26. The Honoured Guest

“I had never birthed a goblin before. Overseeing the hatching over innumerable sacks, I thought that this would be much the same. But when Zalak demanded that I hand the youngling over, despite the fact that it did not seem as if it would live out the night, I found myself full of wrath. And then, after rage gave way to impotent surrender, I felt what I believe the humans would describe as longing.

Cycles have passed since, and I have been left alone to wander around my caverns, overseeing the births of yet more goblins. And I find myself in a restless state of strange emotions, wondering whether I will see that hatchling again or pondering on the fate of Agrak. It is a miserable way of living. I thought that I had felt sadness before—and that there was no fate worse than being compacted in a collapsed tunnels for so long—but I wonder now if this is the worst combination of emotions that I have ever suffered.

All my life I had the permanence of The Small King ruling over me. Even in the days when I was a young, healthy and hopeful hatchling. Now I am an old, withered and bitter creature with no power, no friends, no authority, and no future.

I began to feel a strong desire to throw myself into the acrid liquid of a spawning pool just to see if that might end my tiresome existence.

Standing on the edge, Zalak arrived behind me, nearly frightening me forward.

The new king is holding a feast. To which I have been invited.”

A slap reverberated through Gudmund’s cheek, which filtered through to his restless dreams.

“I say again, dear friend,” enthused a mad man’s voice, “won’t you open your eyes and join us for dinner?”

“We are wasting our time with this,” came a grim objection.

“Time is the one thing I have in excess.”

“More likely you refuse to listen to the hiss of sand.”

“Outrageous! My ears are always open to hissing. I’ve a great fear of snakes.”

“This city hangs in the balance and you dance around like a showman.”

“What would you know of balance? I assure you, I know more. I once had employ as a balancer. Purpose. Eternal purpose. Checks and balances. Accidental pregnancy here, plague outbreak there, murdered parents, fires, fires, fires… and, well, hopefully, some good. You’d be surprised how all that horror adds up to greatness.”

“The only thing that surprises me is why I still tolerate this.”

“Because the city hangs in the balance?”

“Yes.”

“And yet… should we do what you wish, and snatch for it, our wrists will prove unsteady—snap—and we will forever walk around bleeding and bawling with our limp appendages. ‘Sorrow! I remember the days when I had working hands.’”

“In what way does that hold true, Smiler? Jarl Thrand is weak. His faithful guard almost found his death from the heat of the sun. Thrand the Younger is in attendance, as is the young girl. We should take them all out in one fell swoop.”

“Oh, it would be fell,” Smiler assured. “It would be fell for us. We might even fall, because of it. Hah!”

“At least tell me the use of this man. The use of any of these fools?”

“Well, Ruby here,” Smiler said, followed by a woman’s confused murmur, “saved your life, did she not?”

“A life I risked for you. Which I am coming to regret.”

“I know regrets my friend, be assured,” said Smiler. “That is why you and I are two halves of the same kindred spirit.”

A laugh sounded out, dark and hateful. “You are a thing all in your own, Smiler. A thing I tire of.”

“Then, rest, friend, rest,” he gently suggested. “Rest while I come to the business of balancing. Of balancing business.”

“Speak your plan, Smiler. You begin to overstep.”

“No, friend,” Smiler’s voice had turned cold. “If any of us had overstepped there would be a lot of missing toes.”

“The plan.”

“Is this man’s.”

Soft footfalls approached, followed by a sudden slapped that fully woke Gudmund.

“Ah, friend!” A soot-covered face stared down at him, grime shining with the light of scattered lanterns. “Welcome to dinner. I’ve called this meeting as requested. You’re the Guest of Honour. A guest honoured. An honoured guest. Now, now, so are all those with you, so don’t think I’m playing favorites. But please, please, straighten, and look upon food and faces arrayed.”

Gudmund squeezed closed his aching eyes. Pressure pushed against his skull, pulsing in painful waves. “Where—”

“Am I?” Smiler asked. “Your eyes can answer that.” He stepped back, striding with a childish skip to his step.

Gudmund sat at yet another horseshoed table, only now there were less guests and they all wore damp sacks as hats. The grey guards gone as well, leaving rough-faced spectators in tattered clothes and ratty leather armour.

Marble had been replaced by rotting wood. Ornate seats by mismatched chairs, stools and barrels. Damp floorboards, moist dust marked by a circle of boots, lay ahead instead of a vibrant fire pit. A pair of men stood there, the young man named Smiler, still pacing, and another man unmoving, hooded and clad in black.

The warmth had faded to leave a permeating cold along with the smell of rain and mold. “Well,” Gudmund thought, “I suppose this is one way to end my life.”

Smiler paused, his frown shrouded by the mellow half-light. “I thought you would look happier, Gudmund.” He snapped his fingers. “I know what it is, you haven’t recognized your guests!”

Smiler raced to the left, leaning over the table, plucking the sack from the closest head. He levied a hefty slap against the young man’s narrow face. “Awaken, Ragni of the Gem Cutters!”

He span on his heel, smiling broadly, then lifted a sack from a young, raven-haired woman. She had a hardness to fine features that reminded Gudmund of Anna.

The woman glared at Smiler. “I’m already—”

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Smiler’s slap stole her words. “Awaken, Ruby of the Gem Cutters!”

The soot-faced mad man dashed to the opposite table.

Gudmund kept his gaze towards the table of the Gem Cutters. Nausea settled in his stomach when he realised the other five guests seated on that row were dead. Old blood coated their clothes and necks, and a deep blotch of red stained the sacks, whether once brown or yellow, where teeth should have been.

As if sight triggered smell, a vile merging of urine, bile, and rotting feces assailed Gudmund.

The woman named Ruby seemed to notice the dead guest beside her. She stared in horror, fighting against the ropes that bound her, then started to gag.

A slap resounded through the room, followed by a tired groan. “Awaken, Alrik of the Black Hands!”

A slap. A murmur of anger. “Awaken, Afi of the Black Hands!”

A slap. A hiss of pain. “Awaken, Afi of the Black Hands!”

A slap. A whimper of fear. “Awaken, Afi of the Black Hands!”

Smiler lifted the sack from the last guest on a row of five living and two dead. A blond man, his face handsome, bruised, stricken by horror. “Awaken, Engli of loyalties divided!”

He turned, then rounded back with a vicious slap that drew winces from all the groggy visitors. Fear seized Gudmund’s heart now he heard the struggle of a woman beside him.

Smiler struggled with the neck strap of another guest, as if it had been stuck fast by blood. He finally pulled it free, then he took a slow step back. “Oh no,” he murmured, shaking his head. “Ralf of Horvorr’s Guard, what have they done to you?”

“What?” Gudmund tried to lean forward, but he was tight bound. He tried to shift his chair, and tumbled backwards.

Skull struck wood with a solid thud.

Gudmund’s ears rang with a mocking din as he vaguely heard a distant tirade.

He could see the stout guard now.

Ralf sagged in his chair, stressing ropes that anchored him. Cheeks no longer ruddy. Bulbous nose crushed inward, bone showing through flesh. A break showed plainly in his skull, thin hair caked with a thick caking of dried blood.

“No!” Gudmund roared in defiance. “This is not how it goes! He did not deserve—”

***

A slap reverberated through Gudmund’s cheek, which filtered through to his nightmares of violence.

“Awaken, Gudmund of Horvorr!” said Smiler once more. “Son of Geirulf. Our honoured guest, our Guest of Honour!”

Agony pierced into Gudmund’s skull like the broken blade of a dagger. He could barely reconcile the pain with disorientation of his barely woken senses, with the grief and fury that writhed within.

Gudmund blinked until he reached a blurry clarity.

The frightened gazes of seven guests rested on him.

The hooded man stood amid the horseshoed tables. “We are running out of time.”

Smiler sat cross-legged ahead of Gudmund. “This is not how I wanted this to go.” He waved an idle hand to the right, where rent flesh resided. “If it helps, I’ve punished those responsible.”

Gudmund stared for a long moment before he realised it was a pile of severed limbs, four torsos, four heads, bone showing as dull white amid shining red. He recognized the empty seat to his right. “Where is Ralf?”

“Burned,” the hooded man answered. “Along with the rest of the dead.”

“The other guests were restless.” Smiler rose, smiling with regret. “We instilled order while you slept. But, as my other half says, sand runs ever out the glass.”

He followed the words with a prolonged hiss.

Gudmund spat in the man’s face. “What do you gods-damned want?”

Smiler frowned, wiping his soot-stained cheeks which did not smear. “You called this meeting, Gudmund. Proceed.”

“Proceed?” Gudmund’s breaths were ragged. “Do you really think that—”

“Wait, no!” Smiler managed to leapt to his feet. He stepped deftly forward, plucking the sack from a blond woman’s head. “Awaken, Anna of Horvorr’s Guard!”

“Mother?” Engli stared in dumbfounded terror. “Gods, what—”

“Enough from you!” Smiler snarled, rounding on him. “Unless you want to end up like those three?”

Gudmund turned towards the three men named Afi. The middling man had his head cupped in his hands, his neck flush against the bloody table. The youngest had crimson lips, and wore a necklace of braided hair, threaded through a severed tongue. The oldest, showing no wounds, appeared to have fared better, but his eyes shone with a sense of loss more poignant than the aimless gaze of his son’s severed head.

“By the gods,” Gudmund muttered, “you sick bastards must have crawled out of the Lady’s Shadow.”

“Free his hand!” Smiler ordered, then turned to the hooded man. “My friend, aim your bow!” He smiled in apology. “Your delays are too long, Gudmund, so I must assume your intent.” Rope snapped. “You can keep one hand free.” Cold metal pressed against Gudmund’s palm. “Take that knife, yes, and see my friend here.”

The hooded man had unslung a bow, and now started to draw back an arrow.

“My friend here,” Smiler continued, “is going to loose an arrow if you do not cut Anna’s throat. It’s what I call a show of commitment. Because—I presume—you have invited us all here in a plot to kill Jarl Thrand. And so I must know for certain whether or not you are committed to that path, so go ahead… go on ahead and cut her throat or else your plans end here. Or else your daughter will be left alone on the marble grounds where she will be married to the son of Jarl Thrand and left without a true family to speak of.”

Gudmund tried to kick back from his chair, but a body blocked him.

“Take the knife away!” Smiler instructed.

“Make a choice instead, Gudmund,” instructed the hooded man. “This arrow is going to fly, who gets it?”

Smiler span, his outstretched hands coming to point towards Old Afi. “Loose!”

The bow thrummed, arrow piercing through flesh and crunching into wood.

Old Afi struggled against the shaft that pinned him, but he voiced no complaints. The arrow had skewered his heart and the light soon faded from his gaze.

“Once more, Gudmund?” Smiler asked. “Make a choice!”

“And what happens to those that stay living?” Gudmund demanded.

“Pieces on the board, my friend. Living, carved. Wood breathes!”

Gudmund turned to the blond woman beside him. “Anna, I would have you—”

“Anna? Anna!” Smiler shouted. “You heard the man, loose the arrow!”

“No!” Gudmund commanded. “Anna will leave, and I will die.”

“Gudmund,” Anna urged. “That—”

“What?” Smiler asked. “You want me to kill you, Gudmund?”

“I am the only one here with nothing to lose.”

“You are the only one here with everything to lose.”

“My daughter will be in safe hands.” Jarl Gudmund steeled his gaze. “Ralf is dead. Grettir is dead. Brolli is dead. They are all dead and I am the last man living of an ancient guard turned to ash. Even my old enemies have fallen.” He shrugged. “I am no longer of use and I have nothing to lose.”

“Your enemies reside, one and all, on Jarl Thrand’s Estate,” Smiler replied. He waved his hand and the hooded man lowered the bow. “Don’t you see, Gudmund?

“I see a shadow-spawned man before me,” he answered. “A company of his vile kin standing as spectators.”

“Cruel barbs,” Smiler whimpered.

Gudmund met the words with a harsh laugh. “If you’ve a grievance with Thrand, why not simply kill him?”

“You echo my thoughts, Jarl,” the hooded man muttered.

“Jarl Thrand’s advisors are mostly dead,” Alrik answered, smiling when met with a glare. “If Thrand were to fall without a steady hand to grab what he has then the stone city would either tear itself apart, or it would hold on long enough to see itself conquered when the doors were broken down by the Low King.”

Gudmund regarded the hooded man. “I’ll pay you your weight in gold if you kill your friend. Twice over, if you kill Jarl Thrand.”

Smiler frowned at his peer. “You almost seem to be considering the offer.”

The hooded man shrugged. “Then things are as they are appear.”

“Hah.” Smiler grinned. “As to your offer, Gudmund, son of Geirulf. I will accept the payment, twice weight, for the death of Thrand.” He swept his wild gaze across the guests. “And I will, of course, expect full participation from you all.”