25. Salvation

“Though I had thought building a smaller pool would be more quickly accomplished, it took far longer than I could have ever imagined.

Instead of a circular design, Zalak was insistent that seven sides, each of equal length, were required to a level of precision which might be easily achieved by humans or dwarves, but which proved to be particularly problematic to goblin claws.

In truth, I could not see the difference between the two pools prior, which were refused, and the one which was finally deemed acceptable.

While all this has happened I hear that the Grorginite Empire has splintered further and further, and that Zalak’s domain has shrunk from a vast kingdom to a modest clan the likes of which had been achieved many times over by all manner of Chiefs.

Strangely, despite my infirmity, I was tasked with gorging myself until I could regurgitate the birthing sack for the pool. This, as well, took far longer than desired. The alchemy which keeps me alive drastically limits my desire for food. So the task of eating and eating soon became torturous.

I did finally manage to regurgitate a birthing sack. One so small and so pale in colour that were I, or any other shaman, to see it we would swiftly decide to discard it.

Yet Zalak was insistent. And the pool, barely coated with liquid, was filled by an odd concoction of luminous blue slime that my new King had made.

A Cycle of the Moon later, the hatchling was pulled forth, barely bigger than it had begun. Once the birthing sack was split, a meager runt spilled forth, even smaller than Agrak must have been when he was long ago lifted from the Pool.

By breathing and blinking, the youngling has exceeded my meager expectations. But I do not see how this new goblin is even going to protect himself, let alone restore our fractured Empire.”

Hjorvarth sat in a stone chair, emerald-adorned, that reminded him of Jorund’s Hill. He sat at a smaller table now though, sized for four people in a stone room that seemed suited for only two men. It had once served as an outpost for a wide-ranging kingdom of dwarves, and housed only sparse furnishings for simple living.

Hjorvarth and Dan sat chewing on roots, pouring stale ale into bronze mugs. They had been left without company, but neither man showed any leanings towards escape.

Dan sat more pensive than the huge man opposite, as if soured by something more than the taste of bitter roots. He drank from his mug to swallow a mouthful, then reached for another pale and dirty tubor. “You’re mad, Hjorvarth. Has anyone ever told you that? I mean, by all the gods, where even are we? In the company of giant rats that know your father’s name. Giant rats that speak our own tongue, or at the very least that screech it. And now I’m supposed to wait here… in their company, while you go to wage war against another kingdom of rats. It makes no sense. There is no sense to it,” he all but shouted. “We’re both going to die… you do know that, don’t you? You’re going to end up lost in some dark tunnel and I’m going to die here. Both of us alone. And, somewhere, out there—if it hasn’t yet happened—Sam is going to die too.”

Hjorvarth drank from his mug. “And if you don’t?”

“Don’t, what?”

“If you don’t die. If I come back here, to free you, with your father in my company.”

“Then this—” Dan raised his mug, sending a splash onto the stone table. “This must be as it tastes. Piss. Joyto’s piss.”

“It does no good to expect the worst.” Hjorvarth shrugged under his short black cloak. “And by my measure the worst was already avoided.”

“And what outcome was that?”

“That I died before I ever reached the mines of Timilir. That you spent your next years working, being raped by men, until you died of exhaustion, or until you were beaten to death by the guard with the whip. Or, perhaps, little better, we both would have died beneath the earth, breathing for air that seemed not to exist. Silent deaths. Both of us left rotting as worms and maggots made play in our skin.” Hjorvarth sniffed. “Is our position truly so distressing to you, Dan? Food and drink. A place where we can actually breathe. By all means, expect my demise, but the kobolds will sell you back to the stone city… and you can return to the slave life that you seem to think I have stolen you from.”

Dan blinked, scowled, then turned to stare at the open doorway, where stone walls gave way to an earth tunnel. “You’re not wrong,” he admitted quietly. “You’re not wrong. I’m just angry that we’re both going to die.” He swung back, smiling sadly. “I’m angry that we’re all going to die. Sam, you, me. And that it’s my fault. Do you know why I’m here? Why we’re here? Why Sam is… somewhere? My father, likely dead already.”

He waited for an answer that didn’t come.

“I left Horvorr looking to be… anything. Anything other than a man that owned a tavern and despised his own life. I thought that I could do better than Sam… but I was wrong. The coin I stole from him didn’t last as long as I thought it would. The coin I made wasn’t anything near what I expected. I finally got work as a messenger, but that barely paid.” Dan sighed. “Then one of the men I delivered a message for had left a gift of rings and armbands on an open table. Dozens of them. A whole pile. I was sure—sure—that they wouldn’t notice one missing, or two. Or even three.” He upturned his palms. “Who would want to search or accuse a god-guarded messenger?”

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Hjorvarth nodded. “Five winters your hand.”

“Exactly that. And I’d even managed a winter. But then the Low Lands mine decided to sell me to Timilir. And I went from sleeping amongst men that were paid, eating reasonable food, to a place where they work you to death.”

“Your luck has turned once already, then,” Hjorvarth said. “It should turn again… and even if we do both die, it won’t be for a lack of trying. No man lives forever in any case, so there’s no reason to worry on it.”

“Things happen as they happen?”

“Exactly that.”

Dan chuckled, shaking his head. He looked up as if regretful. “You are not how I remembered you. You were unhappy with everything, angry, and wanted to change it all. But now you seem content to suffer whatever comes.”

Hjorvarth upturned his heavy palms. “There was a time when I believed I deserved a happier life… but I have long since learned the truth of that lie. Perhaps when I see myself as worthy, as deserving, I will voice complaints to the gods above… until then, I will expect the worst and be happy for it.”

Dan half-smiled. “Maybe I should do the same.”

“By my own reckoning, you have more than made amends for your failed theft.”

“That’s good to hear… but it begs the question, what great crime have you committed?”

Hjorvarth’s pale gaze grew distant. He thought of the weight of his father’s body in his arms. His mother’s shivering visage by the candlelight, suffering cold after she had tried to save her reckless son. Brolli’s muffled screaming in the lake, hands clawing, limbs flailing, trying to fight his way upwards.

A gory field of the dead. Men, women and children led to slaughter.

Thorfinn’s head forced into hard stone, crunching inward to spout out blood. He thought of that cold night in the shadows of Timilir’s walls that had started it all.

A guard taken another man’s shift. A man that knew nothing of the bribe taken, that had too much honour to simply stand aside.

Ivar had stabbed that guard in the neck, and smiled. Hjorvarth saw that as excuse enough to strike him the day before the Autumn Trip. But the blow had killed him. Ivar had shivered and screamed until the Godi of Muradoon opened his throat.

Hjorvarth realised then that he was walking death. Favored son of Muradoon the Spirit Talker. “Too many and too grave to want to name,” he admitted. “But we will live through this, and maybe then I’ll have a chance at redemption.”

Dan seemed to watch with pity, but before he spoke they heard the distant squeaking of kobold conversation. “Time for you to leave, then.”

Hjorvarth rose from his chair, glancing at the stone structure around them, then turned to face the open tunnel. A dozen kobolds approached, six in chain and helm, six in hooded moleskin cloaks.

They carried the weapons that the son of Isleif had chosen from the kobold metal hole, which had turned out to be an underground chamber with hundreds of masterworks arms strewn in dusty piles. He accepted a large circular shield, carried by two kobolds, that seemed made of a single piece of bronze.

Quiet words were shared and the armoured kobolds departed.

Hjorvarth let the heavy shield rest on his legs.

“Son of Isleif.” The kobold closest stepped forward, lifting his hood to reveal a pink face blotched by burns and mired by scars. “I am Russ, and with me are the pipers who will travel in your company.” He swept a clawed hand from his cloak, passing over a single-handed twin-bladed axe. “Are you ready to leave?”

“What about me?” Dan asked.

“What about you?” Russ squeaked, not turning at the words. “You will remain here. Food provided. Drink provided. Under the guard of King Rubinold until our journey is completed.”

Dan flirted with annoyance, then sighed. He smiled at the huge dust-smeared man, clad in an undersized cloak, reaching for an oversized shield. “Joyto’s Luck, then, Hjorvarth.”

“Here, goblin.” Russ turned to the young man, offering him a slender dagger. “In case the meals prove hard to chew.”

“We are not goblins,” Hjorvarth said.

“Rubinold declares you as such, thus you are. That is our way. As it always was.”

“It is a fool’s way.”

“So says Zelerath, whom we now march to attack.” Russ turned, pulling his hood over his burnt visage. “Ready?”

Hjorvarth glanced at the man he was leaving behind, then nodded. “I suppose I am.”

“Good.” Russ dipped his hooded head. “We march, then. Come, come. Supplies await us further into the tunnels. The journey is a long one, made longer the overground way.”

“We should take the shortest path.”

“You would die from lack of air, and we would all die from goblins or worse. Overground is best.”

“You seem wiser than your king,” Hjorvarth mentioned now they set off down the tunnel. The six cloaked kobolds squeaked laughter at that.

“That is why he is our king,” Russ replied.

“And is Zelerath equally foolish?”

“No.” Russ scratched under his hood. “That is why she has abandoned Rubinold. It is why we are losing the war. But it is better to serve under a fool king than a cruel queen. Or a kobold as mad as the Hallowed.”

“The Hallowed?”

“Hubbard,” Russ hissed. “Leader of a third kobold kingdom. Those that believe salvation from the Small King can only be found in death. Those that believe that Hubbard is a living deity.”

“You do not believe that?”

“No.” Russ trod forward in silence. “But if I had the chance, I would gladly gift Hubbard his salvation.”