30. Peace Makers

“Of all I had heard of Mubrogg the Spirit Weaver, I glimpsed little of interest beyond a pointed nose and a tattered cloak. I was given no opportunity to get a second look, for he accused me of being cursed and barred me from his meeting with Gudmund.

Brolli told me that Mubrogg made an offer, not of peace, but of a duel at noon. Gahr’rul wishes to fight Gudmund for the region, and has allowed him the support of both Grettir and Brolli. I had never seen Brolli more enthralled by an idea, and I expected he would sharpen his sword until dawn.

Instead, I saw a group of two dozen cloaked men leaving the camp in the dead of night.

Gudmund, Grettir, and Brolli were among them, but I could not understand why they had brought along the friendless man known only as The Cook.”

Loffi had made a cautious approach to the Shaman’s Cave. He would sniff the air every few seconds, and sweep his amber gaze about the unmarked path he followed through the forest. He kept slow, both so that he wouldn’t be caught unawares if this was some grab-and-snack trap, and also so as not to upset Bragg, who was the much bigger and fatter goblin that Dalpho had told him to follow.

Bragg himself crept forward, stopping altogether now he drew close to the cavern mouth. He turned back, his chubby face creased in displeasure. “It stinks of magic.” He appeared worried for a moment longer, then offered an enormous smile. “You… go. You go. Loffi into cave.”

Loffi twitched his ratty, conical ears to listen for any goblins that might grab him, but heard nothing but the panting of Bragg. “Loffi go. Loffi into cave.” He bared his fangs in a smile.

“Yes.” Bragg nodded eagerly. “Do that. Bragg be still. You come back to still Bragg.”

Loffi nodded, and scampered around Bragg’s thick legs. He fell to all fours to make a quicker run to the sticks, skulls and stones, and bits and bones that marked the shaman’s cave. Loffi was glad when he crossed into the darkness of the place, even though it reeked of sour smells, and dead things.

He was worried to meet the shaman, as he had met a shaman before when he was in the Eastern Clans, who was named Mulu the Undying. Loffi wondered what they would call Mulu after he had died. He hoped that the day would be soon, because it was better for Mulu to be dead. He was cruel and smiling, and an eater of smaller goblins, even when those goblins had brought him other food.

The cavern path grew more narrow, and the air had the faint stink of spiders, so Loffi rose up to his two legs and kept his claws ready ahead of him. He fit easily through the tunnel, hearing nothing but his own claws scratching dirt. He soon saw nothing because it became so dark, and he wondered if there was even a shaman in here. Loffi ran a little further, forgetting his caution, and he could soon see again by a green and eerie light.

Loffi edged into the pool room. It had been hand-dug, made circular, with a ring of solid ground around the pool to allow a way into other tunnels. The pool was still, broken by occasional bubbling, and colored luminescent green. It radiated heat that made the air feel too warm and too wet. Loffi peered down at the translucent goblin embryos growing at the bottom of the pool. He dipped the end of his claws into the green water, and the tip started to hiss and smoke.

“Careful,” warned a strained voice.

Loffi leapt back, his hand claws and hind claws ready to fight.

The ancient, skinny goblin cocked his head. “Loffi…?”

Loffi snorted black phlegm onto the cavern floor. “Izzig?”

Izzig reached to his hunched back for a short staff that was little more than a smooth branch. “Has our King sent you?”

Loffi put his conical ears flat, and shook his head. “Dalpho says, follow Bragg. Bragg says, go here. I am here. None spoke of Izzig, only of bad shaman with bad magic. Why are you standing where you are standing?”

Izzig’s green lips turned upward. “Do you mean, why am I here?”

“Yes.” Loffi nodded. “I forget words.”

“Orog disapproved of my experiments, and bid our King send me away. I had no desire to await the outcome, and so I left. Dalpho found me up in the mountains, and extended protection in exchange for my help in making more… more like him.”

“You make bad magic?” Loffi asked.

Izzig upturned his emaciated hands. “I exploit the way we are, and can be. Why are you listening to Dalpho? Are you not with Moonkin in the Western Clans. Are you not with Orog?”

“Moonkin,” Loffi spoke the word as if it were unfamiliar. “Many Moonkin’s I have. A clan. My own clan. But that Moonkin I lost to one called Balluk. I ripped out his throat. Better that he dies. He lived though, quite confusing.”

Izzig offered a sad smile. “You lost your twin?”

“Speak of it no more. No words for that.”

“Very well.” Izzig conceded with a nod. “As to why he didn’t die, perhaps you didn’t rip out his throat… enough.”

“Oh.” Loffi nodded. “I will do it enough next time. But now we must go with Bragg. I am to make a peace.”

“Ah.” Izzig’s ponderous expression looked all the more wrinkled by the light of the pool. “And you are sure that Dalpho does not suspect you are a King’s goblin?”

“No wish for that,” Loffi answered with anger. “I will be Loffi the Throat Ripper. Again. Enough… this time.”

“I’m afraid Balluk has left the Western Clans, Loffi.” Izzig glanced down at the goblin embryos, then turned away from the pool and towards a tunnel. “Follow me. If we’re leaving then I need to collect some things.”

“Do that.” Loffi scampered after him. “Izzig making more Dalpho?” They crossed into another circular chamber, which housed a much larger and more luminescent pool.

“At the moment?” Izzig asked. “I’m trying to make a goblin that is hard like a beetle shell.”

“A beetle shell is hard,” Loffi agreed. “Who tells you to do this?”

“I do what I wish,” Izzig said simply, coming into a cavern that was lit both by the faint green glow of a dozen adjoining rooms and by the blue light of hundreds of glowworms along the moss-hung roof. “It is easy enough to make what I want… more difficult to make them breathe when I cut them from the egg.”

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“I should do what I wish?” Loffi asked. “Find Balluk and leave Izzig?”

“Balluk has left,” Izzig said for a second time. “I sang the seer song this morning, smoked the smokes. He has no love for Lazarus or Dalpho, so hopes to go on his own. You would be lucky to find him now… as I understood it he was south of Horvorr. Snuffing for two horses, one man and one girl.”

“I can scent for these things,” Loffi argued. “Easy enough for one such as me. Loffi.”

“The words come more easily, I see.” Izzig smiled back at him through the blue gloom. “Let us do what our Chief asks of us. I will see if I can seer Balluk again, but for now its best we get all the clans together, so that the manlings don’t put an end to us before we ever get to the business of ripping out throats.”

***

Gudmund had opened the huge, ornate doors to his hall to let in the dusky afternoon light. Fire had spread across the now blackened northern walls, so the place stank of smoke, even with the fish-scented wind sweeping in.

Ralf’s bulbous nose furrowed as he crossed under the carved arch, with four men following closely, if not eagerly, behind him.

A crack of wood met their approach. Then a thud, and a louder crack, followed by a tumble of wood. Ralf stumbled in his stride. “Gudmund?”

The Chief of Horvorr sat on the floor, hairy and naked, his great fur cloak bundled behind him. Broken wood lay piled and scattered across the hall. One feasting table was missing. Gudmund faced the other, studying a hacked bench.

“What is he doing?” Eirik asked. He was blond and middling, showing a bruise on one smooth cheek.

Gudmund swung his axe down at the bench, heavy crack playing back from the bannered rafters.

“He looks out of his mind,” Eirik whispered.

Ralf and Eirik both had axes at their belts and shields at their backs. They both wore worn leather jackets as well, whereas the three other members of Horvorr’s Guard only had their knifes and wore plain shirts loose over simple trousers.

The five men came to stand together, watching warily while Gudmund hacked through the length of the bench, leaving it broken into pieces at his splintered feet. Ralf stepped forwards, mindful not to trip on the tinder. “Gudmund.”

“I heard you the first time.” Gudmund reached over and grabbed his cloak. He rose to his feet, slipping his hands through the sleeves, and pulled the fur tight around his raw-boned stomach. He frowned over at the five men, thinking they all looked too skinny or too fat, too young or too old, too uninspired. “Is this it? Did all of Horvorr’s Guard die while I was cutting wood?”

The men were no more enthused seeing Gudmund, beyond being grateful that he had covered himself.

Ralf shook his head. “The others wouldn’t come.”

“Did I tell you to present it as a choice?” Gudmund tossed Grettir’s iron-hafted axe in the air, catching it as it fell. “Go back, and gather them all.”

“I can’t.”

Gudmund’s proud face hardened. “Why not?”

“They don’t trust you, Gudmund,” Eirik said. “Grettir’s gone. Your daughter’s gone. You set your own house on fire, and there’s a few folk saying they even saw you try to smash up the Ritual House.”

“Who told you I set the fire?” Gudmund asked Eirik while still staring at Ralf.

“Told me?” Eirik frowned. “I was here when it happened. You hit me in the face when I tried to stop you running away. Left me to gather men to put out the fire.” He shook his head. “It’s bloody lucky this place isn’t ash.”

Gudmund shrugged, and turned away. “What does trust matter? I pay them—”

“You haven’t paid us in over a month,” Arfast put in. He stood tallest and oldest of the men, hawk-faced and bald-headed.

“Grettir should—”

“You told him not to, Gudmund.” Ralf scratched his bulbous nose. “Because of your sons.”

“Said we were all failures,” Eirik reminded. “That it’s our fault they died.”

“Did I?” Gudmund turned back to them, smiling wry. “Well, maybe I did. Maybe I didn’t. If I did—”

“You did,” four men assured.

“If I did,” Gudmund repeated, “then Grettir should have overruled me. I clearly wouldn’t have noticed.”

Eirik rubbed at his smooth jaw. “Is that your apology?”

“Let me be clear.” Gudmund’s smile lapsed. “My sons died. I don’t care that I upset you. Now if it’s a matter of being owed coin, and wanting to be paid, then go out and tell them that I’ll give them what they’re owed.” The guards appeared lifeless compared to Gudmund, who paced about and studied each of them with his thoughtful blue eyes. “Well?” he pressed. “Why do you all seem so grim?”

Ralf’s cheeks had turned a darker shade of red. “I think it might be past coin.”

“Passed or past?”

Eirik walked to stand beside Ralf. “As in they don’t care about the coin, Gudmund. Horvorr’s Guard served Grettir, a man worthy of respect, which didn’t stop men trying to kill him outside the barracks. Now that he’s gone, they think it’s about time they took their fates into their own hands. There are men talking openly about killing you.”

“You’re mad.” Gudmund laughed. “There’s not a bastard in this town with the courage to raise a hand against me.”

“Well… as some see it,” Eirik said. “You are the biggest, if not the only bastard in this town.”

“As some see it?” Gudmund strode towards him, one hand under his cloak and on Grettir’s axe. “Is that how you see it?”

“No, Gudmund.” Eirik met his scowl without blinking. “I know that you’re not a bad man. Ralf knows it. You just need to know that this isn’t going away. I give it three days before someone tries to kill you.”

“Is that what you think, old man?” Gudmund asked.

“No.” Arfast shook his head. “I think they’ll come to cut your throat tonight.”

Gudmund ran a hand through his unruly red hair. “And you, Ralf? What’s your guess at my death?”

Ralf sighed. “Soon.”

Gudmund dismissed the warning with a laugh. “Well that’s too vague to be convincing.”

“Believe us or don’t believe us”, Ralf said with desperation. “But I’ll say this. My son died fighting on your guard. My wife died fighting the cold. I’ve served in your household for twenty winters. And, sad as it is to admit, you’re the closest thing I have to family. Men don’t love you, Gudmund. They hate you. But a week ago they were stopped by the fear of your brother, stayed by respect for Grettir, or pity for your daughter. Before that they were hopeful for the day when Geirmund took over.” He smiled in sorrow. “What’s stopping them now? Just me, I think. A fat, tired old man that was no good at fighting to begin with.”

Gudmund stared at Ralf, saw the earnestness in the chubby, ruddy face of him, in his round, brown eyes. “Touching as that was, Ralf. I can take care of my… self.” He seemed to grow disconcerted by his own words, memory of that phrase playing back at him in his son’s easy voice; then the Chief of Horvorr, a man who had not shown fear or sorrow since his wife’s death all those winters ago, started to weep. He looked like a man lost at sea, blue eyes tremulous and unfocused as all the grief of his sons death’s filled him up from gut to gullet.

“Gudmund?” asked Eirik, who had a high voice that Gudmund didn’t care for.

“These men.” Gudmund swallowed his feelings, held them at bay with gritted teeth. “They don’t think I’m fit to lead?”

“Something like that.”

“Do me a favour, then,” Gudmund said. “Gather the town. Tell them that it relates to the defense for the coming war.”

Arfast’s eyes narrowed. “There’s going to be a war?”

“Of course.” Gudmund smiled at the tall, old man. “Didn’t you hear the Sage?”

“Aye,” Arfast said. “And I heard you when you said it was bloody nonsense.”

Gudmund bowed low, unfurling his majestic fur cloak. “I’ll apologize for that, then. I was wrong.”