47. Fateful

“Once the feasting was done, I had intended to speak with Great Chief Tuku to let him know of my desire to stop Magar. But Tuku was the first to tell me that he intended to return to the village to decide whether or not to help the young shaman or whether it would be better to kill collapse the new spawning cavern.

I told Tuku of the huge sack that had been birthed and of all the others that had been split to encourage it to grow. By my estimation, it would birth a goblin that made even Tuku appear small. It was hard to tell whether this worried or pleased the Great Chief, but he was insistent that be leave as soon as we were able.

To my surprise, he wished to travel alone, and left charge of his domain to a trusted Chief. ‘We should be careful, Izzig,’ he warned as we travelled. ‘Zalak underestimated Magar and now he is dead. I do not wish to make the same mistake.’

‘Then why didn’t you kill him sooner?’ I asked.

‘For Tugu,’ he explained, speaking of his dead twin, rumbling words weighed with regret. ‘He told me he could bring him back. That he could raise up a goblin god who could reshape the world just by thinking.’

‘Then why would you kill him now?’

‘You,’ Tugu eventually answered. ‘I saw you with The Small King. Desperate to bring him back. And I realized that some things are already done. Cannot be undone. No matter if we would will it. Together we can make our own world. We do not need Magar or a god. We may never rival The Small King, but we can at least make a world worth living in for our kin.’”

Chains rattled and metal groaned until the gate thundered to a close.

Hjorvarth stood unmoving while the ground shook beneath his feet.

He was surrounded on all sides by armoured kobolds that struggled to carry heavy shields. Jarl Thrand’s Estate seemed abandoned, nothing beyond that initial scene of guards and advisers. He had looked upon all of his enemies already, and now they moved around him, spears gripped, on all sides.

The kobolds squeaked as if they lamented the loss of their own weapons.

“To be clear,” Hjorvarth said, “I would consider any attack a breaking of trust. I can, and will, kill every single one of you if you attempt to attack me or those I am sworn to escort and protect.” He paused as the guards marched closer, as bows were drawn. “And if I do not manage it in the waking life… I swear by Muradoon that I will rise again and finish what Gudmund of Horvorr started.”

Jarl Thrand met the threat with an angry smile. “Are you quite done?”

He was a young man, handsome, broader than his dead brother. He waved the guards back, allowing a clear view of an overly fat man in a blue-and-gold robe, a lean killer in brown clothes, and a lovely woman in a white dust-spotted dress.

“In honest truth, I am tired,” answered Hjorvarth. “I only wish not to be murdered before I arrange this peace.”

“You share a trait with my brother, then.” Jarl Thrand’s mirth grew bitter. “He did not wish to die, either.”

“Which one of you is king here?” Rudrun the Old asked quite quizzically. “Why do the shining goblins ready weapons?”

“You must trust me a while longer, friend.” Hjorvarth glanced down at the withered kobold. He looked up in all severity. “If you have a question, Jarl Thrand, regarding your brother or ought else then ask it. Because I know of no words that I can offer in answer. I did kill your brother, and there can be no denying the fact.”

Jarl Thrand pursed his lips. “Do you even regret his death?”

“His death, of course. But he tried to stab Geirmund in the back. And I had to act. And I do not regret that.”

“And why should I not kill you where you stand? Kill these wretched rats and have done with it? Die, or flee, in the knowledge that I have avenged my brother?”

Hjorvarth shrugged. “Those are questions that a man must ask of himself.”

Jarl Thrand held his steady gaze then looked to his advisers. “Well…?”

“He has come here to help us,” Luta answered for them. “What else is there to consider?”

“There is much to consider,” Hjorvarth argued. “As there often is.” He glanced to his hairless companions. “It may be, Rudrun, that this man is unseated soon enough. I will endeavor to prevent that, but should he fall you would do well to try and negotiate with whoever kills me.”

“I will kill the goblin that kills you,” Rudrun assured, baring his sharp teeth.

“Prevent it?” Thrand asked. “Will you slay the Low King’s army on your own? Or do you have your own force of kobolds lying in wait?” He upturned his palms. “Or are you simply an arrogant fool?”

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“Prevent it,” Hjorvarth echoed. “No. None more than you see here. Perhaps.”

“You treat this as a joke.”

“No.” Hjorvarth’s brows furrowed. “Though I question the worth of the world when a man’s honest answers are treated with hostility or suspicion. Do not ask questions if you do not want the answers.” He paused. “In my mind I entertain the possibility that the Low King will arrive outside closed gates and be open to a duel.”

“I see.” Jarl Thrand nodded. “And you think that I would have you duel on my behalf?”

“This may be foolish arrogance,” Hjorvarth replied, “but I would be surprised if I was not the best choice available to you, particularly with so many already being dead, and so few willing to stand on your behalf. The Stone Sons have also refused to help. And there is little time to call any heroes down from Vendrick.”

Luta’s laugh was soft. “You are a bold man.”

“I would not deny it.” Hjorvarth nodded. “I suffered burns that took away most of my hair.”

Luta smiled in confusion. “I had meant—”

“I know,” Hjorvarth replied without inflection. He regarded Fati and Ekkill in turn. “Your thoughts?”

Ekkill had spent his silence thinking on the shield that Gudmund had given him. A shield that had saved one of the leaders of the stone city, a shield that belonged to Hjorvarth. “I believe he is gods-sent to protect us.”

Fati’s laugh was almost raucous. “I didn’t know you had so much faith, old friend. I would say that this man is, as he says, an arrogant fool. But if I needed a man to duel on my behalf then I’d be more than happy with him.”

Jarl Thrand sighed, standing among a company of fools enamored by a murdering brute. “You came here in good faith, Hjorvarth. That much I will accept. And I would gladly arrange a peace between your friends here and the stone city,” he added, shedding his pride. “But I fear that I will not be around to ensure any arrangements made.”

“I have no fear of that, Jarl Thrand,” Hjorvarth replied. “Because I will die before that happens and I know I will live a long life because I have already seen drawings of myself as an old man.”

Jarl Thrand’s confused stare veiled anger. He seemed unable to answer the sentiment.

“Messenger at the gate!” a guard announced.

“A busy day,” Ekkill muttered. “I wish we could stop for something to eat.”

***

“Fragor is hungry,” declared the huge, whiny troll, before emitting a sharp, ear splitting hum. Astrid winced. “When eating?” he then asked, more plaintively.

The huge wax figure lumbered beside her making thunderous steps. He had been eating goblins the whole journey, but he had made himself too large to sustain.

Astrid slowed to a stop, and looked up at the dark green troll, barely able to see his featureless head above his great shoulders. “You were a good friend, Fragor. You are,” she corrected, and he stumbled to a stop ahead of her.

“Yes!” Fragor agreed, humming with a resonant happiness. “You are, Acid. Also!”

“But you need to leave me now. I—”

Fragor began to complain, but she shook her head and waited for him to be quiet.

“Up ahead, we will reach the village of Great Chief Harak. If you go with me, you will die. Within you, there is a small magical seed. If it is broken, you will be destroyed. And the humans who are coming from other worlds will use silver and magic to do just that. So I need you to go ahead alone, and I will meet you on the other side of the village.”

“Fragor not dying!” he insisted. “Your brain is freezing again, Acid.”

“I am thinking very clearly,” she answered resolutely. “You got me warm again, and you saved me, and for that I am very grateful. But I do not want you to be harmed. You must trust me. If you truly believe that I am your friend, then you will listen to me.”

Fragor made a strange disagreeable hum of pained confusion. “Acid is friend,” he carefully agreed. “But—”

“Please, my friend,” she kindly cut in. “We are friends. And you must believe me.”

“I do… believe,” the troll assured.

“So you will go on ahead, and meet me further down the valley…?”

“Oh… no!” he happily answered. “Friends,” he repeated. “Together. Acid and Fragor.”

Astrid sighed, and made her case again, and again, and the conversation went in circles until eventually, as the sun wheeled slowly through clouds overhead, the huge troll seemed to come to understand.

“You will come…?” he doubtfully asked. “Together. Again. Forever…?”

“Forever,” Astrid echoed. “I promise,” she lied, which made her feel sick. But she was beyond relief when the troll finally began to depart. Looking back, running towards her, and then turning around again and thundering off down the boggy valley, veering off to the leftmost mountains so that he might avoid the village hidden by a horizon of long grasses, jutting bulbous plants, and withered trees up ahead.

Eventually, the troll had faded into a small figure, and then disappeared for so long that Astrid was sure she was alone. And there was nought left to hear but the wind whistling along the valley, and the ever present buzzing of small flies.

She shivered, and wrapped her arms around her filthy grey cloak.

Astrid had nearly suffocated in the troll’s relentless embrace, and she had only been roused when he finally arrived at a broken camp where waited a fledgling campfire. But while she slept in his wax arms, she had dreamed so many things that she now finally understood what she must do, and what would likely happen after.

She would either die, or be robbed of her memories, and that would a different kind of death. But she knew what resided within the box. The right hand of Chief of Chief’s, Gahr’rul. And she even knew who Gahr’rul was as well. Though it was hard to believe. And because of all that she knew that he must be freed from the awful fate placed upon him by the sons of Geirolf. Hacked into pieces by cover of darkness, divvied between steel boxes, and ferried by dozens of men across the disparate regions of Tymir.

“I am ready,” she declared to no one. And then she looked to the vast skies as if she were Lucius Chance and asked, “Are you watching me, Watcher?”

Yet there were many other gazes upon her. For Gahr’rul was still fated to kill a god.