54. Touched by Death

“It seems fitting that the only place of worship yet erected in Horvorr is a Ritual House of Muradoon. Though in truth the Godi sent to serve us did not take well to the town. For days he went around accusing folk of being touched by death, of being spirited, and then he began to spend long hours sitting on the embankments.

I know not whether he jumped, or whether someone pushed him in, but one day all that was left of the man was a purple robe.”

“Well,” Gudmund began, laughing as if tired, “it would seem I’ve had more gatherings in this Hall in the past month than in the seasons prior. I—”

“What is happening?” a chubby man shouted. “What have you done to our town? Why are the nights filled with screeching?”

Gudmund stared down at him, having heard his words, paying no mind to the screams and shouts of other men and women that had opened their mouths when the fat man did. Honest questions or demands for answers, Gudmund couldn't bring himself to care.

“You want answers?” he roared. “Answers? Then be quiet! Any of your interrupt me again and I’m going to bed. I brought you all here as a courtesy. You think I care for your fears, for your questions, for your words, for your pleas? I care nothing for any of it! I am a man made angry! And your shouting does no good for me! My shouting does no good for me! Yet here it is,” he spoke more quietly into an irritated silence. “That is the truth. So be quiet, or by the gods you’ll have no answers at all.”

Gudmund sighed down at the people of Horvorr. He rested both arms on the altar of Muradoon that he’d not bothered to move since the trial. “I heard three questions, and I will answer them. But I am too tired and hoarse to speak into a chorus of angry voices.”

The people of Horvorr looked hungry, for answers as well as food.

They were all tired, all wary, all unwilling to stay still with a restless energy that spoke to deep worry and unhappiness. Gudmund’s Hall was full of folk, clad in rough-woven clothes, tattered furs, or cracked, worn leather. Most had brought weapons as well, whether a family antique of a sword, hammer, or axe; or a knife, well-made and oft-worn or newly lifted from a kitchen.

Gudmund’s broad smile made him appear no less haggard than his people. He hadn’t combed his red hair since the funeral and he had been wearing the same black clothes since then as well, so he stank of smoke, while the rest stank of dust, dirt, and sweat. The men of Horvorr’s Guard, standing at his back and in a wall ahead of the altar, looked no better.

Only Arfast seemed not to change from the ordeal, though he had begun ancient and world weary.

“What is happening… well—” Gudmund sniffed, furrowing his brows. “We have been put to siege by goblins. And I thought it best to dig up some roads and make defenses should they happen to breach our walls.” He took a long breath and glared at the rowdy folk as they started shouting once more. He held his angry gaze until they fell close to silence. “I want to make it very clear that we can not fight our way out of this town. That we do not have the numbers, or the ground, or any sort of vantage to press an attack outside of these walls. That is why I have ‘ruined’ your town… or ‘destroyed’ your homes for wood. As to whether anyone is coming…”

“Well?” a young woman called, suddenly shy when other folk scowled at her.

“Yes,” Gudmund decided with a slow nod. “Jarl Thrand is coming to save us. Timilir will save us. But I swear to you all that we will be breached before they arrive. Our gates will be broken tomorrow, make no mistake of it.”

Gudmund sighed again as folk shouted their own tactics to flee, or to hide, or for everyone to climb to the top of the walls and knock down the stairs until Timilir arrived. A few men drew threateningly close to the wall of guards, but soon backed away when the armoured men readied weapons.

“No!” Gudmund answered in exhaustion. “No to every suggestion! I will tell you what you should do!”

The people of Horvorr looked up at him, confused by some small measure, desperate by all others.

Gudmund thought they looked as if they doubted his words, which was odd, because having a gate broken and being given a slim chance to live wasn’t exactly a bold promise. “A lot of people are going to die. There is no avoiding that. So the folk around you now, your friends and your family, and your children at home… some of them will die, and you should speak whatever words you want to speak before this night is over.”

The weathered visages of men and women fell to fear. They looked among themselves, hands nervous, eyes wide with worry.

“And as to how you survive,” Gudmund continued, his tone less than encouraging, “you will all hear the gate go down. When you do, it is up to you to keep your own homes safe. We will do our best to watch the roads, to slaughter the goblins, and we will do our best to survive. But your lives are your own to safeguard. And if you do the job well enough then you may well hold out until Timilir arrives… and I have had message by trained bird that they will be here in no more than two days.”

Gudmund hoped that he had well-timed his false promise of reinforcement and his warning that they would be broken. He had seen clans gathering to the North and to the East. He had seen hundreds of fires burning among the trees. Goblins crawled all over the plains, and there was a second, larger host that had nought to do with that enormous fool Dalpho, or the little runt Lazarus.

If he had to, Gudmund would open the gates himself. He wasn’t going to wait around for starvation or for the goblins to dig under his town and make him look like a fool. He wanted a bloody end at the least, some honest war, some honest butchery. He would die on a pile of goblin bodies before the day was done. Better that then to wake up in the night like Gahr’rul had, with your foes stood over you, with nought to do but feel the blades sink in before they carve you to pieces.

“Gudmund!” Linden was frowning up at him from the morbid crowd. “What good is our silence if you offer no answers?”

Gudmund squinted down through the dying light. “What was the question?”

“Why do we wait for Timilir?” an old man shouted. “Where are Fenkirk, or Wymount?”

“Have we had any word from the Salt Sage?” an old crone asked. “He swore that Tomlok would save us!”

Gudmund smiled as if that were as disappointing to him as it was to them. “My advice to you all, and my only advice, is that help is coming… so you should try to stay alive.”

“If you wish to fight,” Arfast added in a forceful voice, “then we will be holding them at the Lake, at Brolli’s courtyard, and near the Ritual House. There will be weapons for you at either place, as we’ve plenty of those. If you want shelter, then you can hide in the Ritual House as well. If you want a bow then you can find Anna there, and if you want a prayer then Lovrin is there too.”

The people of Horvorr stood watching and waiting for more.

“Thank you for coming!” Gudmund regarded them with sorrowful eyes. “I wish you all Joyto’s Luck and Brikorhaan’s Courage. If you have further questions, any at all, then the gods are always listening.”

The chubby man who had first spoke now scowled. “That’s it?”

The words were echoed, as were others of a similar intent.

Gudmund wanted to help the shouting crowd but he had no words to lessen their woes. There was no help coming, he was sure of that, and he didn’t want to push the lie. He might even manage to save some of them if luck held, if they managed to kill the Great Chiefs or just stopper the streets with goblin corpses. He couldn’t tell them the truth, the last thing the town needed was folk burning themselves in their houses to avoid the Lady’s Shadow. Worse still, it might cause a mad dash to drown in the Great Lake.

“Those who can fight should fight!” Ralf declared above rising tempers. “Against the goblins, not us! Chief Gudmund and Horvorr’s Guard are the only hope you have of living out tomorrow! Your hopes get worse, not better, when you refuse to help us. If you’ve courage to show tonight, then you’d do far better to show it tomorrow.”

The words lessened most tempers, but left some of the folk standing and staring in resentment.

“What more do you want?” Eirik snapped, throwing out his arms. “When the goblins break down the gate, you’re not going to care that Gudmund dug up your town. Or that he didn’t answer every question to your satisfaction. It won’t matter that you don’t like him, or me, or some other man of the guard. What will matter is the time you’re wasting now when you could be boarding up your home, bringing your children to the Ritual House, or getting a weapon and armour so that you’re ready to fight.”

“This is not a war that you can avoid!” Chief Gudmund suddenly roared through the hall, his words proud and defiant. “We stand together! Or you die alone!”

***

It was a dark night that would make any feel cold, worsened with the doleful howl of a lone wolf. There were no stars at all, but the rugged walls of the mountainous pass could still be seen through the smoky glow of many fires. It was a windless night, so muttering and chattering hung heavy in the air, hinting towards fear, distrust and oppression.

Longhook had took one stretch of stony ground for their tents, bedrolls and fires. They gathered furthest at the back, nearest to those of Salvik. Redstone had erected no tents, and instead gathered in number around several great bonfires that burned further along the pass, closest to any goblins that might approach.

Kollkleif was middling, in place, in tents, in fires, but low in spirits; those folk followed a man they had no faith in, for so many reasons, most unspoken.

Wymount had more men than almost all the other villages combined, with dozens of fires dotted around a dozen tents. Skarshaw lay close to Wymount, in the lay of their tents, and by the mix of folk at the fires.

Sybille saw that blending clearly from the log where she sat staring into the glowing coals of a campfire. Roaldr reclined across from her on the stony ground, his arm over the shoulder of the Representative of Skarshaw.

Aerindis wore a fine fur cloak that served to warm them both, because Roaldr had returned to wearing plain clothing. “We march with too few men,” he was muttering. “Would that the crone Bjargey had gathered anywhere near as many as she could, or that Hafsteinn had bothered to bring more than one of his sons.”

Aerindis nodded, but offered no answers to the man’s laments.

Sybille sat alone and watching the pair only made her feel lonelier. She had not seen Agnar or Geirmund for days, and dread crept up on her that she had only ever imagined them. Sybille had seen them die. She had seen them die, and they were dead. Her brothers would no longer look after her, or protect her, or guide her. Geirmund was dead, she had seen him burn. Agnar wasn’t found, but that meant he was worse than dead, in a place where even Muradoon, or any of the gods beyond Brikorhaan, had no strength or sway.

“Lady Sybille,” a gruff voice startled her from grim musings. “Would you like livelier company?”

Sybille squinted up to see the shaggy brute looming over her. She knew now he was the Representative of Redstone, the most feared and barbaric of the fishing tribes. “Sorry?”

He pointed towards the bonfire behind Sybille, where rowdy men and women enjoyed drink and each other’s company. “You seem sorrowed, Sybille,” he answered. “And I know both Roaldr and Aerin’ to be either dour or fiery, and by the look of them—” The hulking man grinned at the pair, his tangled beard and stained teeth glistening with firelight. “They are not fiery.”

“Oh.” Sybille nodded, and offered a small smile. “And no. I’m fine where I am.” She yawned. “I think I’ll go to sleep soon… I’m quite tired.”

“Would you like to go now?” he asked in a more serious voice.

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“No.” Sybille shook her head. “I would like to sit a little while longer. But I prefer it here. I prefer the quiet.”

“Ah.” The shaggy man bowed his head in respect. “Then I will leave you to your quiet, Lady Sybille. I would only ask that you call me when you are ready to leave… a camp of men in their drinks and fearful of war is no safe place.”

Aerindis waited for him to lumber away, then smirked at Sybille. “Bragi is quite taken with you.” She narrowed her eyes, waiting a while for reply. “He is well respected… an important man. And handsome, under all of that hair. When he asks me, should I tell him you welcome his advances?”

Roaldr laughed, and sighed into the dark hair of his betrothed. “Can’t you see she is in no mood for your jokes?”

Sybille frowned. “Is it a joke?”

“I think not.” Aerindis shrugged off Roaldr’s arm, and rose to her feet. “Most men here would think you a fine wife.” She offered a pristine smile. “As they should. And Bragi is a good enough man to lay claim by any estimation.”

“Oh.” Sybille gazed at the flames. “It is a wonder he would think of such a thing with the battle approaching. What good is a wife to a man who might die?”

Aerindis arched an artful brow. “That makes her all the more important. A man cannot warm his bed with the fear of death, Sybille. And a cold night it is for he who goes to find his end tomorrow. Isn’t it, Roaldr?”

“I am all the colder for you having left me.” Roaldr smiled up at her from his back. “Could I borrow your cloak?”

Aerindis rolled her eyes. “No.” She offered her arm to help her betrothed. “Now are you coming to keep me warm… or shall I find another man?”

Roaldr took a long breath, sighed, and clasped her hand.

Aerindis hauled him up, then frowned at his hesitation. “Is something wrong?”

“Is it wise to leave her alone?” Roaldr asked.

They both looked to Sybille, who had eyes only for the flames.

“Bragi watches her,” Aerindis assured, dipping her head to the hulking figure by the far fire.

Bragi nodded in the distance, and swept out his great arm to dismiss them both.

“Sybille,” Roaldr spoke in a worried voice. “You’ll have Bragi walk you back?”

“Hm?” Sybille squinted at him. “Oh. Yes. Of course.” She barely noticed the couple go, and never mentioned that her reluctance to return to her tent was because the last she had been in one was with Agnar, Geirmund, and Grettir. Sybille had managed to stay among the furs and furniture for an hour before the stillness drove her to this fire, where others had sat before she pushed them away with her oddness and silence.

“Here I thought they would never leave,” remarked a confident voice. “Can I sit with you?”

Sybille only just recognised Gorm. He appeared all the younger by the fire, smooth skin and optimistic eyes alive with the light. “I’m in no mood to speak.”

Gorm simpered. “I only asked to sit.”

Sybille acceded with a tired sigh, then returned to watch the flames, making no mention that he had sat too close.

Bragi watched from the crimson darkness of his own fire, his dark eyes ponderous and violent. He sat ready to rise, dragging a hand through his shaggy beard.

Gorm smiled at the pale maiden beside him. “I have come to court you.”

Sybille sniffed. “A wasted trip.”

“I consider it well spent just to sit in your presence.” Gorm rested a hand on her knee, stroking the fabric of the black dress with his fingers. “Your smell and beauty does more good for my heart than any boastful tale of courage.”

“Get off of me,” Sybille replied, leveling a disgusted glare. “Or I will stab myself through the thigh just to skewer your dainty hand.”

“Does my face so repulse you?” Gorm asked lightly. “Here I thought I was quite doing you the favour, what with your broken nose and ruined cheek.” He scoffed when she reached for her knife, lifting his hand from her leg. “Well how about this then, Sybille? You come back to my tent with me, and start to smile and laugh a lot more, or I will take all my men with me… which will mean that Bjargey and Hafsteinn will do the same, which will leave you and Roaldr with half the men, and leave your father, your family… well, dead, really, won’t it?”

Sybille sighed, and smiled her sweetest smile. “Go on and flee then you little coward.”

Gorm flinched from her words, her spit, then a slap that clapped against his cheek.

“Boy.” Bragi loomed over them both, his dark eyes trembling with anger. “Lose your anger and your pride, or lose your life. I’ve waited long days for you to give me reason for murder. Long nights. I won’t make it quick. We’ll have a go of it, boy. I’ll make sure you enjoy yourself.”

Gorm sneered up at him. “This is none of your business, brute. And you should mind your words. My father thought he would make it quick as well, thought that he could threaten me, and now look where he is.”

“I do not care about your father, little rat. I care only where you’re going now. Is it back to your tent, and back to the folk that hate you? Or are you going screaming down Ouro’s Belly?” Bragi lifted his axe from his belt. “Your answer, Representative Gorm?”

Gorm laughed happily, and pushed up from his seat. “You’ll pay for this, brute.”

Bragi met the words with a black stare. “You’ve not the strength or spirit to make me.”

“Sybille.” Gorm bowed low, having to sweep hair clear from his eyes. “I hope to see you soon.”

Sybille frowned after the young man in hatred, then turned her gaze to Bragi.

“Apologies.” Bragi bowed his shaggy head, and stepped back. “Your affairs are your own, but I could not… not act.”

“Oh.” Sybille softened her expression. “I was angry at him, not you. Quite a worm of a man.”

“Yes.” Bragi nodded slowly. “Now can I walk you back to your tent? I have to rest for the battle, but I’ll find no sleep leaving you out here alone.”

Sybille smiled at his earnest concern. She pushed up on her own, ignoring his offered hand. “It’s this way… and I’m of no mind to humour you or kiss you, or—”

“I had no mind towards that,” Bragi rebuked in a fierce voice. “Sorry,” he whispered. “I meant to say that I care only for your safety.”

“My mistake,” Sybille said, then led off between a pair of small hide tents, beckoning him to follow with her hand. “Why is it you care for my safety?”

Bragi lumbered at a short distance behind her. “Does a man need reason to protect a woman?”

Sybille shook her head, steering clear of a pair of arguing drunkards. “I suppose not.”

“I fought for your father,” Bragi spoke in an idle voice. “With my brother, Ragi. He is a bastard. My brother, I mean.” He bobbed his shaggy head. “Gudmund is as well, a worse bastard than Ragi.”

“Oh?” Sybille asked with false enthusiasm. “Well that’s good to know.”

“Hah.” Bragi found it hard to see her as she crossed into the shadows. “I had meant that to be a good thing, to turn it some way to say that you were not a bastard… do you see? It was a good thing. Afford me more time for thought the next time.”

Sybille glanced back. “The next time?”

Bragi shrugged, scratching at his shaggy hair. “I can speak not at all if it bothers you.”

“It’s no bother for me to listen,” Sybille softened her voice. “I do find it harder to make reply as the days pass by.”

“Ah.” Bragi nodded. “I know well the feeling. I have once gone a year without speaking a word.”

“A year?” Sybille stopped, turning to him, his hulking frame edged by the light of four distant fires. “Truly?”

“It matters not,” Bragi assured in his gruff voice. “Here is your tent.”

Sybille squinted at the large, shadowed mound. “Is it?”

“Why else would we have stopped?”

“I suppose it is,” Sybille decided, studying him for a minute in the ruby gloom. “Good night, then.”

“Do you wish for me to sleep on the floor?” Bragi asked. “Inside or outside.”

Sybille smiled in confusion. “To what end?”

“For your protection.” Bragi upturned his hairy hands. “Should Gorm come to find you… or any other man. It is not a thing that would sit well with me, were you to come to harm when I could prevent it.”

“I will be fine,” Sybille assured. “You should go off and find a woman who needs you.”

Bragi laughed a troubled laugh that made even Sybille feel sadder. “Look inside while I’m here, at least. That would set my mind at ease.”

Sybille obliged him, somewhat touched by his fears, somewhat wary of his reluctance to leave. She saw nothing save for the hides that made the tent, furs strewn across the floor, and the sturdy chair and desk, which had been topped by a fresh candle.

She turned back to Bragi. “No men or ghosts in there.”

“Ah.” Bragi smiled broadly, sadly. He bowed low. “Good night then, Lady Sybille.”

“I am not a Lady. But good night to you, as well.”

Bragi glanced back as he departed. “I spoke more to heart and bearing than to title.”

Sybille laughed quietly into the darkness, thinking him an odd man, then ducked into the mellow light and subtle warmth of her tent. She found herself jerked back, an arm around her chest. She opened her mouth to scream, but a palm smothered her mouth.

“I’ve waited long days for this,” Gorm whispered. “Long nights. I won’t make it quick. We’ll have a go of it.”

“Sybille,” Agnar’s words arrived before he did. He appeared ahead of her, ragged, hunched, dirty and broken, covered in a tattered cloak. “Stay calm, sister. This man looks weak. Stay calm. Stomp on his foot, drive your head back, then scream and fight him.”

Sybille tried to do that but her view of the world shifted. She landed hard against the earth beneath the rugs. She tried to scream again but her plea came muffled, then something struck the back of her skull, driving her head forward.

Sybille was pulled over and the blurry face of a young man appeared in her vision.

A smooth hand stopped her words, obscured her view.

“Sybille!” Agnar’s voice shook with anger and desperation. “Geirmund! Come to me, brother!”

Sybille blinked to clear her eyes, hearing her younger brother plead and scream.

“Sooner than you’d think, isn’t it?” Gorm grinned down at her, almost apologetically. “Why don’t you relax and try to enjoy it? Think about how this could’ve gone if you’d have just been a smart whore, and come willingly.”

“Try to throw him off, Sybille!”

Sybille struggled, but his palms pressed into the flesh of her arms. He was too heavy, so much heavier than he looked. She writhed against the floor, tried to bite his hand. A slap stole her vision and her sense, when she remembered herself hands were clawing at her dress. Sybille managed to force her legs closed, and heard a young man’s quiet laugh. “There’s no need to struggle,” Gorm said. “I’ll be gentle.”

Sybille gritted her teeth, squirming and struggling as he pulled down her undergarments. Some part of her saw the gleaming steel of Geirmund’s armour in the corner of the tent, saw the ragged visage of Agnar screaming at him, roaring at him, punching and kicking and spitting at him.

“Do something, you dead fuck!” Agnar sprayed spittle into his visor.

He ripped off Geirmund’s helmet to reveal a gaunt head, bone showing under rotten flesh, eyes aglow with emerald light.

“What are you looking at?” Gorm asked, glancing back. He spat in her face and slapped her for good measure.

Sybille could barely see the young man atop her, struggling with his own trousers.

“I said, patience.” The dead warrior stared down at what he saw as a deranged, froth-mouthed beggar. “Gudmund was sleeping. And now we’ve all sold our souls,” the words came cold and spectral from his mouth. With each note spoken, mist swirled in the air and hoarfrost crystals spread across the wood and furs.

Gorm paused when a chill crawled up his back. He had heard the deathly words as a faint whisper.

“Boy,” Geirmund spoke with a voice like the world ending.

Gorm scrabbled back from the dead warrior in terror, his foot caught in the torn black dress of the fallen woman.

Geirmund snatched him up with a rotting hand. He hauled the young man from his feet, watching his terror with a macabre emerald gaze. “Would that I lived and I could see you suffer properly. But I will take your soul and that will have to be enough.”

Geirmund let him drop, catching him with a gauntleted hand, thrusting his rotting fingers into Gorm’s chest without breaking flesh. Gorm opened his mouth to scream but made no sound. He tried to kick his way free from the grip, but he lost his fight now his skin started to shrivel. He pleaded with his eyes, but they clouded over, rotting to a shade close to brown while all the rest of his flesh puckered to a desiccated black.

Gorm writhed in his death throes. He shuddered to stillness.

Geirmund tossed the shrivelled husk onto hoarfrost furs. He swept his emerald gaze over the frozen tent, each inch pristine, countless crystals gleaming with the flame of a single candle. He then regarded Agnar. “Brother.”

“Brother.” Agnar swallowed, and dipped his bruised head in respect. “My thanks—”

“You want me to thank me?” Geirmund’s voice seemed to shake the world itself. He ran at the ragged, broken man. “Then return, brother!”

Agnar did not shy from his charge, or from the blow of the decayed palm. He only smiled down at his sister before he was struck clear of the place, and sent somewhere many miles away, in a cage that stank of sweat and blood and filth.

Geirmund turned to the glimmering brilliance of the tent. He gazed down at his sister, no flesh upon his rotting face to show emotion. “As to you, Sybille,” he spoke in a voice that was almost his own. “I love you, and I miss you, but I cannot see or save you again. Stay safe. I will fix this.” He swept out his hands, gauntleted and rotting both. “You will wake in the morning, and all of this will be undone.” He reached out for her with decaying fingers. “Sleep now, sister.”