24. One Way or the Other
“There’s one kind of man that bothers me above all else. The man who, when speaking to me, and of me, cannot compel himself to keep Joyto’s name from his mouth.
All praise for my achievements. For my finding a treasure horde. For my escaping bondage in the mines of Timilir. For my bringing peace back to the Midderlands and sending the goblin clans back behind Ragni’s Divide. These things, one and all, I achieved on my own. My own sweat. My own blood. My own, I am not ashamed to say, tears. And yet… Joyto. Joyto my great enabler. For surely his Luck was gifted to me to borrow as my own. And, surely, any man who had that Luck would have achieved the very same things.
How I wish to scream, ‘No.’ No! Joyto is no friend of mine. He has not gifted, nor even loaned me, a single thing. I was born in a cold hovel without a coin to my name. The son of a wastrel drunk who beat me for entertainment. I had no mother to speak of, and not even a single friend to support me.
I was alone. I had the Luck of Muradoon running a race with one eye closed. But that didn’t matter. Because I fought for the life that I have. My legend—not Joyto’s.
No matter the cost. No matter the pain. No matter the misery. I penned my tale with my own blood while all Eleven Elders worked against me. Because I decided that I would. I refused to fail. I was always going to be Isleif the Bard. One way or the other.”
Raised voices played back off of the high roof of Gudmund’s Hall and those gathered craned forward over the feasting tables. Hjorvarth had suffered dozens of questions, listened to the words of the men he had beaten at Brolli’s, who had sworn that he was nothing more than an angry brute who would murder any man, that it was of no surprise that he killed Brolli, and that it was a mistake for the man to invite Hjorvarth out to the lake to help cool his temper.
Hjorvarth had tried to rise several times, bit his tongue on many occasion, shouted back on others. He was red-faced. Three guards now stood between him and Gudmund.
“In sum then.” Gudmund had flushed to the colour of his parted hair. “You attacked my brother in his own home, along with dozens of other men who have suffered serious wounds. Contrary to what they say, you claim an old man managed to subdue you, your own father as it happens… who wasn’t able to even to act as witness. You then claim you woke up at the lake, arms tied and bound. That you fell in with Brolli, that he dragged you in, which quite happily frees you of any blame.”
Gudmund took an exaggerated breath. “Yet you yourself said that Brolli seemed to be about to set you loose, so can you say his death was justified? And what of the other three dead men. Are you claiming that it was Engli that killed them all?”
“No.”
“To what?”
“Engli did not kill them,” Hjorvarth spoke in a trembling voice. “And I did not mean to kill Brolli.”
“Engli did not kill them?” Gudmund asked. “Then who did?”
“I have told you, time and time again, that I did not see them die.”
“And did you know any of these men? Would you say you had any cause to murder them?”
“No.”
“Again, to what? I happen to know you know each of them. And I have witnesses that you exchanged hard words with them before. Would it be a lie to say that?”
Hjorvarth shook his head. “A word never killed a man.”
“I’m sure that it has,” Gudmund replied. “But you traded more than words on your last patrol did you not? You beat Brand so bad that his nose and jaw broke. And you got into a fight with Randall the same day.”
Hjorvarth nodded. “I beat them, yes. Because they—”
“Did I hear it true as well, that Runolf tried to stab you the day before he himself was stabbed?”
“He did, but—”
“But you wouldn’t have killed any of them?”
“I would not.”
“And you got into one other fight on your patrol, didn’t you? With Finnvid, son of Finn.”
“Yes, for the same reason.”
“You broke his nose. Ruined one of his eyes. Now he can barely speak.” Gudmund looked to the purple-robed man amid the women. “Lovrin, what was it you said?”
Lovrin peered out from his hood. “He was very lucky to be alive, and it was a wonder his eye did not go bad.”
“So Hjorvarth almost killed him?”
“Only the gods know for certain. But I would think yes.”
Gudmund turned to the bound man. “And did you mean to do that?”
Hjorvarth sighed. “I hit him because he stood around while—”
Gudmund raised his hand. “So you meant to hurt him that badly?”
“I had no particular wound in mind. I hit him until he fell over.”
Grim laughter came from the tables.
Gudmund’s smile was tight. “And did you have any particular wound in mind when you murdered the son of Jarl Thrand?”
The question inspired silence amongst the tables. Horvorr’s Guard, Grettir among them, grimaced in distaste.
Hjorvarth’s frustration faded to cold antipathy. “I meant to stop the man with a surety. So that he would not be able to stab your son in the back!”
“Ah,” Gudmund sighed. “And yet my sons are still dead. My brother, as well, thanks to you.”
“I would not deny the latter act. But I can tell you plainly that you need look no further than your own reflection to find the man that is most to blame for the death of your sons. I saw sixty-six men on that field. I attacked those who showed cowardice. Had you been there, to stand with us, you would have known that.”
Gudmund paused for only a moment. “And I expect you would want to kill me for my absence?”
“I am sworn to your service, Chief Gudmund,” Hjorvarth answered in a sober tone. “I will ever stand in your defense.”
“It is a shame you do not so readily uphold the obligations of our law.”
Hjorvarth turned back to a row of tired faces that now reflected pity. He understood the truth of the last words. He had spent too much time speaking in defense of what he hadn’t done. He should have simply accepted what he had done. There was no gain in shared punishment—unless the Salt Sage suffered—so Hjorvarth might as well take blame for all four dead.
“Gudmund!” Engli called. “I would like to speak now. Otherwise, I fear we will just be retreading ground for the sake of your big head. And, believe it or not, we here are not so fond of your voice as you seem to be.”
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Linden grinned and Anna laughed, others with her, though some had the good grace to do it quietly or cover their mouths.
Gudmund glared. “You would do well to learn some respect.”
“I must have misheard you.” Engli’s eyes narrowed. “Or that was not an answer to my question.”
“You wish to speak, then?” Gudmund asked.
“I want not to hear your voice anymore.” Engli smiled in frustration. “If me speaking accomplishes that, then I am all for it… Chief Gudmund.”
“Let him speak,” Grettir grumbled. “This has gone on long enough.”
Gudmund regarded the blond man. “Engli, son of Linden, will now give his account. And after that, with help of the gods, I will determine the fate of these men.”
Engli took a breath. “I would firstly say, that in no story given has Hjorvarth pushed Brolli in the lake. And it should as well be clear that if Brolli falls in the lake, it is no more Hjorvarth killing him than it is the spirited water. And I doubt that anyone here would think to try and save those sinking instead of trying to swim up themselves. As to Brand, Randall, and Runolf.” Engli shrugged. “Randall was already dead before we arrived, and Runolf’s wrist and chest had been well bloodied as though he was the one that stabbed Randall. Grettir can swear to that, and it would fit with Hjorvarth’s talk of an argument.”
Gudmund raised his hand. “Grettir. It appears Engli makes a claim on your behalf. Do you actually support it?”
“Yes.” Grettir gave a slow nod. “Runolf had blood on his sleeves. And by my own guess he stabbed Randall.”
“So that leaves Runolf,” Engli said, “who had committed murder himself. So even if I had killed him—even if I could have killed him—it would be of no real consequence. But it was the Salt Sage that murdered Runolf, and if you’ve not heard of the Sage, then I’m sure Grettir will swear that a man is in Horvorr calling himself that, and so would Gudmund’s daughter, Sybille.”
“I have seen him!” Sybille declared as she crested the corridor. “And so has Grettir, and so has my father.”
The Salt Sage had entered the main hall not long before then. He now clambered over the feasting table and squeezed between Linden and Anna. “Sorry,” he said, stumbling towards the altar. “Hello!” He waved to those on the tables. “I am the Salt Sage! And though I’ll admit it gladdens me to be so well known,” he added, “I don’t recall being at that lake. In fact, it seems quite impossible given that I spent these past nights praying to the Helmsman for guidance.” He looked back to Engli. “Apologies, friend. Do carry on… what happened next?”
“A jest, Sage?” Engli frowned. “You jumped in and put a rope around Hjorvarth, as agreed, and then I pulled him out.”
The Salt Sage smiled. “I’m afraid you’ve confused me. You spoke that like a question, but then you followed it with a jest. I wish that I could lay claim to such a feat, but I spent the night in Muradoon’s Ritual House.” He turned to the purple-robed Godi. “Did I not, Lovrin?”
Lovrin grumbled, pretending to wake. “Did somebody speak my name?”
“Lovrin,” Gudmund said. “Was the Sage at the Ritual House these nights past?”
“Oh.” Lovrin nodded under his hood. “Yes. Yes… he has been keeping me company.”
Gudmund smiled. “It would appear, Engli, that you have been found out as a liar, unless you mean to question the word of two holy men?”
“Well, I wouldn’t say that,” the Sage said. “My robe is not expensive, nor do I wear it at all times. He might have just seen someone in another robe. Nevertheless, I have come here to make a pronouncement.” He walked towards the altar, and waved the guards out of the way. “Please move,” he said to Gudmund, who refused.
“I would like to hear what he has to say!” Linden shouted. “Stand aside, Gudmund!” Anna called. The sentiment was echoed. Gudmund stepped back.
“My thanks.” The Salt Sage turned to the tables. “Good people of Horvorr! I have come here because Tomlok has spoken to me. His words came to me one month ago when I woke in the middle of a fever dream. They played like riddles at first, rattling around in my head for many days before I could make any sense of them.”
The Salt Sage nodded to himself. “I saw scenes, and people, and faces. I witnessed war! And I knew above all else that Tomlok had sent a message to me, and that he wished for me to do… something! But what?” He upturned his gloved palms. “I could not be sure. So I drank salt water until my visions came clearer. Until a great, and icy lake appeared in my mind, and with that I realised that what I had seen could only belong to a single town. I realised that my dream had been of Horvorr!”
The Sage’s melodic call echoed back from lofty rafters and benches creaked under the weight of elbows.
“I told the Elders of the Driftwood Grotto what I had seen. I told them that Tomlok had sent me this vision, and they agreed that I should come here. So I did—I travelled with a group of men until I reached Timilir. And on my journey I listened and prayed to see what Tomlok would reveal to me.” The Salt Sage paused. “He answered only with silence. I thought, perhaps, that it might be a lack of faith in those that rode with me.”
The Salt Sage glanced to the floor, then swept his gaze along the benches. “So I abandoned my party and ventured forward alone. Becoming so lost along barren ground that no man would ever find me if I died, and with the cold and hunger, and a pack of wolves at my back, that was not an unlikely outcome. After four days, wolves howling in the darkness behind me, I came across a fallen tree. I buried myself amongst its roots, worming into weakened soil, and I waited. I did not intend to sleep, nor did I want to, but sleep took me all the same, and it was then that the whispers began again.”
“I crawled out from that tree with the rising sun! I followed Tomlok’s guidance eastways. He steadied my course, allowing me to forget my hunger and lethargy. I walked for two weeks, through storm and snowfall, until I arrived at Horvorr three days ago, and I still had no clue as to why he sent me here. So I went to the Ritual House on my arrival, praying to Tomlok these days and nights since for further guidance.”
Lovrin hobbled to the center of the room. “Has he answered you at last?”
The Salt Sage gravely nodded. “He has.”
A grey-bearded man rose from his seat. “What did he say?”
“That you are all godly folk!” the Sage declared. “Hardworking and much respected by the gods, but that Tomlok respects you most of all, as he himself was once a fisherman.”
Those gathered nodded at that and agreed the sentiment to one another. Though most of the fisherfolk were now shivering out on Horvorr’s Great Lake.
“But he also delivered less happy news than that.” The Salt Sage’s pause stayed them all. “For he told me that he loved you, only to explain why he had sent me here. Why he had sent me here to save you.”
“Save us from what?” Lovrin asked, his shaking voice barely high enough to cut through competing voices.
“He told me that unless I did as he wished, Horvorr will burn, and its people will suffer at the hands of goblins. Those driven down from the Midderlands! Those that have now regrouped, and formed a horde that numbers two thousand. A horde that is gathered and ready. A horde that will descend on Horvorr within the season!”
Panic spread about those on the benches and voices rose over one another.
“Sage!” Grettir shouted, cutting through the din with his gruff voice, only wanting an end to the madness. “What did he wish for you to do?”
The Salt Sage raised his hand, nodding with understanding while noise began to settle. “A moment to speak then,” he said. “I know this must cause you all some concern, but I also know that Tomlok would not have sent me here for no reason. If I do as he asks, I am certain that your town will be saved.” He took a deep breath. “The Helmsman told me that I would find two men, disparate in size and temperament. A blond man, and a red-haired man. He said not their names, but he told me that they would be wrongfully accused of a great crime… perhaps even a murder.”
Those gathered looked towards the two men bound at either side of the altar.
“I hear him now!” The Salt Sage raised his hand, looking slowly from Engli to Hjorvarth. “He tells me that I will know one man by the bear upon his back!”
The Salt Sage ambled over to Hjorvarth, and knelt to meet his pale eyes. “Tell me, friend, what is your name?”
Hjorvarth’s answering look was a mix of hatred and confusion. “My name is Hjorvarth, as you well know.”
“And what animal is painted upon your shield?”
Hjorvarth sighed. “A bear—” He followed it with an argument, drowned out by declarations that this was the man sought.
The Salt Sage turned back to his crowd, raising his hand again, nodding slowly until the folk settled down.
“Gudmund,” the Sage said, not turning to look at the red-faced man.
Gudmund’s murderous gaze lay fixed on the robed man’s back. “Yes… Sage?”
“I’ve no idea what this trial is about,” the Sage said, “but for the sake of Horvorr, and its people, I do earnestly believe that I will need both these men to accompany me.”
“I see.” Gudmund nodded. “And what do you think of this, Lovrin?” he asked the Godi. “Any thoughts on his prophecy?”
“Yes!” Lovrin declared with wonderment and all seated turned to him. “I had a dream just then. On those benches. Muradoon told me that many would be taken by his hand… if a journey was not made to find the Hall of Hrothgar.”
“Hrothgar!” The Salt Sage rushed to Lovrin. “Tomlok has spoken that word. Tell me, is it a place near here?”
Lovrin nodded. “It is.”
The Salt Sage placed his hands on the Godi’s hunched shoulders. “Then I know it in my heart, that that is where we must go.” He turned back and regarded those seated. “I would only ask now—of all of you—does anyone here oppose this quest? Does anyone here feel that these men be needed for any further reason, when they have been called forth for greatness by the Helmsman himself?”
“I do,” Hjorvarth said, his voice unheard under an onslaught of noes.
Engli and Sybille spoke no words as they looked at each other in shock and loss. Gudmund, grim faced and wrathful, kept his hollow stare towards his oldest friend.