48. Winning Hearts
“When we first arrived in Wymount, I was more than wary of the men who had managed to hold such large stretches of land in a region full of greedy goblins. It was not that I was surprised to meet them, we’d had to kill the men that sided with Gahr’rul. Rather, I was surprised to see how thoughtful and civilised they were. They had divided their mountain into five main regions for the most prominent fishing villages, and created their own assembly for enacting law and disputing settlements.
Upon meeting the Representative of Wymount, I was reminded of Timilir, yet another place full of snakes. As the days and wheedling proceeded, I was grateful Gudmund had sent Grettir in his stead.”
Gudmund stood, clad in black and white, at the head of two long pyres, with Lovrin beside him. He had combed his hair, parted it along the middle, and topped it with his bronze circlet. The logs of the town’s curved wall towered behind him.
The Ritual House of Muradoon loomed at his right, having been built in narrowing tiers so the grey walls supported eleven red roofs. Men, women, and children stood ahead of the structure, in and around the graveled yard, some as far back as the long street of houses where stood Sam’s Tavern.
Huddled in the wide pen opposite the gathering, the many shaggy oxen watched with frustrated confusion. Their lows and moans punctuate the steady murmur of humanity.
“People of Horvorr!” Gudmund called, one hand on the pommel of his father’s sword. “We gather today to burn the dead.”
A silence of shuffling feet descended now folk turned to the pyres, soon broken by a complaining ox.
“It is with great regret that I suffer any loss on any day,” Gudmund continued, “but it is with anger that I look upon these fallen people, knowing full well that the actions of my own guard led to their deaths. Those laggards and cowards who have failed in their duties, and let a band of goblins wander into our town unannounced. A war is coming!” he went on, shaking his head. “There is no mistaking that. If we do not band together under one banner, under my banner, then these will not be the last men, women, and children to be savaged.” He looked out at a sea of faces, some red with anger, other sore with tears, most swollen by disillusion. “You may not like me. You may not even respect me. I would guess that some of you hate me. But my death won’t save any of you. My death will bring more death, until there are no lives left to take!”
The declaration echoed, swept away by a winter wind that forced a chorused shiver.
Gudmund’s regard turned solemn. “You can put your faith in men who have never led, in men that whisper murder in the night. Or you can choose to trust the man that conquered this town without a single life lost—in a man who will save you—who will keep you and your families safe. I can defend Horvorr. I am sure of that… but only if the cowards of this town stop trying to stab me in the back, when they should be standing together to protect their own families.”
“This is your fault!” a man shouted from the crowd.
“The fault lies with us all!” Gudmund answered. “I am trying to ready us for war to prevent this from happening again. I am doing all that I can. Can you say the same?”
The exhausted crowd remained silent, wearing their worn tawny clothes, rubbing their hands together for warmth. People too tired to argue, too tired to fight for a change that might only end up for the worse.
Gudmund turned to the purple-robed man beside him. “Set the fires, Godi. Free their spirits and let these people rest!”
Lovrin took a torch from Eirik, and started to set the base of each pyre alight.
“My sons burned the last time!” Gudmund called, in a tone less manufactured. “I do not want to have to burn any more sons. Or wives, or husbands, or daughters. I want to burn my enemies, and I cannot do it alone. If you wish to oppose me. If you wish to murder me, then I would only ask that you wait until this war is done.”
Gudmund stood stoic while the wind whipped up the flames. He searched the crowd for the eyes of any who opposed him, levying judgement with his unerring gaze. He watched the gathered folk with eyes stung by heat, as sweat trickled down his bearded cheeks, as the fires raged at either side of him. He appeared more than a man in that light, more than a bastard, more than an arrogant Chief.
He stood ahead of the blaze with one hand on his sword, white cloak billowing behind him, while dead flesh glowed and the pyres began to collapse. He stared out at desperate folk who had finally decided to follow him, and wondered whether they could have been convinced without letting starved goblins run loose in his own town.
Gudmund thought on the last looks of those he loved: Geirmund had broken their embrace and smiled as if reluctant to go to his duty; Agnar had stared sadly for a long while, like a man that already knew he was soon die; Brolli hadn’t even managed a glance as he stood watching a boar eat straw, as if he didn’t care that his nephews were dead. Gudmund wasn’t sure if he would ever again see Grettir. He could still picture his oldest friend’s hairy face, flushed red and twisted with hate.
Gudmund sighed. He studied the tired faces of the men, women, and children he had sworn to protect. He wondered whether they would get another chance to look up at him with the same mix of hope and distrust, or whether he was simply looking for the last time at more folk soon to die.
He strode away from the burning pyres, smoke in his lungs almost making him choke.
Ralf handed him a wineskin. “Too much heat is bad for a man.”
“An old ghost told me it’s good to be warm.” Gudmund popped the stopper. “And I trust a man who’s reached his death.”
Ralf’s brows furrowed. “Are you telling me you’re seeing dead men?”
He shook his head, gulping from the wine skin. He could see the gathered mourners in the corner of his vision, scores of lost folk shadowed beneath towering walls and the Ritual House of Muradoon. Carved crows watched from perches on the red roofs. Gudmund frowned, mouth twisting now he stopped drinking. “I hope not.”
***
The Gathering Hall of Wymount was erected some decades before Southwestern Tymir had been conquered by Gudmund. It had been made eight-sided, pieced together from good timber and driftwood, with six walls supporting tiered benches; five served for folk from the main fishing villages that supported Wymount, while the sixth bench was open to all that wished to attend, and found use mostly by those from the smaller settlements.
Those benches each faced a raised podium in the hall’s middle, which served for witnesses to speak.
It was rare that the Representatives of the main villages that comprised the assembly and supported Wymount were called up to attend the city. So it was that those seagoing folk, gathered amongst the many benches of the dome-roofed building, were not in good moods. Most spoke of days wasted when they had hoped to better spend their time taking catch before winter began in earnest.
Sybille could see of all the benches from a raised balcony. She had view of the main entrance opposite as well, which had two great whale bones crossing one another above the driftwood archway. There were eleven cushioned seats on the balcony, three with high and ornate backings that stood ahead of the plainer eight. Sybille, still wearing the same black dress, waited on the leftmost of the prominent chairs.
Fromund sat beside her, his purple fur-trimmed robe now adorned with a heavy golden medallion and three chained necklaces. He wore a driftwood crown, set with sea pearls atop his balding grey hair. Now rising to his feet, he swept his thick arms out to encompass the hall. It was dimly lit by a few dozen scattered candles, barely aided by the noon light piercing through cracks in the creaking walls.
It had hardly been decorated, beyond sparse hangings of bones, and the lichened remnants from the washed up wreckage of sunk ships.
“Thank you all for coming,” Fromund declared in his hearty voice, silencing most conversations. “It does me good to see such an expedient response to the summons, even though I know you are all very busy with winter preparations. With that in mind, I will now call to order an unscheduled gathering of the Assembly of Wymount.”
He slammed an ivory hammer onto the balcony’s wooden parapet.
“Representatives,” Fromund called. “Declare yourselves!” He smiled in satisfaction, and collapsed back onto his chair, making no mention of his son’s absence, not even glancing to the empty seat at his right.
Sybille watched as an old, long-bearded man rose up amid the first of the six tiered benches.
“Hafsteinn, Representative of Longhook. I declare in favour of skipping formalities. Does any here—”
A stout, weather-beaten and black-haired woman rose up from the bench opposite. “Bjargey, Representative of Salvik, stands to second this.”
Fromund grumbled to himself, and pushed up from his chair. “Raise hands to vote.”
All were in favour, save for the sixth bench that had no vote.
“Very well!” Fromund smiled in annoyance. “I would now ask for silence.” He waited a moment for a refusal, then cleared his throat and spread his palms across the worn balcony railing. “We have had a summons from Chief Gudmund of Horvorr to gather an army of our finest men, and go to war, because he has proved a failure in his defense of this region, despite the extensive taxes he has levied from us the winters past.”
Sybille started to shake with anger, but she told herself that she would have her say.
“We have been provided with varied and conflicting reports,” Fromund went on. “But what can be certain is that most of the villages from Horvorr to Wymount have been sacked, because a goblin force was allowed to cross by Horvorr without challenge. I have been informed that there is some gathered army outside the walls of Horvorr, or else what reason would there be for Gudmund and his guard to succumb so to impotence? I have been told that there are two forces, both numbering in the hundreds, perhaps close to a thousand, and that the other is ravaging Fenkirk.”
Fromund took a long breath, his chubby face appearing grim despite his upturned mustachio. “It is more or less decided that Timilir will not come to Gudmund’s aid, or even Fenkirk’s… what with Gudmund sending a procession that ended the life of Jarl Thrand’s youngest son. By my own guess, and by council taken from the Driftwood Temple, Horvorr has not the men or the means to win this war without us.” He shrugged as if it were regrettable but unavoidable. “Or with us. Do any of you have questions?”
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
“When will I get to speak?” Sybille hissed.
“Later,” Fromund whispered back. “These people have precedence here.”
Hafsteinn struggled up from his seat, as if suffering pain in his pack. “From whom did you receive these reports?”
“A score survivors were imprisoned by the marauding goblins.” Fromund shook his head in somber disappointment. “Tomlok guided them to an escape, and they brought word of what they had seen there.”
“And they brought word from Gudmund how?” Hafsteinn asked, strained voice sharp with anger. “Is that not Sybille of Horvorr sat beside you now? Why do you seat her so as a game piece, when her words affect us all?”
“What is your name girl?” Bjargey called, risen to her feet. “Are you as Hafsteinn names you?”
Sybille stood, and walked over to the balcony. “I am Sybille, daughter of Gudmund. And I brought word of the goblins that threaten Southwestern Tymir. But Fromund has asked that I do not speak… until later.”
Fromund smiled in apology. “I merely wished to respect custom.”
“And you bring this word from Gudmund?” a man younger than Sybille shouted from the far right bench. “In what manner do you bring it? Is he in dire need that would affect us all? Or is this a request for us to do work that he is too lazy to do himself?” He waved away the angry glances of the other Representatives. “So says, Gorm, Representative of Kollkleif.”
“My father is a proud man,” Sybille answered. “He would not ask for help unless the need was dire. And he has sworn to lessen the taxes for Wymount should they answer his call to arms.”
Gorm considered that as he nodded, then sat back in his chair.
“Sybille.” Bjargey regarded her with stern eyes. “If he is at such risk. Is it not possible that Horvorr has already fallen? That we would be exposing ourselves for no gain?”
“A greater risk to do nothing, I would think,” Sybille spoke Geirmund’s words. “What risk is there in assembly, beyond cost of time lost? As to whether you would expose yourself by moving in number to Horvorr’s aid, I would say no. The land from Wymount to Horvorr is long and flat, with the high ground ever with you. So if you send scouts ahead you would be at no risk of being caught unawares.”
Bjargey slowly nodded. “Could the same not be said for the Snake Basin Path?”
“Of course.” Sybille nodded, speaking with less confidence. “But we were not cautious. We were sheltering the man who had killed Jarl Thrand’s son, and Grettir was certain we had to bring Chief Gudmund quick word before things got out of hand.”
“Perhaps,” Gorm shouted, not bothering to stand, “if you had not sheltered a murderer you would be able to count on Jarl Thrand for support? And we of Wymount could have been satisfied that the tax we pay for protection keeps us protected.”
Sybille smiled, and dipped her head. “I applaud you for your hindsight.”
Hafsteinn sighed, leaning forward on the railing ahead of his bench. “This is too much to ask of us, daughter of Gudmund. We are fisherman, not warriors. We rely on Horvorr’s Guard to keep the region safe. That is why we pay your father. What good would we even do if we came to their aid?”
Sybille frowned down at the old man. “Your people are young, and strong, and hard-lived. Twice as tall as the goblins in this army, stronger, with better reach and quicker minds. I would hope that the good you would do, would be to break the godless army that threatens this region. And if your words are true, Hafsteinn, are they not as true when the goblins burn Horvorr and make the climb to Wymount?”
“We can hold our mountains, girl,” Fromund assured. “Does anyone have more to say, or can we call a vote?”
“Yes,” Sybille said, staring down at Bjargey. “Since you spoke of the Snake Basin Path, I will tell you what my brother’s would have said. Agnar would laugh his frustration, and curse you all as cowards, and in the end he would plea that were the roles reserved then Gudmund would not hesitate to come to your aid. That Grettir had already died bringing me here to deliver this message,” she added with regret. “Geirmund would tell you that in matters of war it is best to act while you still have allies on the field, and a sturdy town to defend. That once Horvorr and Fenkirk fall that Wymount is beyond isolated. Especially in winter, where you can make no trips overseas. The odds are bleak, but they become bleaker as each day passes.”
“Well and good.” Gorm was standing again. “But what would you say?”
“That I would give and say anything to make you come to the aid of my town, of my family,” Sybille answered. “That I already offered myself in marriage to Fromund’s son, but his father was too much a fat and honorless coward to take the risk.”
“Step back, Sybille!” Geirmund warned.
Sybille stepped back and Fromund’s open palm swept past. She drove her knee into his big belly, causing him to splutter and stagger and spin towards the driftwood barrier of the balcony. Sybille heard a wooden crack and a fearful bellow, but she didn’t truly understand what had happened until he started to choke.
Fromund dangled under the balcony, hooked on a broken baluster by the gold chains around his fat neck. He wheezed for breath, clawing at the choked flesh, kicking out his legs until the chain, eventually, snapped.
Fromund crunched onto his knees, his head hurled into wood with a sickening thud.
The Gathering Hall of Wymount fell to an uneasy silence, their wary faces shrouded in the dim light. A tall and wiry, black-and-yellow clad man rose up from the sixth bench.
Roaldr hurried down the stairs, and ran around the podium, slowing when he saw the dark pool spreading out from his father’s head. He gazed down to see the bloodied driftwood crown at his feet.
“He is dead,” Roaldr declared.
Silence answered him, though nearly all folk rose slowly from their seats. The Representatives exchanged thoughtful or forceful glances across the hall, urging another to action, cautioning silence, hinting towards biding time.
“I would have silence,” Roaldr shouted into the half-lit hall, his own words echoing back at him.
He looked at his father’s broken body, then up at Sybille, who had grown paler than even her ailing health afforded.
Roaldr left the crown on the floor, and made his way to the other side of the middle podium, ascending the stairs as all eyes shifted between he and Sybille.
“This was not murder,” Roaldr spoke quietly, but his voice carried. “Would that my father ever listened to me when I said he should sit among the benches like the old Representatives of Wymount… or that he took heed this morning when I told him too many gold chains make a man look foolish.” He shared his troubled gaze between the tiered benches. “It was not for those words that he did not invite me to his balcony, but because I advocated war and he did not. And that is all the bad blood there was between us. Though I can see clearly in the eyes of some of you an accusation of opportunism. In all else, I will give you a vote. But in this, in whether my father died because of unfortunate accident or murder, I will brook no challenge. This was an accident, one that he brought upon himself. I leave it to you all to take what you will from watching a man fall from a height elevated above his allies, from watching a man choked by his own wealth… to have his head split open wearing a crown that he wrought for himself.”
Roaldr sighed a loud sigh, his eyes watering. “I do not mean to insult my father,” he explained, sorrow coloring his tone. “I only say the words that come to me.” He swallowed. “As to the leadership of Wymount, I will take my father’s place as Representative until next summer,” he raised his voice to account for a murmur of dissent, “and if Wymount still stands when that time comes, then we will hold a vote if my people wish for another to lead.”
“Kollkleif takes no issue with this,” Gorm announced from the far right bench. “I will have no question of leadership hanging over us with war coming.”
Hafsteinn scowled. “And do you lead us now, boy?”
Gorm laughed, and shook his head. “I simply talk the sense that all of us know!”
Bjargey loudly cleared her throat. “Salvik is of a mind with Representative Gorm… and with Representative Roaldr.”
“Longhook also supports Roaldr as Representative of Wymount until summer,” Hafsteinn declared. “Only until summer.”
A big man with shaggy red hair stood up on the left middle bench, and offered a lazy wave of his hand. “Aye.”
Roaldr turned to a tall, young woman, who appeared majestic in her white fur cloak. “And you, Aerin’?”
Aerindis squinted at her fingernails, paying him little mind. “Does the Representative of Wymount intend to marry the daughter of Chief Gudmund of Horvorr?”
“No.” Roaldr shook his head. “I am promised to the Representative of Skarshaw.”
“Well and good!” Gorm nodded, brushing his hands together. “But we came here to talk of war did we not? And little has changed in the numbers… lest any man here think Fromund had a sword hand worthy of Brikorhaan. Can we have a vote, Representative Roaldr? I may be younger than any here, but I’ve no mind to waste my years.”
“Of course.” Roaldr met his wisdom with a shallow bow. “I would like to call a vote. Please state what actions, if any, you think we should take in response to the request from Chief Gudmund of Horvorr, and the reports of a goblin threat.”
Hafsteinn eyed those around the benches of each village. “I will not send the men of Longhook to senseless deaths. I would support an expeditionary force, and urge caution until we better understand the intent and strength of the goblin host.”
“What intent—” Sybille began.
“No words!” Roaldr ordered. “No voice from anyone beyond the Representatives.”
Sybille bit her tongue, and bowed her head.
“I would support an expeditionary force, as well,” Bjargey offered. “But I would also suggest that we prepare in earnest for a war, rather than all of us returning to our people, only to forget and wake up one day to fire and death.”
The big shaggy man grunted his distaste. “All talk of ‘expedition’ makes me think too much of Isleif the Bard and his ill-fated trip. I do not deal in expeditions. Redrock does not deal in expeditions. If there is a threat then we march and we crush it,” he gruffly promised. I”f there is not, then we do nothing. But in what world does a man as Gudmund of Horvorr send his only child and most loyal follower to ask for help… unless he needs help. Unless he is beyond help. And maybe he is, but better to beyond help with fighting men, than to be helpless on our own.” He swept a dangerous glare about the half-lit hall. “Unless you all wish to return to the days of hard living, begging and scraping, paying tribute and offering firstborn sons to those goblin scum? If that is what you want then you all might have bigger worries than an enemy that knocks at your gate. Our rock is not red with the blood of berries.”
“Fish, then?” Gorm asked.
“Men,” he growled. “Men older and stronger than a boy like you.”
“Your opinion is well regarded,” Roaldr spoke in a solemn tone. “And your threat is noted. Rest assured, none of us aim to return to the old days… or the old ways.”
Aerindis let out a quiet laugh. “I am of a mind with the brute. Delay benefits none but our enemies, and may well prove fatal for those we swore to support.”
“If there was any doubt,” Roaldr declared, “I stand with the Representatives of Redrock and Skarshaw.” He turned to regard the young, black-haired man. “Gorm. The decision rests with you. We will either muster a force now, and march to arms when we are best ready, or we will send an exp—a scouting force from Wymount’s own guard.”
“Well.” Gorm raised his brows, sitting back on his bench. He glanced back at the lean men and women that accompanied him from Kollkleif. “Would those who came with me please stand if you wish to rush to war.” He waited, but no one stood. “Honest question,” Gorm pressed. “Do not take my sitting as any hint towards my own mind.”
Gorm pushed up from his chair, and looked back at them. “Do none of you truly wish to go to war?”
The shaggy red-haired man chuckled, his mirth joined by the rowdy folk of Redstone.
A frail old woman struggled up from her chair at the very back of Kollkleif’s bench. “They do not stand, because the decision is yours,” she said. “Your father would not ask folk to make his mind up for him.”
Gorm dipped his head in respect to the woman, and turned back to the other benches. “Let it be known that Longhook and Salvik are long respected friends of Kollkleif. Unfortunately, on this occasion, I must disagree with their caution. I was not born into a world where men made peace with monsters. And I will not sit idle while a goblin horde seeks to make that world anew. Gudmund of Horvorr was an old friend of my father.” He smirked at Sybille. “And it would do me great honour to renew and strengthen the ties between Kollkleif and Horvorr.”
“It is agreed, then.” Roaldr nodded, and let out a long sigh. “By a vote of four to two, we will march for war.”