52. Duels

“Today I watched Brolli duel in an effort to avoid a siege and a slaughter of the Goblins of Horvorr. I had never seen him move with such skill or determination. Brolli collapsed afterwards in absolute triumph, and I thought that he had finally earned himself some measure of peace.

When the gates opened, when Gudmund ordered the slaughter of every goblin there, I watched as all the love Brolli had for his brother died.”

“Where are they?” Dalpho pondered in his cumbersome voice. “No archers. No guards at all.”

“Perhaps the Young Wolf is truly unprepared,” Lazarus replied.

The four hundred and more goblins of the Western Clans had marched out from their camps in the nearby forests, and now they stood, green flesh exposed to the elements, wild eyes narrowed against the wind, sharp teeth bared in excitement, in a disorderly mass that made best effort at restraint.

They would wait until given new orders from the two Great Chiefs ahead of them.

Lazarus’ lithe frame made Dalpho’s blubbery enormity all the more apparent but even the elephantine goblin seemed undersized in the shadow of Horvorr.

The immense logs that encircled the town left no glimpse of the settlement within and extended into the water to cordon the embankments. The main gate was the only break in the ribbed horizon of the sprawling wall.

The goblins gathered felt wonderment or fear about the place, most knowing that it must be a fortress for fearsome giants. Both Great Chiefs had been beyond the wall though, and they knew well enough that it now sheltered the homes of manlings.

“Blow the horns once more,” Lazarus suggested.

“Horns!” Dalpho roared.

A shrill chorus of horns blared up through the chill noon air, swept along in a strong wind with small stones and specks of dust.

The sea of goblins rippled in a shared flinch as the debris hit them.

A fire-haired manling leaned over the parapet. “Heard you the first time!”

Dalpho recognised the proud face, despite tire and age, as the Young Wolf. He raised his enormous hand to call a pause.

Chief Gudmund rubbed his ears now the horns faded.

He saw no more than five hundred of the scrawny goblins, filthy and wretched and fearful. There was no hate there, only the foolish belief that they were standing where they needed to be, doing what they needed to do. He almost wished his own people had the same good sense to do what they were told.

Gudmund would have been relieved by the meager horde, were it not led by a pale goblin layered in scarred flesh. Dalpho seemed no less enormous than the years before: as tall and as wide as most two storey structures, girth greater than that in the hips, where all his fat seemed to gather, his rounded head small enough to be an afterthought. “I saw you drown, whale!”

Dalpho laughed a low, slow laugh. “You saw me swim.”

“Make the offer,” Lazarus instructed.

Gudmund couldn’t hear the words, but wondered why the enormous goblin was paying heed to the ugly little thing at his feet.

“I deliver a message from Lazarus, Chief of Chiefs of the East.” Dalpho cleared his throat, snorting up black phlegm. “Gudmund… Young Wolf turned Old, we have returned from exile to make war on you for your betrayal. Yet I would make an offer you made to our people all those years ago. I will allow you to settle this in a duel. To settle this without needless losses. To settle this with honour. And… win or lose, your people will be granted safe passage to leave this place in peace.”

Gudmund stared down, his white cloak undulating. “Who would fight who?”

“You!” Lazarus clashed his long claws together. “Would fight me!”

Dalpho dipped his fat head. “Chief to Chief!”

“You have my thanks and respect for the offer,” Gudmund declared in all severity. “I would ask for time to consider.”

“Granted,” Dalpho bellowed. “But I would not wait too long. The Eastern Clans approach, and when they arrive this offer will be no longer be extended to you or your people. We will break your gates, and grant them only death. By claw, by fangs, by fire.”

“Gahr’rul spoke the same threat!” Gudmund smiled down at them, before he ambled away from the wall-walk.

“You should not fight him,” Dalpho urged Lazarus. “We will send another in your place.”

“Was it not you who declared Chief to Chief?” Lazarus asked. “I am his match and more.”

“Grallug thought much the same. He moved twice as quickly as the Young Wolf, had twice his strength, and bore the wounds of a hundred duels. Yet he fell all the same. Whether by magic or luck, I know not. But I do know that the Young Wolf has fought many a time against his betters, and each time he has won. Not as the Black Heart won his duels, with violence and savagery, or as the One Swing, with endless effort and courage, but as a man who seems only to face his opponents on their worst days.”

“Magic?” Lazarus shook his skullish head. “No magic will stop me from bringing an end to this enemy.”

“Let me fight for you,” Dalpho pressed. “Or let me choose a Chief in my own stead.”

“I would rather lose my life than yours.” Lazarus paced about his friend’s fat feet. “Would that Balluk were here,” he mused. “I could send him to fight and be as happy with victory as I would be with loss.” He turned back to the gathered goblins, rigid and unmoving despite the wind and the cold. “Look at the discipline you inspire. If you were to fall, then all would be lost.”

Dalpho stared at the tall walls that once protected the place he knew as home. “I have stood for many years. I have lived most of those in exile, hiding as only a coward could. You spared me of that, Lazarus. Thus you lay claim to all that there is to lose. I will not stand by and watch you die at the sullied hands of Gudmund of Horvorr.”

***

Hjorvarth waited with his shield ready and his runic axe gripped.

The rough fighting men of Asgeir’s band had gathered nearby, more anxious and less enthusiastic. Bjorn felt as nervous as they appeared, but stood stolid at Hjorvarth’s side. They were nestled in a mountainous recess, waiting for Asgeir and another man to return from a stone rise that had vantage over the goblins they sought; those that had blocked off the escape for trapped villagers, but had not had the courage to attack Asgeir’s group when they fled tight-ranked about their cart.

The men had view of the setting sun, soon to pass over the rock faces that walled the mountainous path. The dusky light lent hues both gold and pink to melting snow, glistening icicles, and rugged stone.

“He’s been too long,” a young man whispered to his larger, hoary companion. “What do we do if he doesn’t come back?”

“We would go forward blindly,” Hjorvarth answered for him. “Asgeir may have slipped and fallen, and I’ve no mind to wait. That and besides, if he has, then he might be wounded and alive, so we would need to go and save him.”

The band showed no enthusiasm towards either idea. They grew as wary of the grey-cloaked man at their backs as they were of the wintry trail ahead of them. Asgeir crested the mountain then though, a brown-haired youth behind him, and both soon began a descent of the stone slope. The fighting men sighed in relief, some grumbling knowingly towards those who had doubted Asgeir’s return, even though they all saw no true reason to have come here in the first place. They were men better suited to fighting, no denying, but just because they were the best folk for the work didn’t mean they had any reason at all to risk their lives for those they’d already abandoned.

Asgeir quickened his pace now he approached, brushing dirty hands down his leather jerkin. He clapped a few men on the back, nodded and grinned to others, then walked beyond his group. Hjorvarth and Bjorn traded unknowable glances, and followed him out of earshot. “Well,” Asgeir said, “there’s a lot more goblins than I remember. Over four score, and now there’s two big goblins instead of one.”

“We’ll kill five each then,” Hjorvarth said. “Where’s the problem?”

Asgeir frowned. “The problem would be that four against one is bad odds for any band of men. We might win, but Muradoon would take over a dozen, and you’d have more than that wounded. What good does this do if we all come out as corpses at the end of it?”

Hjorvarth regarded the fighter without warmth. “I thought you were with me?”

“I am,” Asgeir answered with annoyance. “But I’m not going to die for no sake at all.”

“We could challenge them,” Bjorn mentioned in his thoughtful voice. “Single combat. Chief to Chief… but all of Asgeir’s men would have to be with you to witness it, or they’d see no honour in the challenge.”

“Honour?” Asgeir scowled. “If we walk up to them they’ll swarm us, and then they’ll break open our heads with stones.”

Bjorn slowly shook his head. “I am sure that they will allow you a duel. I’m not sure whether you could win… if it helps then I will go and approach them on my own, and ask the Chiefs if they are willing. At worst they’ll kill me, and you’ll be at a distance to get back to better ground and fight a retreat through the pass.”

“And in this mad world of yours, what happens if he wins?” Asgeir asked. “They just clap us on the backs and let us on our way? Or are they going to stand there and applaud us while we hack them to pieces?”

Hjorvarth studied the black-haired mountaineer, then turned to the blond fighting man. “Will your men follow us?”

Asgeir rolled his eye in frustration, looking back at his men, who had now gathered around the brown-haired youth. The wide-eyed scout spoke in a fearful tone, and all those who listened cast suspicious glances at Asgeir. “I’ll see what I can do.”

***

“You are acting out of your mind,” Asgeir hissed, trying to block Hjorvarth’s way as he marched closer to the mountainous clearing where the goblins had gathered. “My men will not go. This will not work. So we should go back and march on our own to Horvorr.”

“I must admit,” Bjorn strode behind them both, appearing regal in his deep blue cloak. “I do not think they will accept your challenge. Not as a man alone, no matter how big you are. Perhaps we should—”

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“What?” Hjorvarth stopped, staring back at him through the dusky light. “Leave these folk to die?” He shook his head. “I will challenge the biggest among them, and once I kill it the rest will run. I saw as much when I fought Ragadin.”

“Ragadin?” Bjorn asked. “You’re the Slayer of Ragadin?”

“I helped to kill a goblin who had that name.”

“Oh.” Bjorn nodded as if in estimation. “Then this should work fine.”

“Are you two mad?” Asgeir growled, sweeping out a hand to encompass the abandoned pass around them. “My men are not coming. You’re both going to die, even if you can challenge them to single combat, even if you win the duel.” He shook his head. “I might have sworn try to keep you safe, Hjorvarth—and I know you, and I like you—but I won’t follow you to a pointless death.”

“You are a still man of your word, Asgeir.” Hjorvarth dipped his head in respect. “You have done all you could to keep me safe. And I wish you only the best luck until we meet again in Ouro’s Belly.”

“You should wait,” Asgeir said, “to give me more time to convince my men, or to see if any of the goblins leave or start to fight amongst themselves. If we could catch them as they’re attacking… if we could pick them off slow, then my men might take the risk.”

Hjorvarth met the sentiment with a broad smile that made his pale eyes seem kind. “I can suffer much, but not delay.”

He swept around and marched forward.

Bjorn bowed to Asgeir, then strode after the grey-cloaked warrior.

The winding passage opened out towards a sheltered clearing of tiered plateaus, which were topped by misused huts and houses.

Goblins had gathered around the structures, leaving remnants of meals and broken bones scattered around the snow and stone. They belonged to two disparate clans, separated by an unoccupied divide.

The eastern side had been taken by a brown goblin, Broggo, that dwarfed the modest huts both in girth and height. He sat unadorned amid a clan of sturdy goblins who shared his likeness but not his size. A green and wiry clan gathered in circles atop the plateaus opposite, keeping clear of their spindly leader, Rizzig, who had draped himself in a patchwork of furs, so he appeared not as a goblin but as a misshapen yeti.

“Greetings!” Bjorn declared in a formal tone. “I am the son of Jorund of The Hill. And I wish to speak to whomever is Chief here!”

Rizzig stirred under his furs, and rose up to a height twice as tall as most men, leaving only his bony legs exposed beneath his patchwork cloak.

Broggo lumbered up to his chubby feet and his sturdy goblins grew curious but not alarmed. “The Hill is a way from here… why do you wish to speak? Does Jorund of The Hill lay claim to the manlings of Broggo?”

“No.” Bjorn bowed his head in respect. “I come with the Slayer of Ragadin.” Rizzig stepped closer as his own clan began to hiss amongst themselves. He stopped short of the stretch of snowy ground that served as the divide. “He wishes to win himself honour,” Bjorn added. “So he has come here, to fight those deserving.”

Hjorvarth stood at an equal distance from each clan, his shield ready at his right side, not bothering to shift it despite the green goblins picking up stones and peering down.

Rizzig spidered over to the ledge closest to Hjorvarth. “That is a fine cloak,” he purred.

“I will fight you for it,” Hjorvarth offered. “If you have the courage.”

Rizzig murmured, sweeping spindly arms out from his cloak, rubbing clawed hands together. “Yes. I accept your challenge—”

“Stop!” Broggo bellowed. All of his clan leapt to their feet. “I accept his challenge!”

“I challenge you for his challenge!” Rizzig screeched. “You sit there lazy and fat, and lay claim to my manlings—laugh at me across the divide! I will not stand it. Rizzig the Beast will not allow you the honour of fighting the Fire Giant!”

“Rizzig the Beast?” Broggo chuckled. “Rizzig the Rat more likely. Come then, let us see—”

“Charge!” Rizzig ordered. “Savage Broggo the Bragger!”

Hjorvarth took a step back now shouts and screeching rang out across the plateaus.

Stones sailed across the divide, crunching into skulls and dislocating limbs.

Broggo thundered towards Rizzig, tripped on a dip between plateaus, and stumbled forward with little force. He swung at the spindly goblin all the same, but Rizzig twisted clear, then sliced and slashed at Broggo’s thick flesh.

Brown goblins began to clear the divide, most of them already wounded, and found the green goblins no easy work when they were fighting for their lives, so it became a matter of breaking their skulls before they could worm their claws too deep.

Broggo tried much the same, but managed only glancing blows. Dark blood curtained down his lacerated chest. He grabbed a hold of the patchwork cloak, pulling it back so he could grapple at Rizzig. He collapsed instead, flattening the spindly goblin. He used his last breaths to smash his big head into Rizzig’s fur hood, crunching the softer skull, leaving them both bloodied and broken in a macabre pile.

Goblins from both sides lost heart at the grim spectacle.

They saw that there was none to lead them, and fled. A dozen or so asked Hjorvarth to be their Chief, but he dismissed them with a brandished axe.

Bjorn and Hjorvarth spoke no words while they ended the broken goblins strewn about misused huts. They frowned at each other across the disparate bodies of the fallen Chiefs.

With their warrior’s trappings and sturdy bearings, they had appearance of heroes overseeing their own bloody work; at least that was what the trapped villagers chose to believe when they came roaring out of the frosty mine with their hopes burned low and their weapons raised high.

***

A frore night of foreboding moonlight had settled above the barren plain that encircled Horvorr. Lazarus and Dalpho had stood in the same spot for nearly a dozen hours. They had seen faces appear above the log walls, those of manlings gawking down at the goblin horde. Beyond that, they had no word from the Young Wolf.

Dalpho had willed a retreat, to prepare for an earnest attack, but Lazarus had denied him. Thus they waited, despite the bitter cold, the darkness, and the snowfall.

Lazarus would stay here as long as he could, even if it cost him his own life. He would stay on this plain and wait for the Young Wolf to come out of those walls. He would witness the death of a man that razed the settlements of his people, of a man that ravaged their homeland for no reasons beyond arrogance and greed.

He would bring suffering upon the coward who had sworn safe passage to the Goblins of Horvorr, only to butcher them when they opened the gates.

Unlike Gudmund, Lazarus would keep to his word. He would spare those who followed the Young Wolf turned Old. He would grant them protection from his own goblins, and urge them into the mountains, because he could not vouchsafe them against the savage gathering that was the Eastern Clans.

Dalpho let out a low groan. “He will not come, Lazarus. He means only to launch an ambush, to catch us unawares, or bide time for his own defense.”

“Do his people have night eyes?” Lazarus asked. “We are covered by darkness.”

“And is it so hard to hold fire aloft?”

Lazarus paused in thought then flexed his claws. “We will leave soon.”

“Soon,” Dalpho spoke the word with worry. “I fear you underestimate our enemy.”

Lazarus hissed laughter. “Perhaps it is you that underestimates me?”

“Perhaps.” Dalpho’s fleshy chest rose and fell with his slow breaths. “Yet a month ago we both considered this war won. We ambushed Horvorr’s Guard on the Snake Basin Path only to suffer the loss of Ragadin. Our prisoner was stolen. Our alliance was broken. Now we stand alone against the manlings of Horvorr and the goblins of the Eastern Clans.”

“Our alliance is remade.”

“Things broken remain so. Always.”

Lazarus glanced up at the elephantine goblin as the words rumbled into the wind.

The shouts of men sounded out behind the walls of Horvorr. The main gate shuddered in the darkness then groaned open in a slow sweep that scraped up a layer of dirt and stones. Sounds echoed along the barren plain, answered by the curious chatter of over four hundred goblins. “Hold ground!” Dalpho bellowed. “Keep to silence!”

Gudmund held a torch aloft now he strode out from the open gates. He wore a black shirt with a white cloak, both edged by blurry firelight. “Well?” he roared. “Who has the courage to face me?”

He buried the torch in the ground, laughing to himself and brushing dirt from his hands. He listened to the wind sigh by, carrying the screeching and squealing of distant goblins, then smiled when the earth and air shook with enormous footfalls.

Dalpho crossed into the torchlight and stared down with beady eyes. “Lazarus has chosen not to face you.”

Gudmund had to crane his neck to look past the unearthly girth of rolled flesh. He could barely see the shadowed edges of a trunked nose and rounded head. “That’s a little cowardly of him, whale. I suppose that means it’s you and me?”

“Dalpho challenges you,” agreed the cumbersome reply.

Gudmund swept out his arms in low bow, starting to step backwards. “And the Young Wolf graciously accepts.”

Dalpho chins bulged when he lowered his gaze. “Do you mean to fight, or flee?”

“I just wanted a better look at you, whale.”

“I am a goblin.”

“Are you?” Gudmund smiled, every line in his proud face prominent with shadows. “You look a little like a whale to me.”

Dalpho snorted. “I will not follow you into your gate if that is your hope.”

“But you were quick to pass through before,” Gudmund noted. “I saw no sign of you when the real battled raged, when all your kin were broken and slaughtered in The Blackwood. No glimpse of your blubbery flesh or your big fat head. It took me by pure surprise when I found you hiding in Horvorr. Running to the Lake with all your body wobbling. Running like a great, fat coward.”

Dalpho clenched his huge fists.

“’Bring it down!’” Gudmund roared. “Do you remember that, whale? Do you remember how we chased you?” he added with a cruel smirk. “Filling you full of arrows and taking chunks from your flesh. How you leapt into the water like a great, big, fat coward? How you tried to swim away?” He ruefully shook his head. “I lost some coin that day, betting that you’d float. But you didn’t even make a splash did you? Sank down to the bottom of the Lake, and managed to crawl out like a great, big, fat, ugly coward of a thing. Great, big, fat, ugly whale of a thing.”

“A goblin?” Gudmund laughed a manic laugh. “How can you be a goblin when you flee from honest combat? How can you be a goblin when you run in terror? When for all your size you’ve got a tiny coward’s heart inside your chest? I thought goblins were supposed to be brave? Not great, big, fat—”

Dalpho bellowed a roar, shaking the ground with his charge.

Gudmund spun on his heel and ran. He could hear and feel the goblin stomping after him. He waved his arm and torches were lifted, thrown from the wall, burning as they twisted through the darkness. Dozens of folk rose, nocking arrows and drawing bows. Gudmund sprinted so fast that he feared tumbling. Dalpho grabbed for the Young Wolf, caught his cloak, but the clasp snapped.

Dalpho lurched forward and the Young Wolf dived to the earth. Arrows rained down, sinking into flesh and head. “Coward!”

“I’m still here!” Gudmund shouted from behind. He leapt forward and sank two axes into the fat of the goblin’s back. He used metal boots to dig holds into the flesh, dragging himself higher with each rhythmic hack.

Dalpho bellowed in agony and made a desperate effort of grasping for the man.

“Run, Dalpho!” Lazarus screeched from the darkness. “Flee!”

Dalpho staggered around, and made for escape.

“You’re too fat!” Gudmund drove his head into the bleeding flesh. He gripped the iron haft of Grettir’s axe, then wrenched himself and the weapon free. He landed on hard ground, leaving the other axe behind now the goblin stomped off into the darkness.

“Charge!” Dalpho rounded back when he was free of the Young Wolf and the falling arrows. “Destroy Horvorr!”

Gudmund pushed up to his feet, laughing, running happily back to the gates.

The squeals and jeers of Western Clans began. The barren plain writhed to life as hundreds of shadowed goblins made a din of screeching and scampering. They hurled stones when they reached the buried torch, but bright firelight made them miss their mark and then the manling disappeared into the darkness of the open gates.

Dozens of goblins swarmed into Horvorr before they were even close to closed.

Dalpho chuckled in relief.

Pained screaming and screeching then rang out from behind the walls.

A holler of men began, a low of oxen, then a rumble of hooves. The goblins slowed, squealed, and started to stagger back. Shaggy oxen thundered out from the town, over the goblins and through them. Then onto the crowded plain.

The muscled beasts stampeded further into the panicked mass, hooves hammering limbs into dirt, horns goring green flesh and hurling corpses aside.

Lazarus watched in sorrowed resignation while his people trampled one another, destroying more of their own kin than the oxen ever would have had the goblins held their ground. “Back!” Dalpho bellowed, watching the gate groan closed. “Fall back!”