50. Honourable Combat

“When I next opened my eyes, I lay flat upon my back, staring up at a ceiling that had been blackened by goblin blood and strewn with chunks of thick flesh.

More strangely, I still felt lingering pain. When I managed to stand upright, I realized this was owed to a burn, still flaring, upon the length of my arm. I watched and waited in confusion for the wound to heal as had all my others since I recreated The Alchemist’s formula, but there was nought but a pulsating ache.

‘It worked,’ came the piping voice of Agrak.

He had freed himself from the nearby cavern wall, and stood overlooking his work. The gargantuan goblin had been exploded utterly, leaving only the burnt and broken pieces of hips and thighs, exposed bones jutting up and out of them.

The rest of the hatchling had been scattered across the cavern, rent into countless pieces, ranging from scraps of flesh to severed limbs.

The pain of my arm distracted me, and I was too confused to speak.

The Small King came to stand before me, long claws flexing. ‘Izzig… I think we should leave here. And then you can explain to me how it is we came to be here to begin with.’

‘I…’

Before I could think of an answer in earnest, I noticed movement in the corners of my vision. And watched as the dark blood and scattered flesh were moving of their own accord along the cavern floor. All heading, I realized, to the remnant hips and legs.

The broken pieces slithered into one another, and the ruined corpse of the gargantuan goblin began to reform itself.

‘Oh,’ muttered Agrak. ‘Nevermind, then. But do leave now, Izzig. I will try to bring the roof down over our heads, and there is no sense in you being stuck here with me.’”

Hjorvarth stood in the shadow of monolithic walls, deafened and shaken as the great gate groaned open to reveal blue skies and green fields, which lay dotted with unripe crops and sprawled upon by a wide encampment of hundreds of men and dozens of brown tents. They were so close, so peaceful, that they almost seemed there to defend Timilir.

They were waiting for him though.

Hjorvarth had gotten his way and now he would fight for a city that he was not a part of. He would fight for people he didn’t know, while his own town, his own folk, had suffered because of his absence and, in the case of the miners, for his company.

He could not be certain whether his cause was just, whether he fought for good reasons, or whether he simply feared to submit, to pause, to breathe deep his grief.

He was surrounded on all sides by the sturdy men and women of the Stone Sons, by the grey and gleaming guards of Timilir, by a crowd of folk, most plainly clothed, while more important people travelled at a distance. There were still fears of the Crooked Teeth, still random murders, despite word being spread that those mad men were dead.

Hjorvarth had never been among such a throng of people, never heard such noise, such heat, such fervor for life. And, at the same time, he had never felt more dead or alone.

He had asked Dan to search for those from Horvorr, and left the kobolds in a safe place on Jarl Thrand’s Estate. He thought it an oddity that he had more care for those that looked like hairless rats than for his own kind.

He was not sure, any more, on anything. He convinced himself that this might avoid slaughter, whether mutual or otherwise, and that for him was more than enough. He might lose, despite assurances he made to the others, and he had come to terms with that. Hjorvarth did not fear his own death so long as it happened for good cause.

“You are quiet,” Ulfsteinn mentioned.

“I am,” Hjorvarth agreed.

The great gate groaned to an earthshaking stop. Hundreds of boots crunched in step and the procession marched forward onto fertile ground.

Hjorvarth quickened his pace, passing beyond the Stone Sons, and he embraced the briskness of the cold wind that swept down from mountain ranges at his left.

Sparse trees hissed with the weather while grass writhed around him and fledgling crops danced in the distance. Farmsteads had been surrounded, by armoured men as well as old stone walls, but the folk seemed to be still about their business, tending to animals, keeping company, and carrying spring supplies from one outbuilding to the other. Smoke rose up from dozens of workshops and houses but the grey was soon twisted away with the weather.

Scores of soldiers were arrayed ahead of the encampment, most wearing mail armour over brown leather and green wool. They had swords sheathed and weapons slung but the Stone Sons still seemed to ready themselves for a coming charge.

Hjorvarth rested his hand on the axe at his belt, then he waited for Jarl Thrand, Fati, and Ekkill to join him before the four of them marched forward. They were matched in number by the men that stepped ahead of the Low King’s encampment, though those men seemed like brothers to one another, bearing the same strides and similar appearances, while Hjorvarth felt a man apart from his disparate company.

Hjorvarth tried to fall into line as the seven others started shifting positions.

He ended up at the second to right, beside Jarl Thrand. Ekkill then Fati stood to his left. The skinniest man from those approaching came to face Ekkill, while a man in leather stood opposite Fati. The armoured warrior had been set to meet with Hjorvarth, but he swapped with the Low King before they slowed to a stop.

Jarl Thrand’s young visage turned grim. “You insult me, already, King Hagni.”

The Low King chuckled. “It is a long time since a man of the stone city has called me that.” He paused. “No insult was meant, Thrand the Younger. I chose to face the man that faces me.” He frowned at Hjorvarth. “This is your nephew, is it not? This is the man that will fight on your behalf?”

“This man is not my nephew,” Jarl Thrand replied. “He murdered my brother. He simply wishes to fight on my behalf.”

“If he is not your blood then he cannot fight.”

“You specified that the duel would be to the death.”

The Low King laughed in derision. “I said it would be a contest of blood, of lineage, of family. Not a contest of spilling blood. I will have no forced death in my name.” He scowled. “Is this man not the son of Sibbe the Snow Maiden?”

“That was my mother’s name,” Hjorvarth answered.

“And Isleif the Bard?”

“Yes.”

“Then he is of your blood, Thrand the Younger,” said The Low King. “No matter how your father might have denied the fact.”

Jarl Thrand shook his head. “My father was a good and honest man.”

King Hafni’s dark eyes widened in delight. “That there is a lie so grave it would make the Lady weep in her Shadows.”

Jarl Thrand grew tense, one palm resting on his sword. “You mean to fight yourself, Low King?”

“That depends,” Hafni mused, “have you now decided to wield your own sword?” He waited for the answering nod. “Then I will fight in pairs. I will not go so far as to embarrass myself by cutting down one barely grown.” He turned to the man in armour. “Ketill, my old friend, are you keen for one last duel?”

Ketill’s smile was slight. “I am, King Hafni.”

Jarl Thrand stood silent, not in patience, but as if a war of reckless emotions roiled inside to mirror the whistling twists of the wind-whipped grasses.

Hjorvarth cleared his throat. “I will gladly stand beside you, Jarl Thrand of Timilir.”

“A noble gesture,” Ekkill enthused.

“Jarl Thrand?” Fati pressed. “Do you accept…?”

Jarl Thrand still held tight to his sword as he turned to Hjorvarth. “Do you believe that my father was a bad man?”

“I knew your father even less than I knew the Jarl of Timilir.” Hjorvarth struggled to provide the affirmation sought without telling a plain lie. “If I were to judge him by his son, then I would do so favorably. If I were to guess at his nature then I would say he would be shrewd enough to accept my help,” he added, “regardless of whether or not my mind walked in step with his own. In honest truth, I think the question is meant for yourself. Do you think that I would care at all if you, or anyone, thought my father was fit for the Lady’s Shadow?”

“Isleif was a hero,” the Low King assured, now standing further away with his three companions.

Jarl Thrand sighed. “I will not—I cannot,” he amended, “fight alongside the man that killed my brother.”

“Then I will make one last offer to fight alone,” Hjorvarth replied. “At least then, one of your enemies will be bested here no matter the outcome. If you die now, I will go on living my life, and so will the Low King.”

“Jarl Thrand,” Ekkill’s tone had lost all sense of joviality. “Your father would not shy away from sending Gudmund, or even Brolli the Black, to fight on his behalf. Atsurr would not have even flinched if asked to fight beside them. You were quick to anger when the Low King called you a youth and now you stand and act as a child.”

“And if he wins?” Jarl Thrand asked. “Will he simply fade out of memory?”

Hjorvarth shrugged. “I am of the Brotherhood of Brikorhaan and I have been tasked to fight on your behalf. What more do your people need to know than that? The Low King has agreed to face me under false belief.”

“I have never heard of your brotherhood,” Fati mentioned.

“That is because it has not yet been made.”

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“And will you renounce all blood claims to my city?” Jarl Thrand asked.

“I have none, but I renounce them all the same,” Hjorvarth assured. “By all Eleven Elders, I swear that.”

“Then as Jarl of Timilir I will offer you a chance at freedom. Win this duel for me, for the people of the stone city, and you will be cleared of all crimes. You will be rewarded for arranging a peace with the kobolds.”

“If we are bargaining,” Hjorvarth replied. “Then I wish for Sybille, Engli, Anna, and Arfast to be safeguarded. I wish for all of Southwestern Tymir to be recognized as belonging to Jarl Sybille, free of Timilir’s stewardship, and I want you to swear that no reprisals will be made for those her father murdered at your estate.”

“Done,” Jarl Thrand readily answered. “Done, even if you lose. I swear that by Broknar and Muradoon both.”

“We are agreed, then.”

“We are. So long as you fight in honour of Ouro.”

***

Hjorvarth stared down at grass that glistened with blood.

A circle had been marked out, larger than normal to accommodate his four opponents, and now he waited. The farmers watched from the modest homesteads, while the soldiers of the Low King stood arrayed ahead of him in an endless horizon of hard faces.

Coin changed hands, and words were shared, as if they were placing bets.

The Low King had not chosen his best warriors, or even a fifth, as was the custom when fighting by Ouro. He had simply asked his three advisers to fight alongside him. Hjorvarth was glad of that, for it bettered his odds, but he still thought it likely that the four men were all competent fighters, and that he himself was badly outmatched.

Folk had come from Timilir by the scores, and they all talked loudly among themselves. Hjorvarth had not turned to see them, but he could feel the reverberation of their conversations and smell, thick in the air, sweat, dirt, and perfume. A stretch of grass separated the gathered crowds, and that stretch was only trod upon by Jarl Thrand.

The young leader stood atop a stone rise to Hjorvarth’s right, his arms sweeping through the air as he span a tale about the purpose of this duel.

He spoke of the goblin threat to the Midderlands, but made no mention as to why it was that Hjorvarth was fighting in honour of Ouro, which would leave them to think it a simple act of arrogance. He would be seen as lucky as well, as though five was the custom with which to fight, none could question it if The Low King had fielded scores more.

Hjorvarth let the words and voices wash over him, let the shared gazes fade away and the movement of the armoured men blend into one another.

The wind had calmed but long tufts of grass still shifted in the wind, and leaves and debris were still ferried through the cold morning air. He was no long certain of his decision. He was not even sure that he wanted to fight men, or fight at all, anymore. Yet he had borrowed weapons from the Stone Sons, and he now stood before gathered thousands while the Jarl of Timilir claimed him as the stone city’s champion.

Hjorvarth could not turn back. He was prepared to die, but he did not want to kill.

He was prepared to lose, but he did not simply wish to give the duel away. That would be a dishonour and betrayal beyond measure. He almost decided to throw his axe at Jarl Thrand the Younger and bring an end to the whole ordeal, but that too would be an act of treachery and cowardice beyond reckoning.

Jarl Thrand’s voice had grown low, the folk around him had quieted, the warriors opposite had grown tense and severe.

Hjorvarth glimpsed a gesture to begin. He stepped into the ring of blood. The four veterans had room to move aside. Three looked the same, two armoured in leather, one in plates and chain, while the Low King now wore little more than a thin white shirt.

Hjorvarth realised, as a bitter gust caused him to shiver, that he had no armour of his own. He readied the axes he had borrowed, one short and single-bladed, the other long and with twin crescents, then clashed them together to announce he was ready to begin.

The four weathered warriors nodded their assent.

They then stepped forward to encircle the huge brute.

Hjorvarth pictured Brolli’s hard face: his dark eyes glimmering and his bearded smirk knowing. ‘You know what to do,’ he would’ve said. Hjorvarth rushed for the Low King.

***

Metal hacked into wood with a crunch that splintered across the silent ground of Ragni’s Gift.

Engli was surprised by how quiet the gathered crowd was, but then he couldn’t really see anything. He had crossed under the shadow of the walls when the duel began, and now he was trying to run around the crowd, breaths haggard, to get his way close to the front. Though that proved harder than he thought because the soldiers and townsfolk closed the gap they had left between them, and so now all he had view of was a wall of men taller than he was.

For a brief moment, he recognized a young man with a soot-stained face and cold fear surged through his veins, but then he blinked and the figure was gone.

Shouts went out, some wordless, others between gruff men.

“Yield!” Engli’s hopes were lifted by the familiar deep voice. “Yie—”

A man snarled. Wood split with a crack and metal clanged as if axe against axe.

Engli lifted his shield from his back and tried to push his way through the crowd.

He staggered when a sturdy old woman fought back, then he lost his footing, and he was almost trampled underfoot.

Engli struggled back up, holding his ground now the folk shifted around him.

He had a fleeting worry of what would happen if the Low King decided to order a slaughter of all the spectators. Wood crunched once more, flesh met flesh with a clap, and then a heavy man collapsed into the grass.

“The duel is done!” a proud voice declared.

Engli had sight of the small rise where stood Young Thrand.

He was looking down in disappointment and confusion.

Engli heard the same feeling in the loud words spoken around him, and had the terrible fear that Hjorvarth was dead. He shouldered through the crowd now they began to step back and break apart, and he stumbled forward into the long grass. A huge man lay face forward ahead of him, an axe buried into his back. “No.”

The Low King was standing, muttering to three other bruised and bleeding men.

“No,” Engli said again, scrambling towards his fallen friend. “Hjorvarth!”

“Yes?” Hjorvarth’s boots shook and then the huge man started to paw against the grass. He struggled up to his knees and then to his feet. He was scowling when he turned. “What—Oh, Engli. Good to see you, my friend. I—”

“You’re not dead?” Engli frowned. “You’ve got an axe in your back.”

Hjorvarth shrugged. “The shield took most the blade. If I was dead, I doubt they would have declared me the winner.”

“But…” Engli recognized the concern in the Low King’s face, shared by his advisers, and by his gathered fighters. He turned to the people of the stone city to see their disappointment was mingled with relief. Jarl Thrand the Younger still stood on the rise, but Ekkill and Fati and Luta had come to congratulate him and were smiling.

“I suppose they wanted to see more blood,” said Hjorvarth. “But I did not. And I won without butchering men.”

He laughed a joyous laugh that shook the air and verged on madness.

The Low King shook his head at the huge man. “No need to boast.”

“I meant no disrespect,” Hjorvarth respectfully assured.

The Low King disagreeably grunted, and led his companions towards the nearby sprawl of tents. “If that’s true, then you should follow.” He spared a cold look for Jarl Thrand. “You as well, Thrand the Younger.”

***

Hjorvarth felt uneasy in the wide woven tent of the Low King, and regretted not bringing his weapons. The air was cold, more so than outside, and charged with tension. He had come along with Jarl Thrand while the others had stayed behind.

They were two men, in a camp of countless enemies, facing four.

There lay a low table to their left, with no chairs, nor even any rugs to soften the earth, and a high-backed chair opposite the tent flap, which fluttered like a wing in the wind.

“What is it you want?” Jarl Thrand asked. The young man kept one hand on his sword, and his words were edged both by fear and anger. “I was offered a duel. I accepted. I have come here under your safeguard and now you stare and look at us in silence as if you’re intent on senseless violence.”

The Low King still wore his white shirt, stained by red. “That is not true.”

“Then speak of your intent.”

“I had meant,” he said, striding closer, “that you are not under safeguard.”

Jarl Thrand stepped back when the Low King swept closer. He tried to draw his sword, stopped by a hand, and coughed when the Low King punched him in his chest.

Jarl Thrand fell to one knee, blood spilling down his black jacket.

Hjorvarth blinked, watching the man’s pleading eyes in confusion.

“By your own word,” the Low King said, “the man you chose was not of your family. And the answer to that, in our ways, is to pay in the blood you failed to offer up before. There was no safeguard, because you acted in poor faith, and all of that was made plain in the speech you gave to all the folk of Timilir.”

He kicked Jarl Thrand in the head, and then smiled regretfully at Hjorvarth. “As to you, son of Isleif. Set your anger aside… this man was dead no matter what you did. It was fated. But that need not be your fate. Not if you hear me out and accept my offer.”

Hjorvarth felt the fire of rage writhe inside of him.

“I wish for you to rule the stone city in my stead,” the Low King explained. “I will make your claim by blood plainly know, and you will have to marry Jarl Thrand’s daughter to reduce the likelihood of uprising.” The Low King upturned his palms. “I have discussed this with her already, and—”

“You broke faith,” Hjorvarth growled.

The Low King, and his three advisers, grew wary. “I never swore him safety, Hjorvarth. My death, the death of any man, cannot bring him back.”

Hjorvarth shook with a sickening anger. “You are a coward.” He curled his fingers into fists. “I spared each of you in the duel. I offered you a chance at peace. Jarl Thrand came here under pretense of safety and you murdered him.”

“Hjorvarth, son of Isleif,” the Low King warned in a loud voice. “I accept your rejection of my offer. I have misjudged your leanings, and now grant you a chance to leave my encampment in peace. You are outnumbered, outarmed, and outmatched,” he gravely reminded. “Your death will accomplish nothing.”

“Nothing?” Hjorvarth grated. “I look upon nothing! I look upon a coward monarch! I look upon a man who has no word, courage or honour. You are not fit to speak of worth, King Hafni. You are not fit to rule. You are not fit for the sun on your back or the wind in your hair. You, stranger, will—” he stepped back as the others surged forward, grabbing Gisli by the arm and stretching it loose from its socket— “end” — he tossed Gisli into Gnupa, while suffering the very limits of Ketill’s horizontal swing, and stepped into reach to break his knuckles against the man’s helm — “your days” — he turned to see the Low King’s thrust, side stepping, driving his boot into the monarch’s knee — “in shadows!”

The Low King screamed now his leg crumpled under him. “You are making a mistake!”

“The mistake was yours.”

Hjorvarth stomped on the man’s head. He heard the spine break and sickness surged within him. He then turned to the unmoving body of Jarl Thrand, and lifted him carefully from the blood stained floor.

Two guards marched under the tent flap, drawing swords. “Stop where you are, Horvorrian!”

Ketill and Gnupa had both risen. They looked to one another, to their fallen king, and then to Hjorvarth.

Hjorvarth met their judgement without sympathy. “The Low King murdered a safeguarded man. Cut me down as you please, but I am in the right here. And I will be free from Broknar’s judgement when that time comes.” He scowled when they offered no answer. “Well…? What are you men to do without your master?” he demanded. “Will you march upon the stone city while the gates lay open? Will you try to avenge him by bringing slaughter upon those who have nought to do with my own actions—my actions that were well within justification?”

Gnupa’s aged face creased in skepticism. “What will you do…?”

“I wish a peaceful life with little or no responsibility. I wish to take the Jarls’s body back to be burned so that I can leave Timilir. I wish not to have to kill any other man. I wish peace for our people, and I cannot even fathom why you would want to bring war upon Timilir when all Tymirians are already suffering from monsters and worse.”

“You will not become the Jarl?” Gnupa asked in disbelief.

“Luta is welcome to it.”

Ketill slammed his sword into its scabbard. “Escort this man, and Jarl Thrand’s body, back to the stone city. Inform the camp that Jarl Thrand and the Low King have slain each other in a private duel. As such, we will be honoring the borders as they currently stand. Have the men prepared to return to their homes. Bring word to the Low King’s son that he is now ascended to his father’s seat and we will all support him in his claim.”

The guards seemed to hesitate, eyes resting on the twisted neck of their fallen monarch. “It will be done.”