46. Hero's Welcome

“Spending an indeterminable amount of time in my chamber, records long recreated, I resigned myself to never leaving. Though my recounting the past made me regret ever bringing Magar into the world, there were countless other mistakes that I had made.

I had failed to save the one goblin with the will and wisdom needed to maintain the Grorginite Empire, and then I had simply stumbled through events answering to one goblin’s will or the other. Even though I thoroughly enjoyed teaching the younglings, it was Tuku that put me up to the task.

Thus it seemed to me that my presence was not only not required, but detrimental. It would be better for everyone if I either stayed here forever or else wandered to the overworld and avoided my kind instead.

Eventually though, a goblin was sent bringing word that Great Chief Tuku had returned and was hosting a great feast. When I declined, the huge goblin arrived himself, squeezing through the narrow tunnel to my chamber, and tried to reason with me.

Failing that, he simply plucked me up from my sleeping mound and carried me like a human baby until I found the method of transport too embarrassing and agreed to walk ahead of him instead.

Eventually, entering to cheers and fanfare, I realized the feast was for me. Great Chief Tuku declared that I was the oldest and wisest shaman in all goblin history, and that I would serve as the Great Shaman, ruling over all over shamans, answering only to Tuku.

I had finally got the respect and adulation I long sought, living in The Small King’s shadow. But I remembered his mute figure staring off at nothing, and felt deep unease. Tuku thought he needed my support, and I would provide it. But first Magar would have to die, and The Small King would need to be placed in safe keeping. I merely needed to convince The Great Chief. Failing that, to act on my own.”

Hjorvarth walked alongside the shriveled kobold known as Rudrun the Old.

He and Dan now wore fine green robes that had been forced upon them by King Rubinold the Fifteenth. The other kobolds with them wore similar robes, trimmed by white fur, of different colour, or they wore sets of rattling armour.

No cloaked pipers had come along, so the figures were a mix of dull metal and bright-if-dusty garments.

They were thirty in all. Two men and twenty-eight kobolds.

Hjorvarth was the largest of the group, by a good margin and as such he had the poorest fitting clothes. The robe fitted him like a long jacket with short sleeves. Still, given his present company, he expected to appear unlike a prisoner escaped from the mines. He only regretted that he didn’t have the other escaped prisoners in his company.

“The pink goblins are master diggers,” Rudrun murmured.

They crossed into the shadows of the stone city’s monolithic walls. Dawn was rising above the scarred plain behind them. The gate lay open to visitors, as it often did, but there were no guards to be seen, no travellers readying themselves for a passage down Ouro’s Scales. No people at all.

Stone streets that lay empty, sturdy homes that appeared as abandoned.

“You are master hiders, as well,” he added. “I am most impressed.”

Hjorvarth answered with a slow nod. The old kobold had come to accept silent replies.

Dan came up alongside them. “Where is everyone?”

“Hiding,” Rudrun answered. He glanced up at Hjorvarth. “Should you not check that you are still king?”

Dan frowned. “King…?”

“I may have been usurped,” Hjorvarth admitted. “But I expect the new king will be eager to make a peace. I will fight to protect you and your people in any case, and I will give word if you are in danger.”

“Oh.” Rudrun’s pink face creased with unease. “I do not mind. I am old. But there are young ones with us.”

Hjorvarth’s frown was grim. He strode forward with his kobold escort through streets where he had once suffered thrown stones and worse, where he had been jeered at and beaten. He saw men and women heading towards Jarl Thrand’s Estate and they each looked at him, and the kobolds, with plain unease or an urge for violence.

He reached a wide street where an ornamental fountain stood untouched between two towering rows of gold-banded structures. Up ahead, where the path winded between squat houses, and ended in the slope that lead up to Jarl Thrand’s Estate, he could see and hear a jostling congregation of fearful and angry folk.

Hjorvarth no longer had faith that he could protect the kobolds on his own so walked by the fountain and up the steps to the home of the Stone Sons. He knocked on the wide stone door and hurt his knuckles. “Hello?” he shouted.

Dan pressed a brass-fitted button on the wall. A bell rang within.

“The pink goblins are innumerable,” Rudrun declared with fear and awe, standing near the fountain with the rest of his kin, most of whom swatted at or drank from the running water. “You were once a mighty king, Hjorvarth the Red.”

The wide doors shuddered, then groaned open.

A middling woman, armed with an axe, armoured in chain, stood to greet them with suspicion. She then noticed the kobolds gathered below, and walked into a nearby corridor. “Where’s Ulfsteinn?” she shouted. “He needs to comes to the door. There’s a huge man out here with a crowd of kobolds.”

Folk laughed in answer, then footfalls sounded out as they made their way to the door. The newcomers wore plain clothes, unarmored and unarmed, and appeared more curious than suspicious. A dark-haired man of middle age kept his gaze towards Hjorvarth. “Have I seen you before, friend?”

“You may have escorted me to the mines some weeks ago.”

“Gods.” The man stepped closer, eyes narrowed in scrutiny. “Isleif’s son? You have lost your hair and your beard.”

Hjorvarth nodded. “Time will recover those for me. I have come here to ask for an escort once more, to protect these kobolds, so that I can arrange a peace between King Rubinold the Fifteenth and the Jarl of Timilir.”

“Jarl’s dead,” the first woman said. “Young Thrand is trying to take control.” She shrugged. “It ain’t going to work. Low King’s coming to the city and the walls will only stall him for so long.”

“What’s the trouble?” a deep voice asked. The others parted to let Ulfsteinn through. He wore only a pair of plain trousers, and scratched at his broad chest. Dark hair covered dozens of scars made by blades, claws, and teeth.

“You helped me once before,” Hjorvarth said. “I would ask for help again.”

Ulfsteinn took a slow breath, regarding the gathered kobolds, and the angry folk gathering on the fringes of his street. “You are your father’s son,” he said, “and I would be glad to help you. But I have accepted coin, from your father, on the promise that I would never aid the kin of Jarl Thrand.”

“You are also sworn to protect those of Timilir.” Hjorvarth shrugged. “I will walk on without you. If I am attacked, then I will strike back. I wish only to assure those with me that a peace has been reached, between the pink goblins and the kobolds. I care nothing for who rules over Timilir.”

“The show would aid Jarl Thrand beyond measure.” Ulfsteinn’s regard was cold. “It might even allow him to muster a force against the Low King. Those lives would be lost without real reason. Your own master has given his life and death to slay Jarl Thrand,” he gravely added. “Do you truly wish to undo his work?”

Hjorvarth flinched. “Gudmund is dead?”

The Stone Sons nodded in unison, then bowed their heads.

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“I would happily shelter the kobolds here until the city changes hands.” Ulfsteinn upturned his weathered palms. “But I can act in no way that would support Young Thrand’s claim.”

“Because you have been paid by the Low King as well?”

“By your father alone,” Ulfsteinn evenly answered. “It is an old oath. But those are the ones that old men should hold to.”

“Your followers are here, King Hjorvarth,” Rudrun announced, now a restless crowd were gathering nearby. “They seem upset with you. Were you a bad king…?”

Dan laughed in a mix of disbelief and exhaustion.

Hjorvarth remained stolid. “This city will be conquered?”

“Yes,” answered Ulfsteinn.

“Young Thrand will be murdered?”

Ulfsteinn nodded. “That is likely enough.”

“And which one of them is the better man?”

The woman laughed. “Young Thrand is hardly a man at all.”

“Youth is no failing,” Ulfsteinn said, “but I have made no judgement. As to the Low King, he is a cruel man. He leads with strength and without hesitation.”

Hjorvarth’s brows furrowed. “So he means to conquer Tymir in entirety?”

“Of that, I cannot be sure.”

“Chief Gudmund hated the Low King, did he not?”

Ulfsteinn’s nod was reluctant. “I expect that he did, yes.”

“Then my path is clear, Ulfsteinn of the Stone Sons.” Hjorvarth bowed, and straightened. “I have come here to make peace and that is what I will do. Young Thrand is the rightful ruler of Timilir.”

“Given that he is bastard born, I would say that Jarl Thrand’s grandson holds an equal, if not greater, claim.” Ulfsteinn’s hard visage seemed to struggle against great emotion. “Should he will it. Then I would support that man and break my oath.”

Hjorvarth nodded in consideration. “And where is this grandson of Thrand?”

“Standing at my doorstep,” Ulfsteinn answered.

Hjorvarth recognized the unearned respect in the gazes of a dozen sturdy fighters. “I see,” he said quietly. “Yet I am not that man and I never will be. And if I were, then I would move to aid my uncle. You have my thanks for hearing my request.” He turned to the wide street, which was now flanked on both sides by waiting crowds. “If I move quickly, they may struggle to find things to throw.”

“That is doubtful,” Ulfsteinn replied.

“That was a joke.”

Hjorvarth bent to one knee to look Rudrun the Old in his small eyes. “We will suffer attacks once we leave this street,” he explained. “I would ask that you and your men leave your spears here.”

“Your words go against one another, Hjorvarth.” Rudrun looked at his worried kin. “If attack is likely then weapons are needed. This is the way. The way of all folk—pink goblins, green goblins, and kobold. It is even the way of the standing lizards, giants, and of the yetis. The merfolk even swim in their oceans with strange spears in hand.”

“It is not my way.”

“Nor is it the way of a golem. But you are both weapons by nature.”

“I will go alone,” Hjorvarth then decided. “I can inform Young Thrand, and have him come here to collect you.”

“I did not refuse you,” Rudrun the Old reminded. He turned to the gathered kobolds. “Release your spears!”

***

“My counsel is this,” Fati said, pacing across the open grounds of Jarl Thrand’s Estate. “Gather what coin and valuables you can. Change your name and your clothes and flee through the tunnels. Go and live in Fenkirk, or in Wymount. Go and live in a place where no one cares to look… or cares at all.”

Young Thrand sat perched on a barrel, his clothes black for mourning. “You would have me give up my home, my honour. You would have me betray my father while his corpse is still warm… and for what? To spare my life?”

“To spare you a stoning,” Fati answered. “To spare you from burning while you’re still living.” He turned and stared in all severity. “To spare your sister the same fate.”

Luta wore white, sitting cross-legged on the dirt. “I do not fear death.”

Ekkill cleared his throat. He sat, rounded legs outstretched, under the shade of storage house. “That is because you will offer your body to anyone that wishes to save you.”

Luta smirked, not bothering to look at him. “Would that your own body could be used for more than worthless meat.”

“I would decide quickly in any case,” Fati pressed, walking over to the closed gate. “I can hear the crowd shouting from here, and they grow ever more restless. You cannot simply convince them of all they have heard. The Low King is on his way. Muradoon unleashed slaughter upon your household. You are cursed by the gods. And unless they destroy you, unseat you—stone and burn you—you will bring that curse upon them.”

Luta chuckled. “It is almost as if you’ve said that before, Fati. To more willing ears.”

“Indeed,” Ekkill murmured. “Why is it, Fati, that you did not hear of the Low King’s coming?”

“Put plainly, I did,” Fati answered. “My wife and child were captured, taken hostage, by the Crooked Teeth. Thank the gods that they were returned to me this morning, that they are now safe, and I can finally tell you the truth. I have been working against your family this entire time.”

Young Thrand pushed to his feet, one hand resting on his sword. “You openly admit to treachery?”

“I admit to caring for my family above your own, yes.” Fati upturned his palms. “I do not fear suffering punishment for it. I have betrayed those I swore to serve and that is a crime I cannot undo. Though I would still try and save my master’s children, who would rather wait for a maddened crowd to break in and take them.”

Ekkill’s damning visage softened. “I am guilty of similar crimes. I feared for my own life and they paid me.”

“So I take counsel with snakes?” Thrand snapped. “How am I supposed to trust a word you say? Why should I not open the gates and watch the lot of you get torn apart?”

“Our loyalties are restored!” Ekkill assured. “And Fati and I will gladly die with you, my Jarl.”

Young Thrand scowled in disgust. “I trusted you both. My father trusted you both.”

“Indeed.” Ekkill’s nod bulged his chin. “Yet had I not took the bribes then the city would have fallen into disarray far sooner, and I would not live to admit to my betrayals. In truth, the names I handed over, of key officials, were largely folk that were too long-lived in their roles to be easily removed. It was if anything a grim convenience.”

“And you Fati?” Thrand demanded. “What good did your betrayal do us?”

Fati shrugged. “I am almost certain we would have fared better without my treachery. Though some blame could be laid to all those too foolish to notice my actions.”

“If we’re admitting to sins,” Luta said, brushing dust from her white dress now she rose, “then I poisoned Jarl Adelsteinn.”

“Oh?” Thrand asked with a sardonic smile. “For any reason, sister?”

Luta squinted at the cloudy sky. “I hated the smell of his breath.”

“Visitors at the gate!” The guard’s announcement brought the four to silence. Then they each turned to the gate. “They bear the shields of the Stone Sons!”

***

Luta made her way up the white stairway first, while the other three followed her onto the wall walk. She gained view of the restless crowd that spread across the slope to their left and of the smaller group now gathered on the clearing beneath them.

A man stood on the raised podium, huge, his hard face determined.

Luta had wondered why the guard had mentioned shields, but now she understood the necessity for distinction. Either the Stone Sons had given their shields to giant rats or the hairless vermin were proficient thieves.

Fati leaned over the parapet, as if in scrutiny, while Ekkill paused to catch his breath.

The guards readied bows atop the walls or marched noisily into position beneath.

“Greetings, Jarl Thrand,” the huge man declared. “I bring with me Rudrun the Old, favored adviser of the kobold monarch, King Rubinold the Fifteenth. He is here to arrange a peace so that the raids on the mines can be ended. So that all the folk who work beneath the earth can once again know safety.”

Luta decided she favored the man by merit of his stolidness.

She smiled but he did not notice.

Young Thrand straightened beside her. “Will those who were taken be returned?”

The huge man paused. “I am sure he will return all those still in his care.”

“And who are you?” Thrand asked. “To stand as a man and speak for the kobold king?”

“I am Hjorvarth of Horvorr. Founder of the Brotherhood of Brikorhaan. Son of Isleif the Bard. Foster son of Brolli the Black,” he added as if that were a mark of pride. “I was tasked, by Gudmund’s own urging, to bring peace to the stone city. The news reaches me that the Jarl of Horvorr has fallen, yet this task must still be fulfilled. Do you not wish peace, Jarl Thrand, when an army approaches your city?

Jarl Thrand scowled at the brute who had murdered his young brother. He wanted nothing more than to decry the man and have him killed for his crimes.

“I would advise you to open the gate,” Ekkill murmured.

“As would I,” Fati echoed. “If only to kill him out of sight.” He waited. “He has been lent the shields of the Stone Sons. He has passed through crowds unscathed. He stands below you by sight but in the hearts of Timilir he is now far above us. He need only denounce you, and that would be the end of you and your family.”

Jarl Thrand took a slow breath, and bitterly sighed. “Jarl Gudmund was ever a considerate man. Come in.” He gestured him forward despite the closed gate. “I would welcome any offer that would better the lives of my city and my people.”