46. Gaining Ground

“Gahr’rul’s hordes have pushed us so far back that we can now visit Timilir. I did not have the heart to leave Brolli alone in that camp, or risk him getting lost in a city of taverns and brothels.

I will admit that I was worried to introduce him to Sibbe, but he was as well-mannered and well-spoken as I had ever seen him.

Hjorvarth had pressed him and pressed him with questions of the war. I was not sure whether it saddened or humoured me to watch Brolli’s vain efforts at convincing a young boy that not all goblins are monsters. To Hjorvarth’s credit, he took no issue with believing that we kept company with terrible men.”

Hjorvarth ran through the snow, legs heavy, lungs raw, face aching.

He had ran to exhaustion hours ago, when the snow first started to fall, but carried forward all the same. He was both freezing and sweltering and could barely see within the enveloping snowstorm.

He slowed to a trudging stride, bending down to scoop up knee-high snow. He chewed the cold crystals now he carried forward through the grey haze.

Hjorvarth could hear his own breathing through the screeching wind and was reminded of bellows. He was trying not to think though, not on the forges he had visited, because that reminded him of Linden and Anna, and of an old life before his mother had died. It made him think of the offer that Anna had made after his mother had passed, how she had wanted to adopt him for fear that Sam was too busy with his own family.

But Sam had already been sworn to the duty, had been given a tavern, and had not the heart to betray a man that he thought was dead. Sam had held to his oath, for a while at least, before he kicked out Hjorvarth and Isleif both.

Hjorvarth would never break an oath, not willingly.

He had sworn to protect his father, and this journey was just a part of that. Distance of no consequence. Risk of no consequence. Pain of no consequence. All that mattered was that he kept his word, that he kept forward, that he didn’t stop until he had reached the place or until he was dead. ‘Run until your dead,’ Hjorvarth thought to himself, swallowing the last remnants of snow, running forward even as he came onto a sloping mountainside and the footing beneath him began to slide. ‘Run until your dead.’

This was no difficult than any other promise. No difficult than recalling every drunken outburst of Isleif, despite his wife’s ailing health. No difficult than watching the man becoming obsessed and bringing his family to ruin, only for Hjorvarth to have to swear an oath to his mother to look after his father. How easy that promise had seemed to keep when Isleif disappeared on his expedition. But then he had come back, a shadow of the man that he was, but no less an angry drunk.

“Run,” Hjorvarth muttered to himself, his beard frozen with the cold, his lips shaking and aching with it, along with the chatter of his teeth.

He pulled his grey cloaks tighter. He would run forever if he had to, until the end of the world or until the world ended him.

He would keep the promise to his mother, protect the father that had gone from inspiring so much hatred in him, to inspiring only sorrow and desperation. It would have been easier to keep on hating him, to do it purely for his word, but you can only see a man suffer so much before you to began to worry for him.

Hjorvarth had been tempted when Brolli made that offer to kill him in his sleep, but remembered then the promise he had made his mother, and kept to his word, because Hjorvarth had often been a man with nothing at all save for his size and his word.

Odd how that had changed, to go from willing a man dead to wanting nothing more than to save him, wanting nothing more than to see him safely to the end of a life riddled with misery and despair.

He could never accept letting Isleif fall to the goblins, to a death of fear and pain, smelling smoke and hearing screams. And that would be the way for every person in Horvorr as well, women and children who had never wronged Hjorvarth. An end for the men who had took issue with his quick temper, who had judged him for keeping company with a man like Brolli, as if Hjorvarth had ever really had a choice.

That was a deal signed and sealed before he ever had reason to question what kind of man Brolli was. And it was Isleif that had agreed to have Brolli shelter him, so what else could Hjorvarth do but work for him. And how could he have known that it would go from sweeping floors to smuggling goods. Or that a man as foolish and meek as Ivar would take to stabbing a man in the throat.

Hjorvarth gritted his teeth, and charged forward through the snow now the ground grew more level. He clenched his fists both for heat and in anger. He had told Ivar that he would take the blame, that they were caught. And then worst was that Ivar smiled as if he had done Hjorvarth a favour, as if he had wanted or hoped that a man would bleed out into the snow just so that Hjorvarth could avoid a life in the mines.

‘That would be warm,’ Hjorvarth thought. ‘Warmer than this.’

He pictured hard stones at his aching back and heard the metallic ring of pick axes, but there was something odd to the thought, a realness to it that didn’t fit.

He had never been in a mine, didn’t know the mix of stone, sweat and coal. He didn’t know the tang of burning metal as it struck off the rocks. He did recognise the man across from him, was almost sure that it was Sam’s son, but he looked years older, smeared in brown and black, gaunt and desperate.

Hjorvarth wolfed a breath, and stumbled forward.

He had to squint for the brightness of the sun, ice and snow.

“Run until you’re dead,” Hjorvarth muttered, despite thinking the sudden change in weather odd. He carried on as he had, making a greater effort not to think. He ran to an exhaustion that made him shorten his mantra. “Run.” He trudged until there were no words to urge him, only a half-focused stare and the drudging swing of aching limbs. He strode driven by an unspoken thought of refusal to stop, to give in, to break his word.

Hjorvarth barely had any wits about him when he finally slowed. He had caught sight of something both distinct and indistinct.

A guttural roar shook the air, showering him in spittle.

Hjorvarth turned to see huge jaws snap closed ahead of his nose.

The white bear growled, swiping forward with large paws, only to stagger and whimper when iron rattled. It reared back into a snowy recess of small hills, where a pair of rusted teeth trapped a bleeding hind-leg.

A dozen goblins scrambled up and down those hills, filthy green stark against pristine white, closing on the heaving beast with crude spears.

Hjorvarth watched like a drunken man. He had managed to get a grip on an axe.

The goblins jeered and the animal roared in pain, swiping out at those that got too close, nearly tearing a wiry body in half.

The bear staggered back and more blood ran from the trapped leg. It tried to savage the attackers, by turning and swiping and biting, but the goblins would only leap back, while their green kin were thrusting and slashing with their crude spears.

Hjorvarth forced himself forward despite the weight of exhaustion.

He hacked down a goblin that paid him no mind, then cleaved through another when it turned to run. A pair fought back, but they had no heart for the fight. One ran and one died. Hjorvarth then hurled an axe at a hunched goblin that stood atop a hill, causing those surviving to screech and flee. He made his way past the bewildered bear to retrieve the axe. When he came back down the hill, the animal appeared a little calmer, but still snarled in pain and struggled against the metal teeth.

The white bear’s dark eyes found him. A low growl was offered in warning.

Hjorvarth searched the snowy hills for any remaining goblins. He saw none, so stepped forward, but the bear reared up as if to attack. “Do you want me to free you?” he croaked. The bear seemed to relax, moving not at all now he approached. Hjorvarth knelt behind it, wary of the beast’s muscle and weight. He thought the trap had been set under the snow and nailed into the stone, so slipped his runic axe from his belt, and tried to smash the hinges that bound the metal teeth.

The bear lurched towards him, forcing out a vehement roar.

“Apologies,” Hjorvarth murmured, uneasy with the rancid smell of its warm breath. He covered his fingers in the folds of his cloak, placed his hands at each set of metal teeth, then pulled it apart while the bear snarled in his ear, poised to bite off his head.

Iron creaked and the teeth pulled free with a wet tear of flesh.

The bear took a furtive step, bounded forward, then sat down to lick at bloodied fur.

It thundered towards Hjorvarth, stopped short to snatch up a goblin, then bounded away again until it drew fully out of view.

“Well,” mentioned a sharp voice, “I really wasn’t expecting to see you again.” Dagny stood on the hill to his left, clad in furs and leather. She nocked an arrow, and drew her bowstring to her cheek.

Hjorvarth had reached for a throwing axe. “I want no trouble.”

“No?” Dagny’s smile made her lean face seem predatory. “Then what would you call trying to hug a snow bear?”

“Dagny? Who are you talking to?” Bjorn crested the rise beside her. He wore a loose black shirt that matched the colour of his short hair and beard. “Hjorvarth…?”

“I want no trouble,” Hjorvarth repeated. “I have to rally the mining villages. Leave me be, and I’ll be on my way.”

“After what you did?” Dagny asked. “You think we’ll just let you walk on by?”

Hjorvarth met the words with a dark stare. “I would be the one letting you walk by.”

“Hjorvarth.” Bjorn had lifted his bow from his shoulder. “Perhaps you could fight your way clear of this, killing one of us or both of us. But I have to question whether it would be worth it. To suffer the wounds you would suffer, both to your flesh and honour. What good is a man that would butcher two people to get where he is going? What right does he have to the life that so he clings to?”

“What right do you have to delay me?” Hjorvarth rebuked.

“You are on our land,” Dagny snapped.

“Truly?” Hjorvarth smiled, flooded with relief that weakened him. “I had thought myself lost in the snow.”

A chill crept up his back now he had spoken his father’s words. The axe slipped from grip and his view of white hills shifted to puddled blood.

***

Engli considered leaving his pack for the fifth time as he made his way down the mountainous slope and onto the sparse greenery of the winter forest ahead. It was an odd mismatch of grouped spruces with snow on their leaves and firs towering above the naked and mismatched array of deciduous trees. Moss covered most the forest floor, sparing hoarfrost patches of earth. Broken trunks and protruding roots made for hazardous footing, along with the natural unevenness of the earth itself. He tossed the sack into the closest thicket of bushes, and slung his floral-wrought shield over his back.

No sooner than that did a stone strike him, sounding out with a metal din now the blond man staggered forward.

Engli turned, but his boot had dipped under a root. He twisted his foot and collapsed back into the leafy bushes. He scrabbled to pull his leg free, losing his boot, then rolled up off his back, while the squealing and jeering of goblins grew closer.

A fat goblin wound up for another throw in the distance.

Engli made a desperate attempt to guard his face with the flat of his floral-wrought axe. The stone struck him square in the nose, bouncing off the metal guard of his helm, sending him reeling all the same.

Engli managed to catch himself on a mossy tree trunk, then pushed off and lashed out with his axe, carving through the shoulder of a rushing goblin.

Stones struck him in the chest but his armour softened the impact.

Engli stepped forward now a dozen goblins grew close, most with faces like wolves, some only skin and bone, others grown plump and fat. He managed to get his shield off his back before the lot of them began a growling charge. He swept out with weak blows, missing each swing. He got pushed back towards the tree trunk, but dived through the thicket of bushes instead, almost tripping up on his own sack of weapons. He stumbled out from the greenery and into another clearing. He caught the swing of a heavy branch with his shield, then shifted his weight to cleave off the chubby arm of the wielder.

The goblin hissed, and staggered back.

Engli charged forward, and cleaved through its skull.

Engli hacked another through the throat when it gave chase around the tree, then he ran back for a third that blundered out of the bush. Engli offered contest to a lean goblin with a wooden spear, but the goblin ran when he cut through the wooden shaft.

Engli laughed his relief. He groaned with the ache of pulled muscles and bruised flesh.

“I challenge you,” declared a snarling voice from above. Engli froze. Spittle splashed against his neck. “Do you hear me, shining one?”

Engli turned slowly, his eyes level with hugely muscular hips. He looked up to see the ugly, wolfish head of a sharp-toothed goblin.

“Well?” Ragalak Snakesinger asked. “Do you accept?”

Engli clenched his teeth, and swung his axe at the goblin’s knee.

Ragalak leapt clear of the swing. He glared down in wide-eyed disgust. “Coward!”

Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

He stepped forward and smashed his heel into Engli’s shield, sending him sprawling onto his back with a reverberation of metal.

A bow thrummed distantly and an arrow sunk into Ragalak’s shoulder. He snarled at the loosing of another arrow, which ended in a snap of wood. “Cowards!”

“Get up off your back, Engli!” a young man called, almost as if amused.

Ragalak charged forward before Engli got to his knees, stomping down on the blond man’s green shield.

Engli held his footing but sank into the mossy earth. Stuck fast, he hurled his axe into the goblin’s chest instead.

Ragalak smashed his heel once more into the shield, forcing the man onto his back.

The Great Chief staggered now an arrow struck him in the neck. He turned to the sound of nervous laughter, and strode forwards.

Engli made a desperate swing with his spare axe, hacking at the goblin’s legs. Ragalak snarled, and kicked the man in his conical helm.

A fourth arrow whistled from the trees, grazing the goblin’s shoulder, followed by the whispered cursing of a man.

Ragalak ran towards the sound, but a thrown axe hit his hips, so he staggered.

He turned back to see the armoured man standing, removing his shield. He roared his fury and charged back to kill the coward, who then tried to throw his shiny shield.

Ragalak laughed when the shield buried into the earth, and he leapt forward—only for his heel to slide on the surface of the sunken shield.

Engli smiled in disbelief when the goblin’s head crashed onto a mossy log and a jagged rock. He rushed forward and stomped down, causing bone to crunch into stone.

Ragalak drove the manling from his feet with a desperate swipe.

He wanted to snarl in outrage but there was too much pain in his swollen face. He scowled down at the ruin of his own jaw, and staggered over to the manling that had broken it. Ragalak faltered as something struck his head. He groped at his skull, cutting himself on sharpness. He tried to turn to the trees, but night had grown suddenly close.

He spat blood into the darkness, and collapsed atop the manling.

“Are you still alive, Engli?” asked a curious voice.

Engli struggled for breath under the corpse, but managed to shuffle free from under a heavy arm. “Who are you?” Gunnar sauntered up to him, his bow now slung over a shoulder. He wore clothes made of fur, making him seem a tawny man, save for a black feather that topped his cap. Engli recognised the man’s easy grace. “Agnar?”

Gunnar shook his head, smiling in skepticism. “No, Engli.”

“Gunnar’s son.” Engli crawled backwards, and struggled to his feet.

“Don’t you mean Jorund’s son? Or just Gunnar?” Gunnar chuckled. “It’s a wonder that goblin crept up on you if you’re as skittish as this. What did I ever do to you to make you so afraid? Other than save you from being eaten, I mean.”

Engli’s eyes widened in horror. “Your family meant to eat us?”

“What?” Gunnar laughed in bemusement. “Oh… no. The goblin would have eaten you. My family are just… odd.” He raised a hand to shadow his roguish face, then studied the mismatched surround of moss, grass, bushes and trees. “I don’t know about you,” he said, “but there seem to be a lot more goblins about than usual. And that’s the first time I’ve seen a Great Chief walking about on his own in the forest… or anywhere, really.” He frowned. “Are you going to say something? Or did that kick to the head addle your wits?”

Engli narrowed his eyes. “Why are you here?”

“Now there’s a question.” Gunnar sighed, rubbing at his smooth jaw. “I suppose I was just tired of it, Engli. And that business we had back at the Hill, well—” He shrugged. “I was tired of Dagny and tired of Jorund taking her side. More than anything, I was tired of just living with a bunch of odd bastards. It’s not that I don’t like them. I love them… except for Dagny. It’s more that I thought I’d strike out and become one of the regular folk. Make my own home and live in a place with those who believe in gods that actually share their likeness, rather than live in a stone house praying to an odd goblin.” He took a sharp breath. “I like the forest air… other than the smell of this corpse.” He kicked the dead goblin. “Ragalak Snakesinger, I think. So… does that suit?”

Engli decided to nod. “I have to go the hunting villages, and gather men to break the siege at Fenkirk.”

“Fenkirk is under siege?”

“Yes. Unless they’re all already dead.”

“Hm.” Gunnar scratched under his cap. “I know a village a few miles back that had people living in it where I passed. Do you want me to take you there, and see—”

“Is this another trick?”

“No tricks, Engli.” Gunnar clapped him on the shoulder. “I swear it by the Triumvirate Ancients. By Lozrig, and Kragor, and Mubarrak. I swear it by the Eleven Elders as well, if that suits you… though I’m not sure on all the names.” He glanced up at bare branches. “Hreath the Plowhand. Brikorhaan the Shield Brother.” He raised his hand to halt an interruption. “Give me a chance, won’t you? Muradoon Spirit Talker. Eluna the Seamstress. The Fisherman, no… The Helmsman! Tomok, Tomlok! Hah.” He frowned. “How many is that?”

“It’s enough,” Engli said.

“Good.” Gunnar grinned. He swept his hands towards the forest. “Right this way, Engli.”

“I have to fetch my weapons,” Engli said.

“Oh, right. Bruma Stormcaller… for another name, I mean. I really should know these. Jorund had us learn all of your gods by rote, in case anyone ever called us out for being goblin worshipers. What’s the one for the Midwife?”

“Ilma,” Engli said, wrenching an axe from the goblin. “Are you going to help me?”

“Ilma.” Gunnar nodded. “Are you planning on carrying more than two axes?”

“No. But there’s a sack of weapons in those bushes over there.”

“And now you’re lying like Joyto the Trickster, even though I saved you with my arrows like Laykia the Huntress.”

“It’s no lie.” Engli brandished the floral-wrought axe. “It’s full of weapons like these.”

Gunnar raised his brows in suspicion, and ambled over to the thicket of bushes. “Did I get to eleven?”

“Does it matter?” Engli levered his shield up from the mud. “Have you found it?”

“Yes!” answered a shout from the bushes. “It’s quite heavy.” Gunnar wandered out from the greenery, making a jangle of metal as he dragged the sack. “I think I’m only at ten… if only Broknar the Elder could bring me wisdom and—”

“Can you carry that?” Engli asked.

“I don’t really want to,” Gunnar said. “I could have a look through and carry whatever weapons take my fancy?”

Engli nodded his assent. “Do you really worship goblins?”

Gunnar untied the sack before shaking his head. “I don’t, but Jorund does… in his own way. Astrid is quite committed. Does it bother you?” he asked. “Jorund thought it would get us killed if we mentioned it, but then you look like a harmless sort.”

Engli glared. “Is that why you tied me up?”

Gunnar laughed. “If you recall, I wasn’t actually present for that. I went to change my clothes, and when I got back you were already bound. Let’s not forget I drew my bow on Dagny when she aimed hers at you.”

“True,” Engli admitted. “And you’re really going to take me to a village full of people?”

“Full of people?” Gunnar shook his head. “By Mubarrak, no!” he cursed with false severity, then smiled. “It’s a hunting village, Engli. But there might be a couple dozen people… if you’re lucky, and if you’re counting children.”

“And you’re going to help me save Fenkirk?”

Gunnar picked out a curved sword, and a long serrated knife. “Risk my life for people I don’t know?” He belted the weapons, and refastened the pack. “I’m not too enthused with that idea.”

“You’d rather live a coward?”

“Live a coward?” He smirked. “I thought I left Bjorn behind with the rest of them, but here you are speaking his words for him.” He sighed. “What do I get for dying in battle… other than pain, I mean, and a misplaced sense of honour. What does your Brikorhaan give me, exactly? And what’s this business with the Lady’s Shadow?”

Engli waited for the man to laugh. “Well… if you die with courage then Brikorhaan takes you in his company, and then you get to fight in the Final Battle.”

“In Ouro’s Belly?” Gunnar asked.

“Yes.”

“And if I die a coward, or if I happen to lose bravely and goblins come and chomp on my bones?”

Engli smiled in discomfit. “Then you would go to the Lady’s Shadow.”

“In Ouro’s Belly?” Gunnar pitched his question the same.

“Yes, but with Brikorhaan you’re with the other warriors in the firelight. If you go to the Lady’s Shadow then you’re on the other side of Ouro’s belly in the darkness… along with all the Lady’s creatures. And the spirits and the demons.”

Gunnar chuckled, shaking his head. “So I have a choice between being tortured during an eternal battle, or charging forward innumerable times to get hacked to pieces, or worse, during that same battle?”

“Eventually we would win,” Engli argued. “Fighting at Brikorhaan’s side is the greatest honour.”

Gunnar nodded as if unconvinced. “I’ll fight with you, but let’s agree that I can leave if you die before me. And if I die before you then I want you to drag my body away from the goblins, and away from the flames, and just leave me in a cave. That way I can live out my eternity as a ghost.” He smiled. “How does that sound?”

“How does it sound?” Engli thought that sounded odd, but saw no need to mention it. “Like a song from Frold himself.”

***

Hjorvarth woke to a view of ocher darkness. He reached for his axe, but found his hand wrapped in a rough blanket.

“Hjorvarth.” A cold hand brushed his shoulder. “You’re awake.”

He rolled over to a raven woman in a white dress. “Astrid?”

“Bjorn found you.” Astrid smiled, her pale face and dark eyes eerie in the candlelight. “They said you got lost in the snow.”

“No.” Hjorvarth shook his head. “I was running.” He struggled up from the bed. “I have to leave.”

“You can’t.” Astrid sat straighter on her stone stool. “Not until Jorund speaks to you… he’s still got quite a sore throat from you throttling him.”

“I have to leave,” Hjorvarth repeated, more as a warning.

“Or what?” Astrid asked. “You’ll take me hostage like your friend did?”

Hjorvarth scowled. “The Sage is no friend of mine.”

“So you were right not to trust him, then?”

“As if my mistrust did me any good,” Hjorvarth muttered. He clambered out of the stone bed, searching the gloom for his clothes. “Where are my things?”

“Elsewhere.” Astrid rose to her feet and smoothed out her dress. “I can take you to them, but I’m worried that you might try to leave. And you can’t leave—”

Hjorvarth stepped close. “And how did your family fare the last time they tried to hold me against my will?”

Astrid laughed a small laugh. “I meant more that if you leave you’ll die from exposure, you silly man. Leave, by all means, leave.” She tapped at her own nose, and smiled. “So long as you don’t get lost in the snow. Though by the look of you, you might need a snow bath after all.”

Hjorvarth’s gaze grew grim. “Where did you hear those words?”

Astrid answered with a hapless shrug. “Edda tells me to say them. Are they bad words for you to hear?”

Hjorvarth searched the dark space for a door, but found none, despite his efforts at pushing the stone walls down.

“I would let you out,” Astrid said, “but Jorund told me to wait. Well, rather he said not to let you out. He wasn’t too enthusiastic about me coming in here to begin with, but I told him that Edda—”

“Enough of your Edda!” Hjorvarth snapped. “There are no ghosts in this world. Only men and women, and men that make ghosts, and those that become them. I know not why you have took me,” he made an effort to calm his voice, “but if you do not let me go, then people I know are going to suffer for it. I care not at all that your father attacked me and I hurt him for it. And if it comes to it, Astrid, I will—”

Astrid raised a finger to stop him. “Ah.”

Hjorvarth frowned. “What does—”

“Ah!”

“This does my temper no good at all.”

“You were about to lie.” Astrid smiled. “And Hjorvarth—”

“—doesn’t lie,” Hjorvarth finished. “Impressive that you know words spoken out of your hearing. And I would not take you hostage, true enough that was—”

“—a fool’s bluff?” Astrid grinned before dipping her head in respect. “Do go on.”

“I am asking you as a favour,” Hjorvarth all but pleaded. “Let me go. I cannot waste any more time here. The gods know how much I have already spent sleeping.” He stared in severity. “If I had you trapped, do you think I would stand idly by while your family were at risk of death? Do you think I would play games and make fun of you, despite your need to leave and save them?”

“Of course you wouldn’t, Hjorvarth.” Astrid let out a long sigh. “But I know that once you leave this room, Bjorn is going to die.”

Hjorvarth knelt before her. “I swear by all the gods that your brother will come to no harm by my hand.”

Astrid smiled at the huge man, how bruised and wounded and sorrowed he seemed in the candlelight. “It is never by your hand.”

She turned away from him, walked to the wall, then brushed her palms against the stone, pushing on a brick so that it clicked. Mechanisms chattered together and the wall groaned inward to reveal a lantern-lit corridor.

“Astrid?” asked a deep shout.

“Astrid!” echoed another, shrill and desperate.

Hjorvarth frowned. “I thought Jorund knew you were here?”

“Jorund did tell me to wait,” Astrid assured. “And not to let you out. He just said that in a different room.”

She ambled into the corridor, brushing her fingers against the narrow walls, her white dress sweeping against stone.

Hjorvarth followed. “Which way is the way out?”

“I’m here!” Astrid shouted. “I found myself!”

“Astrid?” a deep voice called back. “Where are you?”

“Here!” Astrid answered. “Here!”

“Can you move aside so I can run?” Hjorvarth asked.

Astrid glanced back. “If I wanted you to run I would have let you go first.”

“So I should push you aside?”

Astrid shook her head. “I wouldn’t like that at all.”

Hjorvarth grumbled to himself and scooped her up into his arms.

She gave a surprised yelp then laughed.

He ran down the corridor until it opened out into an expansive room with a low roof.

Bjorn stood waiting at the other end, wearing a plain shirt, woven thin enough to show the tenseness in his broad, well-knit frame. “Put her down, Hjorvarth!”

Hjorvarth lowered her so that she could stand.

“Are you hurt?” Bjorn asked his sister.

“I don’t believe so,” she answered.

Hjorvarth strode forward. “Your sister is the one who took me,” he rebuked. “And I might take issue with that if it were any different to what you did. You were looking down on me in the mountains, and I wake up here with no knowledge to how I arrived. Is this all your family is about, Bjorn? Taking people against their will? Boxing them up in the stone and then having the nerve to lay accusations against them?”

Bjorn’s black brows furrowed. “We brought you here to—”

“I have had enough!” Hjorvarth shouted. “Take me to my things, and I will be on my way. I have no business with your family. I want no business with your family. I want only to leave here with gear to travel so that—”

“You can rally the mining villages in aid of Horvorr?” Bjorn asked.

Astrid guffawed as she ambled into another corridor.

Bjorn frowned at his sister then at the half-dressed man. “Hjorvarth.” He stared back with wide, frustrated eyes. “I told Jorund what you told me before you gave in to weariness… and I went with Dagny to the nearby villages. Stonefell to the North has been razed, and their mine has been collapsed. Our guess is that they brought it down themselves. There didn’t seem to be enough bodies among the snow, even accounting for those that would be fully eaten.”

Hjorvarth sobered at the words. “Did you go South?”

Bjorn nodded. “Ilmkleif was untouched, but we went there first, so we didn’t do anymore than take a quick look.” He rubbed at his black beard. “Jorund is leaving with Dagny at noon. We’re going to ask if any of the villagers will accompany us to the North, so that we can open the mine and look for any survivors. Now I know you spoke of wanting no business with my family, but—”

“I misspoke,” Hjorvarth interjected. “I’m coming with you.”