. Most men had a habit of playing with their beards, whether braided, combed, or unruly, while the women seemed to use their restless energy in entertaining the few children. They all rubbed themselves for warmth when a biting wind swept in from the town outside.
‘Hollow,’ Gudmund thought. ‘Hollow eyes, hollow cheeks and their hands cupped to blow into hollows.’
He glanced down at Muradoon’s altar: dark wood engraved with a scene of spirits, daggers and sacrifice.
The altar stood amid the corridor that opened into the main hall.
Grettir and a dozen other men of Horvorr’s Guard had gathered by it, axes at belts and painted shields on backs.
Gudmund looked as civilized as he had in years, but his neck ached under the weight of a bronze circlet. He had combed his red hair and now wore a fine shirt, black at stark contrast with his snow-leopard cloak. Untold anger still consumed him. Made him ill.
He shook despite efforts to keep still, to seem proud and respectable. Shivering, he wondered what his daughter had done with Lovrin’s tincture.
Gudmund had barely slept, owing not at all to being woken at dawn.
The night before last had been a busy one. A tragic one.
Gudmund had already tried to take his revenge against Hjorvarth by blade but that failed so now he’d try once more in the formal fashion.
Gudmund’s white cloak trailed behind him now he rose. He settled into a deliberate stride, guards forming into a line at either side of the altar, then looked down at the people of Horvorr as a man might look upon nothing at all.
The guards waited for him to speak, noise of the crowd growing louder, and then looked to Grettir.
“Quiet!” Grettir roared and the guards, Ralf and Eirik among them, took up with him. They shouted until rough men and weathered women had fallen close to silence.
“People of Horvorr!” Gudmund called, searching the crowd even though he saw little more than hazy morning light.
The men shuffled forward to leave a half-circle before the altar, while the women remained seated along the table benches.
“I have not brought you all here for any happy reason.” Gudmund shook his head, suffering a sudden melancholy that made his gaze aimless. “I have brought you here,” he continued, expression hardening, “because the night before last four men were murdered.”
A small blond boy tugged at his an old woman’s moth-eaten dress, asking her the meaning of the words, while those around him murmured to one another, most reacting with slow nods or disinterest.
“Who?” Linden asked from the back of the crowd.
The question was echoed.
Grettir cleared his throat. “Randall, son of Rand, who himself died over a year ago, and his widow a decade before him. Brand, father unknown, but son to Lara.”
Lara, a tall lady with silvering black hair, blinked. Women moved to comfort her, urging her to sit now she started to weep.
“Runolf, son of Alf, who was outlawed five winters ago for trying to kill a man. And, the fourth—”
“Brolli.” Gudmund stared blankly down at the dreary gathering. “Third son of Jarl Geirulf. My younger brother.”
“Gudmund!” Anna’s voice pierced through murmurs of acknowledgment. “Where is my son?”
“Arrested,” Grettir answered. “Along with Hjorvarth, son of Isleif, for the murder of those four just named.”
Linden pushed through the crowd with his wife. “Engli would not kill any man.”
“No?” Gudmund asked. “Then I’m sure you and your wife, more than anyone else, would welcome a trial.”
“A trial?” Anna asked. “And who has accused him?”
“He admitted his own guilt, Anna,” Grettir spoke solemnly, exhaustion weighing his hirsute face. “Now you and your husband be quiet.”
“In one hour!” Gudmund called. “We will hold a trial for Hjorvarth and Engli, to determine whether or not they are guilty of murder, or whether their crimes can be justified by another measure.” He waved to the curtained corridor. “Lovrin!”
Lovrin hobbled forward in his heavy purple robes. He held a small, panicked lamb.
Gudmund turned to the hunched Godi. “Would you say the rites, and clear this place of any misdoing on behalf of Muradoon?”
“I will, my Chief,” Lovrin said, briskly stroking the white-furred head.
Gudmund stepped back and the lamb bleated.
The men watched standing, the women from their seats. Most had no joy in their eyes, as if they had begun to waken to the bleak lives that they had lived these years past, coming to a cold and inhospitable place in hopes of a better life, only to settle for a life mislived, a hard life, with no joy at all. Though there were those among the gathered that felt gladdened by the news of Brolli’s passing, who wanted nothing more than to witness the sacrifice of Chief Gudmund of Horvorr.
Lovrin pinned the lamb to the altar, bringing the curved blade to a downy white neck.
***
Gudmund sat back on his chair, rigid like a scowling statue. The gathered folk talked along the benches of tables that now met at their ends. Children had been brought back to their homes, so there were less women. Most the fishermen had left too, and now readied themselves about Horvorr’s Great Lake. Drunkards and embittered warriors came as late replacements, making the air thick with the smell of unwashed men and alcohol sweat.
Anna and Linden sat on the forward bench of the right table. All those to Anna’s right were women, stout or tall, but older than thirty winters for the most, while all those to Linden’s left were men, rowdy and rough-faced for the main.
“Are we just going to sit here?” Anna hissed. “Gudmund is not going to give a fair trial for the death of his brother.”
Linden smiled for appearance’s sake. “Probably not. But what would you have us do?”
“Well,” Anna whispered. “You could challenge Gudmund for his position. And ask to fight in pairs.”
“With you?” Linden smiled in earnest as he shook his head. “You might beat Grettir, but I don’t think either man would agree to fight a woman. Besides, wife, Engli talks well, so why don’t we let him get out of this on his own?”
Hjorvarth crested the corridor then, wearing a blue tunic. Too tight for his huge chest. He had his hands bound ahead of him. Grettir followed at his back. Engli came after them, with Ralf behind. Those gathered forgot their conversations, and turned to watch Hjorvarth and Engli drop to their knees at either side of the altar.
The hall quieted now folk turned and settled along the benches.
“Little brother,” Gudmund whispered in regret, and then he surged from his chair. “Broknar the Elder gave laws to men! Because without law there would be chaos. Because it is not just our honor that separates us from the likes of goblins, monsters, or any other creature of the Lady’s Shadow. It is order, code, civility and respect that sets us apart. It is a sense of justice.” He stopped at the altar, placing his palms at either end to avoid the blood. “Broknar that forbid the murder of man, because he knew that we had greater enemies to face than those of our own kind. He knew that a life was too valuable a thing to take. Too valuable a thing to waste… and, with that in mind, these two have been brought before you, people of Horvorr, to stand trial for the murder of four of our men.”
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The crowd made little noise but they paid full attention.
Gudmund looked to the blond youth. “Here is Engli, son of Linden.” He turned to red-haired brute. “Here is Hjorvarth, son of Isleif. Both men have admitted their guilt in one or all murders.” He glanced at each of them again. “Unless the tale has changed?”
Along the tables, Anna tried to stand but Linden held her still.
“No?” Gudmund asked. “That is good, then. Engli, would you rather speak now, or after?”
Engli gazed at the cold curiosity of the bearded men and pale women. “I would speak after.”
“And you, Hjorvarth?” Gudmund asked.
“I will speak now,” Hjorvarth spoke in a slow, troubled tone. “I had meant to be out of town for the Autumn Trip,” he began without hesitation, “but it was delayed the day we were due to set out. This left me in a foul mood, and after I had put the—”
“Hjorvarth,” Gudmund said. “Unless Brolli was with you—”
“After I put the oxen away,” Hjorvarth continued. “I went to sleep out by the lake. I woke there the next morning, as would be expected, then I went to see Sam at his tavern, where my father stays. I tried to open the door, but it was barred. I knocked, and Ivar answered, who works for Brolli. I asked where Sam was, and he showed me a letter that was written by another man. I took it to mean that Brolli had captured or killed Sam, because he had made much the same threat days earlier,” his tone was fatalistic, but his anger was rising. “Ivar offered no explanation to convince me otherwise.”
“So you’re—”
“I went to Brolli’s place,” Hjorvarth spoke over Gudmund. “There were dozens of men there, but I could barely hear them. I attacked Brolli, and his men. And his customers tried to defend him. I threw them aside, punched Alrik on the head until he stopped. Brolli warned me, kept warning me that I was making a mistake. I threw chairs, and tables. I beat some men to sleeping. Then I had Brolli on the floor, and I demanded that he tell me what he had done with Sam, to admit what he had done, but he only laughed.” He shook his head in regret. “Next I know I woke on the embankments. Arnor has told me since that Isleif hit me over the head with a staff.”
“If Arnor wishes to speak on your behalf he can offer himself as witness,” Gudmund said.
“He is busy taking care of my father.” Hjorvarth shrugged. “I woke on the embankments with my arms bound. So I guessed that Brolli meant to drown me in the lake. He said just that. I only begged that he look after Isleif, and he agreed. He spoke in regret, almost as if he meant to let me go. I heard a disagreement, a man being stabbed to death, but it was night and I could barely turn to see. Brolli lowered his sword to my bonds, perhaps to stab me through the spine or cut me loose.”
Hjorvarth’s sigh shook with sorrow. “The Sage then called out. Engli was with him. I heard fighting and managed to snap my bonds. Brolli stepped clear from me, slipping on wet mud, but the Sage was near him. He offered his hand to Brolli, but kicked him in the chest instead. Brolli had wrapped my hair around his arm… so he dragged me in with him. I could barely see in the water. Brolli tried to drag me down and I fought back. We were both so deep that I gave up all hope of living.”
“Yet here you are,” Gudmund noted.
Hjorvarth’s nod was grudging. “I woke choking on the embankments, suffering the cold. Then once more in the Ritual House with Lovrin standing over me.” He glanced back at Gudmund. “I had only left there when Gudmund and Grettir found me. Gudmund tried to attack me but I caught him by the wrist and neck, and choked him until he dropped his sword. I then walked here under Grettir’s promise of protection.”
Most of the crowd watched the huge man with something close to amusement, while others talked amongst themselves, having only come to see whatever Gudmund would do to the men that killed his brother.
“A brief account,” Gudmund said without enthusiasm. “Before Hjorvarth is questioned we will hear the account of Ivar, who says he is witness to the murders.”
Ivar walked out from the dark curtains of the left corridor, his complexion paler than usual, his swollen eye an angry red.
“Ivar.” Gudmund led him ahead of the altar. “Do you swear an oath that what you say is the truth. An oath to Broknar, to all Eleven Elders above, and to the people of Horvorr below?”
“I swear it on my honor, and by the gods.” Ivar nodded. “I will tell what I have saw, with my own eyes and only that. By Broknar, I swear it. And the Lady take me should I break that oath.”
Gudmund gestured. “Go on, then.”
“Well, I was at the stable procuring things for Brolli—”
“Stable?” Gudmund frowned. “These people have no interest in your daily affairs. We need only know what happened at the lake.”
Ivar nodded. “Well… I saw a torch, by the lake. I had followed Brolli there, because… well, that doesn’t matter I suppose. I saw Hjorvarth there, along with all the men you mentioned. He was talking with Brolli, and then Brolli said a thing, and Hjorvarth became angry. Runolf tried to stop him, but Hjorvarth stole Brolli’s sword and thrust clean through Runolf’s heart.”
Hjorvarth bit down on his anger.
“Then,” Ivar continued, “Brolli tried to stop Hjorvarth—to reason with him, but Hjorvarth refused. Brolli grappled with him when he wouldn’t give back the sword. Then Engli came from nowhere and attacked Brand for little reason I could see. He kicked him from his feet and stomped on Brand’s head so that it broke open on a stone. Hjorvarth and Brolli fell in the water. Randall was the last man standing, and he tried to run, but Engli chased him down and stabbed him times over.”
“Why would you lie about such a thing?” Hjorvarth asked with true bemusement.
“You have had your opportunity to speak,” Gudmund said. “Who are you to question the honesty of any man, Hjorvarth?”
Hjorvarth tried to rise but Grettir placed his hand on the huge man’s shoulder.
“Ivar, is that all you saw?” Gudmund asked.
“Yes.” Ivar nodded. “Then I called murder, as is the law.”
“That it is, then.” Gudmund waved towards the doors, now half-closed. “You may go, or sit and watch.”
“I have one more thing to say.” Ivar turned back. “I know for fact that Hjorvarth owed Brolli a great debt of coin.”
Hjorvarth glared. “A debt I aimed to pay.”
“Mind to your silence, Hjorvarth,” Gudmund warned.
“So he can question me, but I can’t question him?”
“It was your choice to speak first,” Gudmund said. “But you’ll have plenty of questions to answer yet. And I do recall as well, that you owed Brolli coin.” He paused. “Tell me, do you still intend to pay him now he is dead?”
Hjorvarth furrowed his brows. “No, but—”
Gudmund raised his hand. “That’s all you need say.” He inclined his head to Ivar. “You can go.”
Hjorvarth seethed in silence as he suffered the pitiless regard of those gathered. “You’ve put us to trial.”
“Yes.” Gudmund waved his hand to encompass the guards, altar, and crowded hall. “That’s what all this is about.”
“Yet you make no mention of Brolli murdering Sam. Nor any of his other murders, or any other crime committed while you sheltered him here.”
Gudmund’s eyes narrowed before he smiled. “And what exactly are you accusing me of, Hjorvarth? Of wanting to protect my brother?”
“Of letting him get away with murder,” Hjorvarth growled, words echoing across the hall.
“Specifically, the murder of Sam?” Gudmund asked.
“Yes.”
“Then who I am to deny you?” Gudmund asked. “I aim to serve the people of Horvorr, and try as I might to forget it, you are one of those people. As this should end quickly, I call on Edgar, who works for Horvorr’s Guard as a barkeep in our barracks, to provide an account of what he witnessed yesterday.”
Edgar crept out from the same curtain Ivar had. He wore a thick woolen jumper that poorly fitted his lanky frame. He stopped near the line of guards, scratching at his straw-colored hair, not sure what to make of the confused folk watching him.
“Edgar,” Gudmund spoke in calm, clear voice. “Please give us a brief account of what you saw yesterday, before I consider bringing a dead man to trial for murder.”
“About Sam?” Edgar asked, stepping up to the altar. “Well… Sam, that owns the tavern not far from where I work, came to Horvorr’s barracks yesterday morning. I helped him with his oxen. And to load some things onto a cart.”
“That is—” Hjorvarth began.
“Enough!” Gudmund snarled. “Do I need to gag you, Hjorvarth? Does no man here have peace to give his rede?”
Hjorvarth met the sentiment with a trembling gaze.
Gudmund sighed, turning back to Edgar. “Did you see Sam leave Horvorr? Did he say where he was going?”
Edgar reluctantly nodded. “Sam told me that he was going to Timilir, to save his son, and he hoped to find his wife as well.”
“So,” Gudmund said, “by your account, Sam the tavern owner left this town with a laden cart, led by oxen. And you have no reason to believe that he returned. Or any reason to believe that if he did, he would have any way to enter Horvorr?”
“That’s true.” Edgar stared out at the dreary townsfolk. “We closed the gate after he left.
“And do you have any reason at all to believe that Sam is dead?”
“One.” Edgar nodded. “Hjorvarth is a man of his word.” He turned to the huge man, wrists bound behind his back, blue shirt stressed with each shaking breath. “Had I not seen Sam leave with my own eyes, that would be enough. But as I saw him leave Horvorr, alive and well, I can only guess that Hjorvarth believes what he says. But he has been misled, or he is mistaken.”
Gudmund nodded. “It gladdens me to see a man with such faith in his neighbours.” He urged Edgar away from the altar, and took his place. “As to you, Hjorvarth. You were keen to speak before, so I’ll allow it now. What exactly do you have to say in defense of what Edgar has said?”
Hjorvarth’s stony face had darkened. “Sam would not leave without giving me word.”
“He almost did,” Edgar said, pausing until invited to speak further. “But he thought that you had left on the Autumn Trip. He stopped to write you a letter, but we had no ink or parchment, and he said he had already left word with the Sage.” He shook his head. “If I’d known it wouldn’t reach you, then I would have sought you out myself. I’m sorry, Hjorvarth, I am.”
“Hjorvarth,” Gudmund spoke loudly. “It would seem you have fallen afoul of some bad luck. Perhaps this could have all been avoided had you listened to Brolli when he told you he didn’t kill Sam, as several witnesses will soon attest to. Or we can forgo those accounts if you accept that you have made a mistake, that Brolli warned you, but you ignored his warnings in your wrath, which led to whatever happened at the lake… which ended in Brolli’s death, not your own, for reasons—for a false murder—that clearly has not come to pass. A murder, by account, that you had little reason to believe had happened.”
He waited now all the hall fell to silence. Men and women watched as Hjorvarth sagged further to the floor.
“He didn’t murder Brolli,” Engli said from the opposite side of the altar, “and his reasons for attacking Brolli are his own. Maybe he was mistaken. But the murders that we are accused of, that this trial is for, took place by the embankments of Horvorr’s Great Lake. So I have to ask what consequence words spoken in Brolli’s taproom are, when by your own request you wanted to hear what happened at the embankments.”
“Fair words,” Gudmund said. “But I’d say Hjorvarth is a big enough man to speak for himself.”
Hjorvarth thought back to all that Brolli had said, to what Alrik had said. He had been given chance to stop, to calm down and to listen. Brolli hadn’t even drowned him outright, not after he had broke apart his taproom, embarrassed him, and made a mockery of the respect he had built for himself.
He had attacked his foster father, spat back all the good that Brolli had ever done.
“Perhaps,” Hjorvarth’s troubled tone rolled through the hall. “Perhaps I made a mistake. But I was dragged, and drowning. Were it not for the Sage, I would have died with Brolli. Were he not there at all. I think we both would have lived. So you can ask your questions and summon your witnesses. But the man you need to speak to is the Sage, as he is the one behind the whole of this.”