4. Widowed

“Given the lengths Grettir went to, to get me out here, I was quite surprised to find that Gudmund of Weskin did not welcome me to Southwestern Tymir with open arms. Every man in the camp was glad to see me, and I even made effort to raise their broken spirits with tales and songs.

Though I say Southwestern Tymir as if their men have not been pushed back within clear sight of Timilir’s walls. If I didn’t know any better the goblin leader, Gahr’rul as they call him, has decided to purposely hold back from further attacks. For what reason I cannot venture. I thought I might soon learn more, or be able to negotiate with one of the Great Chiefs owing to my reputation from the Midderlands Wars, but I have been sent out on an errand instead.

I have been tasked to ride to the Eastland Plains and find Gudmund’s carousing brother. What an utter waste of my talents and time. By the time I find this Brolli the Black, Gudmund and the rest of his displaced warriors will likely already be dead. ‘Meat for the feasting,’ as say the goblins.”

Hjorvarth let out a slow sigh, his sleeve sticky with blood. He had stood still for too long. He had stood watching for too long. No doubt if the woman inside of the stone home had noticed him she now feared for her life, or had already fled.

Even so, Hjorvarth was reasonably certain that this was the right place.

He glanced along the paved roads at either side of him, somewhat surprised that this part of the stone city was so quiet. He strode forwards, noticing that the metal banding had been ripped from the roofs and the windows, which was often the way of folk who found themselves in dire need of coin.

Hjorvarth knew the metal was rarely reworked, so the place would remain, unadorned and dull, as if it stood as a lesser place for a lesser folk. He suffered guilt with the thought, and slowed to a stop at the squat stone door.

“What do you want?” a wary voice asked from above.

Hjorvarth raised his gaze, startled by the pretty visage that looked down at him. He was unsure why, but he had expected the woman to be ugly. “I am looking for the wife of a man named Geirr.”

“For what reason?”

“I bring coin to cover the debt of his death.”

The woman’s face hardened. “Did you murder him?”

“No.” Hjorvarth shook his head. “But I know the man that did, and I would pay the debt on his behalf.” He upturned his palms. “It is simply a thing that is owed. I would have paid it sooner but I thought it was better given in full.”

She scowled. “I know who sent you, and I do not want your coin.”

“I came at no man’s beck or call. As to whether you want it, that is not the question I asked. Are you the wife of a man named Geirr? Who worked and died in service of the city guard of Timilir?”

“Yes. And I will—”

“Waste no effort repeating yourself.” Hjorvarth tossed a leather sack at the door, which struck with a metal jingle. “The coin is yours. And you have my sympathies for your loss, as well. I will go now so that you can take it, or leave it, without scrutiny. I wish you only the best luck for the rest of your days.”

“What?” the woman snapped. “Where are you going?”

Hjorvarth frowned. “To a whorehouse. The Toothless Grin, I think. That is if I do not get murdered. I had some men try to stab me on the way in, but they lacked enthusiasm. I believe they claimed to be members of the Crooked Teeth… so perhaps they work for a whorehouse as well. In any case, I am going.”

“You said you know who killed my husband?”

“I did say that.”

“Who?” she asked, her voice desperate. “How? Did he truly die trying to smuggle weapons into the city?”

Hjorvarth frowned. “Who spoke those words?”

“The city. Had he died in service of Timilir, they would have compensated me for his death.”

“With respect,” Hjorvarth said, “I would need to come inside if you want me to answer your questions.”

The woman narrowed her eyes. “Why?”

“There are people listening from open windows. My voice carries, and my words relate to unlawful acts.”

“Oh… and you’re not going to try anything?”

“I would try to offer an explanation.” Hjorvarth paused, then furrowed his brows. “I realise now that you likely think I’m at risk of committing rape or some greater violence. I know not what to say to that. Though I swear to Brikorhaan and Broknar both that I will cause you no harm.”

The young woman watched him for a while, nodded, then turned from the window.

***

Hjorvarth perched on a chair far too small for him, his shoulders aching with the awkward posture. He felt confined by the closeness of the stone walls and roof. He had let the young woman, Frida, bandage his arm despite assurances that he would heal without issue. He now sat and watched in an uncomfortable silence as she fed a swaddled baby by the breast.

“Does the sight bother you?” she asked, shifting in her seat. “I can go in the other room. Or you could avert your eyes.”

Hjorvarth raised his gaze to her own. “I was watching the child.”

Frida smiled. “Of course.”

“I did not know you had one.”

“A daughter.”

“A daughter.” Hjorvarth nodded. “Perhaps that bothers me.”

“Because your friend robbed her of her father?”

“I would guess so. My own father is…”

“In Muradoon’s keeping?”

“In my own, and I am helped by a man named Sam. Isleif is not often himself.”

“Oh.” Frida smiled in sympathy. “Would you tell me of my husband’s death?”

“Do you know of Brolli the Black?”

Frida shifted her babe, and tugged up her dress. “Yes.”

“He has charge of a criminal group in Timilir known as the Black Hands. I have worked for Brolli for most of my life, and for the Black Hands for my adult years.”

Frida’s eyes widened. “You are his foster son.” Her gaze lapsed to resignation as she reached for the knife at her belt. “Are you here to kill me, then? That is the way he does things, isn’t it? Murders family and friends to leave an impression that lasts.”

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

“In the recent seasons,” Hjorvarth continued as if she had never spoke, “I was tasked, among other things, with leading the protection of wagons loaded with weapons of the old war. By law, they are property of Timilir, and should be handed over when found. But a wagon with unlawful goods can be attacked as any other… so I was tasked with defending it from any monsters or men that meant to rob us.”

“My husband did not try to rob you.”

“He did not,” Hjorvarth agreed. “In truth, we should have never met him. There is a hidden gate near the northwestern corner of the city walls, which was used to carry goods from one wagon to another inside of Timilir. The man there, that should have been there, was nowhere to be found. I can only guess that Geirr had been sent there in his place.” He sighed. “We brought coin to pay for passage, but your husband refused us. He demanded that we surrender our weapons, and submit to the law of Timilir.”

Frida’s pretty face had lost all warmth. The swaddled babe wriggled in her arms.

“There a was a man with me. A young man, Ivar, brought only to talk. I ordered the fighting men to turn the wagon around. On the chance that I would not be able to convince your husband to see the risk that he now faced.” Hjorvarth’s stare was weighed by disillusion. “Ivar stabbed your husband in the neck when he turned to call for help. I have no clue what drove him to it, or that he intended to act, because it was a dark night and snow clouded the sky. I suppose it is of little consequence. Your husband is dead, and I cannot change that. I brought the coin because I doubted anyone else would.”

“Did your friend ask you to bring it?” Frida asked, her voice trembling. “Did he lack the courage to come himself?”

“He has no knowledge of me being here. Nor does Brolli. And I would ask that you speak no word of my visit to anyone you meet.”

Frida stared down at her babe’s rounded face. “Would they kill me? Us?”

“I more meant that I owe Brolli a debt of coin. And he wouldn’t be best pleased to hear of this. I would say you are at no more risk from them as you are from anyone else.” Hjorvarth shrugged. “Still, it might be wise to move to a place other than here.”

“With you?” Frida asked.

“No,” Hjorvarth answered, then paused to consider. “No. I had meant your family or friends in other regions. Make no mistake, I am not here with hopes of buying a widow.” He shook his head at her sudden embarrassment. “I say that not to offend you. I simply mean that I would not have you living your life with the misguided thought that you are indebted to me. The coin is yours. It was owed. This is no more and no less than that.”

“I counted the coin.” Frida regarded the leather sack on the table. “Four times more than is needed. Four times more than is owed. That is more. It’s four times more. If you’ve come to settle a debt, if you’ve debts of your own, then take back three fourths.”

“It was ever my belief that the measured worth of a man’s life is too low. Four times is generous, but it is not that uncommon.”

“It is too much.”

Hjorvarth raked at his thick beard. “I would have paid more could I afford it.”

Frida narrowed her eyes. “You did not even know my husband. You say you did not kill him. Pay your own debts first and then you can settle whatever it is you think you owe me.”

“It took me long enough to find you the first time. I doubt I’ll have much luck on a second attempt.” Hjorvarth shrugged, rising from his seat. “As I said, there are folk trying to kill me. For all I know I will not live out the week.”

“And is your life better guarded when you fail to pay your debts to murderers?”

“You said yourself that Brolli is my foster father. As to the debt, I will be paid on return to Horvorr. That will give me the coin I need to cover what’s owed.” Hjorvarth stared with sympathy. “You have my thanks for letting me in and hearing my words.”

Frida watched him from her seat. “Do you believe that you have righted the wrong of your friend?”

“I have only managed to spare myself the constant fear that a woman was left behind to sell herself or starve because of my failings. Your husband is dead, and that is a wrong that I can never right.”

“Does the blame not lie with the man that stabbed him in the neck?” Frida asked. “Or is that you in truth?”

“Ivar acted in his nature. I should have expected that, and I should have stopped it."

“And will this Ivar kill men again?”

Hjorvarth met her keen gaze. “In honest truth, I do not know, and that is a question that oft troubles me. Should he murder again, I would put an end to him… for his own sake. I knew him when we were boys, and I will not let him grow to be a monster.”

“Are not most the men in Brolli’s company murderers…? Aren’t you?”

“I have never killed a man, and I have no great urging to change that fact. There are bad men and good men in the Black Hands as there are in any place. That and besides, I no longer work for Brolli, so that should spare me of their influence.”

Frida sighed, watching her murmuring child. “It would seem that my husband’s life has ended while yours begins anew.”

“Your words could not be closer to the truth. Yet that is a thought that both saddens and gladdens me.” Hjorvarth straightened, and turned towards the narrow doorway. “Best luck to you and your child, Frida.”

“I have no friends or family.”

Hjorvarth paused but didn’t turn, leaving him with a view of a narrow hallway and a stone staircase. “I have one of each. If you can think of no other way, then take passage to Horvorr and I will arrange for accommodation. But you should know that it is cold and inhospitable place. And there is no guarantee that I won’t die working for Horvorr’s Guard.”

“The place well suits you, then.”

“Better than this city, at the least. The coin should last you for a full winter. I would recommend keeping a blade within reach in case any man tries to rob, rape or murder you. If I can, I will come to visit you next season… if only to see that you are no longer here.” Hjorvarth turned, and dipped his head. “Joyto’s Luck, Frida. May the Midwife watch over you and your babe.”

***

Hjorvarth squeezed through the main doorway, and pulled it to a close behind him.

A black-clad woman stood waiting at the crossroads ahead, alone save for the stone homes standing at either side of her.

Hjorvarth frowned, then turned the other way.

“Hjorvarth.” The woman gave chase, her steps close to soundless. “I didn’t expect to find you here.”

“Ruby.”

“Greeting or accusation?” she said, striding alongside him.

“I had hoped tone alone would suggest that I have no great urging to talk or look at you.”

“Times change quickly, then.”

Hjorvarth paused amid another crossroads, searching the surroundings of rowed stone structures that ended in a horizon of the monolithic walls and jutting mountains that shadowed the stone city. “You’ve made me take a wrong turn.”

“As easy as that?” Ruby asked.

“Which way is Sifa’s tavern?”

Ruby’s dark eyes narrowed. “You’re back to working for Brolli already?”

“No. I’m looking for a whorehouse that should be near there.”

“Why…?”

“I do not know.” Hjorvarth took a step forward, looming over the lithe woman. “Why are you here?”

Ruby smiled. “I’ve come on behalf of my father. He extends his sympathies towards your falling out with Brolli the Black, and would once more like to invite you into the company of the Gem Cutters.”

Hjorvarth stared at her without enthusiasm.

“I’ll take that as a no, then,” Ruby said, noticing the slash through his fur sleeve. “You’ve been knife fighting?”

“Crooked Teeth.”

Ruby frowned in disgust. “You work for the Crooked Teeth?”

“They attacked me with knifes in the market. I’d heard no word of them until today.”

“Oh,” Ruby murmured. “You’re lucky, then. They’ve been picking people off the streets and leaving behind bags of teeth.”

“Truly?” Hjorvarth asked. “Had I known I would have given chase.” He shrugged. “Which way is Sifa’s tavern?”

“If you’re not working for the Black Hands or the Crooked Teeth who are you working for?”

“Horvorr’s Guard.”

Ruby laughed. “So you’ve gone from working for Brolli to working for his brother. That’s not much of a change.”

“It seems a deal easier than going to storefronts and asking folk to pay coin they don’t owe and can’t afford. Chief Gudmund offers good wages for honest work, and I’m more than happy with that. Now I’ve answered your questions… which way is Sifa’s tavern?”

Ruby met the words with a curious smile. “You were going the right way… but you should probably head towards Jarl Thrand’s Estate. I heard word that Gudmund’s sons have already offended Thorfinn and now there’s going to be a duel to answer the insult.”

“That is an odd lie,” Hjorvarth muttered. “And if it isn’t then the duel would be long over.”

“Perhaps… but Thorfinn is well known as a man with thin arms and a big head. He’s had the word spread that he’ll soon be duelling, and he means to open the gates so that he can have those of import witness his great triumph.”

“He will lose,” Hjorvarth said. “There is no way at all that he will best Geirmund, or Agnar, in a duel.”

“Then I would say it’s lucky for Thorfinn that he’s fighting a man named Engli instead.” Ruby’s eyes narrowed as if she noticed his momentary distress. “I take it you know the man?”

“I do.” Hjorvarth nodded. “Which way is Jarl Thrand’s Estate?”