43. Sheltered

“I once travelled with Lucius to a place he named The Lodge. Much like Timilir, the structure appeared to be preserved from an ancient civilisation. He strode through the place as if he had been there a dozen times before. I had a sudden urging to ask him how old he was, to which he answered he had lived long enough to want to die.

I pressed him no further, but he later told me that he would have taken his own life were it not for those that counted on him. This I took to mean his family who he had mentioned once or twice before. I asked him if I would ever meet them. And he laughed a laugh that made my blood turn cold.”

“He’s near the fire,” the Sage said. “He’ll be fine.”

Engli lay on a colourful rug near the ornate brass fireplace, which burned with a steady flame of purple. His tattered clothes had been sodden with snow melt, but now patches had started to dry with the stifling heat.

“Fine?” Hjorvarth had more colour in his bruised cheeks than he’d had in days. “Where are we, Sage?”

“I believe this was a diplomatic lodge, used by an alliance between Dwarves—”

“This is no time for jokes!” Hjorvarth loomed over the robed man. “Look at me, Sage. I am not long from snapping your neck. What is your plan? Why did you bring us here? And in what way does this help Horvorr?”

The Salt Sage took a step back. “You haven’t even had a chance to look around.”

“Around?” Hjorvarth walked over to a cupboard by the door, picked it up and shook it out. He swept ornaments off of a glass table, walked by the fire, and rooted through the draws of a huge cupboard along the other wall. “Plates! Pipes! Cups and glasses!”

Hjorvarth stomped along the floorboards. “An ornamental sword. Some kind of board game?” He kicked the checkered table over. “Stool.” He kicked that over, then scowled at a tall and ornate clock. “A lettered circle and some metal swinging. Does that help me Sage? Does that help anyone?”

“This is just the reception.”

Hjorvarth rounded on him. “This is the only room! You mean to stand there telling me that my father wasted my life chasing this place?”

The Salt Sage smiled under the shadow of his brown hood. “Don’t you mean his life?”

Hjorvarth pushed him against the wall. “Why are we here?”

The Salt Sage laughed a nervous laugh. “Perhaps I should open the other doors.”

“Go ahead.” Hjorvarth shoved him across the pristine floors. He glanced at the open draws of the cupboard, at the trinkets scattered on the floor. “If there is nothing more to this place, Sage. I swear by all the gods…”

The Salt Sage peered inside the tall clock. He pulled on the pendulum and mechanisms began to click into place. “There we are. Did you want to wake Engli?”

Hjorvarth scowled. “He looks half dead.”

“All right. Though you’re not exactly a picture of health.”

“I would think less on my well being, and more on your own.”

The Salt Sage dipped his hooded head. “Of course.”

He waved a hand towards an opening in the log wall, which led to a large square chamber, made all of natural stone, veined in places with gold, coal or silver, as if the place had been hewn straight from the mountain itself.

There were three tiers to the space, two wooden landings that gave access to rooms with doors, carved with simple scenes of people or places; and a bottom stone floor, covered by a main table, weapon racks, and wooden figures meant for training.

Hjorvarth scowled down at the equipment, at the weapon and armour racks stood along the walls. He thought the weapons too ornate and fanciful-wrought to be useful, and thought less of the gleaming armour. “Even if I could carry all of that crap with me, a few sets of armour doesn’t win a war, when all it takes for a man to die is for some rock to hit him in the face.”

The Salt Sage chuckled. “Patience, Hjorvarth.”

Hjorvarth opened each door as he passed, stone washrooms, storage rooms with chests and crates, bedrooms with bunks, others with large beds and ornate furnishings. One door opened to a large room with a curtained theater, and another led to a huge, brass communal bath. “Who lives here? Who needs these useless things?”

“I was actually hoping you and Engli would live here.”

“I don’t want a new home. I want to save the one I already have. The one with my family and friends.”

“Don’t worry, Hjorvarth,” the Salt Sage said. “Horvorr is as safe as can be, all things considered.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? Is it safe or isn’t it?”

“It’s… safe. Trust me, by now Gudmund has a hold on things. Or he’s dead. Either way, Horvorr will be ready.”

Hjorvarth glared. “Are you trying to make me angry?”

“No, not at all. I’m trying to reassure you.”

“You’re failing,” Hjorvarth replied now they crossed onto the second landing. He opened the doors, to a kitchen, another bunked bedroom, an expansive library, and a different level of the same theater. “What is all this for?”

“Someone performs a song, and people watch.”

“So why is no one here?”

“They’re all dead.”

“Like the last city?” Hjorvarth asked. “Or would you have me believe I imagined that? Why is it that you only know of places where everyone has died, Sage? Should I not be worried that one day you’ll lead some fools through the walls of Horvorr and tell them of more folk long dead?”

“I’ve truly no idea what you mean, Hjorvarth.” The Salt Sage shrugged. “I do apologize about assuring you of the wholesomeness of those mosses. Or it might have even been the underground stream, but all that you saw… I didn’t. Do you want to tell me what you think happened? Then I might be able to clear things up for you.”

“Sage… the less we speak, the less we deal with one another, the better. Simply tell me or show me how this place saves Horvorr.”

The Salt Sage looked up at a glass frame embedded in the wall.

There were empty straps that hung over a depression in the wood that seemed shaped for a heavy, two-handed axe. A golden plate was fixed into the wall under the frame, engraved with runic symbols.

“Brolli would be happy with that,” Hjorvarth muttered, reminded of his own guilt. “Stole the axe and left the glass and straps.”

“It’s more for using than viewing,” the Sage explained. “They call it The World Splitter. Legend says the axe can only be wielded by the worthiest of fighters.”

“No doubt a tale spoken loudest by those that crafted or wielded the weapon.”

The Salt Sage sighed. “You’re too young to be a cynic, Hjorvarth.”

“I’ve no clue what the word means,” he dismissed. “But either way I put no faith in the judgements of others.”

The Salt Sage gestured towards the final stairs. “Why’s that?”

There were more doors on the bottom floor, and a shadowed stair that led further into the earth. A map of the region stood central. Wooden figures, made for training, watched the visitors from two orderly rows of three. Behind them, racks of ornate weapons and polished armour were arrayed along each of the walls.

Hjorvarth did not offer an answer. “There is nothing here, Sage. I could have asked Gudmund for weapons or a map of the region.”

“Ignore all that.” The Salt Sage led him through the training room and to a stone wall. “There’s something I want to show you.”

“A wall?” Hjorvarth asked, coming up behind him.

The Salt Sage licked his finger and wiped it on Hjorvarth’s cut cheek.

The huge man frowned, and stepped back.

“I just needed your blood.” The Salt Sage turned back to the wall and pressed the bloody finger against the stone. It faded away to reveal a small corridor of black marble, tiled floor patterned with white. Gemstones and gold glimmered and gleamed in the distance, stacked in a untidy pile of weapons, ornaments, and wealth.

“What now, Sage?” Hjorvarth asked in anger. “Do you expect me to pay Muradoon to give me my father back? Are we going back to your stone city? Or should I purchase an army so that they can use their weapons to shift around the bones and ash?”

“You’ll need Engli to get the gold,” the Sage’s voice was distant. He now stood near the middle of the training room, leaning over the large octagonal map table. “Remember that, Hjorvarth. You can open the door, and he can take things out. Try and take anything out of there yourself and it will go badly for you.”

“What are you talking about?” Hjorvarth roared, his voice echoing back. “You said that coming here would save Horvorr, but I don’t see how this—” He swept out his great arms. “How any of this is going to save anyone!”

“Say again?” The Salt Sage backed away from the map table, towards a small wooden altar that stood in the leftmost corner formed by the stairs. “I said that we needed to come here, and I said that Horvorr would be saved. I don’t recall ever suggesting that one had ought to do with the other.”

Hjorvarth strode forward to take a mace from a weapon rack. “Then why are we here?”

“We?” he asked. “As in you and Engli? I needed you to open the door, and I thought you might enjoy the trip.”

The Salt Sage pushed a crystalline sphere, orange-veined blue, into a depression on the wooden altar, then lifted a battered bronze coin from where the sphere had been standing. Metal clunked. Twin glass channels in the altar’s base started to glow orange and blue. “If you meant, why am I here?” He held up the coin. “I left this the last time I visited, and it’s very important to me. Mostly because I need it to get where I’m going, but also because it’s the first coin my father ever let me keep. The gambler, remember? I already told you—” He leapt backwards.

Stone screeched when Hjorvarth’s mace struck the wall. His wrist suffered the impact and he stepped forward to corner the brown-robed man.

The Salt Sage proffered gloved palms. “Let’s not let this get of hand.”

“Out of hand?” Hjorvarth shouted. “You have been the death of four men, Sage. You have led two others out into the mountains to die for a coin that looks too worn for custom. You have pushed and twisted the people of Horvorr, instead of simply warning them that a goblin horde is camped outside their walls. All those that claim to know you—man, monster and spirits alike—think you a harbinger of calamity, and I now have no reason to doubt them. So pick a weapon if you wish, but by all the gods you are a man made of falseness and cruelty, and I will not let you leave here living,” he grimly assured. “If only for the sake of all those who have yet to meet you.”

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The Salt Sage stood unmoving in the corner, his brown hood showing only shadows. “Calamity?” He laughed in anger. “Had I not shown up when I did, you would have led those men on the Autumn Trip. You would have been ambushed moments after you crossed through the gates. What do you think those goblins were waiting for, Hjorvarth? They were looking forward to the trip as much as you were. And as to warnings, Gudmund of Horvorr didn’t exactly pay my words much mind. He was, in fact, as you are… mostly set on killing me.” Reaching into his robe, the Sage stepped forward. “So I wish you both the best of luck in saving Horvorr, but I really must be on my way.”

Hjorvarth tightened his grip on the mace. “To ruin some other fool’s life? Or to think up some more excuses for your black actions?”

“I don’t need excuses, Hjorvarth. I have an imperative.” The Salt Sage bounded forward, sword flashing out from under his robe. He lunged for a thrust, batted away by the mace. He stabbed and slashed, pushing the haggard fighter further back, then clambered onto the third step of the stairs. He rolled clear of a crunching mace. “One day, Hjorvarth.” He glanced back as he made his flight across the landing. “You’re going to look back on all this and see that I’ve done you a great favour!”

Hjorvarth hurled his weapon, but it clanked down to the stone below. “What is wrong with you?”

“With me?” The Salt Sage paused at the top of the stairs. “You’re the one trying to bludgeon me to death without provocation!”

“You brought us here for nothing!” Hjorvarth chased him into the reception. “I could have died trying to protect Horvorr!”

“And now you can live succeeding to protect it! Probably.” The Salt Sage swiped Hjorvarth’s blood against the ornate door and it opened to sunshine and silence. He dipped his hooded head and fled. “You’re definitely welcome!”

Hjorvarth charged out into a mountainous basin.

In all directions, untouched snow sparkled in the sunlight. He ran back and forth to each side of the wooden lodge and, with great effort, managed to clamber onto the roof.

He had clear sight for a mile, but saw no man in a brown robe, or any life at all, only a bright sky and a glacial horizon of endless mountains.

***

Isleif sat on Engli’s bed, worrying at the loose thread of the rough blanket across his lap. He appeared as a ghost of a man, his plain shirt ethereal and baggy, his milky eyes so distant that he seemed to see straight through to the spirit realm and witness his own death.

Anna watched from the main room. She sat at the table, but had turned in her seat. She wanted nothing more than to see Isleif for who he was: an arrogant fool with a hawkish face and hawkish sensibilities, with a proud stride and striking ginger hair. But all she saw was a lost old man, staring down at his lap as if the brown thread of a blanket was all that mattered in the world. He did study his frail hands on occasion, turning them slowly over as if they were oddities.

“I’m sorry,” said a strained voice.

Anna had been so swept up in her momentary pity that she hadn’t noticed him turn.

He stared straight at her, owly brows tight above his eyes. “For what happened, with Brolli. I didn’t think that… I didn’t think that he would attack the Ritual House,” he feebly explained. “That he would attack you… in the way that he did. I didn’t think at all, is the truth. Of the consequence… of anything.” He smiled a weak smile that spoke to self-loathing. “I am a fool.”

Anna only looked back at him and he thought her the same young woman. He could not see the wrinkles at the corners of her green eyes, or at the edges of her soft lips, nor was his vision clear enough to notice grey strands amongst her pale blond hair.

She held her head just as proudly as she had, making the hard lines of her face seemed ever more refined. “Do you want forgiveness?”

“No.” Isleif shook his head with vehemence. “Never would I ask that. Never would I want it. I only want you to know that Brolli went there of his own—”

“I know,” Anna said simply. “I always knew. A fool you were, and a fool you are, Isleif. But you are not a man who would send the likes of Brolli and his men to the Ritual House.” She shrugged. “I have never blamed you for what he did or didn’t do. But I do blame you for everything else, before Sibbe’s death and after it.” She watched the old man with disappointment. “There are days when I honestly think that Linden should have just let you cut your throat.”

Isleif offered a slow nod. He squinted down at his blanket.

“Why did you even come back?” Anna asked. “Hundreds of men went with you, and of all those that could return it had to be you. Why, Isleif? Why? Do you even understand all the misery you’ve caused your boy?”

Isleif tugged at the loose thread, murmuring a song to himself.

“Pretend not to hear me then.” Anna smiled in anger. “You’re just the same coward that you’ve always been. The same coward who forced your wife out here for your own sake, so that you could lay claim to saving her. The same coward that came back to torment his son as the living dead. The same coward that sings songs about the snow so he can avoid answering questions he doesn’t want to answer.” She sighed. “You are a selfish mouse of a man, Isleif. You deserved no love from Sibbe. And you deserved no love from her son. The gods may have cursed you with your life, but there was no need for you to curse Hjorvarth as well. And now where is he? On a quest to right your wrong, with my son following. Both of them dead or soon to be because of you.”

Anna realised she was stood over him.

Isleif kept pulling at the thread, his hand shaking as he sniffled his breaths. “I didn’t want to come back,” he whispered, his voice quavering. “I was lost in the snow, and it was cold… so cold. But he took my hand, and he pulled me back. He pulled me out from the bath. Splash. Attacked. So much blood. Is it mine? No, if it were yours you’d be dead. Keep walking, keep going. I’ll try again later. This didn’t go as I’d hoped. You planned this? No. I try not to plan. I can’t see! I can’t feel my legs! You don’t need to feel your legs—just trust that they’re there. Where are you taking me? Home. I’m taking you home. Back to the boy, back to Horvorr. We’re done. Debt settled. But Sibbe? Where is she? Lost. We need to go back! You can’t, Isleif. You don’t know which way to go. Follow me. She’s gone. They’re all gone. You saw what happened. There’s no way anyone else made it back alive. We need to go while the blizzard’s high or else they’re going to catch us too. Isleif! Where are you! Raise your hand, Isleif! I can’t see you! Isleif!”

The shrill tone rang out with desperation.

Isleif blinked, trying to steady himself with frail arms now his knees knocked together. He stared up like a lost child, milky eyes wide with fear. “I didn’t know, Anna. I didn’t know which way to go. I tripped, and I laughed. Snow bath. I was buried. I tried to stay buried but he found me. And he pulled me up from the snow and he made me living again, but he said I’d frozen over too hard, and I might not be so much as myself as I was. But I trusted him because he owed me. He owed me a debt, and I trusted him—but he took Sibbe from me!” he snarled, anger fading as suddenly as it manifested. “And why would he do that when we were supposed to be friends?”

Anna blinked tears from her eyes. She had no answer.

Isleif shook his head, rubbing his aged face with trembling hands. “Why did he do that, Anna?”

“Who?”

Isleif gazed up at her queerly. “Lucius, of course.”

“I don’t know anyone by that name, Isleif.”

“But I saw you speaking to him.”

“Where?” Anna asked. “When?”

“The tavern. He brought a girl, a pretty girl, with a blue dress and red hair.”

“Sybille?”

“Sibbe?” Isleif asked.

“Sybille is Gudmund’s daughter. She came here with the Sage—” Isleif recoiled. “Was the Sage with you, Isleif? Did he go on your expedition?”

Isleif gazed up at her, his owly brows knitted. He lifted his head as if to nod, then smiled and frowned. “Have you seen Hjorvarth?”

***

Engli pushed up from the floorboards near the purplish fire, feeling dryer, warmer, and more contented than he had ever been. He faced the winter breeze sweeping in through the open doors, and squinted at the sunlight reflecting off sparkling snow.

“Hjorvarth?” The door swung soundlessly closed now he approached, leaving him in an odd silence of his own breaths and the mechanisms of the grandfather clock. He walked towards the ticking and noticed the entrance to the stone chamber below.

Casting off his tattered fur jacket, Engli walked to the precipice. He unfastened his leather armour while he descended the stairs, feeling stifled by the heat despite the cold stone around him. The place reminded him of Jorund’s home.

Engli made his way across the landings, having a look at each of the rooms as he passed. He paused to study the decorative axe case, which now held The World Splitter. Engli thought the weapon was wrought too big to be used by most men, other than Hjorvarth or Grettir when he still had both his arms.

“Hjorvarth!” He looked down to the training area below, listening to his own voice echo back at him. “Is anyone here? Sage…?”

He began to check each room thoroughly, trekking the three floors of the theater to look down each row of seats.

Engli came out of the theater and into the bottom floor. He looked the place over, searching and calling for his companions to no avail. Engli took a metal-shafted axe from the weapon rack, and made his way back up the stairs.

The door wouldn’t open for him, despite many attempts and much swearing, so he scoured cupboards and the floor for a key, then made a brisk effort of searching chests and drawers in the other rooms. He found a green shirt, and a pair of white leggings that were tight-fitting, but pleasant enough to wear. He found other clothes as well, and they all seemed fit for men that were either short and broad, or overly tall and lean.

Engli grabbed a second single-bladed axe.

They were both wrought of a silvery green metal, engraved with floral patterns down the shaft, made with a pick at the top, which had a gleaming sapphire socketed beneath.

The weaponry arrayed along the racks near the stair was of a similar make to the axes, offering a selection of every weapon that Engli knew, and others that he had never seen. More racks stood near the stone walls opposite, arrayed with weapons wrought from a dark metal, etched with runes and finished with hard lines instead of curved edges.

He weighed one of those, but found them too heavy to handle, so set it back in the rack. Engli then made his way towards the stairs, but stopped to look at the map on the octagonal table. He pulled out one of the low-backed wooden seats, and leaned forward to study the drawing. The map was as wide as the table, weighted with golden figures of goblins, men, dwarves and elves.

The soft canvas was pale brown and the region had been richly painted in full colour.

Engli recognised the lay of the land, but the towns and cities were named wrong, or showed where only trees stood. There was no mention of Fenkirk or most of the mountain villages either, but Jorund’s Hill was clearly marked.

“Engli?” Hjorvarth’s deep voice rolled down from the entry hall. “Engli!”

“I’m down here!”

“Are you all right?”

“I’m fine!” Engli lifted up his green shirt. He was leaner, more scratched and bruised than he remembered, but he could see no deep wounds, or any cuts that looked to be going bad. “I’m better than fine!”

“Good,” Hjorvarth said, trudging down the stairs. “I feel like death.”

“You should sit by that fire.”

“No.” Hjorvarth shook his head. “It looks fey.” He let out a long sigh. “You should know I tried to kill the Sage, and he’s ran away. He said that he was leaving before I tried to kill him, that he had got what he wanted, and that he had led us out here for some mad man’s jest, or else he wanted some coin, or he came to put that bauble in that altar.” He shrugged, and yawned. “I don’t suppose you found any food?”

Engli glanced up at the landing. “Go into the next room, and turn right. There’s a room with bronze barrels and taps. If you pick up one of the mugs, and pull one of the handles, then a drink will come out. It tastes a little like ale.”

“You’re joking?” Hjorvarth asked.

Engli shook his head.

Hjorvarth grumbled to himself, and wandered off into the suggested room.

He came down a while later, his thick arms wrapped around huddled mugs. He moved to set them on the map table, but saw the quality and set them on a pair of chairs instead.

Engli took the offered mug. “Have you seen this map?”

“What of it?”

“We’re right next to Fenkirk. This is us—” He pointed to a small star amid a mountainous basin. He ran his finger down a path to the south, which sloped into the forests of Fenkirk. “If we follow this, then we could reach the town in a few days.”

Hjorvarth paused his drinking. “Fenkirk is likely surrounded by goblins,” he said, wiping his mouth with a sleeve. “If it is then we’d be running to our deaths.”

“What about the hunting villages?” Engli asked. “If we head more westerly first, then we could see if anyone was there, ask if anyone wants to come with us. To fight for Horvorr or for Fenkirk.”

Hjorvarth studied the forested land that ran between two mountains and connected Southwestern Tymir with the Midderlands. “If the goblins came from the Midderlands Pass, then there might be some villages left untouched.”

“We’ll do that then?” Engli asked. “Rally the villagers, and move on Fenkirk. Rally Fenkirk, then move on Horvorr.”

“And if Fenkirk is ash?”

“We could travel as far as Timilir. Ask—”

“Jarl Thrand?” Hjorvarth smiled broadly. “Speak our apologies for murdering his youngest son, and then ask if he wants to help his good friend, Gudmund?” His mirth faded. “The Sage sent Grettir to Wymount, which would be a call to most the men in the west. If we went to Fenkirk perhaps there would be some men to help, but if not then we’re two men, likely two dead men, on our own.”

“We could trek all the way to the Midderlands,” Engli suggested. “Or go back across the mountains to the mining villages.”

Hjorvarth offered a slight nod. “I’ll do that. The mining villages. You’ll have to go to Fenkirk, and see if you can find any folk willing to fight.” He regarded Engli with a solemn gaze. “If that’s all right with you?”

“Go on my own?” he asked.

“I don’t think the Sage is coming back. Even if he did I would murder him or send him to the Midderlands, which is as good as death.”

“Fair enough. But how am I supposed to convince people to follow me?”

“Tell them the truth, I would guess,” Hjorvarth said. “They’re as good as dead. Better that they die fighting with you than die cowards.”

Engli met the words with a doubtful look. “You think that will work?”

“Work?” Hjorvarth asked. “That’s just the truth.”

“They might think they can survive on their own,” Engli mentioned.

Hjorvarth picked up a mug of ale, quaffed the rest down. “Why bother living if you don’t deserve your life?”