53. Full Circle

“The Small King, having swiftly slain those who refused to attend or recognize his authority, has gathered all the remaining Chiefs of the Grorginite Empire.

The mood in the throne room was quiet and resentful, with those in attendance taking up only a paltry tenth of the space available.

Agrak announced the the Empire is dissolved and that all Chiefs should go off and do as they please. He warned that if any goblin leader attempted to force all the others under their will then he would return and kill them.

He had offered me an opportunity to rule in his stead, but I refused. And this was an answer that he laughed at. His breathy laughter bitter and mocking.

Confused and unhappy, the Chiefs grumbled amongst their clans or shouted questions, but The Small King simply descended his throne and departed.

I gave chase, as quickly as my old bones allowed, and asked where he was going.

‘To see the dwarves,’ he answered.

‘I will come with you.’

‘You will leave me alone, Izzig.’

‘I saved you,’ I angrily reminded.

‘Did you, Izzig?’ he hissed. ‘Or did you leave me trapped in a box for as long as it safeguarded you? And let me loose only when there was no apparent threat.’

Though I was angry at the claim, I could not readily refute words. ‘I…’ I began, words full of bitter anger, but then I realized I was in some ways at fault. ‘…am sorry, Agrak. I was afraid, and—’

‘Sorry is a human word, Izzig. I allowed myself to be captured. So I should blame myself,’ he conceded, walking away from me. ‘Come along, then, if you so wish.’”

Hjorvarth strode through the shadowed streets of the stone city, holding the Jarl of Timilir in his arms like a sleeping child. Old blood had soaked through Hjorvarth’s clothes, and his body ached with the weight. He walked all the same, with a procession at his back, and folk questioning him for more than the sparse answers he had given, until he reached the enormous stone visage of Muradoon.

The Eternal Sanctuary towered at monumental height in the rock face.

The Spirit Talker seemed ambivalent towards the arrivals, but there was one man, a man in a purple robe, almost as large as Hjorvarth, that strode out to meet them. “Do we now bow beneath the Low King?”

“This city is now under rule of Jarl Luta,” Hjorvarth answered. “The Low King is dead.” He paused. “I am told I have friends here waiting for me?”

The purple-robed man nodded, and led them inside. Luta, Fati, and Ekkill accompanied, as did a handful of others, while the Stone Sons bid their farewells and returned to their own homes. Hjorvarth handed the body over to a pair of waiting Godis and then he followed the large man further into the underground structure.

Their footsteps echoed from dark tunnels, breached by lantern light, and filled the cold silence.

The man had since said that he was a Spirit Seeker by name of Oddkell the Sixth Blessed. Hjorvarth did not warm to the man, nor did he dislike him, but he had the feeling that he was very dangerous.

The Spirit Seeker paused in the tunnel, leaving them both within an endless darkness that was spared only by a flickering flame. “Has anyone you loved ever died in your company? You seem to be spirited.”

“Proceed, Spirit Seeker. That is not a question that I will answer.”

The Spirit Seeker almost turned then started walking forward. “Do animals show you fondness?”

“I am uncertain. They have never shown me undue hostility.”

“And fish?”

“What of them?”

“You live in Horvorr, do you not? Have you ever come into contact with a living fish?”

Hjorvarth took a deep breath. “I am tired, Oddkell. I am beyond tired. I do not care for questions.” He thought on it all the same. “I once fished for a month, and I caught one fish. It was already dead.” He slowed to a stop when the purple-robed man grew tense. “I wish not to fight you, Spirit Seeker.”

“Interesting.” The Spirit Seeker relaxed, and carried forward. “I am almost certain you are spirited. It is often by a parent, normally imparted if holding hands or in embrace during death. I recommend you visit a Godi to have yourself cleansed. For now, the spirit may prove useful, but after that it may become twisted, and come to have a negative influence on your mind. As a practical measure, if animals dislike you then the spirit that rides your back has become… well, it would be best to have it removed. Do you understand me, Horvorrian?”

Hjorvarth heard the threat in his words. “Clear as ice water, Spirit Seeker.”

“Is ice water particularly clear?”

Hjorvarth quashed his slight smile. Long had he used that phrase but none, other than Brolli, had ever questioned what he meant. He shrugged, which appeased the priest.

They walked on in a silence of footsteps until the wind began to whistle in the distance. The tunnel curved and then opened out into a small cavern that overlooked an endless horizon of wintry mountains; of ice, rock, and snow.

Sybille, Engli, and Arfast waited within, wearing thick hooded cloaks.

A pyre had been made up, wide enough for Anna and Gudmund who had been washed and oiled and dressed in white.

“This must have taken you days,” Hjorvarth murmured.

He stared at the fallen man and woman, pale and silent, stillness in death so unlike their temperaments in life. He suffered unequivocal sorrow when he realised that all those of Horvorr, that the town itself, was truly gone.

Engli had told him of the deaths, of Gudmund, Anna, and Ralf, but the sight of their readied bodies sent cracks through the numb logic with which he had used as a shield. He wanted to weep or to scream or to fall to his knees but he managed none of it.

He could only watch with welling eyes as fire crawled over the pyre.

The wind swept in on them, rending the flames, ripping robes about arms and ankles.

Hjorvarth could see fire dancing in Sybille’s eyes but her gaze was hollow, her face was pale, and he had never seen her look so broken. Engli had lost his smile, and his handsome visage seemed weighed by the harsh truths of the unforgiving world.

“You should all leave,” the Spirit Seeker spoke over the flames. “These bodies will be long in the burning, and the heat will soon be too much to bear. I will keep the fire tended and make sure that their ash is scattered,” he loudly promised. “Or, if you wish, I can gather it up and deliver it to you.”

The children of the dead offered no answer.

***

Hjorvarth sat a wonky table within the main room of the Toothless Grin.

He wondered how his life would have changed had Agnar managed to meet him here. He dismissed the thought, as he had plenty of others, and shared his gaze between the sorrowed faces of Engli and Sybille.

He had not said a word since leaving the Eternal Sanctuary and neither had they. Only Arfast had spoken, and he was now standing near the counter, ordering food and drinks for all of them.

Sybille sniffed, frowned, and seemed to reach a decision. “Engli,” she began.

Hjorvarth rose at the careful tone. He had the sudden certainty that she was about to end whatever relationship they had once had. “I have business to attend. I will be back here later tonight.”

“Oh.” Sybille blinked. “Good luck, then, Hjorvarth.”

Hjorvarth answered with a careful nod.

Engli glanced up at him. “Do you want me to come with you?”

“No… I’m sure you both have things to discuss,” replied Hjorvarth. “And this is business better handled alone.”

Engli smiled at Sybille, and, frowning, seemed to realize his misfortune.

***

Hjorvarth crossed through the stone city without incident, beyond people recognizing him and applauding him as a hero. He had ignored those folk, stepping clear of them to avoid contact and conversation, and made great haste to Jarl Thrand’s Estate.

Hjorvarth found the gates open, no guards guarding the white walls, so entered without announcing himself. He thought it worrisome that Jarl Luta had put such a lack of thought into her own safety, as if the Crooked Teeth or any other attackers had simply vanished with the rising sun.

He turned right, to the small stone structures that were rowed ahead of and towards the cliff’s edge. The barracks lay behind him, door open to let the chanting of Godis carry out onto the open air.

He caught the scents of herbs and incense.

Hjorvarth wasn’t sure which structure was the dungeon, so, sweating under the noonday sun, he started knocking on each of the doors. He had reached the eleventh when the seventh opened, and made his way back to the latter.

“Did someone knock…?” Fleinn asked, leaning his head out the doorway.

Hjorvarth recognized the young guard who had helped pull him from his prison before. “Fleinn.”

Fleinn turned, almost worried, then replied with a careful nod. “Yes?”

“My name is Hjorvarth. I was a prisoner here before and you led me out from my cage,” he explained, which seemed to inspire fear in Fleinn. “I have been set free and cleared of my crimes by Jarl Thrand’s family… but I was wondering if the items taken from my person are still here.”

Fleinn looked skyward then frowned. “Jarl Gudmund took your shield. I’m not sure what happened to it after that.”

“I was searching for the knife.”

“Oh… right.” Fleinn nodded. “We’ve about a dozen of those. Do you want to come in and take a look?”

“So as long as you don’t lock me away again,” Hjorvarth joked.

“I wouldn’t try even if I was supposed to.”

***

Hjorvarth had been led down a stone stairs, through low-roofed rooms and corridor that had air warmer and dustier than that of the world above. He realised he now had a deep dislike of being under the earth, so he made a brisk effort of searching when he was led to the crate of small blades.

Fleinn had been speaking of finding new work, of his uncertainty of his current position, and how he considered himself lucky as Joyto to have survived Gudmund’s slaughter.

“He may have liked you,” Hjorvarth said, trying not to cut his hands as he laid the knifes and daggers out on the barrel beside him. The room was dusky and full of old crates and rotting weapon racks.

“Who?”

“Gudmund. He spared his own daughter and those he knew. If you had given him the shield, he may have remembered you. So it might not be a matter of luck at all.” Hjorvarth shrugged. “Could you bring me a candle?”

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

Fleinn nodded, disappearing into the other room. He came back not long after with a stub candle that seemed close to burning out. “I’ll bury this when you’re done.”

Hjorvarth frowned. “To what end?”

“For Brikorhaan’s band. You bury the ends of your candles so that they can see in the Lady’s Shadow.”

“Truly?” Hjorvarth scrutinised the blades by candlelight. “I think they might get stolen by kobolds instead.”

Fleinn seemed to bristle. “What do you mean?”

“I spent some days under the earth after I was sent to the mines. The kobolds used candles that were all already burned to stubs. I thought it possible that they are digging up wax buried by men.” Hjorvarth found Asgeir’s knife, wooden handle carved with the likeness of Brikorhaan’s axe, and slid it into his belt. “I suppose it of little consequence. If you are right then the gods would surely prevent the theft.”

“I suppose that’s true,” Fleinn muttered in a worried tone. “What if they’re helping the Lady, though? What if we’re supposed to be stopping them?”

“That seems unneeded,” Hjorvarth replied. “I will mention it when I see them next.”

Fleinn frowned. “You’re going to see the kobolds?”

“I told Rudrun that I would… to properly arrange the peace, and I am a man of my word.” Hjorvarth heard the disillusion plainly in his own claim. “My thanks for your help, Fleinn. I can see my way out from here. If you ever need my help, feel free to call upon me. I intend to establish a fighting brotherhood near Fenkirk.”

“Can I join?” Fleinn asked with childish excitement.

“I would have to discuss it with Engli. As I said, near Fenkirk. Come in a season’s time.” Hjorvarth paused to look back at him. “It will be dangerous business, though. You would be safer staying here.”

Fleinn nodded in false hesitation. “Fenkirk,” he echoed. “In a season.”

Hjorvarth left the man behind, crossing through three small rooms, before ascending the stairs. A fat man and a skinny man were both waiting outside, wearing black clothes for mourning. “I hope that you’re not—”

“We’re here to see you,” Fati cut in.

“Hope wasted, then,” Hjorvarth said. “The gate was open.”

“Indeed,” Ekkill replied. “Luta has decided she has no great urging to rule from here. She has given it over to those that serve Muradoon. They will work to cleanse the place from malicious spirits.”

Hjorvarth waited for a moment longer.

“Oh,” Fati said. “Luta has invited you to join her for a meal.”

Hjorvarth nodded, and departed. “Offer my thanks and my rejection.”

***

Hjorvarth was saddened and confused as he walked stone streets. He had gone to visit Ivar’s mother, to admit to her that he had killed Ivar by accident, but he found that the woman was dead. Long dead. She had died over a winter ago, and now a new family was living in her home. He wanted to know why Ivar hadn’t mentioned it. He wondered if that was the cause for his sudden streak of rash action and cruelty.

He struggled with a maelstrom of guilt and anger. He would force himself from one grim subject, only to chance upon another. A loss to a mistake to a regret and on and on until his head spun and his heart beat heavy in his chest.

Hjorvarth found himself standing outside of Frida’s home, and decided to pay her a visit. The place looked abandoned—still lacking the metal banding of the homes at either side—but then most structures in the city seemed that way, for the stone was thick and unyielding and didn’t readily absorb warmth or loose noise.

He knocked at the door, waited, knocked at the door, waited, knocked at the door. This was where the true trouble had began. Before the deaths of Agnar and Geirmund. Before Brolli demanded a debt that he had already given away to Frida for her husband’s death.

Hjorvarth was so lost in his endlessly warring thoughts that he didn’t remember how long he had been there or how long he had knocked.

He glanced at his hands and his knuckles were bruised and bleeding.

Hjorvarth stepped back, and slammed his boot into the stone. He realised his mistake when he landed on his back, and chided himself for not remembering that.

“Are you all right?” asked a young woman.

Hjorvarth was relieved, then confused when Ruby’s lean face appeared above him.

“She’s gone, Hjorvarth,” Ruby said. “I had her watched while you were in Horvorr.”

“Oh.” Hjorvarth remained on his back, staring up at the cloudless sky, squinting in defiance of an angry sun. “I suppose that is a good thing, then.”

He could no longer see her, so he rose to his feet. Ruby had left a good distance between them. “You are sure she wasn’t hurt?” he asked.

“I’m sure,” Ruby lied. She had no heart to tell him the truth. She mastered her expression and pulled all the false truth she could into the lie. “Ragni saw her leaving by the north gate. Left in the company of a trader’s caravan. Must have decided that the stone city wasn’t a safe place for a widow and a babe.”

She mocked him with a smile, willing him not to question it, not to look inside and notice the remnants of bloodstains that she had struggled to clean, not to happen upon an idle tooth that she hadn’t found. “You must dearly care for her,” she idly mentioned. “I could always find out the trader’s name.”

“No need,” Hjorvarth assured. He looked at her with sudden anger. “I am told you tried to aid Jarl Thrand.”

“He was my leader, despite his faults, as much as Gudmund was yours.”

Hjorvarth’s nod was slight. “You, and all of the Gem Cutters, are exiled from Southwestern Tymir.”

Ruby didn’t see any need to worry over that. “That’s fair enough.”

“And have you seen Alrik?”

“Not since the slaughter.” Ruby paused then upturned her palms. “I’ve no hard feelings towards him, Hjorvarth. If he’s missing then I’ve nothing at all to do with it.”

“Even so,” Hjorvarth said, his tone cold. “If I learn that he is dead. Then the killers will suffer.”

“I’m sure they will.” Ruby found herself discomfited. “Without your beard and hair, you’re almost frightening.”

“Forgive me for the threats, then,” Hjorvarth said with more calm. “I have lost much. I wish not to lose, and I will in no way suffer, the death of any more folk I name as friend.” He sighed, and rubbed at his bristly jaw. “I think of my father, his long life, how I might live to that same age… and I am beyond terrified.” He swallowed. “I murdered the Low King today. I killed him in anger, on purpose. It was not like when I killed Thorfinn. This is something else and it has poisoned me.”

Ruby watched all the strength flee from the man. He was no longer carved from stone. Or if he was then blood and tears were leaking through the cracks. “He must have given you good reason,” she realized. “He must have murdered Jarl Thrand for you to walk out of there under safeguard. He must have deserved to die.”

“I murdered Ivar as well,” Hjorvarth’s words were weighed with regret. “I hit him the once… because he insulted Arnor. The blood turned bad in his eye and he died. He did not deserve that. He was only just a man.”

Ruby stepped forward, reached out, and he stepped back. “What is it you want me to do, or say? If you cannot suffer the burden of murder then stop killing people. I’ve seen Ivar with swollen eyes before… that he died from one you gave him is nothing less and nothing more than bad luck.”

“Stop killing people,” Hjorvarth echoed, straightening, growing thoughtful and hard. “Sound guidance.” He nodded but it lacked his usual certainty. “I have bothered you long enough, Ruby. You have my thanks for delivering the information about Frida. If you hear news of Alrik, I would be glad to know of it as well.”

“Of course,” Ruby replied. “Though I came here because I have your shield. Not with me, obviously, but back at my home. If you come with me I’ll give it back. I’m sure Ragni would be glad to see you.”

Hjorvarth frowned. “I’m not certain who that is, but I would be glad enough to have my shield.” He remembered the weight on his back. “I can then give this one back to Ulfsteinn.”

***

“Surprised to see you alive,” Ragni offered as greeting.

The lithe man sat in a plain white shirt, facing a table with two men and one woman. The table stood amid the crates and barrels and stacked supplies that were stored within a wide stone warehouse.

Ruby frowned at those seated. “Don’t you all have anything better to do? The Crooked Teeth and the Black Hands are gone, and you’re sat around rolling bones.”

Ragni’s eyes narrowed on Hjorvarth. “You should wrap that hand.” He turned to Ruby. “You’re not exactly about our business yourself, Ruby. No sense overreaching in any case. I’m sure the slums will be full of squabbling gangs by the end of the season, and someone will prop up the corpse of the Black Hands if not simply replace them.”

Hjorvarth was studying his own swollen fingers. “Sifa still lives.”

“There you are, then,” Ragni said. “The Black Hands and the Gem Cutters both to be ran by women.”

“And the city as well,” Hjorvarth mentioned.

Ragni’s laugh was quiet. “Hadn’t thought of that.” He frowned down at the bones on the table, then up at Ruby. “Didn’t you say that Smiler was going to kill the Low King?”

“The Low King is dead,” Hjorvarth said.

Ragni nodded. “By your hand?”

“By my hand,” Hjorvarth echoed. “Where is my shield?”

Ruby and Ragni shared a worried look, then the black-clad woman led Hjorvarth towards a small stairs. “I would be careful, Hjorvarth. Smiler might have decided you’ve wronged him.”

“I have no fear of death or assassins.”

Ruby reached a door, twisting the latch. “And does that make you brave or foolish?”

Hjorvarth followed her into a modest, richly-furnished room. Rich rugs covered the floor, while ornate chests lined the walls where space was left between drawers and wardrobes. Opposite the door, a table of black wood took up most the room near the back wall. Papers, ledgers, and ornamentation were strewn across the polished surface.

“My father’s room,” Ruby explained.

She opened one of the wardrobes, struggling to lift a battered shield. The rim struck a rug with a muffled thud and she wheeled it over to him. A glass ceiling allowed Hjorvarth to see the painted scene by daylight. With all the hacks and scrapes, he could barely see the fainted painting of three wolves fighting a bear in a forest of two trees.

“I did ask to have it repaired,” Ruby mentioned, “but they said I’d be better off purchasing a new one.” She reached into the same wardrobe and struggled with the weight of another shield. This one was rimmed by iron instead of fur, made of golden wood and painted to make it seem as if a lone bear up slept against the boss. “I thought the more peaceful scene might serve you as a better portent.”

“It suits me very well,” Hjorvarth assured in all formality. “I thank you for the gift, Ruby.” He leaned down, gripping the old one with his right arm and the other with his left. “I now have business to attend.”

“Business,” Ruby muttered as if struggling with remembrance. “Are you sure you don’t want help carrying those? You look a little bit odd.”

“As I ever have,” Hjorvarth replied. “I would think that I now appear cautious as well.”

Ruby nodded, happy for him to leave, and then remembered. “Gudmund commissioned carts before he died, and ordered supplies. Did you want me to write down a list of names so that you can track them down? I believe he’s paid for some of it outright, and I’d guess Sybille has coin for what’s still owed.”

“That would be useful,” Hjorvarth decided. “You have my thanks twice over.”

Ruby nodded once more, unsure of what to say. “I’m sure you’d do the same for me.”

Hjorvarth shook his head. “I think it is more likely that I would pass by the opportunities to aid you without noticing, and go forward with whatever I had decided to to next.” He paused. “I will endeavor to be more thoughtful.”

***

Hjorvarth had drew more attention and well wishers to himself as he strode through the stone city with a shield on each arm.

Dusk had approached since his journey back from the warehouses of the Gem Cutters, and he made his way into the wide street that belonged to the Stone Sons. He noticed that the well had stopped running, but thought nothing of it, and approached the wide door.

Hjorvarth knocked, and waited a long while for the door to open. He was surprised to see the beautiful face of Luta. “Why are you here?”

Luta’s brows knitted. “I live here.” She paused. “Why are you here? I thought you rejected my invitation.”

“I came to return Ulfsteinn’s shield.”

“Oh,” Luta replied, looking back into the hallway. “Ulfsteinn!”

“Did you join the Stone Sons?” Hjorvarth asked.

Luta laughed then frowned. “No… of course not. They’re leaving Timilir. They’ve disbanded for all purposes and are setting out on a final expedition.” She shrugged. “They were kind enough to gift me their homes… which means I don’t need to live in that cold and haunted place. Which is quite good, quite welcome. Ulfsteinn!”

Ulfsteinn approached, clad in a white fur jacket, wearing a heavy pack and padded clothing. “I cannot find my shield,” he muttered. “Oh.” He blinked. “That’s why. I gave it to you, didn’t I?”

Hjorvarth nodded in answer. “The Stone Sons are leaving the stone city?”

“Stone sons, stone city,” Ulfsteinn murmured, his weathered visage conflicted. “We are, lad, we are.” He gestured with his hand. “Turn around and I’ll lift it off your back.” He stepped forward when the huge man turned. “Close thing when that axe hit your back,” he mentioned. “It cut deep… split the boulder down the middle.” The scene painted on the shield was of a boulder, now split, atop a wintry mountain. “That’s apt for me to carry.”

Hjorvarth waited till the shield had been lifted. He turned to the older man. “Where are you going?”

“I think you already know the answer to that, lad,” he replied, then worriedly sighed. “Hall of Hrothgar. We’re going in search of the Stone Sons that accompanied your father on his expedition.” Ulfsteinn’s teeth ground together. “I waited for Isleif to mount one last trip, but then you came here and I guessed that he was dead. I took it as a sign that it was time to go in any case. The old guard are getting too old and it’s time for us to find our answers or to die never knowing.”

Hjorvarth did not want to voice too harsh a warning, for fear that he would curse the trip. “I would strongly advise against your action. I think that it is ill conceived.”

Ulfsteinn readied his shield. “I don’t deny that, Hjorvarth. Nor would any of those with me. Speaking of, they’re waiting at the gate and I’ve kept them long enough.” He clapped the huge man on the shoulder. “I’m dead, either way. That’s the curse of being old but it’s not a curse you share. You’ve still got time to change things for the better. You’ve already made as good a start as your father. I only pray that things don’t end the same.”

Hjorvarth did not want him to depart. “Timilir will suffer for your absence.”

“Now you’re speaking in ignorance,” Ulfsteinn dismissed. “The Stone Sons haven’t fought since your father’s last trip. We’ll no more cause harm than would a statue that decided he was bored of being looked at and revered.” He smiled at them both. “Now I’ll leave youth to youth and you can both leave an old man to his old quest.” He bowed low to Hjorvarth. “I think that Isleif would have been proud to have you as his son. I know it, in fact. Brikorhaan keep your shield on this day, and on all the days to come.”

“And yours,” Hjorvarth said, watching as the warrior departed.

“Hm.” Luta was frowning. “So are you, or are you not, staying for a meal?”

Hjorvarth realised he was in fact hungry. “Can my friends attend?”

“I suppose that depends on who and how many?”

“Gudmund’s daughter, Sybille. Her guard, Arfast. And the other founder of my brotherhood, Engli.”

“I thought my father poisoned her guard?” Luta shrugged. “That’s fine, then. Though I do hope Engli isn’t as tiresome as the others. I already have to suffer Fati and Ekkill.” She waved him away. “Come back shortly.”