49. Sixth Blessed

“Though it easy to forget that Agrak is unreasonably swift, because his manner and mood is oft languid, he was quick to leap forth onto the gargantuan goblin and deliver a dozen deep slashes to throat, face, and shoulders.

Landing handily back to the earth, I might’ve questioned his decision to kill the enormous hatchling without provocation, but then the dark blood that flowed freely began to slow, stop, and then travel in reverse. The fatal wounds healed, and all the dark ichor was soon reabsorbed by the monstrous gargantuan.

The Small King met the sight with a slightly disappointed exhalation, and then leapt forth again. This time, the gargantuan struck out, with such force and speed that Agrak was sent hurtling into the nearby wall with a raucous outburst of dirt and rock.

When choking dust settled, I saw the small figure of Agrak, wedged in his own crater. He was alive, but straining and seemingly stuck fast.

‘What are you…?’ a cold voice asked, distorted and warbling and confused. ‘Where is Magar?’ he demanded, words shaking the cavern with a resonance that sent great chunks of earth tumbling from the ceiling. ‘This is not the power I was promised.’

The great head, predatory eyes now alive with rage, turned to me. “You have… power. And you,” he said, almost hungrily, as he faced The Small King. “Have been corrupted. Let me take this from you. Shape it. I can make better use of these anomalies.”

I had never seen him as meek, or less than, but now Agrak was stuck and trapped and appeared as small as he had ever been. But then he spoke a word that did not come out in his usual piping tone, but in a strange sonorous tone of divine pride. ‘Sig Varda.’

It was at once both entirely foreign and entirely familiar. Which I could not reconcile. Until I realized Lucius Chance had uttered words in the same language when he blew apart the glaciers and evaded our capture.

A simple spark appeared as if from nowhere, then flashed out and flared like lightning in the night, exploding outward in a furious conflagration of irrepressible thunder.”

The Spirit Seeker had prepared the body of Gudmund, son of Geirulf.

He had taken two hours rest, ate, washed, and stretched. He had decided that he would spend three days searching, offering a reasonable sum of coin, to find the man’s daughter. Though he was reasonably certain she would still be in the city, because the Western Pass would be blocked by snow, he feared that she would be in hiding and that his own efforts to uncover her might put her at risk.

Still, he had spoke words of intent and now he had to live up to them. He straightened his purple robe, and made his way down a winding stairway of cold stone.

He came across his peers, men in purple robes, acolytes in black ones, but they paid him little mind. He was not a man revered among his order, more of a man feared. He strode through the wide kitchen where the others gathered for their morning meals, through the ancient library where more studious peers read from dusty tomes, through more corridors and sitting rooms, until he reached the ground floor.

The Spirit Seeker crossed into the entry hall, where he had once seen Gudmund sprinkling hair into a bowl, and almost walked straight out the door. But there was an old man there, hawk-faced and bald-headed, and a woman with dark blood caked into her hair. A woman that was lax, carried by the old man and a blond man. “What business?”

Both men glanced back but did not turn. The woman remained still.

“Spirit Seeker,” the old man offered as greeting. “Come to deliver this good woman to your care. She faded from the waking life as she slept last night.”

The Spirit Seeker’s nod was slight. “I saw her walk clear of Jarl Thrand’s Estate.”

“Aye,” he replied with clear regret. “I should have paid her wounds more mind.”

“I see. And of the other girl?”

The old man sighed, letting go of the woman’s weight. He turned and stared without warmth. “Other girl?”

“Gudmund’s daughter,” he answered. “Is she well?” The Spirit Seeker was amused and bemused when the old man reached for his sword. “I had not meant my words to cause harm,” he carefully added. “I was the one that put her father to rest. I promised Gudmund, when he surrendered himself, that I would search out his daughter so she could witness his burning.”

“Oh.” The old man relaxed. “And when were you burning him?”

“I had hoped to wait until she arrived. I have been—” The Spirit Seeker paused. “My judgement has been brought into question. As such, my usual duties are less usual, and I find that this sole task now occupies my time.”

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“Why?” the blond man spoke in a broken tone.

“I offered explanation as to why.”

“Why were you brought into question?”

“I killed people, living people, that I believed to be possessed. My account is considered unreliable.” The Spirit Seeker stretched his neck. “I have no affiliation with… anyone, really. If you do not wish to trust me then simply tell me now and I will burn his body after you depart.”

The blond man offered no answer.

The old man shrugged. “We’ll be back later today.”

“That pleases me.” The Spirit Seeker stepped forward to take the woman’s body. “This is your mother?”

The blond man met his steady regard, and nodded. He seemed to try to smile wryly, but his lips faltered and shook instead and his tired eyes then welled with tears. “Anna,” his wobbling words held pride. “My mother.”

The Spirit Seeker felt uncomfortable. He had chosen a life in pursuit of the risen dead for a reason. He reached out to grab the man’s shoulder, while hooking the woman’s weight with his other arm. “Muradoon will watch over her. I am sure she has friends and family waiting beyond the divide.” He took the weight of the body entirely. “Would you like me to burn her alongside Gudmund? Or to make two separate pyres?”

The simple question seemed to weigh heavily in the young man’s mind. He looked to the old man, who upturned his palms as if he too struggled with the answer.

“I may not have a choice,” the Spirit Seeker then realised. “I will see how much wood has been gathered.”

***

The Spirit Seeker sat on a worn stool in the Eternal Sanctuary’s admittance chamber. He watched folk come and go over the carved tongue of the Spirit Talker. There had been more going than coming as late, because, or so he had been told, the Low King had arrived outside the stone city’s walls with over two thousand men.

He had little interest, knowing that his own home would remain untouched, but he was glad enough that a duel had been arranged. He had no mind to suffer months of rotting flesh and burning dead because hundreds of fools had butchered themselves for the sake of coin, or honour, or any other thing that would be useless after death.

The Spirit Seeker was patient.

He did not truly expect the old man to come, nor the blond man, nor the daughter, but he enjoyed waiting. He found it put his mind at peace, which he realised was much needed after three decades spent hunting down vengeful spirits and the risen dead. He had struggled through nights upon nights where they fought against his own will and twisted his mind.

Yet he was ready to suffer it again, ready to rid the world of more spirits, to restore balance, and he would say just that to his masters once his current task was done.

Three folk arrived in hooded cloaks, each a different hue of brown.

“I always find it humorous,” the Spirit Seeker said without inflection, “when disguises work at cross purpose.”

He then felt like an idiot when two men, one blond and one old, and a young woman strode in after the robed visitors, whom paused for only a moment in confusion before they walked forward.

“Spirit Seeker,” the old man offered as greeting.

“Oddkell,” the Spirit Seeker replied. “Oddkell the Sixth Blessed.”

The old man seemed, for only a moment, afraid. “Arfast.” He gestured to his youthful companions. “This is Engli, son of Anna, and Sybille, daughter of Gudmund. Both from Horvorr.”

“Horvorr,” Oddkell murmured. “I had almost forgotten that Gudmund no longer hailed from Weskin. I am surprised, then, that you are both not standing as witness to the duel. Or is it already over?”

“What duel?” Sybille asked.

Oddkell’s smile felt unfamiliar on his face. “The duel for the stone city. Between the Low King and whoever Jarl Thrand the Cursed has chosen for his champion. A man from Horvorr, as I understand it. A huge brute of a man. Though often enough when I’m told that they end up being smaller than I am… which makes me wonder how I appear.”

Engli’s blond brows furrowed. “A huge brute of a man?”

“I meant no insult. I simply spoke words heard.”

“What was his name?” Sybille pressed.

Oddkell paused in thought. “I thought that I heard it, but all I remember is the town’s name.”

“Hjorvarth?”

“Ah… yes. That sounds close enough. Hjorvarth of Horvorr. Son of Isleif the Unwanted.”

Engli seemed to suffer doubt. “You’re sure of that?”

Oddkell rubbed at his stubbly jaw, and realised he had forgotten to shave. “By my recollection of overheard rumours, he arrived in the city this morning with a group of kobolds, which coincided with the Low King’s force reaching the walls. He then travelled to Jarl Thrand’s Estate, under protection of the venerable Stone Sons, and talked with the faithless fools who refused to let us cleanse the spirited place.”

“Hjorvarth is fighting for Jarl Thrand?” Sybille asked in disbelief.

“He may have already fought… but, yes. That is what I have heard.”

“Before one of you two start running,” Arfast put in, “by the time you reach the gate any duel will be long over. Wouldn’t be wise to walk out there without wearing hooded cloaks, either.”

Oddkell’s chuckle surprised them. “Hooded cloaks,” he offered as explanation.

“Nobody knows who I am,” Engli said, already crossing the stone tongue. “I need to go and see if this is true.”

“I would also like to go,” Sybille decided. She regarded the Spirit Seeker. “Are you able to wait…?”

“Indeed.” Oddkell shrugged under his purple robes. “I am nothing if not a patient man.”