47. A Family of Wolves

“There is a lot talk in Horvorr of an ornate carving that Brolli has put above the doorway of his tavern. With the bad blood between Gudmund and Brolli so widely known, and their family symbol being a wolf, most see it is a veiled declaration of a coming conflict between them. I know myself that the brothers will never come to blows, but I was curious of the third wolf.

‘Grim’ was the answer from Brolli. ‘He made me the man I am, and I dismembered him for it.’

I did not ask for further explanation.”

Sybille woke in a curtained bed. She started to yawn, but pain lanced through her cheeks then faded to a throbbing ache. Her breath quickened now she reached for her face, probing a soggy bandage and the swollen flesh beneath. Her stomach turned with the smell of old blood and pungent herbs as if touch had remembered her of her other senses. The curtains she mistook for her own were sea blue and she only lay on a single pillow that was flattened and stained with stale sweat.

“Hello?” she managed, but her tongue felt fat in her mouth. “Hello!”

Sybille pushed off the white bear fur that covered her, not recognising the bony stomach and scrawny legs as her own. She leaned forward despite her pain, and threw the fur fully through the curtains. Sybille stared at her dark and swollen feet, frowning at several bandaged toes that seemed far too small.

Roaldr murmured from beyond the curtains, yawned, and pushed up from a wooden chair. He walked towards the driftwood desk and the large coral mirror opposite, to stretch his legs, having to duck under the middle rafter of the squat room to pass.

“Hello?” Sybille struggled up from the bed, and stumbled out from the curtains.

Roaldr sidestepped her lunge, but reconsidered quickly enough to steady her before she fell. “Sybille. You—”

“How long have I been sleeping?” Sybille snapped.

“Almost a week,” Roaldr eventually answered. “I did say that you were wounded. It’s by Joyto’s Luck alone that you’re even alive. The healer thought you were touched by the gods. But you’re still in no state to be walking about.” He glanced pointedly to her bare chest, then kept his eyes towards her bandaged face. “Why don’t you lay down while I have food, drink and a bath brought in?”

Sybille scowled up at him. “After I speak with your father.”

“He is busy,” Roaldr dismissed. “We heard what happened from those that were with you. He’s summoned the neighboring villages for an assembly.”

“And this assembly is taking place now?”

“Tomorrow,” Roaldr said. “Which is why he’s busy.”

“Are you married?” Sybille asked.

Roaldr frowned, then shook his head. “Why do you ask?”

“You don’t need to know why I ask the things that I ask.” Sybille narrowed her tired eyes. “Go and fetch your father or I’ll refuse your food and your drink, and your bath. And you can explain to Horvorr how it is I starved to death in your care.”

Roaldr met the words with a pained smile. “So Horvorr stands?” he reasoned. “We thought you might have fled after an attack.”

“Then there is a lot you don’t know,” Sybille answered. “A lot you’re not going to know if I don’t meet with your father.”

“Fine.” Roaldr laughed a quiet laugh. “I’ll bring him to see you sometime today, but I expect you to have eaten and bathed.” He bowed low, and reached the door in a single long stride. “There’s a dress atop the bed.”

Sybille waited for the door to close, then frowned at her youngest brother. “Why did you want me to ask if he’s married?”

Agnar grinned his wolfish grin.

***

Ivar sat perched on a high stool, rolling bones onto the lambskin tables of Brolli’s place. He could only see half of what he was used to, because his bad eye kept throbbing, burning and itching. He didn’t turn at the sound of the door screeching inward, or at the three sets of footsteps.

“You,” demanded a voice edged with skepticism. “You think he’s deaf…? Boy!”

Ivar turned to see Gudmund, wearing a badly stitched fur cloak, his red hair mussed and greasy. “What?”

Ralf stood beside him, chubby cheeks and bulbous nose redder for the weather. Eirik strode over to the dining hall, one finger in the loop of his belt and the other on his axe. Both members of Horvorr’s Guard were clad in mail, worn over padded wool.

Gudmund stared at the man’s swollen face. “What the hells is wrong with your eye?”

Ivar tried to scowl but the pain made him wince. “What do you want, Gudmund?”

“What do I want?” Gudmund asked as if that were a stupid question. “You’re the one sat at my gambling table, playing by yourself… which I actually find a little pointless. Either way, unless you’re going to work for me, you can leave.”

Ivar nodded slightly. “I am short of work. What do you want me to do?”

Ralf leaned close to Gudmund. “He looks half dead.”

Gudmund doubtfully smiled. “Hasn’t stopped me has it?”

“What?” Ivar asked.

“Ralf whispered something to me. Either way, what’s your name?”

“Ivar… I was witness at the trial.”

Gudmund shrugged, grimacing at the pain in his shoulder. “That was a joke, Ivar. Your job is to shadow Ralf, and do everything he tells you to do.”

“So I’m on Horvorr’s Guard, now?” Ivar happily ventured.

“Honorary member,” Ralf said.

Eirik cleared his throat. “There’s just three old men in here, Gudmund. And a fat bartender who’s giving me a black look.”

“I’m just wondering who you are,” answered a low voice from the taproom.

“Is that you, Arnor?” Gudmund walked past Eirik. “I’ve got the deed to this place.” He happily explained. “So looks like you’re working for me now.”

“Work?” Arnor stood a little unsteady behind the counter. He wore the same red shirt and brown apron, thick fingers wrapped around a murky bottle of clear liquor. “Brolli’s dead, Gudmund. Hjorvarth’s gone, and now I hear goblins are coming to kill us all.”

Gudmund chuckled. “You know what kind of men get killed by goblins, Arnor? The men that talk like you’re talking now.” He turned to three old men sat amid empty tables. “Any of you old bastards think you can still swing a sword?”

Odi exchanged skeptical glances with the balding, rotund man opposite, and the shrivelled, almost skeletal man to his left. “Who’re we swinging swords at, exactly?”

“Goblins,” Ralf said.

“Or any men that get in our way,” Eirik added.

The shrivelled man laughed. “We’ve no mind to help you kill the people of this town.”

“Let me be clear,” Gudmund growled. “I haven’t killed any man that didn’t swing at me first. The one man I took pity on, even after he tried to kill me, tried to kill me again the next day. Now I’ve got other bastards going about trying to get a group of men big enough to come and saw through my neck. I’ll kill who I have to kill to survive, and trust me when I say that me still standing is the best bet for all of Horvorr.”

The shrivelled man pursed his lips, and mulled in silence.

“Is it?” Odi asked. “All three of us fought in your conquest, Gudmund. Before Grettir showed up, you lost every battle worth mentioning. If Jarl Thrand hadn’t brought all those men to back you at The Blackwood, then we all would have ended up dead. Even then, it was by Joyto’s Luck alone that we won.”

“You think you could do a better job?” asked Gudmund.

“Aye.” Odi nodded. “As it happens.”

“Good. I need someone to lead Horvorr’s Guard while Grettir’s gone.”

Odi shook his head. “I’ve no interest. I want a quiet life, and that’s all I want.”

Eirik smirked. “I’m not sure how quiet you’ll find it when a goblin’s chewing on your innards.”

“I might as well fight.” The rotund man brushed remnant hair over his scalp. “I’m getting a little tired of growing old.”

The shrivelled man shook his head. “Gods’ sake, Afi. You’re too fat to fight.” He narrowed his sunken eyes. “Fine. Fine.” He looked up at Gudmund. “Let’s sign our lives away to this arrogant fool.”

Gudmund sniffed. “There’s nothing to sign. I’ll pay you if you’re alive, and I’ll burn you if you’re dead.”

Odi pushed up from the table. “So what exactly is it you want us to do?”

“Right now?” Gudmund swept his gaze across the grey-painted walls and mismatched furniture. “Ransack this place and take anything useful back to the barracks.” He turned to Arnor. “Are you useful, or are you staying here?”

Arnor stared hard at his bottle of liquor, then shrugged. “I’ll bring what’s left of the drink and the food.”

Gudmund strode out of the kitchen, and made his way upstairs. He wasn’t sure which room was which, so he started opening doors. He found Isleif’s room first, mammoth wardrobe and well-wrought desk both made of the same black wood, straw mattress still depressed from where someone had slept.

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He stepped under the doorway, deciding by the quality of the furnishing that the old ghost must have lived in here. He thought of the stories he had heard about Isleif the Bard, how the man had found a dwarven treasure horde. Brolli once asked to dig up parts of the town in the hopes of finding the reburied treasure, but Gudmund had laughed at the fool’s notion. Even so, and despite telling himself that his brother would have searched the room a dozen times over, Gudmund made a careful effort of searching the room. He found nothing, beyond a kitchen knife hidden under the straw mattress.

Gudmund sighed in expected disappointment, then opened the storage room opposite, full of broken crates, a few brooms, and a collection of hand brushes. He clambered over the clutter to three ornate chests at the back, knocking over brooms as he went.

He opened two chests, both empty, and smashed the last open with his axe.

Gudmund pulled blankets up and out of it, finding something big and flat wrapped in oilskin, which he lifted onto his lap.

The wrapping came away to reveal the ornate frame of a painting, a painting of their father’s hall. Brolli and Gudmund stood at either side of Grim, taller but faceless, because someone had scratched through the canvas. Their father was little more than scrawled lines as well, but Gudmund recognised the scene and knew that he should have been sat on his throne at the back of the gloomy hall, scowling down at the three young brothers.

Gudmund stared at his young brother’s likeness, how small he used to be, how handsome and harmless he was before Grim stole the light from his eyes, made his heart harden, made him grow big with hate. If ever there was anyone that didn’t deserve what was coming to him, then it was Brolli the Boy.

Teardrops pattered onto the canvas.

Gudmund wiped his eyes, cleared his throat, and carried the painting downstairs.

He reached the main door without anyone bothering him, but turned back when he heard a desperate squeal from under the floorboards. He noticed the black door behind the counter, heavy lock hanging from a rusted bolt.

Gudmund walked back through the kitchen, and followed the counter around until he reached the cellar door. He hacked the bolt with his axe then kicked it open.

Putrid air wafted up to greet him along with timid squealing and squeaking.

Gudmund scowled at the dark cellar. “If someone is down there, then you ought to announce yourself!”

He covered his nose with his fur cloak, and made his way down the creaking stairs. The cellar was an open space, built half as big as the upper floors. It had earth walls supported by wooden braces and dirt floors carpeted by filthy rugs. Most the place had been taken up by crude iron cages, some huge and wide, others stacked four high.

Gudmund caught sight of wretched figures behind the bars. Wild eyes widened now he approached. Some cowered back, others scratched at their cages, whined unintelligibly, and a dozen or more screeched together in chorus. “Food! Food. Food!”

Gudmund felt angry and disgusted by the filth, the smell. He stepped back from thrown excrement, and wanted to burn the place to the ground. But then he considered that people didn’t really believe that goblins were coming to destroy Horvorr.

Maybe he had just found proof.

***

“Sybille.” Geirmund stood stoic in the corner of the small room. “Do you know what you’re going to say?”

Sybille glanced at him, offering no reply. She made best effort to sit still on a stool, while an industrious old woman laced her black dress and a small freckled girl combed through her tangled red hair. She couldn’t tell if her silence bothered Geirmund, because he had appeared in a full helmet and mail armour, but he had always had a habit of asking questions he expected no answer to.

The girl snagged a sore patch of flesh. “Sorry.”

Sybille grimaced. “It’s all right.”

She sat through the rest of the scrapes and tugs in painful silence, paying no mind to the old woman’s complaints of how Sybille was too thin for the dress, but there was nothing to be done for it. She smiled, and nodded, even though when she stood she could barely breathe.

Sybille stared at the fresh covers and stacked pillows of the curtained bed.

“Did you want us to keep you company?” the old woman asked.

Sybille turned, her fanciful dress weighing on her aching shoulders. She could see that the old woman and the young girl were both eager to leave. “Thank you for your offer, but I would like to be alone.”

“Of course.” The old woman bowed. She ushered the freckled girl out, then pulled the door to a close.

“I never knew you could be so quiet, Sybille.” Geirmund drew his sword, tilted his helmeted head as if to look at the blade. “If you keep playing the mute, you’ll have more folk keen to flee your company.”

Sybille frowned at her brother. “I didn’t come here to make friends.”

“That’s exactly why you came here, Sybille. Friends fight for friends. And you need these people to fight.”

“An old woman and a young girl?”

“Fromund’s mother, and his youngest daughter?” Geirmund asked. “Yes, I expect they hold some sway towards the man you’re trying to impress.” He chuckled. “It’s a good thing that his son is taken with you… though perhaps a little worrying that you’re wearing the dress of his dead wife.”

“Roaldr’s?”

“Fromund’s.”

“Oh.” Sybille looked down at the black garment. “Do you—”

The worn door creaked behind her.

Roaldr ambled in, glancing at the corners of the small room. “Were you talking to yourself?”

“I was praying… aloud… to Muradoon. Asking safe passage for my brothers.”

“Oh.” Roaldr bowed in apology. “I shouldn’t have intruded, but I am sorry for your loss. Geirmund was one of the best men that I have ever met.” He itched at his crooked nose. “Agnar was a good man… as well.”

“He hated Agnar,” Geirmund said. “He broke Roaldr’s nose.”

“Did you want me to leave?” Roaldr asked. “My father is on his way, but I can wait outside.”

“It’s fine.” Sybille forced a smile. “I find myself both troubled and distracted.”

Geirmund sheathed his sword. “Do you want me to leave?”

“I see,” Roaldr spoke as if it troubled him. “It doesn’t surprise me. A few of those that came with you have thrown themselves from the sea cliffs.” He shook his head at himself. “I shouldn’t have told you that. I more meant to say that others have taken it worse than you. And that… I don’t truly know what I meant.”

“You’ve changed your clothes,” Sybille said as idle mention. He wore a black jerkin over a deeply yellow shirt, which matched the colour of his wool trousers.

“Yes.” Roaldr looked down at his clothes, and laughed. “One of the few sets that actually fit me. My father is into odd fashions from overseas,” he added as explanation. “He buys me what he might like to wear himself if he were skinnier… or taller, which leaves me looking something of a fool.”

“Does it?” asked a hearty voice from the door. “Well, I’d rather have you look like a fool than a common net mender.”

Fromund himself was dressed in a thick robe, dyed purple and trimmed with smoky fur. He twisted up the ends of his thick mustachio, which met with his tidy beard, both faded to a grey that hinted at blackness. He lacked the height of his son, but made up for it with the girth of his belly.

Roaldr offered a nervous laugh, and dipped his head in respect. “Father.”

Fromund’s smile creased his rounded, ruddy cheeks. “I didn’t know you had business with our guest.”

“I came for the meeting—”

“There’s no need for that,” Fromund happily countered. “Go on and enjoy yourself, boy. Don’t let us keep you.”

Roaldr grew tense, then let his unease go with a sigh. “My thanks… for my being excused.” He bowed to the bandaged, black-dressed woman. “Sybille.”

Geirmund chuckled. “I would caution you not to underestimate this man, sister.”

Fromund closed the door after his son, sighing as he brushed his hands together. “Now where were we? Ah, Sybille.” He beamed. “My name is Fromund. Chief… Fromund of Wymount. I’m not sure if you remember me from when you last visited. But I do remember you, and you’ve grown all the more beautiful since. Even with that bandage.”

“Is it very bad?” Sybille asked.

“No, no. Gods no, not at all. I shouldn’t have even mentioned it.” Fromund offered another broad smile, and ushered her over to the chair by the driftwood desk. He took a platter that had been left on the cupboard near the door, and poured wine from a jug into two cups. He handed one to Sybille, then sat down on the stool in the middle of the room.

Geirmund sighed, still unmoving in the corner. “Could you ask him of Arnora?”

“Is your daughter much saddened by Geirmund’s passing?” Sybille asked.

Fromund frowned in confusion, then began to nod profusely. “Yes. Yes,” he answered. “She knows she is unlikely to ever marry a man as fine as Geirmund now. She did not take well to the news at all, and in truth refused to believe it for a long while.” He swept out his thick arms in apology. “I’m sure that Roaldr made mention, but my whole family, and all the folk of Wymount, were greatly sorrowed to hear that your brother’s had died… and to die as they did.”

“Bravely?” Sybille asked.

“Yes, bravely.” Fromund smiled. “Now… if you’ll permit me to change the subject, I would be eager to hear any knowledge you have of these goblins, and of what is happening in Horvorr.”

“Lie as best you can,” Geirmund suggested. “If he hears the truth, he will laugh.”

“My father sent me here… with Grettir, to warn you of a coming war.” Sybille took a sip of her wine, and barely stomached the sweetness of it. “On our way we were pursued by a goblin clan, led by a creature more monstrous than anything that I had ever seen. Grettir bid me to abandon him, so I might bring this warning to you should he be captured or killed. As I rode away a stone struck me in my head, and I woke in chains, with those that came with me to Wymount…” She felt her own fingernails dig into her palm, so relaxed her grip. “It was a long march.”

Sybille blinked and her blue eyes seemed less bright. “It was a hard march. And many suffered. There was another monstrous goblin—a different one—that led these, and they were odd and had clawed fingers, and would often growl or howl. The one that led them spoke of other clans, and he seemed afeared of them. They spoke of Dalpho, and Balluk.

“Dalpho?” Fromund leaned forward on his stool, his palms pressed into his thick thighs. “You’re sure that was the name?”

Sybille nodded. “Yes.”

“And what warning did your father wish you to bring?”

“Goblins have cut off the Eastern Pass, and have killed any that travel on the Snake Basin Path. They will, or have already attacked Fenkirk. And there are hundreds of them gathered in the forests and mountains north of Horvorr.”

Fromund’s bushy brows furrowed. “Not a warning at all, then. It’s a plea for help.”

“He requests that you assemble an army, yes,” Sybille conceded. “To join his own at Horvorr, and to scour Southwestern Tymir of goblins that aim to destroy us all.”

Fromund stared at her without humour. “And suppose I decide that I have no will or want to risk my folk at some desperate attempt to rout out an army that likely outnumbers us ten to one? That is led by abominations as large and as powerful as the likes of Dalpho. Suppose I decide that there is fishing enough for me and mine behind our wall? What would you say to that, girl?”

Sybille smiled sweetly. “That perhaps you should take the title of coward rather than Jarl.” She swallowed her anger. “That abominations as large and as powerful as Dalpho can hurl boulders into your seashell wall. That they like to eat fish just as much as you and yours, and that they’ll be more than happy to take the boats and gear that they’re too clumsy to make themselves. That an attempt to win back our land is made less desperate while Horvorr and Fenkirk are still standing.”

“Your father also had a talent for turning words,” Fromund recalled, matching her smile. “I can only hope he has as much luck turning away the goblins from his walls.” The purple-robed man pushed up from his chair. “Thank you for your warning, and the information, Sybille. I bid you stay here stay for as long as you like… though I’m afraid I won’t be able to arrange an escort for your return home.”

Sybille met the words with a cold stare. “Here I thought you would show more courage when it came to defending a town soon to be inherited by your son.”

Fromund sniffed. “I will defend Wymount to my last breath, as will Roaldr.”

“I had meant Horvorr,” Sybille said. “It would be an easy matter for him to marry would it not? And as you might have heard my own betrothed had his head broken on cobblestones… which leaves me open to engagement. My father has no love at all left for Timilir or Jarl Thrand. Could the other regions really question it if Gudmund threw off Timilir’s stewardship? When by all accounts Jarl Thrand lifted not a finger to protect us when it came to war.”

Fromund sat back down, twisting one end of his great grey mustachio. “In what world would Gudmund of Horvorr support me for Jarlship?”

“He wouldn’t.” Sybille laughed. “He would support himself. But my father is not a young man, or a well loved man, or even a friendly one. Should any of his many enemies come for him, then his title would fall to me, or to my husband.”

“A fine offer,” Fromund mused. “I only fear for the trouble I would have collecting your bride price from goblin hands.”

“Consider the offer then,” Sybille suggested. “Beyond that, I wish to address your assembly tomorrow.”

Fromund huffed as he got to his feet. “And what will you offer me for that?”

“Nothing at all.” Sybille met his sly eyes with a baleful scowl. “It is simply a thing that is owed. Do not think me any softer than my uncle or my father when it comes to dealing with men who are not good for their debts.”

“I think black quite suits you, Sybille.” Fromund chuckled, and turned away from her. “I’ll send summons in the morning.”