51. Breaking Through

“We have had to slaughter our oxen and leave our carts behind. Snow falls heavier and heavier, and the winds are lashing men with frostbite. We number in the hundred, all the cowards and brigands have abandoned us. We would have died two nights ago were it not for the troll hunters, Toki and Tofi, who laid waste to two dozen of the hungry creatures before we broke through.

The men take courage in the twin’s skills, but I see the brothers watch me as if they know of my cargo.”

The folk of Stonefell shivered in the darkness of their richest mine.

It had yielded great veins of ore, and kept families well fed through years of cold winters. They had once took pride in their mine. Now though, as they sheltered inside of it, trapped by their own doings, thirsting for more water than the sparse amount they had taken with them, they began to look upon the place with loathing.

It was no longer a source of wealth, of employ, of hard but good living. But a prison with cold and foreboding walls, with wooden braces that hadn’t managed to uphold the collapse, so the stones had come in a number greater than wanted. And despite the efforts of the miners and their families, despite each stone lifted, or each boulder broken apart for quarry, they had no view of the light outside, no fresh air to breathe.

Worse still, some folk had begun to grow delirious. They had started to tap their picks against the stones of distant tunnels. They would hoot madly in the dark. They would look at people not as folk they knew, but as obstacles to their survival. Of sacks of meat and blood, which wasn’t much for thirst, but it was something. It was better than the drip, drip, drip of a dank cavern wall, or waiting for a heavy enough snow to fall down from the hole in the ceiling, which lit the gaunt, hopeless faces with faint light.

All this had made the mine of Stonefell a gloomy place of desperation, of the fearful old folk, mothers and children, their whimpering, crying, shuffling, their whispering reassurances to one another that they would break through soon, even though all the miners were becoming bone tired; of the miners themselves, the strike of their picks, the grunts of their labor, and the desperate whispers to one another.

“We can do this.”

“We can’t do this.”

“We must do this.”

“What choice do we have?”

“Keep faith for the children.”

“Keep faith for your women.”

“Keep faith in the gods.”

They all feared the growing number of the mad folk, come to think of the tunnels as their own runs, come to think of the darkness as a friend that enveloped them and made them belong. Try as all those of Stonefell might, to tell themselves that they would break through, or that those who had gone mad wouldn’t dare attack all the sane ones huddled near the collapsed entrance, they all truly believed that they were doomed, that this would end not in communal acceptance of a bad death, but rather a savage refusal to yield life, by those who thought it better to just become an animal and be done with it.

Then all those silences were broken, hope ignited, by the muffled noise of a deep voice on the outside of the mine. Hearts soared when others joined that hollowed conversation, when stone rattled and grated on both sides of the collapse.

“They’ve come to save us!”

“We’re saved!”

“Thank the gods!”

“Never mind thanking the gods. We don’t even know who it is.”

“Who else would it be? It’s Horvorr.”

“Gudmund’s honoured his promises.”

“That bastard has no honour.”

“Mind your words.”

“You mind yours.”

“Enough bickering,” a young child chided. “Babes are trying to sleep.”

Men grumbled in unison, and went back to hauling rocks. The strike of a pick rang out.

“Best to get it done,” an old woman said, her strained voice louder in the dank cavern.

Outside, amid the sheltered pass that housed the ruined homes of Stonefell, Hjorvarth stood ahead of the stone and snow that marked the mine’s collapse. His cloak had been woven together by Astrid, so the garment fit him better and was now colored two shades of grey. The air was still, windless, and the sound of scrabbling stones echoed loudly as the two dozen miners of Ilmkleif began their work with well-worn pickaxes.

“Do you even know how to swing a pick?” asked a doubtful voice from behind.

Hjorvarth weighed it in his hands, turning to the old man. “How hard could it be?”

“Easy enough,” Magnus said, “if you’re hoping to throw out your back.” He was wiry built, weathered by the wind, wrapped in a luxurious fur-lined cloak that had been woven black and threaded with a dozen colours. “Why don’t you let me do the swinging, and you can haul the rocks?”

Hjorvarth handed him the pick, and stepped aside to lift a large rock from the ground. As he weaved his way through the folk of Ilmkleif, the rest of the wiry miners set to work breaking apart the rocks and the picks rang out in a clangor.

Hjorvarth slowed to a stop, setting his rock beside the blackened wall of a hut.

“There’s no need to carry it that far,” Bjorn said, his deep blue cloak pinned by a golden broach. Hjorvarth looked up to see a man who shared his hard features and steadiness of gaze. Bjorn appeared at peace in the mountains though, while Hjorvarth felt frustrated by the biting cold and persistent winds. “Astrid told me that I’m going to die,” he spoke the words without inclination. “I’ve never known her to be wrong.”

“Your sister tells odd lies,” Hjorvarth said. “As to the wrongness of it… or otherwise, if you die, you die. Thinking that you will, will only make a truth of the lie.” He shrugged. “Besides, Astrid had me promise that I would protect you.”

“Yes,” came a woman’s sly voice. “I saw that.” Dagny walked over, her wintry clothes trimmed with fur. “She kissed you, didn’t she?”

Hjorvarth sighed, but nodded. “I made no move to encourage her.”

Dagny grinned. “She seems to think you’re going to be wed.”

Hjorvarth’s tailed hair swayed as he shook his head. “She’s only a girl.”

Dagny laughed her surprise. “I think you might be confusing height for age, Hjorvarth. I’ve known plenty of men to take wives younger than her.”

“Take would be the word for it,” Hjorvarth agreed. “I don’t expect to wed any woman at any age. But if I did I would offer marriage, not take a wife.”

“What does it matter if you say it one way or say it the other?” Dagny chided.

“Words are important,” Bjorn said.

Hjorvarth nodded. “He has the right of it.”

“Ah.” Dagny smiled. “And here’s Bjorn. Talking vague talk that others mistake as wisdom.”

“I know little of wisdom,” Jorund said, frustration plain in his deep voice. “I do know that three folk staring at a rock that’s already been moved won’t help to move those that still need to be moved.”

“Sorry, father.” Bjorn bowed his head. “I’ll go help.”

Dagny smiled at Hjorvarth, and slinked away without further word.

Jorund wore only his shirt, a belt, and plain trousers. He looked like his son. Older and harder lived. He showed all the wear of the snowy mountains around him, as Magnus did, but still had the strength and muscle of youth, and more black than grey in his thick hair. “I need to speak with you.”

“Then your need is met.”

Jorund met the answer with an annoyed smile. “I have thought long and hard over what do with you. I came here to help free these people and you would enslave them under your banner. You would lead them to their deaths on a promise of glory in war. But there is no glory in war. There is only blood and death and loss. These people, of Ilmkleif, and of Stonefell—if there are any survivors—deserve better than that. They deserve a chance to live their lives.”

“Unlike those of Horvorr?” Hjorvarth asked.

“Gudmund deserves to die,” Jorund answered. “Those that stand with him will share the same fate.”

Hjorvarth took a deep breath. “As will you, and all those with you. There is nowhere to run. Not North nor East nor West. They will all starve.”

“I can negotiate with Lazarus. I can make—”

“Peace?” Hjorvarth asked, his anger rising. “Is that your plan? You would buy your survival at the cost of the blood of others?”

Magnus had approached in his colourful cloak. “Our ancestors lived alongside the goblins far longer than we’ve lived under Gudmund. He doesn’t belong.”

“They tried to kill you!” Hjorvarth rebuked. “They will slaughter you all!”

“There are no certainties,” Jorund plainly agreed. “Not with my way. But with yours there are. Certainty of suffering. Of blood. Of death.”

Hjorvarth frowned. He looked around the ruined village, seeing that all had fallen quiet and the work to open the mine had paused. All eyes, their gazes harsh and suspicious, had come to rest on his grey-cloaked shoulders. “Have you all lost your wits? Have you all lost your courage?” he asked, accusations echoing across the mountainous basin. “Is Ilmkleif naught but a gathering of treacherous cowards?”

He glanced back at the sound of footfalls and found himself very nearly surrounded, grips tight around picks and knives. A cruel and disbelieving laugh rang out from Hjorvarth. “You have but a moment to step back! Draw weapons and you all die!”

The threat seemed to have the opposite effect. The miners raised their weapons.

“Enough,” Bjorn warned, one hand wrapped around an unslung war hammer. He stepped into the circle of men, putting his back to Hjorvarth. “Get away from him. You are free to leave, Hjorvarth. I will accompany you as far as you need.” He scowled at his father. “Forgotten the old ways, have you, Jorund? Have all of you?”

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“The Old Enemy walked into our home,” Jorund replied with all conviction. “I have remembered the old ways. I have been reminded. The Small King lives.”

“The Small King lives,” the miners intoned.

Bjorn shook his head. “You’ve all lost your damn minds. I should’ve left with Gunnar.”

“Be gone, then, heathen!” Magnus snapped. “We’ve no need for you here. The Old Enemy supports Gudmund. He befriended the man you now defend.”

“I have no need of defense.” Hjorvarth drew his runic axe. “But if you now all stand before me as foes of Horvorr then you are the one’s endangered.”

“So you would murder us all?” Jorund asked. “Will you go back to Ilmkleif to kill the women and children as well?”

“Enough of this,” Bjorn pleaded. “Hjorvarth. There is no gain in spilling blood here. You would only make a truth of my sister’s prediction.”

Hjorvarth considered the words. He then turned towards the sloping road that led through the mountains and down to Horvorr. The miners moved to block his way, knives and picks ready to hand, their gazes without warmth.

“I have no wish for violence,” he said, even as he considered the many ways he might have to brutally fight his way out of this. “But I see that I am not wanted here. So I will return to my family and you can all return to yours.”

“No,” Magnus said. “You can go further into the mountains or you can fight through us. I won’t have you helping Gudmund.”

“He is but one man,” Bjorn reasoned. “This is madness. Why are you all acting as rabid animals?” He turned to his father. “Or is that truly what you are?”

“You’ve chosen your side, son,” Jorund replied. “So take the path offered you or die for no reason at all.”

Hjorvarth moved so quickly, cloak sweeping upward, that the miners could only freeze upon understanding his action. The blade of his runic axe pressed against the wrinkled flesh of Magnus’s neck. “Lucky for you that I have killed enough men for a lifetime,” he growled. “That I had a revelation mid-swing and managed to bring my arm to a halt before this blade hewed clean through your shrivelled neck. I will take the path offered me. I will travel further into the mountains. I will do so spilling no more blood than that which now trickles from your flesh. And I would beg that you do not force me towards self defense. Or the rage I now suffer will be made absolute.”

He withdrew the blade, and turned away from Magnus and Jorund. There were those among the miners who did not want to let the huge warrior go, but he radiated baleful wrath and his pale eyes trembled with murderous rage.

Hjorvarth marched forward, and the miners all found themselves stepping aside.

Bjorn, after exchanging harsh words with Dagny, caught up with him soon enough.

Hjorvarth slowed at his approach, glancing back to see that the miners had begun clearing the mine once more. He regarded the young mountaineer for a brief moment. “You have my honest thanks for your help. But you need not waste your life accompanying me. Go back to your father and I am sure he will receive you gladly.”

Bjorn met the words with a regretful shake of his head. “When I next see my father, I will have no choice but to kill him.”

“Why?”

“Jorund of the Hill, of the old ways, beds all women in his home,” he answered. “I will do so for the sake of my sisters.”

“Then we should turn back now.”

“Dagny can manage,” Bjorn assured. He stared down at the snow for a long while. “So did your courage fail you,” he asked, looking up, “or do you truly wish to go further into the mountains?”

“Fear did not stay my hand,” Hjorvarth replied. “I simply had no great urging to make a village of widows and orphans. But, yes, I wish to go further. I know a group of armed men who should have gone this way. They worked for Brolli but I have yet to find their corpses or cart. Thus they must still be ahead of us.”

Bjorn slowly nodded. “Given all that happened, you seem remarkably calm.”

“I have oft been told I have an unreadable face. But I can say with all severity, had you not intervened then all of Ilmkleif would have found their death.” Hjorvarth took a deep breath, pulling his grey cloak tighter about his great shoulders. “Let us move quickly now. And pray to all the gods that the next folk we meet are not as mad as the last.”

***

Hjorvarth and Bjorn had not paused in their journey, had shared few words, and the sun had since set, leaving their surroundings far colder and far darker.

The mountainous path they followed grew ever more narrow, so much so that they would brush shoulders were they to walk alongside one another. Still, there was no place to build a fire and no wood to burn, so sleeping seemed a needless risk and they continued on by the faint light of the stars.

“Hjorvarth.”

“Bjorn?”

“Do you ever wonder what the point of life is?”

Hjorvarth hesitated. “I don’t understand the question.”

“Well I’ve been walking, and thinking. And I may well kill my father… but what then?”

“Take care of Astrid and Dagny until they find suitable husbands?” Hjorvarth eventually reasoned. “Find a woman yourself?”

Bjorn stayed silent now they made slower progress forward. “Is that what you’ll do?”

“Me?” Hjorvarth asked. “I intend to take care of my father.”

“He is an old man?”

“He is.”

“And when he dies?” Bjorn asked.

“I will burn him.”

“And when you’ve finished grieving?”

“I expect I will stay on Horvorr’s Guard until I die,” Hjorvarth answered. “Though that depends whether I’m allowed. Gudmund may exile me upon my return.”

“And what would you do then?”

Hjorvarth made a disagreeable grunt. “I am not a man who likes to think ahead.”

“Do you plan to get married?”

“I do not,” Hjorvarth eventually answered.

“Why?”

“I do not see myself as a capable husband. Or father,” Hjorvarth added. “So I would avoid both roles and burden neither wife nor child.”

“So you will live alone and fight until you die?”

Hjorvarth sighed in discontent. “Is there really any need for these questions?”

“I suppose not,” Bjorn admitted. “I was simply curious. And I grew tired of walking in silence.”

“I can tell you a story if you like.”

“Go ahead.”

“I once worked for a gang of criminals known as the Black Hands,” Hjorvarth began. “And, one night, I was given the task of escorting a strongbox breaker to a guarded estate so that we might rob the place of the jewels held there. The man with me, who was meant to break the safe, seemed unduly nervous. I—” Hjorvarth paused. “Torches.”

A score of armed and armoured figures approached from the narrow mountain path, wreathed within ruddy air made misty by the coldness of the night.

“They’re men,” Bjorn said.

“Hjorvarth?” an old voice called. “Hjorvarth!”

“Hjorvarth!” came a gruffer voice, followed by a deep laugh. “Did Brolli send you?”

Hooves clopped and metal rattled now the ox-led wagon drew to a halt.

The lean beast huffed mist.

“He did not.” Hjorvarth stopped when he recognised the rough fighters as men who worked for Brolli. “Why are you all traveling by night?”

“Weapon shipment,” answered their sturdy blond leader, Asgeir, who had one scarred eye sewn closed. “We’re running a bit late. Bad enough that we just spent the last weeks fighting for our lives, we had to fix the cart and bring the weapons or else Brolli would finish the job that the goblins started.”

“You’ve got a cart full of old weapons?” Hjorvarth asked.

“Aye.” Asgeir nodded. “Another cache of Timilir’s finest, courtesy of Jarl Thrand’s contributions to the war.”

“The old war,” Hjorvarth corrected. “Southwestern Tymir is under threat from a goblin horde. I came here to search out survivors to help defend Horvorr.”

“What was that?” an old fighter asked.

Asgeir dismissed the question with a gesture. “We’ll stop here for a short while! I need to talk a few things through with Hjorvarth.”

Bjorn waited near the cart, making small talk, while Asgeir and Hjorvarth walked out of earshot.

“So,” Asgeir began, “I’m not too glad to hear about the goblins but that doesn’t explain why you’re out here on your own.”

“I was more or less exiled.”

Asgeir blinked. “For what?”

“Brolli is dead,” Hjorvarth explained in a sober tone. “I stood accused of his murder.”

“I don’t—” Asgeir scowled. “Is this some sort of odd dream? Goblin hordes and now this. There’s a lot of people who would kill him. But not you.”

“I will never wake from this,” Hjorvarth assured. “I attacked him in his home. Kicked him the back as he sat in the taproom. I had him on the floor but I was knocked senseless. I woke, bound, on the embankments of the lake.” He sighed. “Brolli was kicked in the water by some robed stranger who had come to meddle in our affairs. He had a hold of my hair, and I was dragged in with him. So I may not have killed him. But I am by my own account the one who is most to blame for his death.”

Asgeir’s scarred face was shrouded in shadows. He had reached for a knife. “Why’d you attack him?”

“If I could answer to your satisfaction, I would.” Hjorvarth suffered anguish. “I take it you’re sworn to revenge Brolli?”

“I am.” Asgeir nodded more than he needed to. “And he swore me to protect you as well, should Muradoon ever take him.” He glanced back at his fighting men, then shook his head in frustration. “Why? With all the folk that hated him, why would it be you? Isleif would be dead if it wasn’t for Brolli. You would just be some huge fool without sense or skill to make a real living. Do you deny that, lad?”

“I do not. But I thought he murdered Sam,” Hjorvarth’s deep voice reverberated with misery. “And Ivar was laughing at me. And he showed me a letter written in blood by another man’s hand. And all I could think of was how Sam had been worried by Brolli’s threats, and how I had told him that he was at no risk. At no risk at all,” he shakily repeated. “That his death was my fault. And I had sworn to revenge him.” He frowned as if deeply confused. “But he wasn’t dead, Asgeir. He had simply left for Fenkirk without giving word. And Brolli tried to tell me that, but I wouldn’t listen.” He swallowed. “I would make no claim to deserving my life. And I will not even move to defend myself so long as you swear to safeguard my companion.”

“So I should kill you, then?” Asgeir reasoned. “If you think you deserve to die?”

“I make no judgement on that,” said Hjorvarth. “But you are sworn to attack me and I do not value my life above yours.”

Asgeir stared for a long while, and sighed. He gripped the knife, flipped it, then handed it over. “If you ever live to old age, or if you’re wounded badly enough that you want to die, then you stab yourself with this. And that’s as close as I’ll get to keeping both oaths.”

Hjorvarth took the knife in exchange for his own. “The odds of either seem slim. But you have my word that this is the knife I’ll use.”

“Good,” Asgeir replied. “But don’t confuse this for forgiveness. You’ve betrayed the man that raised you. A man who wouldn’t want you dead. Understand?”

“All too well.”

“Good,” Asgeir said again. “Now you said you’re searching for survivors?”

“Yes.”

“None at Stonefell?”

“Those of Ilmkleif travelled there, and then threatened to kill me if I did not leave. They mean to negotiate a peace with the goblins.”

“Lady take them,” Asgeir muttered. “But those Stonefell folk will no doubt lean the same way. They’ve all got long histories.” He stood silent for a time. “So did you slaughter them or what? And who’s the man with you?”

“I left before things became violent,” Hjorvarth answered. “Bjorn was with the miners. He didn’t agree with the decision to side with goblins.”

“Right.” Asgeir nodded. “Now let’s say there’s a village trapped by goblins further into the mountains. You think we should go back and save them?”

“How far?”

“Not far,” Asgeir replied with some shame. “We left them this morning. We were desperate and we figured they’d not bother us if we left the villagers behind. I was going to send for help, of course, but by what you’ve said, doesn’t sound like there’s any help to be had. Only problem is my men don’t want to go back. And, even if they did, we’d be in for a hard fight. Add to that the villagers might already be dead, and we may as well head straight for Horvorr. Get behind the walls.”

Hjorvarth nodded. “I will march the way you’ve come until I find them.”

“Not exactly a fight a man can handle on his own.”

“Then you and your men can accompany me or I will have to manage against unfavorable odds.”

Asgeir scrutinised the huge warrior. “Not sure I want to follow a man who wants to get himself killed.”

“I have no great urging to die, Asgeir. I only wish to save the people who you abandoned. That is all.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“And why shouldn’t me and mine just go on our way to Horvorr?”

“In all honesty, I can only think of one reason.”

Asgeir hurried after him. “And what’s that?”

“Guilt.”