39. Unspoken

“With preparations fully underway to finish and fill Magar’s enormous spawning pool, the question of what I should do with Agrak looms ever larger in my mind. The rage that Tuku held towards Magar has softened, and he listens to the young shaman—though not so young, anymore—as often, or perhaps more often, than he listens to me.

If I could show Tuku some sign that The Small King was recovering, or would began to speak and act and rule again one day then it would be much easier to convince the Chief. But whatever small hope I had held at first that Agrak might wake from his silent stupor has long since shriveled and died.

The youngling, Brak, who spends so much of his time with The Small King came to me and asked me where he could find Orog. This renewed my hope. The youngling had long claimed that Agrak spoke to him, and this name seemed to be proof of that. Because there was no goblin in our settlement named Orog. And that name belonged to an old huge goblin who served as one of the original guardians of Grorgin.

Yet I spent nearly two fully days doing nothing but asking questions and speaking and pleading with Agrak, and he did not utter a word nor even look at me. He sat propped, eventually sliding over into the earth, where I left him.

I must have told the children of Orog before. Or Brak has some ancestral memory of the enormous warrior. Hope destroyed once more, I know of no way to waken Agrak. Nor how to spare him from being dissolved in the acrid waters of the Pool. And I begun to wonder, as well, whether this might be the best end left for his storied legend. Better that than live forever. Trapped, useless, and mute.”

Anna woke in an unfamiliar bed but she could still hear Linden sharpening a blade. She turned to look at him and her heart sank. Gudmund sat on an ornate storage chest instead, rasping stone against metal, dressed in blue and white with his red hair and beard already combed. “Are you feeling better?” she asked.

Gudmund paused, staring down at his leather boots. “It was an odd night.”

“Odd?”

He offered her a doubtful smile. “I’m no bard.”

“Not clever, either. Don’t you think they’ll see it as a bit strange that you’re sharpening your sword?”

Gudmund set the blade down. “Strange that I’m so loyal and well prepared to fight the Crooked Teeth?” He set the whetstone down as well. “I would like to tell you something.”

“You’re with child?” Anna asked, to no answer. “What, then? What is it?”

“Do you know Sam?” he asked, without looking at her.

“The Mayor’s dead son or the spear-wielding tavern owner?”

“The one with a missing wife.”

Anna flinched at his grim tone. “I know him as well as anyone else.”

Gudmund stared at the ashes in the hearth. “I didn’t know him at all,” he said. “Didn’t recognize his wife when she came to my hall and she told me that she wanted rid of him. I didn’t care. I didn’t like her face or her voice. But the children were sleeping and I didn’t have much else to do other than hear her out.” His brows furrowed. “But it wasn’t my business and I told her that. She couldn’t seduce me, and that angered her. I told her to get off of me, but she wouldn’t. So I shoved her off. And then… then she was just dead.” He upturned his palms. “She stumbled back… tripped. Then that was it.”

Anna scowled. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because he needs to know,” said Gudmund at length. “I went to Brolli. I should have gone to the Ritual House but I went to Brolli. And we took her body and we took a boat and we rowed out to the middle of the Lake. And that’s where she is. She never left Horvorr. She’s never coming back. And he should know that.”

“You’ve had winters to tell him yourself,” Anna snapped. “Why should I have to tell him?”

“I thought I was helping him. What man wants to learn that his wife didn’t love him? But then you told me about Brolli and I realised that it’s better to know the truth… whatever the truth may be. I will tell him. If I live through this, I’ll tell him. But if I don’t… then you’ll be the only person who knows.”

“So I get to suffer your burden?” Anna shook her head. “I’m your guard, Gudmund. If you die tonight, so do I. Gods, you’re a selfish bastard.”

Gudmund sat in silence while she readied her armour and put on her helmet.

“I’m going to go look in on Sybille,” Anna said, striding past in her armour. “I’ll meet you at the gates.”

“Anna?” Gudmund asked and she paused at the door. He was looking at her now, with a softness to his green eyes that she had never seen before. “You were right about the Lake. I’m not funny. And I never forgot the day because I never forgot your face.”

Anna left without offering answer.

Gudmund shrugged, and returned to sharpening his sword.

***

Gudmund felt a man alone now he strode across the open ground of Jarl Thrand’s Estate. He walked so slowly that he had almost stopped. Structures of stone rose to either side of him, towering or squatting, in rows or wide and alone.

Ahead, before the white walls fenced off the lofty estate, a pompous procession of armoured guards and rich men and women, in fanciful clothes or colourful robes, had gathered, and chattered, around two monstrous black carriages led by six mundane oxen, swishing their tails to bay away flies that had gathered on fresh droppings.

“Six honest men among the lot of them,” Gudmund thought. “And one young woman.” He paused, seeing his small guard. “And an old one too… I suppose.” He smiled at Anna but she offered no answer. He smirked at Sybille, dressed in a red dress that reminded him of blood, and she matched his expression in earnest. “Are you well, daughter?”

Sybille raised her brows. “As I ever could be. And you…?”

Gudmund felt an intruder among the group. A rainbow of perfumed folk had turned to look at him and seemed intent on hearing his answer. “Me? I was thinking about the rain.”

Ekkill laughed, hands rested on his rounded belly. “But the skies are clear, Gudmund.”

Gudmund glanced up at sparse clouds, swirling into an expanse of blues. He returned his gaze to the sweating councilor, and nodded. “And you, Ekkill? How are you?”

“I am a grand fan of the Bard’s Circle, Gudmund. I am as fine as I would ever be. And in good company.” Ekkill stretched his arms out to encompass two lovely young women. “As you can see.”

“Your daughters?” Sybille asked, answered by chorused mirth that Ekkill didn’t share.

Fati stepped forward, wearing black despite the heat. “They are in his employ, Sybille.”

“Oh.” Sybille shrugged. “Where is Thrand the Younger?”

“Ah.” Fati’s smile was pained. “I’m afraid he has had to leave the city on urgent business.”

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“Yes,” Ekkill agreed. “Nonetheless, I’m sure Fati would be glad to accompany you.”

“No need,” a voice rasped.

They turned to Jarl Thrand who stood beside the lead cart and struck a stark figure in his white shirt and green cloak. Gudmund thought that he looked like a ghost and then realised that they probably shared the semblance.

“Sybille will ride in the lead carriage with myself, Atsurr, Fati and Ruby.” Jarl Thrand clasped both hands on his serpentine cane. “The rest of you will have to pile into the second or walk on foot.”

Gudmund paid little mind to affronted grumbles and upset whispers. “Is Luta meeting us there?”

Jarl Thrand shook his head as if it were an unimportant matter. “She has decided to extend her stay in the Midderlands.” He smiled. “No need to worry, though. She will be back in time for the wedding.”

“Ah.” Gudmund managed a laugh. “I was only worried for her temperament if she had to sit in a crowded space.”

“I don’t mind sitting in the back,” Sybille said. “Ekkill could take my place with his daughters.”

“I appreciate your noble spirit, Sybille,” Thrand replied, “but it is already decided. Come along, dear.”

“Go ahead, Sybille.” Gudmund struggled to steady his heart. “I’m sure Fati won’t bite, and I could use a walk after all these long days in captivity.” He watched as his charming daughter nodded, smiled, and stepped towards likely death without flinching or blinking. He felt so proud of her, and so sorry for her as well.

***

The pair of massive black carriages clattered along the uneven stone streets. A box of armoured guards kept step, adding their own rattling footfalls to the din of the procession.

Gudmund paid the sounds little mind, nor the quiet conversation and raucous laughter that was muffled by thick wood. He tried not to listen to his own mind so found himself singularly annoyed by the panting breaths of Ekkill, who struggled on alongside him, trudging and huffing, as he tried to keep pace with the clopping oxen.

“Can you believe it?” Ekkill asked for the fourth time. “The nerve of it. It was a false offer. Of course I didn’t want to walk. And then my own escorts leave me out here on the cold streets.”

“It’s a warm day.”

“Well… warm streets, then. Too warm. I’m sweating rivers.”

Gudmund glanced at the rounded man and didn’t disagree. “I can knock at the lead carriage if you like.”

Ekkill’s laugh was bitter. “No… no. Clearly I’m not good enough for them. He has only two counsellors left alive and he can’t spare me a seat? Preposterous. Insulting.” He paused. “Do you not agree?”

“Were the choice mine, you would ride at the front.”

“And what of you?” Ekkill asked. “Made to walk apart from your own daughter. Does that not bother you?”

“Honest truth, Ekkill? I find sitting on a rattling seat causes me no end of sickness. I’m glad to walk.”

“Would that I shared your leanings, then.” Ekkill glanced at the battered shield on Gudmund’s back. “Why did you ask for the shield? Do you fear an attack from the Crooked Teeth?”

“I asked because I was hoping the shield would still be there and that they’d give me it.”

“Oh… and why would you want a shield that’s nearly broken?”

“I had it made for Grettir,” Gudmund said. “He lost his arm before he ever got to use it. I gave it to him all the same and he must have passed it on to Hjorvarth last winter. I only noticed when I saw him outside the Estate.”

“Things come full circle, then,” Ekkill observed. “Though now I almost wish I had my own shield.”

***

Sybille winced, jarred by the wooden seat beneath her. She already felt like retching up her porridge, but wasn’t sure if that was because of the carriage ride or because Luta and Young Thrand were absent. She wasn’t so foolish as to think that wasn’t an unfortunate sign.

Jarl Thrand did not trust her or her father and he was now set on springing a trap while keeping his children out of harm’s way. But he didn’t know Sybille. He didn’t know her father. He didn’t know her family. They would not rest until their enemies were dead. Geirmund and Agnar had come back from ashes to protect her and now she would protect their father in turn.

“You seem unwell, Sybille,” Fati mentioned.

“The movement upsets my stomach.” Sybille smiled at a man who had a kind and handsome face, who she thought was dangerous and treacherous all the same. “I’m sure all will be right when we arrive.”

Jarl Thrand smiled at her. “I’m sure it will, dear.”

The lean woman beside him, Ruby, had spoken little at all. She smiled smiles that seemed false and laughed hollow laughter. Sybille recognized the restless posture of her family, of dangerous folk that were ever ready to fight.

“Are you well, Ruby?” Sybille asked.

“Worried,” she replied. “The streets seem too quiet and I fear the Crooked Teeth.”

Jarl Thrand scoffed. “Do not—”

An arrow split into wood. A man cried out. More missiles followed and guards started to shout orders. Sybille held to her seat as the carriage lurched to a stop. She watched more metal points bite through the wood and had a sudden worry for her father. She leapt for the ornate door.

Fati grabbed her mid-flight. “You cannot help them.”

Sybille had no mind to hurt him. She returned to her seat and waited.

Marching boots sounded out in chorus around the carriage. The shouts grew calmer and more routine, conveying plain facts that the attackers were dead or retreating and that the streets were clear.

“A minor mishap,” Jarl Thrand muttered, though the fear was plain in his withered face.

Ruby nodded but looked ready to pounce. Fati seemed to hold the hilts of blades concealed.

A hand struck the door in rapid sequence then it creaked open to an armoured guard.

“Distraction,” Atsurr informed. “Three archers attacked from the rooftops then fled. Gudmund and three guards followed after them.” He paused. “Three dead, brought down by arrows, and one missing.”

Jarl Thrand’s eyes narrowed. “The missing?”

“Gudmund. There was a trail of blood leading down into the sewers. I did not think it wise to pursue it.”

Those in the carriage turned to Sybille as if in scrutiny of her grief. Horror welled in her throat and she thought that she was going to scream but her vision blurred instead and she felt herself falling.

***

Jarl Thrand sighed and waited with impatience as Ekkill clambered into the carriage. Fati sat at the back with Sybille in his lap and Ruby beside him. “Where did you get that shield?”

Ekkill’s rounded face had paled. He wore a battered shield that had been punctured by three arrows. “Gudmund offered it to me. I was afraid that—”

“That is answer enough,” Thrand assured. “Take a seat and have Ruby pull them out.” He turned to Atsurr, who stood waiting on the road below. “Well…?”

Ruby moved quickly to pull the arrows free, but seemed to pause in recognition of the shield.

“I recommend we move on,” Atsurr answered. “The Bard’s Circle is as defensible as the estate, and turning these carriages around would be a hard task in a narrow street. Gudmund is dead or he is hunting. I’m afraid now there’s nothing to do but see how this plays out.” Atsurr rested one hand on his pommel. “They are thugs and thieves. They are cowards. If they would come at us in force then we may well end all this nonsense in a quick slaughter.”

“Very well.” Jarl Thrand nodded. “Close the door and we will move on.”

“My thanks for that,” Ekkill murmured, smiling at Ruby despite his queasy visage.

“Are you well, my friend?” Fati asked.

Ekkill’s nod lacked enthusiasm. “I have Gudmund to thank for that. I made for a fine target on the open streets, I assure you.” He shook his head. “We should turned back. This is now a fool’s errand. There is no one here to impress. There is no gain—”

“Ekkill,” Jarl Thrand cut in. “You are welcome to walk back. Or else sit in silence.”

He regarded the others. Fati seemed ripe to rise up and start cutting throats, but he stayed by the same look in the predatory gaze of Ruby. Sybille slept, no doubt dreaming sweet dreams of deceit. Jarl Thrand could not trust any of them. He knew for a certainty that Ekkill or Fati was working for the Crooked Teeth, which left him in company with one loyal fool, the leader of the Gem Cutters, and the daughter of a man that wants to kill him.

Fati sat back against the carriage wall. “What is the plan, Thrand? Do you even have one? Walk into a trap and walk out again? Sometimes they simply serve their purpose and snap your neck. Have you considered that?”

“My plan is to draw out and cut away the rot that is infecting my city.” Jarl Thrand smiled. “And while that happens I intend to spend the night being entertained. Sadly, given the temperaments of you two, it means you’ll have to find your own places in the public seats.”

“And the girl?” Fati asked. “She needs to see a priest.”

“She will wake or she will not wake. With her father likely dead, I am not sure which would be the kindness.”