43. Unfinished

“Magar has asked for my help in finishing his work. Now a goblin grown, he still remains skinny but has grown tall. He towers over me yet remains deferential.

I had not visited his vast caverns in sometime, and what surprised me most was the smell. The sour, acrid scent of the pools had been replaced by a strange smell that was if bat droppings had been crushed into overland berries. And there was the faintest taste of salt ever present upon my tongue. Then I saw that the liquid had not turned luminous green but a deep and ominous blue. So bold in colour that the sacks below the water could barely be seen. All save one, which was huge and central, and made all those around it seem even smaller. ‘What is that…?’ I asked of Magar.

‘Unfinished,’ he answered, staring into the blue pool. ‘Help me feed him.’

I was unsure of what he meant, and wondered if he intended to push me into the water, but instead he marched off and returned with a freshly honed staff of bone. Hooked at the end for a shaman to use lifting or cutting sacks. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘We left your old one behind. But a new one is better. A pair,’ he explained, glancing to the matching staff strapped across his bony shoulders.

‘They are not ready,’ I answered, as the hatchlings needed time to grow.

‘We will split them.’

‘Which…?’

‘All of them, Izzig,’ he explained as if to a child. ‘Only one will be birthed from this pool. Help me feed the others to the vessel.’

‘I will not split that many.’

‘Izzig.’ Magar cocked his head, and he studied me for a long while. ‘It will happen. With you, it will be quicker. The only way to prevent is to kill or imprison me.’ He thrust the bone staff towards me once more. ‘This will help you with either decision.’”

Snow swirled down in delicate flakes as an uncovered cart covered the unwelcoming ground that stretched from the stone city’s southeastern gate.

The pair of leading oxen lowed out in anguish while white covered their bristling coats. Two men in tattered cloaks, both colourless in the dark night, walked alongside the cart, while the hunched rider kept a tight grip on the reins.

These men would be, or hoped that they would be, paid well. They at the least thought that this was better work than trying to murder Smiler.

The Crooked Teeth were being ripped from festering gums and by the end of this night there wouldn’t be enough left to make an ugly smile. Yet these men, carrying a corpse as cargo, would drop their package off in some troll’s cavern and return to be paid.

They would profit while their peers rotted.

They would drop the mad facade and go back to life as regular folk once more.

Yet when they considered a return to normality they had to wonder on those that were taken. Bags of teeth didn’t return to crying children or grieving widows. They were just that. Small stones in bags, cracked, stained red. The man they carried wouldn’t return to any wife or daughter, wouldn’t rise up from the bile of some troll’s belly.

The men shivered, they considered, they lamented.

They each looked forward to the day’s ahead and worried on the time’s behind them. They told themselves that it was the dark night, the howling wind, and the cold weather. That when the sun shone once more above the stone city they would be father’s and husband’s again. They would be men again. Good men, for at least a while.

Gudmund of Horvorr’s body rolled and thumped within the rattling cart.

Intestines had been crushed and split, spilling sludge onto dark slush that had once been a coating of snow. The ravaged corpse lay frozen, lips dipped into sadness, hand outstretched as if in reach for the sword brought with him.

“Brolli’s sword. The sons of Geirolf all turned to corpses.”

That malformed thought was a twisted whisper made intangible by screeching weather, no more noteworthy than the shivering breaths of men that wished keenly they had instead been tasked with building a pyre.

“Here!” The driver shouted, pulling the reins. “This’ll do!”

The cart clattered to a stop and for a moment the three men seemed frozen within the snowstorm. They soon rallied to life and started dragging the corpse from the wagon.

The driver remained seated. “Don’t forget the sword!”

The tallest man eyed the snow-specked blade. “Better to sell it!”

“I wouldn’t.”

The warning tone was enough for the third man to belt the sword.

They carried the body through the swirling blackness and into a nearby cavern. It was narrow but sheltered from the weather. Both men sighed with relief, and dragged the corpse to the end of the cavern.

A wolf stood there. Dead, starved and frozen. The pitiful beast looked ready to rise.

“Bad omen,” the third man muttered. He laid Brolli’s sword across Gudmund’s corpse. “Let’s leave while we can.”

“Need a piss.” The tall man rubbed at his reddened ears. “I’ll be out soon enough.” He waited for the other man to leave, then bent down over the broken body. He spared a glance for the frozen visage of the dead man before reaching for the ornate sword. “I’ll take this,” he whispered. “No sense in the troll eating it along with your corpse.”

The tall man whistled while he departed, a distracted tune that blended with the malicious wind. He had barely suffered a buffet when he walked into the third man.

“Take the sword back,” the driver shouted, “before Muradoon takes us all!”

The tall man wanted to argue, but he didn’t want to risk dying or walking back alone. He decided he would come back for the blade in fairer weather.

The third man accompanied him back into the cave. “Lady below,” he whispered. The ravaged corpse now knelt at the back of the cavern, one bleeding hand resting on the starved wolf.“Throw the damn sword, and let’s get clear of this place.”

The tall man obliged, his hands shaking now he settled the blade on the ground. He ran out along with the other man, gladder than ever to be back in the blizzard.

“The corpse is rising,” the third man declared. “We need to get to the Eternal Sanctuary!”

“Muradoon shelter us,” the driver intoned. “Or take the man that’s to blame.”

“What was that?” the tall man shouted above the doleful wind.

“I said it time to leave!”

The three men, two oxen, and the rattling cart departed as soon as they were able. They thanked the Spirit Talker for guarding them from the draugr and made their way through the cold snow and towards the monolithic walls of the distant city of stone.

A fourth man, one-armed and wrapped in a black cloak, arrived at the cavern not long after. He had almost turned to enter when a fifth approached, tall and broad, sheathed in armour that shielded features and flesh.

“Canny timing, brother,” Agnar shouted. “Here to help or hamper?”

The armoured warrior did not move or flinch in the cold wind. “Prevent.”

Agnar barely recognized his brother’s iron voice. “He’s your father.”

“He is a restless spirit that needs to be put to peace.”

“Unleashed.”

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Geirmund drew his sword by half. “I am here on the bidding of the true God of Death. You live in service of the false deity Muradoon. I would ask you now, once more, to trust your older brother’s judgement.”

Agnar's smile was wry. “Yet by your own words this is not your judgement.”

“I have no wish to kill you, brother.”

“If you would even consider it then you are not my brother at all! That would only make you the rotted body and defiled spirit of a man I once knew.” Agnar paused. “Perhaps you need to put yourself to peace, brother?”

Geirmund’s gauntlet tightened around his sword’s pommel. “I have work to do. I have a debt to settle. One I made on your bidding… to spare our sister,” he reminded. “Would you have me break my word ?”

“If you do this then our sister will suffer far worse than what you spared her.”

Geirmund screamed in anguish and staggered forward. “I wish to stop but I cannot.” He drew his sword, and settled into a determined stride. “Run from here, brother.”

Agnar drew his own blade, an antiqued sword that had been gifted by the Small King. He stepped back into the cavern. “You—”

“He is gone.” Geirmund stopped, and just as swiftly disappeared.

Agnar frowned at the darkness beyond the cavern.

He turned to the cold and lonely visage of a starved and abandoned wolf.

***

The hour had grown late, ominously so, and most homes in the stone city lay wreathed in darkness.

As thousands slept within monolithic walls, forces converged towards Timilir. A modest procession that lay camped, along the ravaged lands of Ouro’s Scales, not a day to the North, and a larger army, to the East, that marched through the night, slaughtering scouts and passing coin to silence word of their coming.

Only two groups within the city knew of the approaching army, those spies and assassins of the Low King, and the living members of the Crooked Teeth that moved to meet them. The hooded man walked with hopes of having a debt settled, with no knowledge of the smiling man that stalked behind him.

While men with daggers met in the dark, scores still sat listening to the blond orator in the Bard’s House as he told the long and unhappy tale of brothers Brolli and Gudmund.

Far from that place, Atsurr stood guard near the marble gates of Jarl Thrand’s Estate. He had checked the carriages that returned, without reports of compromise or attack, and he had decided that all the men there were servants of Jarl Thrand in truth.

The armoured sentinel made his way towards the looming structure where he thought his master now slept, only to hear shouting from behind him that claimed the Jarl of Timilir had just arrived and was now grievously wounded.

Atsurr turned back to the gate, which was opened before he could order a refusal.

He gathered guards and took all care in approaching a cart that had by all appearances been abandoned. Then he heard the pained rasp of Jarl Thrand and hurried forwards to collect the wounded old man.

Atsurr strode and spoke in a daze as he ordered a healer for Jarl Thrand and had him secured in safety and comfort within the walls of the stone barracks. He could not shake the worry that he had been tricked, and he thought again on the old guard who had brought him report of the carriage guards’ false word and poorly fitted armour.

Realization dawned and gave way to a rise of anger. The main carriage guards had never been replaced. It was just one swapped guard, one old guard, who fed Atsurr lies about the others and made him think that they need flee in fear.

The Crooked Teeth must have known, somehow, of another way into the safe room. Their intention had never been to kill Thrand out in the open. Atsurr had placed the old Jarl exactly where they had hoped he would. He had been utterly fooled.

Atsurr raged within himself, but needed to handle the crisis. He left Jarl Thrand under care of loyal guards and a competent healer, knowing there was nothing more that he could do. He then strode out into the cold night and turned towards the towering structure of Jarl Thrand’s home. He crossed under the imposing entryway and into the wide, white hall where lay the ornate statues of all Eleven Elders.

Stone likenesses, commissioned by Thrand, which had riled all the temples in the city, none so much as the Servants of Muradoon. They would rather hoard their idols.

Atsurr turned towards the right wing of the estate, to the torture room, where he had stored the treacherous women that had meant to betray his master and his city.

He thought that the halls were quiet, unnaturally so, and rested a hand on his sword’s pommel. Fears were alleviated when lantern light bled into the corner ahead, but then he heard the familiar voice of an old man.

Atsurr drew his sword and turned to see two guards collapsed near the open door. Shadows stretched from the room and out into the corridor. He could hear the hushed voices of both young women, as well as the older one, and he knew he had not yet failed. “Guards to arms!” he roared. “Intruders in the halls!”

The shout echoed along shadowed halls and out into the bitter night, plainly heard above the staggered steps of the vengeful corpse now trudging through the open gate.

***

The hooded man squinted up at the night sky, keening his ears towards the Estate’s alarm.

“Are your men to blame for that?” asked the man opposite, shrouded in a smooth black cloak.

The Crooked Teeth had met with the agents of the Low King. They appeared ragged and unprofessional against the straight-backed, well-armed and well-clothed, folk that stood to face them. They had all gathered amid a broad square surrounded by wooden houses and derelict shacks. A crumbling well separated the two circling groups.

The hooded man shrugged. “Jarl Thrand must have reached have reached his Estate.”

The lead man moved his hands under his cloak. “You say that as if he lives.”

“He does.”

“That was not the agreement.”

“His leadership has been entirely undermined. He is mortally wounded. He will die today, or tomorrow.”

“You were close enough to examine him but not close enough to kill him?”

“Indeed,” Smiler enthused. “We were paid more than you’d think for that!” He stumbled out from the shadows and those gathered turned to regard his blood-smeared visage. “Am I late…?”

“Is he?” the lead man asked.

“He—”

“No longer works for us!” Smiler finished. “I would have killed Jarl Thrand, but this one, this man, wanted to be paid by three hands. Three Thrands. Three—” He shouted wordlessly. “Leave this city! Now! I have come to take my revenge!” He scowled around at them all as they all drew knifes, swords, or daggers.

“I am no fan of violence or cruelty,” the lead man answered. “But I have no intention to pay you or your people.”

“Good!”

“Ignore him,” the hooded man snapped. “The city is ripe for conquer. We have done as you asked. If you do not pay us now then you will have broken trust with us.”

The lead man laughed and his fellows echoed the hollow mirth. “My friend, your own mad dog has barked towards your treachery.” He turned and bowed to Smiler. “Do you need help, stranger?”

“Smiler,” he corrected. “You should leave before I slaughter you. The Low King is not welcome in this city.”

The lead man met the warning with an unimpressed smirk. “I expect to see you again, then. Good luck to you, Smiler.”

“Good—” Smiler began, cutting himself off when he blocked a thrown dagger.

The agents of the Low King departed in the shadows but the lead man remained behind. He watched with an uneasy mix of awe and disbelief now the manic man fended off dozens of haphazard attacks from untrained men and women that had dressed themselves up to resemble a gang of fearsome fighters. They soon started to suffer, some were mortally wounded, and their enthusiasm waned.

The man in the hood had thrown the first dagger and tried to land some opportunistic blows but now he was edging clear and looking for a likely hiding place.

Smiler had not watched the retreat but when the hooded man broke to run so did he.

The wounded members of the Crooked Teeth did not chase either of them.

The lead man could only thank Joyto for the lucky night. He hadn’t brought any coin and he had expected a fight, but he and his followers would have been sorely pressed had this ragged band been unified.

Not far away, Smiler sang an eerie song as he ran between shadowed shacks that were mostly abandoned. He had made sure to wound his hooded half’s leg and so the chase was an easy one. Follow the blood or the noise, stand about and shout about until he scared him from another hiding hole. He was a cat and his hooded half was a mouse, but that made Smiler angry because he liked mice.

He wanted to be a mouse. He would be a mouse. But first, he needed to win his revenge.

Smiler stopped, side-stepped, tripped the hooded man by the leg when he came slashing past. The hooded man snarled, staggered, and stumbled into a wooden wall.

He scuffed into a dirt road pocked by stones.

Smiler lamented scraped knees. “My hooded half, what’s happened to you? You look wounded? Is the assailant—”

“Enough!” The man’s hood had fallen back. He looked like any other man. Smiler was disappointed. “Go on and kill me, then, you mad bastard.” He shook his head. “But you’re the one that needs to die here.”

Smiler smiled. “If that were true the gods would will it so. Yet I warned you. I did warn you… didn’t I?”

“All you ever do is talk in nonsense or riddles.”

“You took my honour from me. You killed that man I quite liked. You tried to kill me. You tried to kill Alrik of the Black Hands and Engli of Horvorr’s Guard. You should have followed my lead, hooded half. There is majesty in darkness and method in madness. I would have seen the Crooked Teeth to a lifetime of smiling.”

The hooded man steadied himself against the ground and the wall.

“Don’t.”

“Honour? You want honour?”

“All men want what they don’t have,” lamented Smiler. “And they never get it. Not truly. Not ever. Not then, not now. Not even before.”

“The Low King betrayed us.”

Smiler nodded. “He would have wanted Gudmund dead.”

“So why don’t you help me up and we’ll go squeeze the honour right out of that bastard’s heart.”

“Why?” Smiler cocked his head. “Because there’s a bastard in your heart and I need to squeeze it out.”