48. King Risen

“Great Chief Tuku and I arrived at the village to find it abandoned. When we discovered the dark trails of blood, bile and excrete we came to the grim realization that Magar had poisoned them all. And when we reached the pile of rotting, lifeless bodies, I recognized the method of his murders.

The same foreign poison that the dwarves had used to kill our procession and capture The Small King had been used by the young shaman.

A loud splash, followed by an awful sizzle, greeted us as we entered the cavern of Magar’s seven-sided spawning cavern. He was busy dragging the dead bodies into the pool, heaving breaths with the effort, where they swiftly dissolved in the blue water.

Before I could even speak, Tuku rushed forward with a rage that I had never seen in him before. Magar turned to meet the oncoming hulk with a regretful smile.

‘It is already done,’ he assured, ‘and killing me will only ensure your death, and that your twin is never returned to you. If you wanted to stop me—’

The young shaman had always seemed so sure of himself. But Tuku did not stop in his charge, and he bulled into the shaman with a heavy foot leading. Magar cartwheeled through the air, eyes wide with terror, before he plunged into the deadly blue pool.

There was a terrible hiss, skin burning away to bone, which settled, until a different fizzing sound began. The blue pool, stillness broken, then began to roil, as smoke twisted up from the pool as if it were a small burning ocean. And the heat and noise soon grew deafening and blinding. Fiery pain engulfed my withered flesh and bore down into old bones, until the agony grew so great that I was sure I would die.

Then the sensation ebbed, and my sight returned to me.

Tuku was gone, replaced by a charred pile of liquid flesh and bone. Standing ahead of me, reared up the largest goblin that I had ever seen. A proud, squared, almost human skull, with keen merciless eyes that glared down at me. If this was a goblin god, it did not mean to spare me. But then I realized he was not staring at me but at the figure standing beside me. Whose long sharp claws flexed as if ready for violence.

‘Agrak,’ I murmured in disbelief.

‘Izzig,’ answered The Small King.”

Hjorvarth stood atop the white wall walk, in a line among those who had sentenced him to death in the mines, thinking it odd how fates are so easily changed.

He looked down on the messenger, a small man, handsome, with short black hair. “Saxi…?”

The messenger looked up, squinting in defense of the sun. He stood on the raised platform where Hjorvarth had earlier in the afternoon. “Yes?”

“I have nought else to say. I simply thought it was you.”

“Oh.” Saxi frowned. He straightened, and regarded Jarl Thrand. “Jarl Thrand of Timilir, I have brought a message from the Low Lands. It is of a worrying nature and I would rather voice it in a private hearing.”

Young Thrand smiled. “Look around you, friend.” He swept his arms towards the slope, where a crowd still gathered, though they seemed as if they shared Ekkill’s sentiments of wanting food and rest. “There is no privacy in this place.”

“I see.” Saxi cleared his throat. “I have travelled at haste from the Low King’s own lands, and bring news of a gathered army that will reach Timilir not long after midday,” he announced. “It is also my belief that the Low King has agents in the stone city and that they work to murder or undermine you. I would recommend you close the eastern gates then await his army. I do not think that you can stand against his gathered force, and even if you could it would end in mutual slaughter. As such, I think it best if you try and convince him to settle things in a duel.”

Hjorvarth’s deep laugh startled them all.

“I did not mean to speak above my station,” Saxi added, offering a shallow bow. “I simply wish to ensure the safety of this city and its leaders,” he explained apologetically. “And I offered advice with that in mind.”

Young Thrand turned to Hjorvarth. “Have you paid this man?”

“I came of my own urging,” Saxi answered. “I was in truth last paid to bring a message to the Low King.”

“And what was this message?” Fati asked.

“I cannot tell you. But I can say that he started his march upon hearing my words.”

Fati frowned. “He was ready to set off as quickly as that?” He nodded when Saxi did. “It is as I feared then,” he said quietly. “The Crooked Teeth were hired by the Low King and this conquest has been long in the planning.”

“Saxi,” Young Thrand shouted, “what makes you think he would offer us a duel if he so outnumbers us?”

“Because he is the Low King,” Saxi answered as if it should be obvious, “and that is the Low Lands way.”

***

The Low King had returned to the shadowed warmth of his woven tent.

The sun was high in the sky, the day was humid, and he was tired of sweating under his armour. He was tired of the march, and had almost dared to hope that he would be greeted with an empty gate. Instead, the monolithic walls of Timilir lay closed to him.

He could send men into the city simply enough, but that would end in dozens of small battles and the process might take weeks.

He did not have that much time. The rowdy lords of the High Lands would soon be looming at his back.

“Well?” the Low King asked, not sure who had spoken last.

Three men stood before him, each lean and bearded, each wearing his green-and-brown livery. They were grizzled men, trusted, scarred and greying.

Their loyalty could not be questioned, but they would all sooner voice their own words than echo their monarch’s.

“It is as you expected,” responded Ketill, who wore the heaviest armour and had charge of most the fighting men. “The gates are closed and no answer has been given. Farmsteads have been abandoned or opened to our soldiers with pledges of loyalty. The camps have not been set to my satisfaction, but they will serve for a few days.”

“It is not as I expected.” Gisli stood between the two other men and wore no chain over his leather armour. He was the master of spies but had left his smooth black cloak in his tent. “The man, Smiler, who I mentioned, has not been caught. Those that volunteered to go after him have not returned… at least not in full. I have had reports of pulled teeth being left in sacks.”

The Low King leaned into the high-backing of his cushioned chair. It was the only furnishing in the modest space, beyond a low table where men would sit on the earth. He was an old man, older than his advisers, but he almost appeared the youngest. He wore fine clothes, embroidered with gold, and had lightly oiled his sandy hair. His thick lips were turned downward, lending a glum cast to his lined face. “One man working alone?”

“The men that I sent were my friends,” Gisli replied, pausing for a while. “I do not want to offer excuses. I want to see the bastard dead. But the more he dances around us, no less tangible than smoke, the more I worry this man was in earnest born in the Lady’s Shadow. That he has been sent here to plague us. That he is walking death.”

The Low King glared. “These words from the man who advised me not to pay the Crooked Teeth.”

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Gisli started to scowl, but acceded with a nod. “A mistake I dearly regret.”

“And have you tried to pay him?” Ketill asked.

“We have, more than before, and it has not been accepted. Those men I sent were instructed to offer peace.” Gisli upturned his gloved palms. “Smiler has killed every other member of the Crooked Teeth. He does not act from a place of reason. He has simply decided that we are his enemy and he is going to kill us.”

“And can you stop him, Gisli?” the Low King asked. “Or do I need to have Gnupa lay traps and set patrols as if we are being harassed by a band of local men on treacherous ground?”

Gnupa, who held responsibility for archers and scouts, stood leftmost. “Such has already been done, my king.”

“We believe that the man lives among the camp,” Gisli explained.

The Low King’s jaw grew tight. “Then spread the word through the camp and offer reward for any man that finds or kills him.” He raised his hand to halt reply. “Honest men may die, true enough. I will leave the issue in your capable hands,” he decided, almost avoiding a mocking tone. “Gisli… given what you’ve said, am I safe to assume that you will not be able to have the gate opened?”

“That now seems unlikely, yes.”

“And the gate cannot be breached,” said their monarch.

“And it is too high to strike reliably with arrows,” Gnupa added.

The Low King rubbed at his wrinkled brow. “Ketill… ready men to ascend the slopes and breach the smaller gates. Gnupa and Gisli, I would very much like to hear good news soon. And I will have to sit here and pray to Joyto that Jarl Thrand’s young son sees me as an insurmountable threat and tries to end this conflict in a simple duel.”

Gnupa and Gisli exchanged disconcerted looks, and nodded.

Ketill hesitated. “A duel against Ulfsteinn would not be simple.”

“It would not,” the Low King agreed. “But the Stone Sons will not fight for Jarl Thrand, old or young. Atsurr is the only other man worth mentioning from the city and he too is dead.” He straightened in his chair. “We can thank all the gods that both the sons of Geirulf have fallen as well.”

“And what if this Smiler decides to fight under the sun instead of in the shadows?”

“Then all of our problems would be solved.” The Low King shrugged. “In the event of a loss, I would simply not suffer the outcome. We will begin a siege if needed,” he added at length. “Jarl Alfgeir can block Ouro’s Scales readily enough. With Harrod the Younger distracted as he is in the Midderlands, the stone city would soon suffer starvation.”

***

Saxi had travelled to the southwestern side of Timilir, where rich houses had view of the stone city below, and access to a slope of flowers and greenery that overlooked the croplands and large farms of Ragni’s Gift, those acres that were gifted to Timilir upon the original conquest and settlement of Southwestern Tymir.

The land ended further afield, where a jagged line of cliffs separated the High Lands from the Low Lands, which could be reached by the rocky climb known as Ragni’s Rise. Saxi thought it looked as if a god had stomped down on one side of the region, splitting the land and crushing it to a lower elevation.

The High Lands appeared as a distant mix of spaced settlements amid yellow and greens, while the Low Lands was a place of clustered towns and dusty mines that sheltered near mountains and rock faces.

Saxi had travelled their often. He could see the white beaches of the Low Lands, and the sheltered cove where his family had lived and fished before the arrival of a rogue hill giant. Saxi’s heart sank as he realised that, that was the first message he had delivered. “A giant, my lord… attacking us. Eating people. Eating—”

Saxi staggered on a rock, and almost went tumbling down the treacherous slope he followed. He lost sight of the beaches. The Low Lands grew into a scene of overlapping grey rock, while the High Lands dipped into a distant sea of greens. Ragni’s Gift itself was pocked by dozens of brown tents, walked upon by hundreds of men. Smoke twisted up from campfires that seemed less bright and meaningful in the daylight.

“Stop or you’re dead, stranger.”

Saxi managed to stop. Unease crawled at his back while he waited, eyes searching the grass and dirt ahead.

“I’m behind you.”

Saxi frowned at that. He turned to see a man covered in mud, wearing a cloak made out of grass, holding a bow that was already drawn. “I am a messenger.”

The brown man nodded in consideration. “Swear that for me, would you?”

“I swear it by Broknar.”

“Right, then.” The man lowered his bow. “Message for the Low King? Or are you traveling further?”

“The Low King.”

“Just my luck, that,” he muttered. “Come on, then. I’ll lead you down the slope.”

***

The Low King finished eating smoked fish on buttered bread, then rose to meet the messenger that had been brought into his tent. They were the only men there, save for a guard waiting near the flap, who was then dismissed. He walked over to his high-backed chair and gestured the messenger forward. “Have we met…?”

“I delivered you the letter from the Crooked Teeth.”

“And then you fled from my hospitality.” The Low King chuckled. “I wondered at that, and now I suppose I know. Odd, though, isn’t it? You’ve a Low Lander way about you. Why risk yourself and waste your loyalty on the city of stone snakes?”

“The Low Lands never did me any favours.”

“Nor I,” the Low King assured. “Things do not grow from rock as they do grass. You do not drink from the cup of success. You smash it apart and chew on the shattered pieces.” He waited for a reply, sighed when none came. “Deliver your message, then, messenger.”

“As you wish.” Saxi dipped his head in respect. “I bring word from Jarl Thrand of Timilir.”

“The young one or the old one.”

“He is older than I,” Saxi replied. “He wishes to thank you for the excess of your concern in regards to the Midderlands. He is gladdened that you wish to march to help Jarl Harrod the Younger in order to spare him of his troubles with the rebellious goblin tribes. Unfortunately, he feels that the honour is his,” the messenger added at length. He also feels that it is he who is responsible for helping his staunch ally, and brother by law. Yet he does not wish to insult or diminish your efforts, so he has offered a contest of strength. A duel. Whomever wins will clearly have the better fighters and they will be best suited to traveling to the Midderlands. If you lose, then you and your army will have no need to pass through the stone city, and things can return as they were.”

“As they were?”

“As they were.”

The Low King sat very still, as if struggling with sudden anger. “You remembered that clearly.”

Saxi’s answered nod was swift, and his face held no warmth at all. “As clearly as I remember you telling me that dead families could not be made undead.”

The Low King frowned. “Tell Jarl Thrand the Younger that I would be glad to accept his offer. But I would have it as a contest of blood. To determine which of our families is better fit to lead.”

Saxi was surprised the man would risk himself in a duel. He bowed, and ducked under the tent flap.

“That was a mistake.”

The Low King turned to the brown-robed man that now sat at the low table. “Uncle…?”

“Do you expect me to fight on your behalf?”

“No.” The Low King appeared as a child chided. “I have no fear of Jarl Thrand’s son.”

“He will not be fighting.”

“I have no fear of his daughter, either.”

“You will be fighting the son of Jarl Thrand’s dead daughter, Sibbe. And he is a man that you should dearly fear.”

The Low King straightened in his seat. “Who are you to tell me who I should fear? You appear after all these winters to offer me advice, to tell me that I am going to be defeated, when I have done more than all my ancestors combined.” He shook his head. “Why have you come?” he demanded. “Why now? If not to spare your descendant from this enemy.”

“Spare?” the robed man had laughter in his voice. “You are the aggressor here, nephew. I have come to tell you, in no uncertain terms, that you are going to die if you do not withdraw your forces.”

The Low King rose to his feet. “Then I will refuse the duel.”

“Do that and the man named Smiler will kill you.”

“A friend of yours, is he?” The Low King angrily ventured. “Or is it you in truth? Are you every murderer in the night dressed in another man’s garb, using another man’s name, wearing another man’s face?”

The robed man shrugged. “Odd accusations.”

The Low King stood over him now, only the table to divide them. “Or plain truths?”

“Truths stretched.” The robed man spread his gloves palms across the table. “Smiler is known to me. I have met him. And I am sure that he will kill you, or Hjorvarth will, unless you return home with all your men and then you can live to old age… content with the knowledge that you have already surpassed your ancestors.”

The Low King grew stern. “I have read our histories during your long absence.”

“You voice that almost like an accusation.”

“You are an ill omen, uncle,” The Low King declared. “One worse than a wingless crow plucking out the eyes of a malformed child.”

The robed man quietly laughed, upturning his palms. “Then heed me.”