5. Watched by Gods
“‘The gods are always watching.’” That is what folk say. Though they seem to say it as if the Eleven Elders are fair minded uncles or kind hearted aunts. As if we should welcome the fact. The scrunity. The eyes upon us. Twenty two, unless you decide not to count Muradoon’s Dead Eye. That’s a lot of watchers. A lot of gazes to please. A lot of minds to satisfy. And I may have played at the biggest stages, enthralled the greatest crowds, but still these Elders seem a hard audience to please. Never satisfied. Always making matters worse.
And this latest chapter is one of the worst of all. How many corpses have we piled up on both sides? And for what? For Gudmund to lay claim to a barren wasteland. And now Sibbe is feeling unwell again. Every Priest and Godi offering vastly different explanations and vastly different remedies, though of course they’re all similarly expensive. But, of course, there is no price to pay at all if you listen to them. It’s merely a donation. The entirely optional payment that is beyond your control. Because ‘the gods are always watching,’ of course. Far be it from me to expect any favors from all those Elders I’ve extolled in so many songs and legends.
I never even wanted to be famous. Certainly not to be a warrior. And yet somehow my legend keeps growing as my sword grows ever blunter. From hack, hack, hacking through goblin necks like some deranged woodsman in an unending forest.
Blood covered, gut strewn, scream plagued forest. The black ichor washing over my cracked hands so often that I begin to confuse the stains for rotting veins after scouring them for the hundredth time. But that doesn’t stop me from telling my own son that the ‘Gods are always watching’ does it?
I can only fervently hope that they favor Hjorvarth much more than me.”
Geirmund sighed through weaved fingers. “Well this turned to shit quickly.”
Agnar’s smile broadened, eyes teary as he couldn’t help but laugh. “I’ve a grand plan. No need to worry, brother.”
The two dark-clad men stood with their backs to a squat stone storehouse.
A richly-dressed crowd milled ahead of them, treading dirt onto the expansive paved plateau that housed Jarl Thrand’s Estate. A row of structures squatted behind them and a stable stretched opposite: horses restless with the noise and clamor of the gathered folk.
Ornate gates lay open at their left, allowing ever more people to amble up from the sloping western approach. The main structures of the estate loomed opposite the entryway, marble walls bright white beneath a blue sky.
Behind those masterworks, rock gave way to sheer cliffs that reared over the shadowed slums below. The sun burnt down on the elevated gathering, warming flesh and manure to scent the air with a mingling of shit and sweat.
Agnar had clear sight of Thorfinn, a thin-limbed youth in gold-and-red standing ahead of a stable stall, flanked on all sides by the grey guards of the stone city. He appeared eager and fearful, barely listening to the armoured man that stood beside him.
“My plan is not so grand,” Geirmund said. “Gudmund would want us to let Engli die. He has embarrassed himself, and our family. He attacked a man that invited him as a guest. There is nothing more to be done than that.”
Agnar glanced to his right, where Engli sat on a stool, pale and shaking. Sybille knelt before him, offering words of encouragement. “I don’t like that plan, brother.”
“You said the other day that you wouldn’t blink if he ended up dead.”
“Ah, true, but there I thought he would be fighting goblins.”
“There is nothing you can do,” Geirmund warned, gripping his shoulder.
Agnar strode forward, shrugging free of his older brother. “Engli. You look… uneasy.”
Engli managed a weak smile from his seat. “I don’t really know what’s happening.”
“It’s simple enough,” Agnar explained. “You decided to punch Thorfinn in the cheek, and now he’s decided he wants to kill you.”
Sybille scowled, her lip was swollen and split. “The duel isn’t to the death.”
“Accidents happen. I won’t blink when your innards spill, Engli. None of them will.”
Engli’s brow creased. “My thanks for your kind words of encouragement.”
“Here.” Agnar drew his sword, handing it over by the handle. “You can use this.”
Engli shook his head. “They’ll look poorly on that. They’ve given me an axe.”
“Can I take a look?” Agnar asked, smiling when the weapon was handed over. He struck the iron head against the wall and the haft snapped. “Damn unfortunate that they chose one in such a poor condition.” He handed the broken handle back. “Unless you want the sword, after all?”
Engli swallowed. “I’ll take the sword.”
“Good enough,” Agnar said, handing him the blade. “Now your friend Thorfinn here looks weak. But not that much weaker than you. He’s got his own sword, and he’s taller, and he’s not sat there looking like a ghost. So if I’m making a wager, then I’m going to guess that you end up dead.” He broadened his smile. “But look how happy I am, Engli,” he added encouragingly. “I must know something that the people who can’t hear me don’t know… only I don’t. Thorfinn wants to fight you alone. But he’ll only do that if he’s sure he’ll win. So I think you ought to get on your feet and start testing that sword. You might get to live if he asks to fight in pairs.”
Engli studied the polished blade, then looked up at Agnar. “You’ll fight with me?”
“Against Thorfinn, I’ll fight with anyone.”
Agnar dipped his head, smiled at his sister, and walked back to his brother.
Geirmund’s gaze had no warmth to it. “Thorfinn will not ask to fight in pairs. All you’ve done is disrespect him by giving your sword to his enemy. If you do not wish to make a proper effort at forming this alliance then you should spend the days drinking or whoring. No disrespect, brother, but I don’t need you here for this.”
Agnar’s mirth held. “Do you know why Engli attacked him?”
“I expect that I will soon enough.”
“You’ve become a blind man of late,” Agnar chided. “Take a look at your sister’s lip. Her eyes are sore like she’s been crying. By my guess he struck her with words. She struck him with her hand, and he answered in kind. Then Engli took it upon himself to have the last word.” Agnar shrugged. “Thorfinn already tried to kill him. By luck alone, I was in earshot, close enough to—”
Geirmund walked towards his sister, studying her with troubled eyes. He spoke no words, then strode towards Thorfinn and his gathered guards. Geirmund shouldered through plump men and perfumed women, not bothering to wait or step around, his teeth gritted as he ignored the baffled outrage and whispered curses.
The armored man stepped forward to stand between Geirmund and Thorfinn. “You need go no further, son of Gudmund.”
“Step aside, Atsurr.” Thorfinn regarded the guard with distaste. “What is it you want, Geirmund?”
“My brother has done you disservice by offering his sword to a talented fighter,” Geirmund solemnly explained. “I want to be clear that my father does not in any way condone the actions of his youngest son, and as such I come to offer my own blade for you to use. Or, should you wish, I will wield it myself in your defense.”
Thorfinn’s eyes narrowed. He placed a hand on his own sword. “I have no need.”
Geirmund dipped his head in respect. “I wish you luck, then, son of Thrand.”
“I thank you for your luck and your offer,” said Thorfinn.
Geirmund offered a tight smile. He made his way back around the storehouses opposite, avoiding the growing crowd. Engli was now up and swinging his sword, smiling at encouragement from Sybille. Geirmund passed them by, not answering their suspicious looks, and came to stand beside his brother.
“What was that about?” Agnar asked.
“A petty deception,” Geirmund answered. “Should you have your chance at fighting, I would ask that you do not kill Thorfinn. I would agree that he needs to be humbled, but his death would get us nothing.”
Agnar glanced between the son of Thrand and the son of Gudmund. “I can promise you nothing, brother.”
Geirmund’s calm visage remained unchanged. “Nor would I ask you to. Do not risk your life for our sake, brother. I have men of the guard with us in plain clothing. We will fight our way out of here if so needed.”
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***
Hjorvarth traveled the main road of Timilir, which rose ahead of him in a gentle slope. It led to the enormous plateau that towered over the shallower third of the city, serving as the shorter side of a shadowed valley that housed hundreds of huddled shacks.
Hjorvarth knew that the poorest lived there, while the richest lived on elevated rises that had better vantage. He wasn’t sure whether it was height or light that gave them worth, though he could see the use of the sun when planting a garden.
He dismissed the thought, and barged his way through the crowded folk that clogged the way ahead to Jarl Thrand’s Estate.
Ruby walked in his shadow, keeping to silence after having given up on idle chatter.
Hjorvarth paused and Ruby thumped into his back. He plucked a golden ring from amid the sea of feet. “Has anyone lost a ring?”
“Did you say a ring, friend?” a man beside them asked. “Ah, yes, that one.”
“If you lie to me, friend, I will break your arm.”
“Ah… hah.” The man smiled, brushing his hands down a purple robe. “A woman passed by here, searching for a ring. Struck by her husband as I recall. Beat her to her knees and ripped it clean from her fingers. But with the heat, well—” He tried to snap his fingers, but they slid noiselessly together. “Slipped right off. If you give me the ring, I can look for her.”
Hjorvarth carefully nodded. “Swear that by the gods, and I will hand that over.”
“Do not give him the ring, Hjorvarth,” Ruby hissed. “If he’s told it true I’m sure we’ll find her somewhere crying. In any case, we should hurry. Unless you want your friend to die for the sake of a stranger.”
“You are in a rush?” the purple-robed man surmised. “Go, then. Keep the ring for now. If you wish, you can meet me outside the gates, or at the slope, when this is done, and I will endeavor to help you return it.”
Ruby smirked. “I’m sure you will.”
The purple-robed man dipped his head. “As am I.”
“As am I,” Hjorvarth echoed, shouldering forward. He pushed further into the tight pressed crowd that stank of cloying perfume and bitter sweat.
A defensible white wall fenced off the estate, though the ornate gates had been opened. Three grey guards stood at each side of the archway with their spears held in loose grips.
“I’m surprised Brolli never murdered Jarl Thrand. It seems simple enough.”
“Jarl Thrand isn’t actually here, though,” Ruby replied. “You should probably mind your words as we approach.”
Silence washed over those gathered like a slow wave, weighing the stifling air with silence before it was broken by a solemn declaration. “I, Thorfinn, son of Jarl Thrand, challenge Engli, son of no man I know, to a duel for striking me in my own home without good cause. It should be known that he has come here in the company of Chief Gudmund’s sons,” he added. “Those that herald from the unimportant town known as Horvorr. Yet they assure me that they do not support the cowardly actions of their guard. With that in mind, and in honor of Brikorhaan the Shield Brother, I challenge him to a duel of pairs. Do you accept, Horvorrian?”
“I do,” Engli’s words were barely loud enough to be heard.
“Get of my way,” Hjorvarth growled, pushing folk aside. He met threats with a lifeless glare that robbed them of further protest.
“Is there any man here who wishes to fight with Engli?” Thorfinn continued.
Hjorvarth had sight of the storehouses and stables now. Engli and Thorfinn stood amid a clearing in the crowd, facing one another. Thorfinn wore a gleaming shirt of chain that seemed to match the hue of his hair and his red-and-gold clothes. The only other three folk so separated were the children of Chief Gudmund.
“I will,” Agnar declared. “And let it never be said that I am not a charitable man.”
Thorfinn met the words with a thin smile. “You have no weapon.”
“True.” Agnar knitted his brows, then spun to Gudmund. “Brother?”
Gudmund drew his sword, offering it to Agnar. “He may borrow my father’s sword.”
Thorfinn’s mirth twisted to hatred then to resignation. “Fortunate it is that my attacker has at least one—two—friends in this world. As well as a whore to call his own.”
“Tall talk is for small men,” Engli answered. “I would know.”
Thorfinn glared, then smiled in benevolent fashion. “Who here wishes to fight alongside Thorfinn, son of Jarl Thrand?” He seemed to bathe in the dozen shouts that went out in answer, then turned his gaze towards the huge brute at the edge of the crowd. “What about you, big man? Do you not wish to honor yourself?”
Hjorvarth shrugged, appearing wild and shabby among those gathered. “I am a man of Horvorr’s Guard. And I do not believe that you would choose anyone other than those in your employ. In honest truth, I do not expect that you can truly count upon any man unless his purse is weighed by your gold. That and besides, you will not win regardless of who you choose to fight with you. Brikorhaan will not allow it.”
Atsurr stepped forward, armour rattling now he drew his sword. “Do you presuppose to speak for a god, Horvorrian? Do you dare to insult the rulers of this city while standing within the walls of their home?”
“I spoke the truth as I see it, Atsurr,” Hjorvarth’s words were cold, hinting not at all towards the fear rising inside of him. “You are well known to me as a respected fighter. So I will gladly duel you in Broknar’s honor to divine who holds the true truth.”
Thorfinn moved to block the armored man. “This not the time nor the place, Atsurr. If you wish to fight, you can fight with me.”
Atsurr stepped back, and bowed. “Of course. I will gladly fight by your side.”
Hjorvarth winced, having hoped to prevent exactly that.
Agnar raised his brows, and walked to stand beside Engli. “I suppose we ought to get to the fighting.” He appeared the least prepared of them all, wearing only a weapon belt with his dark leggings and green shirt. “Have we any priests to stand as witness?”
The purple-robed man from before stepped out ahead of Hjorvarth. “Yes,” he announced. “By Muradoon’s Bright Eye, I declare this duel sanctified and begun. Spirit Talker take your souls should you fall here.”
“Not exactly the god I was hoping for,” Agnar muttered, switching with the short blond man so that he faced Thorfinn instead of the armored guard.
Atsurr strode ahead of the son of Jarl Thrand, and readied his weapon.
Agnar smiled, turning once more, then charged forward with a two-handed grip on his sword. He brought down a savage cut that sliced the air where Atsurr had stood, leaving Agnar unbalanced before a metal heel struck his side. “That was foolish,” he thought, waiting to be hacked across the back as he rolled clear, but swords clashed beside him instead. He got to his feet in time to leap back from a wild swing of Thorfinn’s sword.
Behind Agnar, Engli staggered back as Atsurr cleaved paint and wood from his shield.
Agnar side-stepped a thrust from Thorfinn, feinted in reply, then ran towards the fighting pair instead. He swept his sword in a horizontal arc towards the armored man and it crashed into the half-turned blade of Atsurr, snapping iron, biting through chain and into the flesh of hips. Atsurr let go of the broken weapon, reaching for a belt dagger, but the flat of Engli’s sword careened into the guard’s helmet.
Agnar smiled, his mirth lapsing now Thorfinn’s pommel struck the back of his skull.
Hjorvarth frowned when Agnar and Atsurr tumbled in unison.
Engli and Thorfinn shared a wary pause, both blond men eyeing their combatants, before the man of Horvorr’s Guard recklessly charged, shoving his battered shield into the son of Jarl Thrand. Thorfinn’s answering strike screeched off the shield boss. He stumbled back, face shocked and his grip limp as his feet went out from under him.
Engli stepped forward, leveling his sword towards the fallen man.
Dozens of grey guards rushed out from the crowd, weapons drawn.
“The duel is won,” the purple-robed man declared. “By Engli of Horvorr, son of no man I know!”
“You have my thanks for that,” Hjorvarth murmured, his voice drowned amid a sea of confused outrage.
“None needed.” The Godi of Muradoon smiled up at him. “Alas, the pretty girl with you stole the ring.”
Hjorvarth reached into his empty belt pouch, then searched the crowd for Ruby.
“She is gone,” the Godi assured. “As we should be as well. Come, Horvorrian. Before they close the gates. Your friends are already well prepared.”
A score of men in brown and green gathered around Geirmund while he knelt down beside an unconscious Agnar. Hjorvarth saw then that most had concealed axes or swords beneath their well worn clothes. Geirmund wasted no time in having them lift his brother from his feet, then they all set swiftly off towards the open gates, forcing their way through the crowd with half-drawn weapons.
Thorfinn followed after them, shouting and red-faced, as his own grey guards flanked his approach. “I demand you stop, son of Gudmund!” he shouted.
Geirmund paused, then turned back to the gates to leave the safety of his men. “To what end? The well is poisoned now, Thorfinn. My sister has no mind to marry you. I will have a messenger sent to agree new terms.”
“This a minor mishap,” Thorfinn dismissed, despite the hatred twisting his face. “Your guards must leave, but that is all. My father would be most displeased if you were to leave this city. He will happily address your concerns without further need of slow communication through unreliable messengers. You sister knows not what she says.”
Geirmund’s smile was cruel and disbelieving. “She said nothing at all, you worm of a man. You struck a woman who would be your wife. You struck my sister,” he added in a snarl. “Thank all the Eleven Elders that I do not kill you were you stand.” His hand brushed over a pommel that was not at his belt. “As I said, a messenger will be sent.”
“You will stay,” Thorfinn hissed, “and you will discuss this with the honor and dignity that is expected from a man of your standing. You are acting like a child.”
“So says the boy that struts like a cock in an effort to impress a mass of fat, garish, fools.” Geirmund ruefully shook his head. “This barbed talk is beneath me. Let us not delay each other any longer. Good day to you, son of Thrand.”
“Do not walk away from me,” Thorfinn snapped, stalking after him. “You are my lesser! If you do not turn to face me, I will bring ruin upon your entire family!”
Geirmund laughed a sad laugh, slowing but not bothering to turn. “Do your worst… coward.” He looked in frustration to Agnar, wondering at the horrified eyes that stared back at him. Geirmund then realized, as time seemed to slow, that all of Horvorr’s Guard wore that same shocked expression and he was likely about to be stabbed in the back.
Geirmund turned, meaning to draw his family sword to parry, but his grip closed on nothing, and he glimpsed little more than a snarling face and a glinting blade.
Flesh then clapped amid a blur of fur and leather.
Bone crunched into stone.
Sudden silence gave way to a confused commotion. A woman screamed out in horror.
Geirmund knew the huge man ahead. Hjorvarth stood frozen, staring blankly down at the broken skull of Thorfinn, whose golden hair had turned a sickly shade of red.
“The Jarl’s son is dead!” Atsurr declared, as the grey guards gathered near the estate gates. “Seize the murderer!”
“Oh.” Geirmund’s mind surged to life. “Draw weapons! Form up! Protect Hjorvarth!”