45. Conquer Divided

“A man named the Trapper arrived in our camp, offering his help in finding Braguk Moonbear. Gudmund charged Brolli with leading a token force in a search of the Midderlands Pass. I accompanied him, and we followed the Trapper through bog lands infested with insects, goblins, and swamp monsters.

I asked the Trapper how it was he expected to find one goblin in a pass so treacherous and mired. I had my answer when we came across what appeared to be a large house draped in a mismatched tapestry of furs. I would like to say we slew the monstrosity, but Braguk Moonbear crushed most of us underfoot as he fled. I fear all we truly achieved that day was aligning all of the Great Chiefs under Gahr’rul’s banner.

The Trapper seemed no less possessed in his quest to kill the monstrous goblin, but I never did have the courage to ask what so drove him to pursue an enemy he had no chance of defeating. I can only hope that I will not grow to his age and still be searching for the Hall.”

Wymount had been built atop a flat patch of land amongst the southwestern mountain ranges of Southwestern Tymir. It could be reached one way on land, four ways by boat, and dozens of ways using the old goblin tunnels. Either option took miles of walking up steep climbs, often through foul weather.

The Sea Gate of Wymount, so named for the broken coral and sea stones set on the parapets and amongst the brickwork, stood to greet travellers of the main mountain path, those that would have come from Horvorr, Fenkirk, or further afield.

It had been built to fifteen feet, so as Sybille and her ragged band of broken folk trudged up the rocky climb, all they could see of Wymount was that nautically adorned wall, and the mountains at either side of it, which imparted an impression of a majestic and ancient city awaiting beyond the gate.

Wymount lacked majesty though, and mostly held to qualities of robust bleakness.

The air was thin and cold, and reeked of salt, fish, and offal, scented with the damp wood of sturdy shacks that had long been blasted by winter winds. Beyond the creaking wood and the numbed chatter of the folk who lived there, there could be heard the calls of fishmongers, the crack and snap of workers cutting and sizing ice, the sawing and hacking of those making meals of whales or seals, and the low and ominous chants of those that served The Helmsman in Tomlok’s Driftwood Temple.

“Travellers at the gate!” a man’s voice rang out.

“Travellers at the gate!”

Sybille and her band paid no mind as the white-liveried guards atop the wall argued amongst themselves about whether they should let these desperate folk in, seeing that they were no threat and there was no sign of goblins on the horizon; or whether they should wait for Roaldr, son of the self-styled Jarl Fromund, to come and decide.

Roaldr was the only son of Fromund. He stood some distance from the wall on his family’s estate, guiding his young cousin in the proper use of a harpoon, which he held onto now he followed the runner who had brought him news of the folk at the gate.

When he reached the wall, Sybille and her ragged band had done little more then take seats on the hard stone.

Roaldr scowled at an old, white-liveried guard. “Why haven’t you opened the gate?”

Sybille rose from her feet amid the groaning of stone and metal, and watched while the gates swept slowly out and open, allowing a view of a wide street bordered at both sides by rustic structures of salt-stained wood.

Roaldr strode out with a dozen of his fur-clad guard, each of them with spears on their backs. He wore a white shirt that seemed too short and loose for a man so tall and wiry. “Apologies for the delay,” he greeted. “It looks like you people have come a long and hard way. Would any of you be so kind as to tell me what happened?”

Sybille brushed her hands down her blue dress, which now appeared closer to purple or black from filth and blood. “These people are wounded, and haven’t eaten for days. I would ask that you take them into your care.”

“Of course.” Roaldr dipped his head. “You seem grievous hurt yourself, woman. Why don’t you all come with me, and I’ll ask my questions later.” He gestured towards the open gate. “Jarl Fromund would be glad to have you in his city.”

“Jarl Fromund?” Sybille’s eyes narrowed. “There are no Jarls in Southwestern Tymir.”

“And what would you know of that, girl?” the old guard snapped.

“More than enough.” Sybille scowled. “I am the daughter of Gudmund of Horvorr. And I would dearly like to speak to this man that calls himself Jarl in open defiance of Timilir’s stewardship of these lands, or anyone else of import… perhaps you’re sheltering a few Kings, or one of the Eleven Elders?”

Roaldr frowned at her rudeness then laughed. He glanced at the old man. “Heming, would you take these people to the town hall? See that their wounds are tended, and that they are well fed. As to you, Sybille.” He bowed low. “I hope you will forgive me for not recognising you. It humbles us to be visited by the daughter of Chief Gudmund. Though I do regret we were not made aware of your coming… even so we will accommodate you as best we can. Come with me, and I will have a room made up where you can stay until I arrange an audience with my father.”

Sybille stood still as her fellow survivors were herded towards Wymount. “I must speak with him today.”

“Tomorrow, perhaps,” Roaldr offered. “You may not think it, but you have suffered injury, Sybille. You have to bathe, and be seen to by a healer. And you should eat, and drink. My father is a busy man, dreaming up titles for himself and all else.” He smiled. “I will stay with you, if you wish, and you can tell me what has happened… why you have come here alone without escort, so that I can set any needed preparations into motion.”

Sybille blinked, and nodded. She could see her brothers standing at either side of Roaldr, both regal in their fine clothes, with their groomed hair and beards, while the son of Fromund looked little different to a hard-lived fisherman, one weathered hand still wrapped around a harpoon.

“Roaldr is a good man,” Geirmund assured in his proud voice. “But Fromund is a snake.”

“Can’t trust the father, can’t trust the son,” countered a smirking Agnar.

Sybille strode proudly forward, pretending not to see or hear her dead brothers.

***

Gudmund sat at a two-benched booth with Anna and Arfast.

It had been Arfast’s idea to secure Horvorr’s Barracks, which had been simple enough, but then they realised most of the weapons weren’t actually in storage. It had then been Anna’s idea to go through houses at night with the dozen members of their group and relieve men of any weapons they had out on loan. And it had been Gudmund’s idea to sit at this booth, because he liked to look out at the herd of oxen through the open shutters.

Gudmund could also see the lanky blond bartender from where he sat, which he thought good, because there was something off about how friendly that bastard seemed. He could see Arfast, and Anna, opposite him, backs to the booth’s wooden divider, but he tended to look at the hairy, weathered old man. He wasn’t sure why, exactly, but he had a hard time meeting the blond woman’s gaze.

“Gudmund.” Anna frowned. “Are you even listening?” She snapped her fingers. “Stop looking at the oxen.”

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Gudmund glared, but he was pale and exhausted, his red hair and beard both unruly and tangled, so Anna felt pity more than she felt rebuked. “I’m listening.”

“What did she say then?” Arfast raised his pipe to his lips, and sucked.

Gudmund hated the hissing sound, and thought it odd, as well, that the old man already sounded like he was dead. “Are you sure you’re not a draugr?”

Arfast shook his head. “As I’ve already said, I’m just an old man.” He blew out a ring of smoke. “Now what did she say?”

Anna drummed her fingers against the tabletop, watching as the proud man stalled by drinking from his mug. “I said that people are stealing from the storehouses, and that we should move what we can downstairs, or into the nearby buildings.”

Gudmund set his mug down. “And didn’t you both hear me when I said that’s a good idea?” He raised his brows. “Arfast has an excuse, what with him being the risen dead. What’s yours?”

Arfast thought it odd that Gudmund always looked at him when he was taunting Anna. “Would be good if you could stop acting like a child, Gudmund. In the meanwhile, I’ll sort the storehouses.” He sighed with resignation. “Anything else that needs to be said, Anna? Or can we leave this fool to his own company?”

Anna laughed quietly. “I do have a request, in fact. I want to teach any women that are willing how to use a bow.”

Gudmund’s brows furrowed. “Why?”

“So that they can do something when this attack happens?”

Arfast smiled. “I’m not sure bows will be of much use when goblins start hauling stones at heads… I’m not against it, but I’m guessing Gudmund will be.” He took another puff of his pipe. “He’s not had much luck with bows lately.”

“What would you need for it?” Gudmund asked.

“The bows, and—”

“I mean do you need any help to get it done, or is this something you can do on your own?”

“It would be helpful to have two… or three guards to help.”

“Three is a quarter of my army.” Gudmund scratched at his beard, struggling with a tangle. “You can have Ralf.”

“Fine.” Anna finished her cup of wine. “Are we done here?”

“I have an idea,” Gudmund said. “I want two men to guard the Ritual House.”

Arfast sucked on his pipe, but it burnt out. “Seems needless.” He coughed, and set it down. “There aren’t any men in the town looking to get themselves cursed by despoiling the Ritual House.”

“It’s happened before.”

“Gudmund,” Anna said. “There’s no man in this town as black as your brother was. But it wouldn’t surprise me if someone attacked my home, so I’ll sleep in the Ritual House until things settle down. Isleif and Linden can come with me.”

Gudmund nodded. “Or you could sleep here, with the rest of us.”

“I don’t think Linden could stand hearing you talk. I struggle enough.”

“Aye,” Arfast said, “so do I.”

Gudmund regarded them both without humour. “I miss Grettir.”

“Lighten up,” Arfast said, as Anna got up from the booth. “I’m prettier than Grettir, and Anna’s wiser.” They made their way out of the tavern and Gudmund was left on his own with that lanky bartender watching him, with only the sight of those shaggy oxen to keep him entertained.

Edgar watched the Chief of Horvorr from behind the bar, drying a cup with a rag. “Are you well, Gudmund?”

Gudmund met the words with suspicion. “I’m sure you’d like to know.”

“I was mostly just being polite… but I was thinking maybe you should take whatever is left in Sam’s tavern.” Edgar upturned his palms. “If folk really are stealing supplies from the storehouses, I mean.”

Gudmund turned back to stare at the oxen.

He had already done more than enough harm to Sam, whether the man knew of it or not, but then there was one other tavern in the town and Gudmund doubted that his brother would begrudge the loss of things that he no longer needed.

***

Hjorvarth had found three large shirts that were close to comfortable. He had put them all on, tearing two. He had also wrapped himself in a pair of hardy grey cloaks, and had fastened on a weapon belt that only just fit him. He had found no armour large enough to wear, but still had his fur-trimmed shield, faintly painted with the battered scene of a bear fighting against three wolves.

He paused on the landing as he made his way up the stairs to the wood-furnished reception, and frowned at the glass case that now held The World Splitter, runes glimmering amongst the dull grey of large twin blades. “The axe is back.”

Engli glanced, but was too preoccupied to pay the comment much mind. Hjorvarth caught up with him on the landing and they walked to the entrance room in silence.

Hjorvarth lifted his pack from his shoulders and placed it beside the tall clock. “I’m going to leave this.”

Engli smiled in concern, appearing almost happy and healthy ahead of the purple flames. “Are you sure?” He had equipped himself with a set of green floral-wrought armour. He wore a matching conical helm with a nose-guard, held a curved shield, and had a pack on his back laden with an assortment of smaller weapons.

Hjorvarth nodded. “I’m fine with what I have.” He still had a pair of grey throwing axes, a rune-etched hand-axe, and a floral-wrought dagger. Though those remained hidden within his grey cloak, so he looked more like a huge and tired wanderer, rather than a well-armed warrior.

Engli lifted his own pack to check the weight. “Maybe I should leave mine behind.”

“The decision is yours.”

Both men strode out into the mountainous basin, squinting at the sunlit snow.

“I’ll keep it,” Engli decided. He stood a quiet a while, listening to the lonely whistle of the wind. “Hjorvarth… if… if I don’t—”

“I don’t like to interrupt people,” Hjorvarth said, “but it seemed needed. As to our parting, what is there really to say? Things happen as they happen, so whether I die or you die, there was nothing to be done. The Sage set us on this path, and he left us to our fate.” He shrugged. “If I make it back to Horvorr, and you don’t, would you want me to deliver a message?”

Engli glanced up at him, worried at first, then recovered his confidence. “Could you tell Linden that he was right… and I was glad to have him as my father,” he said, regret and sorrow coloring his words. “And tell Anna that I’m sorry, but I was mostly just trying to do what was right. That’s what she always said was best.”

Hjorvarth nodded, repeating it over in his mind. “And Sybille?”

Engli thought for a while, then sighed. “I can think of no words that would comfort her. She might not even care, and I don’t want to burden her further. Would you do me a favour though? If I die, could you make sure that she is safe?”

“Safe…?”

“Happy.”

“I suppose I’ll try,” Hjorvarth said. “As I told Geirmund and Agnar I would when they asked the very same thing.”

Engli solemnly nodded. “Why did you save me instead of Geirmund?”

Hjorvarth raked at his thick beard, then studied his fur-trimmed boots.

“Forget I asked,” Engli said. “Is there anything you want me to tell Isleif?”

“Would that he could remember it,” Hjorvarth whispered. “As to why I saved you… I swore to protect you, did I not? When we were younger, I mean. When we were boys. I swore to protect Geirmund too, of course, and Agnar as well.” He shook his head. “But I thought that Geirmund was safe, at least I looked at the numbers around him and guessed that there would be enough men. He had a chance, at the least. Netted as you were, dragged across the field… you were headed to the Lady’s Shadow.”

Engli frowned. “When did you…” He trailed off now he remembered mixing blood and swearing oaths with the small and smiling red-haired boy that Hjorvarth had been. The memory sorrowed him, knowing too well that Hjorvarth had stopped smiling when his mother had died; that she had fallen into Horvorr’s Great Lake in full winter, trying to save her son; who had only made his way onto the weak ice because Engli had challenged him to a race. “Never mind.”

“Tell Isleif, if he asks, that I have joined the Stone Sons of Timilir,” Hjorvarth said without inflection. “Tell him I have a wife, children, and I will visit him soon.”

Engli looked away, strangely upset by the simple life denied his friend. He turned back, only to see that the grey-cloaked man was well along the sunlit snow. He wanted to give chase, but knew he lacked a reason. “Safe travels, Hjorvarth! Gods watch over you!”

Hjorvarth waved without looking back. “Joyto’s Luck, Engli!”

Engli, newly brave and newly terrified, took a deep breath, tightened the straps of his pack, and started this next trek alone.