3. Second Best

“As the years blend together beyond counting, I begin to resent my own achievements. No shaman has ever achieved more than Izzig. And yet it is not enough.

My kind, in their innumerable thousands, all know the name Small King. Yet precious few know my own. Perhaps this unhappiness will only ever worsen until I step out from Agrak’s shadow.

There has to be more to existence than this.

Propping up the Grorginite Empire until it topples, bloodily, and then beginning anew.”

Gudmund leaned back in his black chair, watching confusion twist the chubby face of Ralf. The Chief of Horvorr and his stout guardsman both sat in the counsel room.

They were surrounded on all sides by grey-and-black banners, woven with wolves that seemed to howl in silence.

“So you went to find Hjorvarth?” Ralf asked, scratching at his bulbous nose. “But you found a man named Saxi instead. And now you’ve sent him to deliver a message to Jarl Thrand… because we’re all going to go to Timilir?”

Gudmund nodded. “As simple as that.”

“I don’t like it.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Gonna get us killed, then, for no gain that I can see.” Ralf frowned. “What is the gain meant to be?”

“I’ll tell you the truth, Ralf, because I trust you… I don’t have food to feed us. And I don’t have coin to pay for more. So… let’s say we’re going for free meals.”

Ralf narrowed his eyes. “You just told me that you found a treasure horde.”

“Did I?” Gudmund’s mirth lapsed. He shook his haead. “It’s been a long night. I’m going because I want to go. And, even if I did find a treasure horde, I can’t buy grain that isn’t there to be sold, now, can I? We need to go to Timilir to buy carts, so that we can load grain onto those and bring them back.”

“Right.” Ralf nodded. “So you’re making peace with Thrand?”

Gudmund smirked. “That’s about what it said in the message.”

“So we’re not blaming him for your son’s deaths, then?”

Gudmund upturned his palms. “Goblins did that, Ralf. No man’s beck and call, and all that.”

Ralf wasn’t sure what he meant, so shrugged. “What about the town, then?”

“I’ll let it sit for a while. Anyone that wants to stay can stay. Anyone that wants to come can come.”

“So why wait here?”

“I’m expecting a guest.”

The doors to the main hall clunked in the distance, followed by the faintest flutter of the wind.

“Thought you said Hjorvarth left?”

“He has. Bad timing on his part. I was going to offer him half the treasure.”

An oaken note echoed now the doors came to a close.

Ralf scratched at his nose. “You mean you would have only stolen half of it?”

Gudmund sniffed. “He owes it to the town. Call it a wealth tax, or an inheritance tax. Or just a debt settled for what he owed Brolli. I happen to think if I had asked him, he would have given it without complaint. I could have not told him… there was always that choice open to me. How much coin can a man really even spend?” He shook his head. “I’ll pay him back, then. Happy with that?”

Ralf met the words with another shrug. “Didn’t have a leaning either way.”

Gudmund smiled without enthusiasm, then started rubbing at his tired face. “What’s taking him?”

“Who is it?”

“Hello?” a third voice shouted. “Gudmund? Chief… Jarl Gudmund?”

“Is that Engli?” Ralf asked. “Do you want me to send him away?”

“We’re in here!” Gudmund called. “Eight wolves for company!”

“Nine for me, then,” Ralf muttered, grinning at his own joke.

Gudmund’s face hardened to a regretful set. He stared at the stout guard.

“Something wrong…?”

“They’re all dead and we’re the only ones left.”

Ralf’s smile faltered. “There’s always Arfast.”

“I don’t know the man,” Gudmund said. “I met him for the first time when I was half mad and you brought him to my Hall. Where exactly did you find him?”

Ralf opened his mouth to give answer, only to realize he had none. “I don’t remember, but I could always ask—”

“No.”

Ralf thought to press further, but then Engli crossed through the purple curtains. He slowed to a stop not far from the octagonal table. He wore all black and looked like he had been sleeping in a hay shed.

“Went in the wrong corridor,” Engli mentioned. “Had the thought that there were two ways into the place.”

Gudmund met the blond man with a disappointed stare. “There’s only the one.”

Engli met the words with a nod. He seemed to grow uneasy standing between the wolf banners. “Where would you like me to sit?”

“I’ll be sure to tell you when I do.” Gudmund sniffed. “Engli, is it?”

The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

Engli met the words with a doubtful frown. “Do I look different?”

“To me? No. Any other man might see that you’re leaner. Might see that—” Gudmund waved his arm through the air. “That false air of a man that’s seen death, caused death, and lived to tell the tale. But, no,” he repeated. “I’ll always see that same little coward who failed to protect my sons.”

Engli stood in silence, heat rising to his cheeks, wanting to rebuke the arrogant bastard sat watching him.

“And, now,” Gudmund began slowly, “I hear you’ve done me an even greater wrong.”

Ralf knew they’d had no word of any wrongs, but he had seen the man flinch. “Care to admit it, Engli?”

Engli started to sweat as the pair of veterans stared at him. He knew that they knew what he and Sybille had done. He could see it plain in their weary eyes, but he had no clue why Gudmund hadn’t already leapt up from his seat with a drawn sword.

Gudmund had ran out of patience. “Last night I had a man standing where you stood, but I gave that man a chair. He was a big man, some might say huge, and a much better man than you. So I made him an offer. I told him plain as day, or black as night, that he could marry Sybille. He could marry her if he so chose to.”

Engli blinked. “What did he say…?”

“Something other than yes… or else why would you be standing here?” Gudmund chuckled in mockery, but meant it more for himself than anyone else. “Hjorvarth, as it turns out, is on his way to Timilir. Sam, as it turns out, has been sent to the slave mines… and so that leaves you, second choice. Only choice, really.”

Engli considered the words for a while. “To marry Sybille?”

“What?” Gudmund grinned. “Gods no… well, perhaps, but not quite. I intend to travel to Timilir to make peace with Jarl Thrand.” He made no mention that he intended to use Engli to make the offer. “Smile,” Gudmund thought. “Smile, smile and smile. Kick over the sacrificial lamb and start opening throats while they smile back at you.”

“I’m an outlaw in Timilir…”

“As it turns out, I’ve gold to clear that death debt. But I need a man that I can trust, to protect my daughter.”

“You don’t trust Arfast?” Engli asked.

“I do,” Gudmund thought, “with my life, with her life, and that’s exactly while I’ll be having him bring her back to the Low Lands. Back home. Back home without her father, without her uncle, without her brothers. Back home, a girl abandoned by the last man alive that should have cared enough to keep her safe with his own two hands.”

“Gudmund…?”

“Two,” Gudmund began unsure of what he meant to say, “hands are better than one. So four…. are better than two… naturally.” He scowled. “Unless you happen to disagree?”

“No.” Engli upturned his palms. “Not at all. I just wanted to be sure. So, you want me to accompany you to Timilir while you make peace with Jarl Thrand? And do my best to look after Sybille?”

“Ah, see, now you’re showing promise,” Gudmund happily answered. “Go and pack your things, then. I’ve… things to discuss.”

Engli bowed, taking his leave. Gudmund and Ralf sat in silence until the hall’s doors swung closed.

“It’s not right,” Ralf spoke with something close to disgust. “Not to him. Not to anyone.”

Gudmund kept his gaze towards the twin wolves on black banners. “Guard work?”

“Trading a man’s life for your own gain. Leading him to slaughter.”

Gudmund sighed. “I suppose I told you all that as well?”

“No.” Ralf shook his head. “I can just see it in your eyes. You look desperate. More desperate than you were when you had goblins running over your town. You look like a man who’s made the wrong choice, but wants to stick with it because he’s set on getting himself killed.”

Gudmund glanced at the stout guard. “Never known you to be so brave with your words.”

Ralf stared without sympathy. “Never known you to be so cowardly with your actions.”

“Hah.” Gudmund smiled despite himself. “What is it you expect me to do? I can’t live in the shadow of Thrand. Not after everything that’s happened.”

“And why not?” Ralf asked. “It’s hardly a darkness that grows thicker by the day.”

“I’m not sure how to explain this without sounding like a bloody fool… but, I had a bad dream.”

“Sounds foolish.”

“And in that dream,” Gudmund continued, “I saw Agnar, Geirmund, and Sybille. I won’t go into the particulars, but Sybille was in trouble. And I was asked, arm twisted really, to sell my soul to save her. I did… because, why not, it’s only a dream. But after that, Geirmund told me some frightening things. He told me that Jarl Thrand had made a deal with that giant shaman, Braguk Moonbear.

“A deal to capture Geirmund and Agnar on their journey back from Timilir,” he added. “And then to lay waste to Southwestern Tymir. So I woke, dismissed it all, fairly sure that Braguk Moonbear was long dead, but then that giant shaman paid us a visit. And I heard not long after that a tale about a desiccated man in a frozen tent. Which happened to be the outcome, for the rapist, of me selling my soul.”

“So we’re taking revenge on Thrand on the basis of a god-given vision?” Ralf held up his palms to stave a rebuke. “I’m just asking… it all sounded worrying enough to me.”

Arfast cleared his throat. “I’m not sure if you’ve not seen me… or if you’re both ignoring me.” He nodded in consideration. “The former, then. I thought I’d mention that Sybille told me a similar story, save for the talk about the Moonbear.” He stepped forward now a black-dressed young woman swept in through the curtains.

Sybille set a journal down on the table, sliding it towards her father.

Gudmund rested a hand on the leather cover. “Aren’t you a little old for stories, Sybille?”

“It’s a journal, father,” Sybille said with a tight smile. “Written by your youngest son.”

Gudmund’s proud face settled into sobriety. “Oh.”

He held to stolidity now he lifted the journal.

Gudmund flipped through the pages, witnessing with muted pride the slow improvement of his son’s lettering. He remembered his wolfish boy sat beside him, quill shifting with each flourish, curses whispered for mistakes made.

He sighed with a grief that sank into his skin. “‘Funny—‘” Sorrow weighed the word, so he cleared his throat. “‘How all my happy memories now bring me misery.’”

Sybille and Ralf mused on the sentiment with guilt and sympathy.

Arfast nodded in full understanding.

“You do all know I’m reading Agnar’s words?” Gudmund asked with a scowl. “That wasn’t me baring my thoughts aloud.”

The disparate trio shared irritated glances while their wild-haired leader began to read more slowly, mouthing words as he scoured the pages.

Gudmund’s proud face twisted into a flushed grimace. He kept his gaze towards the yellowed vellum, towards inked script that grew lazy and erratic, while the thoughtful light in his blue eyes darkened to disgust.

He lifted the covering, let it slap back, then pushed the journal further onto the table, so that it rested in the crossed lap of wood-etched Broknar the Elder. All eyes, including Broknar’s own, rested on the journal. Then the three living looked up at Gudmund.

“Well?” Sybille asked.

“Gudmund?” Ralf pressed.

Gudmund eyed his black-dressed daughter. “How much of this have you read?”

“Enough to know that Agnar thought Thorfinn had killed the woman he loved.”

“Ah.” Gudmund nodded in masked relief.

He would burn the journal before the day was done. He would pray that someone had done the same for his untold grandson. “There’s not much more to know than that. Unless you’re of a mind to read pages and pages of what a bastard I am.”

He managed a convincing smirk, despite his hands shaking under the table.

He struggled to steady his breathing.

“Father?” Sybille asked in concern. “Is something wrong?”

“Beyond the obvious?” Gudmund asked before shaking his head. He then scrutinised the carved visage of Broknar the Elder. God of Knowledge, all the words in the world unfurling into his lap until they rolled off the table’s edge. A fall to darkness and oblivion.

“We’re leaving for Timilir,” Gudmund spoke in a faraway voice. “I meant to tell you sooner, Sybille, but you’ve got till midday to pack your things.” He regarded her bald, hawk-faced guardian. “Arfast… would you let those in the town know that we’re departing, and invite any along that want to come.”

Arfast frowned, having already done just that. He nodded all the same.

“You’re with me, Ralf.” Jarl Gudmund rose to his feet. “We’ve a few things to attend to before we leave.”