27. Trust

“I have been a fool. A weak and cowardly fool. My affair with Hilda was almost discovered. Brolli found us moments before Gudmund arrived. I hid outside the tent like a coward as she accused him of rape. I do not know how he could suffer the blame, or play the part so well.

I have offered to admit to my sins, but Brolli refuses. He says he has seen enough death, and has no mind to watch Gudmund run me through. I considered this an act of staunch friendship, but at times his eyes linger in a murderous way and I wonder if he only means to kill me himself.

I would not blame him. He had earned the respect of Grettir and the love of Gudmund. He was a hero among the camp and now he is a man reviled. The others judge me for keeping his company. Despite my outrage, I lack the courage to proclaim his innocence. I tell myself that I am only respecting his wishes, and yet know it for the worst of lies.”

Grettir turned to the horses, listening to the crunch of his boots and the whistle of the wind. He felt hot despite the cold, breath steaming, sweat clinging to his wild beard, his heart beating heavy in his chest. They had paused near a small stream to water the horses and he now stood amid the sprawling tundra.

He had it in mind that the windswept horses blamed their plight on him, maybe because it was his fault, or because they had a sense for bastards. Maybe that was just the way horses looked at a man who looked like a beast. Maybe Grettir was just losing his mind, and he’d start thinking that the sun and sky were judging him next.

Maybe he was just judging himself, at least that’s what his wife would’ve said, and she was usually right.

Betrayal didn’t sit well with Grettir, neither did it slip his notice that the last time he had betrayed a man he served was to whisk away a young girl, and here he was doing it again. Though he had been young then too, so maybe he should be out here with an old one-armed woman instead. Either way, betrayal was betrayal.

You don’t steal a man’s daughter on the word of some rag-wrapped stranger in a pale robe, even if his words are slick as snow melt.

Gudmund had been furious after the trial, more angry than he had ever been, and all the hate and rage had been aimed at Grettir. He'd finally said what Grettir long feared, that he was a one-armed no-eyed fool who held the blame for Agnar and Geirmund's deaths. Grettir had always loved Gudmund like a brother despite his flaws. But hearing those words, ringing painfully true, robbed him of all reason. Then the Salt Sage had been ready and waiting to send the blind cripple on his merry way.

Grettir would have already turned back, but he knew he was being followed. He had been tracked by goblins long enough to pay heed to deep growls and rhythmic squeaks in the night.

Gudmund was with him the last time. Brolli too. There was that year when they were bonded men, when they could all stand each other, even liked each other, but then Brolli had to go and get drunk and try to rape Hilda.

“Did I ever worry this much when I was young?” he grumbled.

The wind strengthened into a stronger sweep, shifting dust and snow, nudging along small pebbles. The horses spluttered their distaste at the rising weather, and looked cautiously to Grettir. He noticed he was staring at hoof-hewn earth.

“Sybille!” He rubbed at his nose, then took turns scratching each side of his beard. “Sybille? Eluna stay your hand if you’re weaving,” he invoked, running to the stream, axe to hand, worry in his moss-green eyes. “Sybille!”

She clambered up from the stream bed, adjusting her dress. “Yes?”

Grettir belted his worn axe. “Are you ready to go?”

“I am.” Sybille strode towards the horses. “You seem in an odd mood.”

“I’ll be fine,” Grettir assured. He helped his goddaughter onto her horse, then struggled onto his own.

A gust swept over them as they rode, a doleful song beneath the clop of hooves.

Sybille appeared annoyed by the weather, which made her eyes water and her hair dance in the wind. Grettir himself had to scowl in defense of debris while his brown beard was tugged this way and that. The horse’s manes rippled in the air, a fluid movement that seemed at ends with their thumping stride.

Sybille glanced at him. She shivered, hands clutched around the reins. “What’s wrong, Grettir?”

“Foul weather.”

“It’s something more than that.”

“You think Bruma Stormcaller is sending a message?”

Sybille met his joke with a further narrowing of her eyes. “I’m not pleased with him, either, you know.”

“Bruma’s a woman… fine. And why not?”

“Because he tried to exile Engli and Hjorvarth…?”

“He wanted vengeance for his brother.”

“Hjorvarth saved both his sons,” Sybille countered. “Engli saved me. He just wanted to blame somebody… for something, for anything.”

Grettir nodded. “Doesn’t mean to say that the person holds no blame.”

“He blamed you, then?” Sybille asked.

“He voiced the truth.”

Sybille shook her head. “You’re such a coward, Grettir.”

Grettir’s stare wavered between discontented and determined. “A coward?”

Sybille suffered guilt at the hurt in his harsh voice. “I didn’t mean—”

“I am a coward, Sybille. You want to know what’s wrong with me, well that’s what’s wrong with me. So scared that a ghost’s going to reach out and grab me that I daren’t step foot in Timilir. So scared of some old man’s wrath that I ran home to Horvorr with my cock between my legs. Forced a march. Sent no scouts through the forest, despite Hjorvarth telling me what I already knew. That no goblin attack on the way in, meant an attack on the way out.” Grettir chuckled at himself in pure derision. “Do you know what I said to him, Sybille? Maybe all the goblins are dead. Then as if Joyto himself arranged it, horns start blaring and three hundred of them come screaming out from the trees.”

“You couldn’t have known.”

“I did know,” Grettir assured in a lifeless tone. “I just didn’t care. I was too busy trying to get Hjorvarth to stay in Fenkirk. Too busy plotting like a coward and not living like a man. Too busy being a one-armed, no-eyed idiot.”

“Grettir,” Sybille said. “It isn’t your fault. No more than it is mine, or Engli’s, or Agnar’s, or even Geirmund’s. You only fled because of the trouble we’d caused. And Hjorvarth wasn’t wrong in what he said. If he had been there—if our father had come with us—then they might both still be alive.” She wanted to reach out but the horses rode too far apart. “We don’t need to speak about this, Grettir. I’m sorry that I asked.”

“No need to be sorry.” Grettir blinked and rogue tears trickled down his wild beard. “I just can’t ignore the fact that I swore to protect your brothers. And every day I wake knowing that I survived when they died. Every time I close my eyes I hear Agnar shouting my name… the panic in his voice—” He bit down on his words, and cleared his throat. “You don’t need to hear this, Sybille. I’m not even sure that we need to be out here. Let’s turn around, and I’ll take you home.”

“No.”

“No?”

Sybille shrugged and smiled. “You might not trust your instincts, but I still do.”

***

A single candle illuminated the Chief of Horvorr’s large and over-furnished room.

It stood central on a dark, ornate desk, which had been crafted with a three-panel mirror, so that each dusty pane of glass differed slightly in reflection: wavering flame and sphere of luster prominent in each, but beyond that triumvirate glow was the shadowed visage of a pale man, hairy and naked, sitting on his bed’s end.

Gudmund had sunken down through layered furs and feathered mattress. His knees were up past his waist. He hadn’t washed, so the air was scented with his own odor and his red beard glistened with grease. He sat close enough to the light to cast a thin shadow, which reached back to the curved headboard, carved in the likeness of two wolves, obscured by a stacked pile of fat cushions.

He owned many cupboards, well-made and most dark-varnished. Two wardrobes. Each piece of furniture stood close together, dusty but in good condition. In the far corner, behind Gudmund and to his right, lay a great pile of snapped wood, scattered amongst eleven broken idols that were once carved in the likeness of the gods.

Gudmund’s eyes were not to his morose visage, nor to burning candle or broken altar. He gazed down at a large cloak of brown fur, draped across the floorboards by his feet. It was once a gift from Jarl Thrand, who had given it to Grettir.

Gudmund had only worn it once, but he knew it for a fine gift, and so gifted Grettir an iron-hafted axe in turn. The axe lay at his feet as well, half-buried in the fur. Gudmund looked at them both, as if them lying together, both rejected by the same man, meant that he was no different to the likes of Jarl Thrand: an old, wrinkled coward with serpentine eyes and a serpentine soul.

“Had Grettir not thought Thrand’s family unfit for Sybille as well?” Gudmund thought. “Does he think us so alike that he has taken Sybille from me? And for her to go willingly, stolen away, as if she loved him more—as if they all loved him more, as if they never loved me, as if I’m some burden to bear—bear. Bear fur.

“‘I had this made—’ Old man’s voice, snake voice, hollow-cheeked old fool. ‘—had this made for you. Went out and killed the greatest bear we could find.’ Killed, as if he had killed it, with his withered corpse hands. By best bet might smile it to death, with his crooked liar’s smile. Kill it dead with falseness. ‘Quite matches your hair, doesn’t it?’ Laugh. Old man’s laugh. Hollow. Broken. Hollow. Broken.”

Gudmund’s fists tightened white.

“‘I’ll burn it—” Grettir’s voice, rough voice. Voice of judgement. Judging bastard. Why? ’I don’t keep gifts from men I don’t respect.’”

“Me,” Gudmund said aloud. “Don’t keep gifts from—” He coughed, cleared his throat. “Me.” He coughed again, thumped at his chest. He breathed wet and haggard, pawed at the spiral bedpost and wobbled to his feet. He searched candlelit darkness for a drink, then bile rose up to his mouth and he fell to his knees.

The Chief of Horvorr retched on the floor, spattering dusty wood with vomit, which pooled out, coiled with crimson, until it reached his bare, hairy knees.

Gudmund grunted loudly to himself, coughing his throat clear, and then rose, putting his feet in the puddle. He turned to his bed and saw the specter of his wife, clothed in ethereal white. “Hilda?”

He slipped on sick, thumped the floor with his knee and forehead.

Gudmund shivered in his sleep, bile wetting his skin and making the cold seep deeper. He woke not long after, candle burned almost to a stub, wick at threat from molten wax. He grumbled for a moment, for his aches and pains and for the confusion. He caught scent of the smell, scrambled and slipped away from the puddle. He rolled onto his back, so that his hairy chest showed slick and wet in faint candlelight.

“Am I going to die?” he asked, fearful, but then his proud face hardened. “On my terms.”

He rose from his feet, clawing onto the bed, steadying himself against the spiral bedpost. He brushed tangled hair from his haunted eyes, lifted a fur to wipe the sick from his chest, and then dragged it over to the candle. He lowered a bristling corner to the flame, let it lick and curl around the material until that caught fire in its own right. He made play with the fur, lifting and turning it, before he tossed it onto the bed.

Gudmund watched the fire spread, slowly at first onto other furs, and took grim delight when it crawled up the pile of fat, itchy cushions. He would burn, alone, with all these other useless things.

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No one but the wind would hurt or harass him once he was ashes.

He would finally be free and at peace.

***

Like a bridge broken, paired plateaus overlooked the mountainous pass north of Horvorr. They both stretched to ragged edges and a long drop to the road below.

A modest fire burned on the leftmost, conjuring a sphere of ruddy light that shifted with wind-whipped flames.

Hjorvarth and Engli stood armed and restless on the plateau opposite. Stone shook beneath their feet now shadows swarmed over the rocky slope that lead to the left plateau. The figures leapt into the firelight, growling and screeching, hurling stones into the endless darkness or at the icy rock face.

The enormous goblin known as Dalpho lumbered after them, his blubbery bulk mostly in shadow even as he stepped towards the flames. Hjorvarth glimpsed endless scars along rolled flesh before a massive foot stomped through the fire.

A wordless bellow rolled out into the closing darkness, shaking the air before it faded into vengeful weather.

“Is it just me, or is Gudmund’s Hall burning?” Engli asked.

Hjorvarth moved to stand beside him on the southern ledge. The treacherous climb that they had followed twisted below them, down towards the northern road that they had reached from the cover of shadowed trees. Beyond the forest, Horvorr stood amid a barren plain, homes hidden behind a shadowed surround of tall log walls.

Gudmund’s Hall could not be seen, but silver smoke curled upwards into crimson darkness; and the black expanse of the Great Lake mirrored writhing flames.

“I would guess at yes.”

Engli glanced sidelong. “That doesn’t worry you?”

“We have concerns closer to hand. Gudmund might have simply burned himself alive.”

“Should I find that reassuring?”

“You should,” Hjorvarth spoke in a low tone, “other outcomes would be no better.” He paused. “I would like you to decide what we should do next.”

“What?” Engli asked. “I thought we were waiting for the Sage?”

“It would be best to assume he is dead. As to why I would like you to decide, because I trust your judgement better than my own.”

“Right, well… I don’t want to start talking in circles, but I’d rather you lead us.”

Hjorvarth moved to speak, then bit down on his teeth. He took a slow breath. “I have only recently caused the death of my foster father. I can say in all honesty that I am not in my right mind. My thoughts flit between ending my own life and murdering the Sage. I am almost certain that I would choose a reckless tact that would most likely lead us both to a bloody end.”

“Oh.” Engli shuffled to the side. “I—”

“You have no need to fear me, Engli.” Hjorvarth sighed. “I have long since mastered making my actions reflect reason and not rage. I am sworn to protect you. I am sworn to accompany the Sage. I will follow you above him though, assuming he still lives. But since he chose not to tell us his plan, and he has not met us here as agreed, we must choose another way forward.”

“Such as?”

Hjorvarth upturned his heavy palms. “We could cross this plain at dawn and arrive back at Horvorr. If Gudmund lives, he will reject us at the gates, or he will slay us for abandoning the Sage. If he is dead, along with Sybille and Grettir, then… well, I would have no choice but to enter the place as a butcher in a slaughterhouse. In that vein, we could cover ourselves in goblin innards and prowl through the forests for their leaders. Or, perhaps wisest of all, we could travel to the mining villages and seek out help or survivors. Though we would need to wash our clothes thoroughly for that, as we both smell badly. And if I look as haggard as you do then we would likely inspire thoughts of exiled murderers.”

Engli studied the distant flames. “Do you really think that Sybille might be dead?”

“I can think of no lie that would explain my mention. So, yes.”

“Oh. Perhaps we should go back to Horvorr, then. I don’t want to wander off and die in the mountains if those we know are suffering not a day away.”

“That suits me well enough.”

A scrabble of stones forced both men to turn with shields and axes readied.

“Ah,” a robed man enthused. “My fearless companions. Did I overhear talk of abandoning the holy man?”

“Sage,” both men answered with suspicion.

The Salt Sage stepped closer, still shrouded in shadows. “Is something wrong?”

“Wrong?” Hjorvarth asked. “Beyond the fact that I walk with a man who has manipulated me beyond measure? The man that kicked Brolli in the chest when he offered his hand. The man that leads us by the nose to our deaths.”

“Perhaps I should lead you by the ears if you don’t hear those goblins coming,” the Sage chided. “As to your accusations, entertaining and wrong as they may be, I’m afraid death approaches. Even Dalpho can be silent when needed. I do, of course, offer apologies for my plan not working entirely as… planned, thus far. But then you did speak loudly when I asked you to whisper, didn’t you, Hjorvarth? I expect you won’t make the same mistake of bringing ruin upon us in a dire hour? I expect you’re both eager to forge ahead with our quest to save those in need?”

“Oaths bind me to your service, Sage. Once broken, I will sever your spine and go gladly to the Lady’s Shadow.”

The Salt Sage laughed. “That gives me a deal of time to change your mind, then.” He waved them towards the opposite ledge. “I’ll have to show you our intended destination. I fear that the goblins will catch us if I do not distract them.”

Hjorvarth and Engli came to stand at either side of the robed man.

Beyond the twin plateaus, the northern road wound through the sloping approach to a wintry valley that housed the mining village of Stonefell. Before the final climb, the path forked towards a second path that rounded behind a row of hills and led to the sheltered settlement of Ilmkleif.

“Are we going to Ilmkleif or Stonefell?” Engli asked.

“Neither.” The Salt Sage waved towards the cross-roads, beyond that to where a stretch of scree gave way to dense conifer trees. “You need to head northeast at the fork, and then go further until you reach the end of that mountainous wood.”

“I have been there before.” Hjorvarth stood unduly close to the robed man. “It ends in mountain ranges that we would not be able to pass even with proper gear for climbing. And as it stands, we lack supplies for a journey on flat land.”

“Joyto assures me that there is a cave there… with a hidden passageway that leads to a mountainous basin of stone and snow. Within it, is a hill. Atop that hill, is a home. The holy man we seek, Jorund of the Hill, awaits us there.”

“The holy man you seek,” Hjorvarth amended. “Towards an end we could not even guess at.”

“Nor I, yet I trust in Joyto. Do you not have faith in the Helmsman, friend?”

Hjorvarth grabbed him by the neck. He hoisted the robed man over the edge. “Friend,” he grated. “You just named Joyto as the Helmsman. What proof do I need beyond that to name you as a false facer? To name you as a man that defiles all honor of the gods?”

The Salt Sage’s slippered feet dangled. “You are not in your right mind, friend. Since when does a slip of the tongue serve as a sound reason for murder?”

Hjorvarth stare held no sympathy. “You have caused the death of four men.”

“Accidents, one and all.” The Salt Sage gripped the huge man’s wrists. “What you fail to see is that you have the fate of Horvorr in your hands. What you fail to see is that you waste time and words as goblins—”

“I hear no goblins!”

“Because you are deaf and blind to the world around you.” The Salt Sage outstretched his arms. “Drop me, then,” he snarled. “Clearly it matters not at all that you are both bound to protect and accompany me. It makes no difference that your friends and families are at risk of being broken, slaughtered, and consumed. You do not care that I stand, that I dangle—that I am soon to fall—as the only man that stands a chance of preventing this madness. You would rather avenge yourself on me for a death that you caused… and what can I really say to that beyond wishing you luck in your cowardice?”

“For once, you speak plainly.” Hjorvarth exhaled through his teeth. “Now tell us of your plan.”

“I have already told you it. I would only ask that you leave before it is too late.”

“Too late,” Hjorvarth doubtfully echoed. “Engli? What would you have me do?”

“In honest truth?” Engli asked, disappointment weighing his words. “I believe that this murder would be the end of us both. If the path leads nowhere, as you say, then we can always turn straight back to Stonefell. I think I can hear the goblins, as well.”

Hjorvarth strained his ears beyond the wind, now able to hear distant squeaking and scrabbling rocks. He lifted the robed man back onto solid ground. “I pray that we will meet when this war is done, Sage.” He stepped around to face the blond fighter. “As to you, Engli, you have my honest thanks for your wisdom. Lead on.”

The Salt Sage smiled now the disparate pair departed. “I expect those are words you will live to regret.”

The wind swept by once more, whistling with mockery. The robed man turned to watch the distant departure of Dalpho and his gathered clan.

***

“Chief Gudmund!” Ralf called, looking over to the cloaked man further along Horvorr’s wall walk. He had hoped to stay where he stood, because ice sheeted the path ahead and made menacing play with the dawn’s light. He knew one misstep might send him sliding to the edge, where he would fall for sixty feet to the settlement below.

Ralf edged forward all the same, keeping close to the wooden parapet.

Ice crunched underfoot. Breath misted his vision. “Chief Gudmund?”

Gudmund stared off at the plain beyond the walls, one hand on his sword hilt, one anchored to the parapet.

“I’ve been looking for you for hours. There was a fire in your Hall.” Ralf swallowed. “We put it out before it got a hold, but a few other buildings caught light and burned to the ground. Your own room is ruined.” He paused. “Gudmund…?”

The Chief of Horvorr wore a thick cloak, bear brown trimmed with speckled grey, which bristled and glistened in the noon light, as if some feral majesty of the animals themselves still resided in the pelts. Gudmund himself, red hair windswept and brittle, appeared more worse for wear than his garment.

Ralf thought he looked like a man who had died in the night, frozen over, and only now started to thaw.

“So it should be,” Gudmund said, his voice hoarse. “I set the fire there, but there was something about the smoke and the heat that I couldn’t stand. So I came here, where it was cold.” He chuckled. “I meant to jump. Not sure why, now. But I saw something in the trees that gave me pause.” The hand on the parapet moved rigidly with drumming fingers. “Do you see it?”

Ralf stepped closer. He narrowed his eyes so forcefully that it creased his ruddy face. Trees towered in the distance, close-ranked and imposing. Mountain ranges rose beyond those, peaks powdered by snow. He scanned the barren plain that encircled the town for good measure, then shook his head.

“Well?” Gudmund asked. “What do you see?”

“Nothing to cause a man to take his life, or change his mind about it, unless he’s a great lover of trees.”

“Nothing,” Gudmund repeated, smile spreading across his corpse-white face. “Exactly that.” He let go of his sword’s hilt, and rubbed hoarfrost from his fiery beard. “No birds. No rabbits. Nothing. No deer. No wolf calls. Nothing.” He stared at the snow-clumped forest, then up at the rising sun, bleeding gold into a pink sky.

Ralf ventured a nod. “And is that a good or a bad thing?”

Gudmund laughed quietly, falling into a forceful fit of coughs. He braced both hands against the parapet as he heaved, so that his fur cloak shifted and shimmered on his bent back.

“Chief Gudmund?” Ralf stepped forward but the Chief of Horvorr raised his pale hand and shook his head, causing the fur hood to fall. “I don’t think you should stay up here. The weather’s cold and you look half frozen.”

Gudmund let out a final cough, spitting into the snow and over his boots. He frowned down when white turned to crimson.

“Blood.” Ralf’s tired eyes widened. “You should go to the Ritual House.”

The Chief of Horvorr smiled with bloody lips. “It is a bad thing.”

“I’d say it’s no better to be coughing up blood.”

“In answer to your question,” Gudmund said. “It is a bad thing.”

Ralf frowned, and reached out for Gudmund, whose blue eyes narrowed to such severity and violence that it froze the guard’s heart. Ralf stepped away and his heel skidded on slick ice, sending his foot forwards while the rest of him fell back.

Gudmund caught him by the collar. “Careful.” He lifted him up, choking his fat neck, and kept a hold until he had his feet. “I’ve just come from the Ritual House. Or I had before I burnt down my home. Or tried to, at least.” He sighed, and leaned on the parapet. “Now do you want to know why it is a bad thing?”

Ralf rubbed his neck. “If it means you’ll come down—”

“There are no animals,” Gudmund said. “So they have fled, or they have been eaten. I have seen forests like this before.” He rested a hand on his sword’s pommel. “When I was younger. When I was at war. When those goblins were filled with—I mean forests. Goblin filled forests. You get the point.”

“So you’ve seen goblins?”

Gudmund shook his head. “I’ve seen all I needed to see.”

“Nothing?”

“Exactly. I’ve seen nothing and now I’m sure there’s war coming.”

“If I’m honest, I’m not exactly—”

“You are honest, I’m sure.” Gudmund tightened his cloak, and headed towards the long stairs that led down to the town below. “Let’s go.”

Ralf nodded, worry about his chubby face. He followed at a far slower pace than the Chief of Horvorr set.

Gudmund slipped and lurched over the ice, never losing his footing. He sucked in a deep breath, waiting for the cautious murmurs and crunching footsteps to grow close. “You are Ralf, aren’t you?”

“Of course.” Ralf came to stand beside him. “You ever known me by any other name in all the time I’ve served you?”

“I suppose not.”

Gudmund carried forward at a slippery amble. They held to silence until they reached the stairs.

“Grettir’s gone,” Gudmund said as idle mention. “My daughter as well.”

“Aye.” Ralf kept tight to the wall while he descended each step. “I brought you the news that they’d left.”

“Did you?” Gudmund grunted indifference. “I suppose I ought to put you in charge of Horvorr’s Guard, then. For good service.”

“What?” Ralf slipped but caught himself on the wall. “There’s better men than me for that.”

Gudmund cast his gaze across the huddled buildings that comprised the town of Horvorr. “I see a lot of houses. No men.”

“They’re at home,” Ralf said, words labored by a shortness of breath. “Or in a tavern… or out on the lake, or just walking about. Wherever they are, they’re better fit to lead than I am.”

“You say that as if it matters.” Gudmund’s smile was forced. “I only really need you to gather the guard.”