27. Messages

“The mood at King Zalak’s feast was grim. Despite there being nearly sixty goblins in attendance, a dozen far bulkier than others, the conversations were grumbling and dissatisfied. Zalak sat at the head of Agrak’s great table, with the meek and meager figure of my hatchling sitting beside him, barely tall enough to crane his head above the plates and so weak that he seemed to struggle not to topple over.

Despite the prominent seating, Zalak did not mention this new shaman, who he had once claimed would save us all and lead us into a new era, and instead sat as sullen as all the other goblin leaders in attendance.

Time passed. Meals, other than my own, were swiftly consumed and then picked clean until the hall fell into an awkward silence where it was not clear when or if we should leave. Suffering anger and resentment, I decided I would be the first to leave, when a reedy voice spoke in a quavering pitch.

“Izzig.”

All in attendance were surprised to see the hatchling standing in his seat, keen dark eyes fixed upon me. “Come here, shaman. We need to speak.”

Zalak reluctantly assented and I made my way over to the end of the table. Therein the hatchling told me that his name was Melam, and he had need of me. I was to teach him, and mentor him, and tell him all I know of the world.

Feeling some strange sentimental connection to the hatchling, it was easy to agree. Though in truth I don’t think I would have been offered a choice in the matter.

The meagre hatchling then turned his keen gaze to King Zalak.

“Where is he…?”

Zalak’s eyes narrowed but he eventually understood. “This way,” he grunted. “The feast is over!” he declared, as he and his guards and the hatchlings swiftly departed. I moved to follow, but a large and bulky goblin named Grogg forcefully guided me to a different cavern, where I was instructed to wait.”

Saxi knocked on the crooked door of a nondescript shack in the middle of the city slums. It was midday, but the dirt streets around him were shadowed. The mountains rose ahead of them like the ash claw of some ancient beast, reaching in anger for the shining estate that towered over the rest of Timilir.

Saxi frowned at his own perception. He was a young man that put great stock in happenstance and augury, and wondered if he hadn’t just predicted the downfall of Jarl Thrand and his kin.

The crooked door creaked inward. A smiling, cold-eyed and smudge-cheeked man stood to greet him. “Saxi!”

Saxi took a step back. “Smiler… I was told to come here.”

“Oh.” Smiler’s smile lapsed. “Here I thought it was a friendly visit.” He poked himself in the brow, over and over, while his other hand rested near belted knives. “Hear eye thought… here I thought—” He blinked. “Come in. Come in!”

Saxi forced a smile, and crossed under the door.

The shack was a single room where the floorboards had been smashed to allow for a sunken fire. Heat rippled in greeting and thin smoke twisted up through a hole in the roof. Cupboards lined the back wall, cluttered with cups and scores of empty bottles.

A dozen stools lay scattered across the remaining floorboards.

The hooded man had eschewed the stools and sat, legs crossed, staring into the flames. Saxi moved to sit on the nearest stool.

“No!” Smiler shouted. “Wait, stop, no. Don’t move! Here.” He grabbed Saxi by the shoulders, guiding him closer to the fire, forcing him onto crossed legs so that he faced the hooded man.

Smiler then started gathering stools, trying to stack them atop one another, feet to feet then seat to seat, only for it to collapse when he reached three or four.

He hissed but carried on unperturbed.

“Smiler.” The hooded man glanced up from the flames. “I need to speak with our guest.”

“Hm?” Smiler turned, knocking his eight stools over. “No! Wait, stop!”

Saxi had never seen a man’s face twist so quickly into revile and hatred.

“What have I done?” Smiler whispered, staring off at a bloodstained wall. “We’ve all fallen.”

“Forgive me, Saxi.” The hooded man sighed. “No doubt you’re eager to hear why I brought you here?”

Saxi wasn’t. He was frightened. He didn’t want to be here to begin with. He nodded.

“I need you to deliver a message to the Low King. When you return to your room at the tavern, you will find a satchel with the message, a seal, and payment. There should also be some proper clothes laid out.” The hooded man looked up. “Deliver that message, as soon as you are able, and your dealings with us will be done. Agreed?”

“Can I read the message before I deliver it?”

“It is sealed by wax.” The hooded man shrugged. “It is a declaration that Jarl Thrand will be murdered before the summer months. It advises the Low King to be ready to act. It also informs him that Gudmund of Horvorr has paid for the same service. And as such, he should prepare for a potential struggle.” He paused. “Of course, should you tell any of that to anyone, then you will no longer be guarded by the gods.”

Saxi offered a slow nod. “Is Gudmund going to die?”

“I’m not a prophet.”

“I am.” Smiler looked down at them from a stack of stools, his back hunched and touching the roof. “He will die, and rise again, and die. Most certainly. Always… sometimes. Always, every time. A dozen.”

“Perhaps you should have another drink, Smiler.”

“I can’t… I’m stuck.”

The hooded man rose slowly from his seat then quickly kicked out the stools. They collapsed with a thud and clatter, one landing in the fire, others cracking in the fall.

Smiler swept out his hands, somehow still standing. “My thanks for that. Your thanks, even.” He turned to regard Saxi. “Would you like a friend, drink?” He frowned. “Would you drink a like, friend?”

“Would you like a drink, friend?” Saxi ventured.

“No!” Smiler snapped. He smiled. “I would love one!”

“Forgive him,” the hooded man muttered. “He struggles with atrocities committed. You are free to go, Saxi.”

Saxi nodded and pushed up to his feet. He turned to leave, not quite able to shake the glimpse of Smiler’s miserable gaze. He glanced back to see the man struggling to open a bottle with shaking hands.

The hooded man watched while the short messenger closed the door behind him. He rose, and turned to Smiler. “We never should have included Gudmund in this. It is a complication unneeded. Our original plan would have seen Thrand dead already and us long gone.” He shook his head. “What gain is there in this?”

Smiler turned, drinking from a raised bottle. He didn’t stop until he had drank two thirds. “Your weight in gold, twice over. As was said, as is said, as is always said. Yes?”

“Gudmund does not have gold,” the hooded man argued. “If he did, we would be better served taking it from him.”

“But then we would take to lose.”

“And what would be lost?”

“Honour.”

“Honour?” the hooded man doubtfully echoed. “We have no honour. We are murderers. We are thieves. We are shadows in the night.”

“Darkness has majesty, friend. Friends have majesty. Darkness is our friend.”

The hooded man sighed. “Can you talk no straighter? I begin to worry this is not for show and you are buckling in truth.”

“Jarl Thrand will die.” Smiler’s eyes narrowed. “We will be paid. That is all that matters, it was all that matters, it will always be what matters. It will never not matter.”

“It won’t matter at all if we end up dead.”

Smiler frowned. “It would matter to your children.”

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“I don’t have—”

Smiler smiled.

“If you go near them I’ll end you, Smiler,” the hooded man growled. “The Crooked Teeth are behind me, not you. They want to see you dead just like the rest of the stone city.” He paused. “No man will weep for you when you’re gone.”

“Tears of blood. Tears of blood. The spring springs and the trap traps. Miss your mark and your mark will be missed, my hooded half.” Smiler sighed. “Alas, threats beget more threats. Yet I resist. Yet I resist.”

The hooded man shook his head. “When this is done, I want nothing more to do with you.”

“When this is done, you and I will be nothing more.”

“It was reckless to take them from the Estate.” The hooded man sat back by the fire. “If Jarl Thrand realises, you may well have made his murder an impossibility. Do you understand that, at least?”

“Gudmund sleeps soundly in his bed,” Smiler assured. “He dreams sweet dreams that taste like poison in the morning.”

“And when the handmaids wake to find blood on his person and bedsheets?”

Smiler snickered. “If he can’t hide that then he can’t help us.” He drank the rest of his bottle then let it clink onto the floorboards with a dozen others. “He never can, he never could, he never will.”

***

“Tell me another,” instructed the ancient, weary voice of the crone.

Astrid had seated herself on one of the many stone benches arrayed across the dank, dark temple, her legs having long since grown tired. Though now her whole body ached against the cold and unforgiving seat.

“I…” She swallowed to try and ease her aching throat, but there was no moisture left, and her pain worsened instead. “… don’t—need—a rest. I need water.”

“Tell me another,” snarled the desiccated corpse on the distant throne.

“You tell me a story,” suggest Astrid, as she had either ran out of tales to tell, or else her hungry and exhaustion were preventing her from remembering the rest.

“No.”

The hissing whisper echoed around the dark surroundings, venomous and sullen.

“How did you end up here?” Astrid pressed.

“Why should I tell you that?” the crone snarled. “This is my realm. Not yours.”

“You said that you do not get much company,” Astrid reminded. “I need water… and food—”

Bitter laughter interrupted her words.

“You won’t find any here,” the crone answered. “You can sup at puddles, or lick away at damp stone, but like as not the act will only make you sick, and prolong your suffering. If you are finished, then I will end you. It will be a kindness.”

Fear roiled through Astrid’s stomach. “You said that you could sustain me. That—”

“I lied, bright girl. If I could sustain anything, do you think that I would appear as I do. That I would rot here, broken and unmoving?” the crackling old voice mocked.

The soft rattling of wood sounded out.

“What was that…?” the crone asked, more curious than impatient.

Astrid did not know. She glanced over to her left, seeing a wooden door amid the heavy flagstones of the dead temple. Words glimmered in gold around the top of the frame.

‘The Trapdoor Apart.’

By all reckoning, it had appeared from nowhere. And by all appearances, the door would open to a lower floor. But by the muffled crash of the waves beyond the thick walls and the ever present rocking motion, it would surely open to the ocean below.

“Well?” growled the crone’s voice.

“You said you were a god,” mentioned Astrid.

“I am a god.”

“Yet the other god trapped you here.”

“Not just him,” the dead crone hissed. “My son by law helped him. And my own husband stood idle. Traitors one and all. Worse than Melek.”

“Why…?”

Hinges squealed slightly, and the trapdoor lifted by an inch, creating a gap from which the corner of a letter protruded.

“Why?” the dead god echoed angrily. “Why what?”

“Why did they trap you.”

“Because I refused to bow to that murderer.”

“He killed another god?” Astrid reasoned.

“Yes… he did,” the crone answered quietly, almost mournfully.

“Your daughter.”

“Yes,” she repeated in a murmur barely heard. Deep grief washed over Astrid, in great waves, and she began to weep so profusely that it belied her terrible thirst. “I wanted revenge… needed it. But her own fickle husband would not betray his master, and her useless father buried his nose in books instead of avenging his only child. So they conspired together to lock me here, away from them all, so they could readily forget.”

“That is… very sad.”

“No. It is injust. It is evil!”

Rage whipped around the room, making Astrid suffer a terrible heat that made her sweat. The trapdoor rattled again, and the letter rustled as it was shoved forward, sending it up to the air where it landed with a soft slap.

“What was that?” the dead crone hissed.

Astrid stared down at the letter, unsure of whether she should tell the truth. Part of her wanted to just run for the door, and dive down there rather than wait here to terribly die. “There’s a letter. It dropped on the floor.”

“Liar!” the crone snarled, sending forth a wave of pain that stole Astrid’s senses.

When she recovered, warm blood trickling from nose to chin, her ears were ringing. “I…”

“Read it,” the crone gently instructed. “I believe you now, bright girl. If you can come here, why not a piece of parchment? Read it. Go on, now. I wish to know what it says.”

Astrid tried to stand, but her legs gave out. She caught her balance, knee thumping into unyielding stone, and then managed to struggle up with aid of the bench. Eventually, she plucked the letter up from the cold floor. Blood pattered down onto the pristine white envelope, staining the golden wax symbol of a flask. Holding it aloft, she carefully broke the seal and unfurled the letter. The paper was unduly smooth, and despite her pain and thirst and hunger, the sensation of the letter against her fingers made Astrid smile.

“Well…?” demanded the crone. “Read it aloud!”

‘Dear Astrid,

We have never met. But you find yourself in a most difficult predicament. When one man tries to instill order, he might succeed, but when hundreds aim to do so—each with their own version of order in mind—things soon give way to relentless chaos.

Thus you find yourself in the wrong time and a very wrong place.

Alas, I cannot enter the temple. Because then we would both be doomed.

But—fortunately for you—if you can enter the trapdoor beside you, then I can ferry you away from here and cart you back to where you belong.

Unfortunately for you, Altonia is not a region in which I am well versed. This extends to their deities, though I understand they are called The Seven Wizards. Please proceed to give a false account of this letter and then make your escape.

Perhaps it would be wise to say that this is a message from Zeleker, God of Wisdom, who was her husband. But by my calculations whatever answer you give will suffice.

Heroically yours,

The Alchemist.’

“Tell me what it says,” the crone warned, “or I will make your skin wither and rot! You will die a death beyond your feeble understanding.”

Astrid swallowed, her throat raw and aching. If Zeleker was her husband, surely he’d have contacted her sooner. She could say she couldn’t even read, but if that lie was believed then she would be of no use.

“Why?”

“Why?” the crone echoed with venom. “Listen—”

“Why would you hurt me?” Astrid cut in. “You said you were the God of Mothers. Surely such a god holds women in high esteem. Yet you have hurt me. And lied to me.” She rubbed her nose, smearing blood across her pale cheeks. “You rebelled for your daughter. For injustice. But now you are just as injust. The letter is from a man unknown to me, who calls himself The Alchemist. He says that I should step into the trapdoor by my feet, and he can take me back to where I belong. He suggested that I should lie to you, and tell you it is a letter from your husband, Zeleker. Perhaps suggest that he has some need of me that might in some way benefit you. But the letter is not for you. It was for me. So go on then… kill me. Watch me starve. Force me to tell tale after tale after tale. If that is who you are now. Some wretched, miserable being intent on sharing your suffering with others. But when I’m dead remember that I was someone’s daughter. That I might have been a mother one day, too. And when all these dead faces are looking up at you, hold mine apart from the others. Remember the story I told you, and my story as well. Brought here against my wishes, held here against my will, and made to die a death beyond my feeble understanding because of a rage borne in you by a god who I had never even heard of until we met. Do all that and then go on raging about injustice, as if you are not just as bad if not worse than these deities you so decry.”

A great weight of murderous rage settled on Astrid’s shoulders, smothering her own desperate anger, and her skin began to prickle with pain now she shuddered.

“How dare you speak—”

“Do it!” Astrid screamed. “Kill me! Be the monster that they made you!”

Agonizing fire danced all along Astrid’s cold skin, but then as swiftly faded. A cloak of bitter regret settled over her that made her feel miserable and freezing.

“So brave, bright girl… so brave. And so clever,” the crone gently whispered. Scenes of a young girl, brown hair tied back over her shoulders, running through a forest flashed through Astrid’s mind. “I won’t snuff you out,” added the crone. “But I wish to trade.”

Astrid’s relief was balanced by disbelief and confusion. “Trade…?”

“I want something bright. In exchange. It is terribly dark in here.”

“Oh,” said Astrid. “What about a kobold stone? It shines forever.”

“Yes… something like that would serve.”

“But I don’t have one. And The Alchemist might not want to trade.”

“Convince him,” the crone suggested. “As you’ve convinced me.”

Silence lingered for a long moment, while great waves crashed against the temple, rocking the walls and nearly sending Astrid stumbling.

“So I can leave…?” Astrid asked.

“Goodbye, bright girl. Don’t forget to send something bright back behind you.”

“I will try my best.”

“Thank you. And thank you for your stories. I should have been more gracious.”

Unsure if this was a trick, or if her argument had truly struck a chord, Astrid used all her remaining strength to prize the door up from the frame, which swung back into the cold stone, rattling to a stop.

Gold light spilled up from portal, nearly blinding her aching eyes. She stepped gently forward, meaning to ease herself down, but another great wave crashed against the temple and she was thrown forward instead.