32. Marked Men

“Brolli came into my tent with the pallor of a marked man. They have stolen into the goblin encampment and dismembered Gahr’rul. Of the two dozen men that went, only three returned.

Gudmund has been grievously wounded and it is feared that he will never recover. I have tried to speak with Grettir but the man only sits and stares in silence. When I press Brolli for answers, he barks words that make little or no sense.

The news has spread through our camp and the mood is not a happy one. They have heard the clamour for vengeance sound out through the trees. I should be thinking of the coming battle, of my wife, my son, and my approaching death. But my mind wanders to The Cook. I am almost certain that he smiled at me as they departed.”

Atli of Blackwood Carts had bought one of the largest buildings in Fenkirk for his workshop. He had made certain that the floors were sturdy, that there were plenty of shutters to let in light. If his wheelwrights and carpenters needed to work late, then he kept them well provisioned with candle stands along each bench and table, sconces arrayed across the walls, and even a huge brass chandelier hanging down from the ceiling.

Atli had known that the mountain paths were treacherous and prone to closure, by snow or by monsters, and so he had stockpiled food, candles, wood, and all other provisions his workers might need. His preparedness had proved helpful for the people of Fenkirk, but offered little avail to the man himself. He had died and now all his carts had been overturned; wood hammered into makeshift seats and benches; provisions used as light, food, and drink for the two hundred people crowded around the workshop.

Hakon had designated the premises of The Blackwood Carts as a place for refugees and travellers, for those whose homes had been salvaged or burnt down. Almost every woman and child of the lumbering town now sat amongst the tables.

It was standing room for the men too old or cowardly to fight, though some had taken to sitting along the walls.

Sam himself sat slumped in the corner opposite the main door.

Head throbbing, he looked out at the blurry scene of Atli’s Workshop: all those people sat gathered, blathering and chatting to one another. He tried to scowl away the endless hum, every now and then he winced at the piercing cry of a babe, or the anguished tantrum of a toddler.

He could see it plain for what it was. Community.

When he had entered the town, Fenkirk appeared as one great war-work: stakes, ditches and layered walls; mass graves freshly dug and pyres clouding the sky. Here, though, old women did their knitting, mothers fed their young ones by the tit, and children played with one another in raucous groups.

Sam breathed in air that was thick with smoke and sweat, with the smell of old broth made from stringy meat and plain roots, but each scent was tainted by the memory of burnt flesh that tainted his nose. He laughed sadly, knowing now that he had confused safety for imprisonment, bonfires for death pyres. He had heard the silence of fear, and thought it ease of peace.

“‘scuse me,” an old man said, peering down at Sam. “Sorry t’ bother you,” he continued. “Names Boe.” He scratched at his curly, white hair. Boe looked ready for bed in his black clothes, rough spun and threadbare.

Sam nodded. “I’m Sam.” He glanced over at the makeshift kitchen ahead and to the left of him, busy with women of all ages and a few old men. “I already got my meal for…” He squinted across the hall, trying to find the old woman he had given his ration to, but all those seated seemed to blend into a dreary scene of dirty clothes, and tired faces.

“I ain’t for food,” Boe said. “I hear your from Horvorr?”

“Oh.” Sam nodded. “I am.”

“‘nd how fares Gudmund ‘gainst the goblin horde?” Boe’s green eyes lit up. “How fare the men of Horvorr’s Guard?”

Sam glanced down at sawdusted floorboards, realizing the old man had envisaged this as a joint struggle. He smiled up at Boe. “They’d not lost a man when I’d left… because Horvorr hasn’t come under attack. We’d had no word that Fenkirk was under siege.”

“But our runners,” a taller man cried from behind Boe. “My son! He left for Horvorr not a week ago.”

Boe shook his head in disbelief. “And others!”

Sam rose to his feet. He looked back in silent answer to all those now watching him. Flustered women paused amid the smoky kitchen. Grandmothers stilled the knitting in their laps. Even children halted their games while old men shuffled forward like a dark, aged wave.

“No runners have reached Horvorr!” he declared, his voice driven by a willingness to end it there. “There has been no word of goblins gathering in so large a number, but Horvorr’s Guard has set out on its Autumn Trip!”

Boe’s aged face turned crestfallen. “We’re doomed.” He turned away now complaints erupted, disappearing into a jostling mass of spirited old men and women. Some children decided to join the fun, and began screaming their own anguish, or panic; others didn’t take to the noise, so started crying or backing away.

“I know the man that leads the trip!” Sam shouted over the hysterics. “He will not be caught unawares. Once he learns of the threat he will come here to help!”

The fretful folk of Fenkirk seemed not to hear the words. It was a mad gathering of asserted fears and confirmed suspicions. Their hopes dashed, and chaos rising, Sam was gratefully forgotten. He sat back down in the corner, wholly surrounded and truly alone.

***

Sam woke to the sound of grumbling and opened his smoke-dried eyes. Sleepless folk busied themselves by the light of scattered candles, while the rest of the walls stood shrouded in shadow. A chorus of muttering, breathing, and snoring reached his ears. Smoke swirled above the heads of those woken and those sleeping. Sam’s head ached with each breath. He squinted into the hazy darkness before familiar panic set in. He was in Fenkirk, trapped, while his son was soon to suffer in Timilir.

“The food is for the women and children,” a woman explained in harsh whisper.

“Food’s food,” a gruff voice slurred. “I’m hungry and there ain’t no one else ‘round here.”

The mismatched pair stood at either side of the makeshift counter that fenced off the kitchen. Sam recognised the stout woman who had tried to convince him to eat a plate of food. He didn’t know the brawny man she faced, but he wore the blue uniform of the militia and the reddened cheeks of a drunk.

“We are all hungry, Karl,” Moira stressed. “If you want more food then you will need to ask Hakon.”

“Hakon?” Karl’s grunt shook his swaying frame. “He ain’t here. I am. So hands over a gods-damned bowl.”

“The food,” Moira repeated slowly, “is for the women and children. We do not have any for you.”

“Lady’s piss,” Karl muttered. “You’ve got a bowl in your damn hands.”

Moira’s eyes narrowed. “And it, as I have said, is for—”

Karl lurched over the counter, ripping the wooden bowl from her grip. Steaming soup splashed onto Moira’s wrists. Hissing, she plunged her hands into a water bucket.

“Should’ve just handed it over,” Karl muttered, carrying his bowl towards the door.

Sam followed him through the dark workshop, paying no mind to the wary gazes of those who watched in silence. He lifted the dagger from his belt. He rushed forward, leaping as he closed, and slammed the emerald pommel into greasy hair.

Karl grunted and staggered forward. He tried to rescue the bowl of soup before he fell to the floor, managing to lift it enough that his face thumped into the rim.

“That was foolish,” Moira said. “You ought to knock him on the head before he gets back up.”

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Karl groaned, trying to curse but spluttering instead. He rolled onto his back, soup barely paling his flushed face. He roared wordlessly, pawing at dusty floorboards and getting enough of a hold to heave himself onto to one knee.

Sam watched the drunken struggle. He tried to will himself forward in opportunism, but remained rooted. “‘I see no reason to hit a man when he is down,’” Hjorvarth had said. “‘Unless you mean to kill him, or are fearful you could not handle him standing. And if you’ve no urge to murder, and no fear of that, then where’s the harm in letting him find his feet?’”

He wasn’t sure that the words held wisdom for a much skinnier man, but he still stood waiting. Those around him waited as well, but they didn’t look to him with warmth. Women of all ages, men from graying to white, had risen to their feet. Children peeked between dresses and trousers, or from under tables.

Sam knew they wouldn’t intervene. He couldn’t blame them. He’d heard fear whispered, seen it plainly in their gazes. They had no real power here, beyond to wait and hope under the whim of a mad man’s militia. Sam was a stranger to them, not of Fenkirk, and only a few days stayed in the place.

“That was poorly done,” Sam admitted now the bulky man turned to face him.

“Poorly done?” Karl smeared soup across flushed cheeks. “What kind of coward bastard strikes a man in the back!”

“A man?” Sam asked with a little humour. “I’ve not known men to steal food from helpless women.”

Karl scowled. “You—” A pan slammed into his cheek, sounding out with a metal thrum.

Moira let the pan drop, her slender hands giving way to vibration. She grabbed at his greasy hair as he buckled to one knee, driving her own into his chin. Teeth clacked together to clip the tip of a tongue. She tried to step back but he grabbed her apron. Karl thumped her in the stomach, driving the air from her lungs, lifting her from her feet.

Sam snarled now he charged. He slammed his heel into the man’s reddened nose, crunching bone, forcing him onto the floorboards.

Moira landed heavily on her back, and she struggled for breath. Her tired face hardened when Sam approached. “I’m fine.”

“Behind you, Sam!” Boe shouted, standing ahead of the crowded benches.

Sam turned to see a knife glinting with candlelight, near level with his eyes. He could see darkness as well. He thought that a mark of his approaching death. Then, with a grunt, and a blur of flesh and leather, the blade was gone.

Sam caught up with his surroundings to see a pair of large men, one of them Karl, wrestling on the floor.

“Drop the knife!” roared the man on top, his scarred visage twisted with rage. “Or I’ll make your face a match for mine!”

Karl noticed the dagger pressed against his neck. He had his knife poised at Hakon’s side, but let it clatter to the floorboards. “I didn’t mean no harm.”

Hakon smiled, nodded, then drove a fist into the man’s forehead. Wood crunched. Once then thrice. Karl slumped into sleep.

“Idiot.” Hakon shook his head. “I’m surrounded by idiots.” He glared up at Sam. “You going help me drag this bastard out of here, Sam? Or are you just planning on standing there like… well, like an idiot.”

Sam’s head spun with a din of children crying, fearful whispers, and frustrated muttering.

“Are you drunk, Sam?” Hakon pushed off of the fallen fighter, and hauled the lean barkeeper up by his collar. “I hope not. You’ve seen what I do to men who drink when they’re supposed to be standing guard.”

Sam shook his head, then tried to break free from the man’s grip.

“You want to fight, Sam?” Hakon laughed, letting him drop to his feet. “Come on, then. We’ll pull this one out and let him sleep on the street.” He frowned down at brown hair now dark and matted with blood. “Let’s just leave him here.”

***

The Finch and Sons Exchange had been bought by a man named Asgaut three years ago. He had heard rumors that one of Finch’s sons owed a substantial debt to a man named Brolli, so—after the timely death of Finch—Asgaut came and bought the place at discount from Finch’s son. He had thought to change the name, but he had no sons himself and the Asgaut Exchange didn’t sound the same.

Hakon had taken the place at a steeper discount. He knew well enough that Asgaut lived in Timilir and wouldn’t have cared if he lived next door. He’d mostly left the place as it was. A building secured for the exchange of goods and coin served well enough for an armoury. He now paced about the place, scowling through the bars of the counter and setting the men behind it ill at ease.

Sam watched from a square-made chair, one of a row of six that stood in threes at either side of the door.

“Sam.” Hakon snapped his fingers. “What weapon?”

Sam shrugged. “A bow?”

“You get a bow either way, but that won’t do you much good up close… unless you’re planning on smacking goblins round the head with it, which I’ve seen folk do, and I’ve seen those same folk dying and screaming not long after that.” Hakon paused, searching the dusty floorboards and candlelit air. “It just struck me that I’ve seen a lot of people dying lately. Heard a lot of people screaming. Can’t be good for a man, can it?”

Sam shook his head, finding it hard to look at the scarred fighter.

“You’re being quiet, Sam. Don’t be quiet. Never be quiet. It leaves a man too much with his own thoughts.” Hakon looked over to a mail-armoured man, who stood by the sturdy door that offered access behind the barred counter. “What do you think?”

He scratched under his leather cap. “Me?”

Hakon’s only answer came as a persistent, unhappy stare.

“A man should talk, yep. He should. Talk about a lot of things, I’d say you’re—”

Hakon clapped his hands together. “Well now you’re talking too much! And I don’t like that either!” He shook his head, eyes wild. “It’s fine,” he quieted his voice. “It’s fine though, mistakes are made. Mistakes are always made.”

The leather-capped man nodded, keeping his gaze to the floor.

Hakon snapped his fingers. “Sam. What… weapon… do you want? If I have to ask this again by the gods I’ll make my own choice and give it to your head blade-first.” He glared with a hatred that made the bartender feel cold. And then laughed. “I’m joking. That was a joke, Sam.” He bared his teeth. “See, look at me smiling, Sam. Seriously now, tell me what weapon you want before I get angry.”

Sam swallowed. “A hammer?”

“A hammer?” Hakon dipped his chin into his neck, and made a frown that caused his three scars to appear all the more awful. “Are we building houses? No! We’re tearing them down! We’re digging! If you want to be at bloody labor then I’ll give you a shovel, and you can dig your own gods-damn—” He looked confused. “Am I scaring you, Sam? I’m just joking, I’m always joking when I’m angry, and if I’m not then I’m really angry, but if I’m angry you’ll know because… well, trust me, you’ll just know. It doesn’t take a Sage to figure out that’s it raining, does it?”

Sam forced himself to laugh. “I’ll take an axe.”

“You’re going to get a spear. Because we’ve only got spears. I told you that. So why are you even talking about axes?”

The leather-capped man frowned. “We do have—”

Hakon spun and scowled. “Lots of spears?”

He nodded. “Only spears.”

“Good. Now tell whichever bastard is sleeping in there to go and get me a spear. And an axe, if there are any. But mainly a spear. And mainly an axe, as well. By the gods I feel tired, or angry, or both. Sam.” He snapped his fingers. “Tell me a story.”

“What kind?” Sam asked.

The leather-capped man fumbled with the key and the lock, but got it open and slipped inside.

Hakon cocked his head as if Sam were an idiot. “If I knew what kind of story it was I could tell it my gods-damned self… now are you going to start, or what?”

“I… there was a man called Isleif—”

“I’ve heard that one. I was part of that one.” Hakon jabbed a finger at his ravaged nose. “Got me this. I was young, then. By the gods I was young then—all smiling and happy. All hopeful. All those men. There was nothing that could stop us, nothing that could stop me. Then the first day some rogue yeti jumps off a boulder and makes this mess of my face.” He laughed a slow laugh. “That’s what life is, Sam. You go out on an adventure and some bastard claws the skin off your face. Life is thinking you’ve been cheated, and then coming to understand that some big shaggy bastard of a thing saved your life.”

The leather-capped man crept back through into the waiting room, wood rattling with his footfalls. He had two spears gripped awkwardly in each hand.

“Life,” Hakon said, still looking at Sam. “You know I think people look at me like I looked at that yeti. Like I’m a monster, and maybe I am. But I think one day they’ll come to understand—” He jabbed a finger into his scarred cheek. “That it was this bastard who saved them.” He took a sharp breath. “Either way, Sam, am I right in thinking there’s a man standing over there too afraid to tell me he’s got what I asked for?”

The man paled. “I wasn’t sure… what kind of spear you wanted.”

Hakon turned with a slow sigh, no patience in his eyes, but then he smiled. “This is good. I want you to know you’ve done a good job, here. What is that, a pair of spears for fighting and a pair for throwing?” The man seemed not to know. “Look at that, Sam. You’re going to have all four, and you’re going to hold one and have the other three on your back. And when people look at you they’re going to say ‘I’ve got no idea who he is, and so I don’t know much about him, but I can tell he knows how to use a fucking spear!’” He rounded on Sam with excited eyes. “Now tell me what you think about that!”

“It’s good!” Sam shouted, only sure that he shouldn’t hesitated.

“It’s great!” Hakon countered.

“It’s great.” Sam nodded as earnestly as he could.

“It is, it really is.” Hakon’s enthusiasm waned and tears started to roll down his scarred cheeks. “I’m crying. That’s odd.” He shrugged. “Get your spears, Sam. We just need to talk to the bone lady and then I’ll know where to put you.”

“Put me…?”

“On the wall,” Hakon said as a matter of fact. “She’ll tell me when you’re due to die, and then I’ll know where to put you.”

Sam’s confusion gave way to worry. “Oh.”