29. Uneasy

“Gah’rul’s clans have pushed us to the very edge of the Blackwood. Gudmund refuses to retreat, because ceding this ground would mean falling all the way back to behind the Snake Basin Path. Where all this started. All the coin and blood spent would be for nothing.

There is open dissent among the camps, and I feared that we would soon be faced with mass desertion or outright rebellion. In an odd twist of fate, Gudmund’s position has been improved not by the men who follow him, but by an emissary from the goblin camps. They have requested a truce.

Gudmund was all too eager to agree, instructing our men to fortify the encampment.

I cannot tell if it is pity, a desire to avoid bloodshed, or part of some wider plot. But the goblins have forestalled what many now believe will be The Young Wolf’s final defeat.”

Hjorvarth crossed onto the landing with a new lantern to hand. He shook his head, unable to loosen his teeth or lessen his scowl.

Engli stood by the silvered door, appearing a little bewildered, his green eyes lively with his nervous smile. “I’d like to say that was well done, what with you handling that as though you planned the ambush for them… but I think my judgement might be clouded by you saving my life.”

Hjorvarth shrugged, not understanding the callback. “What happened?”

“Not a long story,” Engli said as calmly as he could. “They were chatting, friendly enough, setting things in order. I had started cutting carrots, causing no harm to anyone, and then I looked up to see an arrow gleaming ahead of me. Dagny with her eyes narrowed behind it as if she means to loose.” They crossed onto the other stairs, ambient light brightening with the lantern on the wall. Hjorvarth listened for footfalls, but heard none as he glanced to the darkened walkway below.

“I pretend like I’m going to plead,” Engli continued, “and then I duck.”

“Why?”

“I thought that’s the last thing she would expect, and that she would fumble and loose her arrow above me.”

“She did, of course, but then Brenna hit me with a pan, which drove my head into the counter.” He probed at the swollen flesh of his brow and the lump atop his head. “Might have all been avoided if you’d have listened to me.”

“What do you mean?”

Engli shot a dubious glance, then decided it was a genuine question. “Well, I didn’t want to trust them to begin with, and I certainly didn’t want to split up.”

“Oh.” Hjorvarth turned first onto the next walkway, glancing at the silvered door. “Did you not hesitate for my sake?”

“Why would I do that?”

“In truth?” Hjorvarth looked to Engli, who nodded belatedly. “I thought you had wanted to go with Jorund’s older daughter, and that you felt a little guilty for fear Jorund might kill me… and I had no fear of that.”

Engli laughed quietly, shaking his head. “I’ll admit, I thought that perhaps… for a second, she seemed a fine woman. But, mainly, I had faith that you’d be able to handle Jorund, and I was more worried for myself. What with being in company of two seasoned hunters and that Bjorn, who stands half a hand taller than you.”

Hjorvarth raked at his thick beard. “By your own account, you should have paid more mind to Jorund’s wife.”

“True.” Engli paused. “What are we going to do now?”

“My plan is to get clear of this place. The rest can wait.”

Engli smirked. “Now you sound like the Sage.”

“I do not like that thought at all.”

They stepped onto the uppermost landing, and paused outside the corridor.

“I’ll lead.” Engli reached for his shield, stayed by a hand on his shoulder.

“Take mine. If Jorund is waiting with a bow you’ll be exposed legs-or-head with your own.”

Engli gripped the shield and his arm sagged with the weight. “Do you want mine?”

“No,” Hjorvarth said. “I’m near useless in that corridor.”

Engli made his way into the corridor, looking like a boy holding his father’s shield. He glanced back to check Hjorvarth was behind him, then turned the corner, putting a wall at his back and a copper-worked door at his right.

Hjorvarth readied his axe. “I’ll watch the doors.”

Engli set the shield as central as he could have it, nearly grazing both walls and the floor. He settled into a crouch and peeked over the fur-trimmed rim, seeing little more than dull stone and bright copper. The shield hid him as he proceeded, leaving only the tattered edges of wood and the flaking visage of a great bear fighting three wolves in a forest of two trees.

Hjorvarth turned to check the first door. It appeared unlike the others, dull copper mangled into an odd scene, which Hjorvarth thought to be a small goblin in the jaw of some greater beast; but he had confused a throne for a tongue, and cavern rocks for four fangs.

He pushed and it swung soundlessly inward, sweeping up the air to disturb twigs, bones and leaves that lay littered across the floor. He knew most for the remains of small animals, but he saw glimpses of finger and toe knuckles amongst the gathering of debris and dirt that layered the floor. A wooden idol stood at the back of the room, crudely carved into the shape of a large goblin standing atop a podium. The creature weighed a pair of stone bowls in clawed hands, and wore a blackened skull for a helmet.

A young woman, clothed in a dress of an ethereal white, knelt before the altar, her glossy black hair tied back between her shoulders.

Thinking the scene might disappear, Hjorvarth closed and reopened the door.

“You’re causing a draft, Hjorvarth.” Astrid turned around, her pale forehead crossed with blood.

Hjorvarth met her annoyed smile with uncertainty. “What is this place?”

“It’s a place for praying,” Astrid explained as a matter of fact. She let out a long yawn, and then noticed his bruised fists. “Oh. They tried to tie you up!”

“They did,” Hjorvarth agreed, with far less levity.

Astrid tutted. “I told them not to bother. But no one ever listens to me.”

“Hjorvarth!” Engli called. “Who are you talking to?”

“Just Ast…” Hjorvarth trailed off. “Jorund’s younger daughter!”

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“Rude.” Astrid smiled before turning back to her altar. “No need to worry, Hjorvarth. Edda says you’re safe now… from us, at least.”

***

Jorund, still stood by his fire, and turning his goat on the spit, caught sight of movement in the corner of his eye. He turned to the open doors of his home, and saw two men, one too broad for Bjorn and another too short for Gunnar. A weight of dread settled around the heart of that grizzled, weatherbeaten mountaineer; Bjorn had been a fool to try and overpower the huge man, instead of dosing his drink.

“Jorund!” Hjorvarth shouted, his wroth voice rolling across the snowy hill and playing back off of mountain tops.

Jorund sighed now his fears were realised. He turned back to dead and burning animal beside him, carried on turning the spit, listening for crunching snow as both men approached.

“You swore us an oath,” Engli said, almost sadly, “that we would be safe in your home. That you would treat fairly with us, and then I find myself with a knock on the head. I find myself tied to a chair, gagged and bonded.”

Jorund swallowed, reflexively reaching for his axe.

“If you even touch that handle,” Hjorvarth spoke in a lifeless tone. “I will cut off one of your feet, and seal your wounded limb on the fire.”

Engli shot the huge man a worried glance. “So that you that you’ll forever remember your misstep.”

Jorund regarded each of them in turn. His weather-beaten face flushed red, and beaded with sweat. “Am I dead then?”

Hjorvarth did not flinch from scowling. “I treat with men as they treat with me.”

“Jorund, Jorund, Jorund.” Engli shook his head with disappointment. “So what was the plan after you tied us up?”

“Not my plan,” Jorund said. “I would have mixed your drink with herbs that put you to sleep, and then waited for whoever you meant to meet with. Once I was certain that each of you could do no harm to my family, that no others were forthcoming, then I would have questioned your purpose for coming here.”

Hjorvarth sniffed. “Questions you could have asked us at any meal, that I’ve already answered.”

“We should go, Hjorvarth.” Engli swept a nervous gaze across the open snow. “They won’t stay down there forever.”

“My family lives?” Jorund reasoned, fragile hope taking hold.

Hjorvarth laughed in derision. “Do you think us as black as you and yours?”

“I know not what to say.” Jorund glanced down at the fire. “By my own eyes you seem a pair of good men, but there’s no way you crossed the mountains without gear, which means you came through the cave. And though the story you told seemed to be true, you did not mention how it was you knew to cover yourself in troll’s blood, or how you found this place.”

“Greetings!” came the Sage’s excitable call.

Hjorvarth gripped his axe. Jorund leapt for his own. Engli fumbled for his moments later, turning to face the Sage, not recognising the deep brown robe he wore.

“Who are you?” all three men demanded.

“Jorund of The Hill!” the Sage greeted him in a regal tone. “I am a Sage of Mubarrak, and I have come here—” He swept his hand towards Engli and Hjorvarth. “—with my two companions, in order to pay homage to the Small King.”

Hjorvarth and Engli lowered their weapons now the Sage came to stand beside them.

“Mubarrak?” Engli whispered.

“There’s no salt here,” the Sage answered quietly. “Understand?”

Jorund stood ready with his axe. “You are a Sage of Mubarrak?”

“Yes.” The Salt Sage bowed slightly, shadowed smile hidden by his brown hood. “My companions are hired help. We were separated on the road, and so I was not able to explain to them the—” He took to adding hand gestures to his speech, weighing and juggling air as he spoke. “—specifics of my—our—beliefs, nor did I think to warn them that you might not receive them kindly. Not to suggest that what you did was unkind, rather that you might not know they were servants of the Small King… or, at least, that they served one of his servants. Apologies.” He offered a few more awkward twists of his hand. “I have never been one for speaking at length.”

Jorund brandished his weapon. “Lift your hood.”

“I would… gladly, do so, if it were not for the sun.” The Salt Sage bowed in apology. “My eyes, used to the depths as they are, are not made for seeing blue skies.”

“What is all this nonsense about?” Hjorvarth asked.

“Well enough for you two,” Engli agreed, “when you know something we don’t. But for us it’s just confusing.”

“We’re leaving,” Hjorvarth spoke bluntly. “This feckless bastard tried to trick and murder us. And he’s lucky enough that we’ve not settled the score.”

The Salt Sage coughed. “Apologies!” He bowed lower than before. “Apologies, oh Jorund of The Hill. My companions know little—”

“Enough pandering!” Jorund glared at the robed man. “I am not Jorund of The Hill. That man is long dead, though it shames me to admit I am his son. Which leaves me mantled with whatever dubious responsibilities he held for your order. Now lift your hood… or leave with your companions.”

“My plan is working perfectly,” the Sage whispered. “If I look a little different, try not mention it.”

Jorund let his axe drop to turn the burning goat. “Well?”

“Might we be able to go inside, first?” the Sage asked.

Jorund took up his weapon, and stepped forward. “I will invite no man into my home without seeing his face.”

“Of course,” the Sage said as if in remembrance. He pulled up his hood, eyes closed in defense of the sun. “I had almost forgot about the wards on your doors.”

Hjorvarth stepped back from the brown-robed man, seeing that his hair, closer to white than brown, had been mangled, and that his skin now appeared pale and sickly like a dead fish.

“Gods above,” Engli whispered. “No wonder he covers his face.”

The Salt Sage lifted his jaw, barely covered by a scraggly beard. “Is that good enough?”

Jorund walked closer. “Open your eyes, and it will be.” The Salt Sage moved to protest, but Jorund grabbed him under the chin with one hand and shadowed his brow with the other. “Your eyes.”

“Of course.” Pale lids fluttered open to reveal eyes so clouded they had no colour. Thin lips curled into a weak smile. “I take it that is satisfactory?”

Jorund grunted. “You can keep your hood down in my home, but I cannot have these man as my guests. There is too much between us.”

“Don’t worry, Jorund,” Engli said. “The last thing we want is to stop for supper.” He smiled at the newly hooded Sage. “Sage… I do appreciate that you spared us from being outlawed, but Jorund and his family seem better suited to your company than we ever were.” He turned to follow Hjorvarth, who had already begun to leave. “I’d like to say that it was nice knowing you, but it really wasn’t. The opposite, maybe.”

The Salt Sage replied with a small laugh, even though his smile fell to sadness under his hood. He turned to Jorund, a man at ease with mountains ranges and clear skies around him, and watched as dissatisfaction grew plain across his rugged face.

“Wait!” Jorund called. He ran after the mismatched pair. “You have no food, and your clothes are not fit for traveling.”

“Courtesy of the Sage,” Engli said over his shoulder. “Besides, I’d sooner eat tree bark than a meal prepared by your hands.”

“Then you can cook your own meal,” Jorund pressed. “Were you to leave here because of an ill that I did you, caused by a misunderstanding that was not your own fault, then it would weigh on me for years to come.”

“As well you should, Jorund.” Hjorvarth rounded on him. “As well any man should that can brew such distrust in men that they would rather forge blindly out into foul weather—without supplies—than sit at your table, by the warmth of a fire.”

“And yet you don’t fear for the Sage?” Jorund asked.

“Fear for him?” Hjorvarth asked. “I would not kick snow in that man’s face if he was on fire.”

“It could take us a week to reach Fenkirk,” Engli said.

Hjorvarth met the sentiment with a hard look of defiance.

“Whatever Jorund and his family are about, the Sage seems to know it well enough,” Engli continued. “And as much as you might not like the Sage, he got us through that forest, and he made it here. So why would he wrong-foot himself now?”

“You want to save Horvorr from the goblins that surround it?” Jorund asked and they both nodded.

“That’s the general idea,” Engli said.

“And if you leave here now, and you die in the snow. Do you think the people of Horvorr will be better for it?”

Over by the cookfire, the Salt Sage paid no mind as Hjorvarth and Engli decided in favour of the lesser of two evils. He tossed a rubbery disk of flesh into the fire, and blinked clear his bright blue eyes. He looked down at the flames and the glow made his newly anemic skin seem wet and orange.

The Salt Sage buried his right boot into the snow, as if meaning to kick. Instead, he smiled sadly, and turned the spit.