55. New Age

“This marks the last entry to my journal. Or to this journal, at least. To my surprise, I crossed paths with The Alchemist once more. He feared that though Magar might have failed, that the voice persisted. And that one day a goblin with the means and mind to accomplish the task would resurrect him.

I wondered aloud if he was speaking of me, but his raucous laughter put an end to my suspicion and made me feel altogether insulted.

Thus I made an unhappy agreement with the robed stranger, which required tracking Agrak down. This neccessitated that some things, on his part, be forgotten. Which is a betrayal that eats at me by the day. But I suspect that The Alchemist is right in his prediction. If The Small King did believe that was a way to resurrect a goblin god, who might finally deliver to our people the glorious empire that he had once sought, then he would feel compelled to repeat Magar’s experiments.

While it was clear to me that whatever the young shaman had sought to birth, was not a creature of magnanimity but of malevolence. And that it should remain forevermore as a disembodied voice.

The Grorginite Empire has fallen, for the fifth time, and The Small King has secluded himself in a mountain with no clan to speak of. The remnants of the last attempt are now little more than a gathering of scattered clans, often warring with one another.

While I wander, without company or purpose, around the overworld, no longer blinded by the bright sky or dizzied by the vast spaces. Every now and then I go to see if Agrak is still in his mountains, and he remains there crushed by a melancholy unfathomable.

From time to time, I cross paths with Chiefs, or Great Chiefs, and wonder if I should involve myself in their affairs. But so far I have resisted the temptation.

In the end though, I know I will end up back among them. The voice does not call out to me, but the pool still does. Strangely, I have seen more gargantuan goblins spawned since Magar’s experiments. It is as if he has altered the very nature of our people.

I wonder if I could alter it as well, and help The Small King to achieve his goals without the need to resurrect a powerful creature who may sooner destroy us than help us.”

Sam trudged up a steep climb of snowy stone, towards a sheltered basin between mountains, or so he was told. He knew, or hoped, that his tortuous journey had come to an end. He could still hear the smug words of the Salt Sage echoing in his mind and they filled him with an eternal anger, which was buried, smothered, under the endless sludge that now weighed his heart.

A sadness that had taken root in his stomach and flourished beyond grief.

He had lost too many on his way down through the swamps and forests of the Midderlands Pass. He would have lost even more, his own life, were it not for the help of an odd girl and an enormous black troll. Yet he almost wished he would have died there, because his son and his oldest friend were now long dead.

Sam had decided to return to his quiet life, leaving those who accompanied him to go off on their own. But then he had heard news when passing through Fenkirk of the Brotherhood of Brikorhaan. An interesting mention, to any man, that a new brotherhood had been made after all these winters, but Sam was particularly driven to visit the man who had taken his dead friend’s name. He was going to find this Hjorvarth the Red and he was going to make him suffer.

Sam only regretted traveling at great haste.

He was hungry and cold and tired, and not properly clothed for a climb through cold mountains. Yet, he realised, as the ground leveled out and he got sight of a ornate cabin ahead, he had managed it all the same. He did have doubts at the size of the place, but there had been rumors of underground tunnels and rooms.

Sam hoped he wouldn’t have to travel too far under the earth to expose the pretender.

He noticed the supplies piled on the other side of the basin, timbers and cut stone, stacked crates and huddled barrels that had been sheltered under newly made sheds. He wondered who was paying for all these supplies when the brotherhood was only newly made. He wondered why anyone would even bother coming this far out into the mountains, when it would have been simpler to construct a place in Fenkirk, or in the new settlement Jarl Sybille was making on the border of the Midderlands Pass.

Sam paused at the door, studied the animals and stars carved into the wood, then knocked thrice. He straightened and tried to steady his breathing as he waited. He wasn’t sure exactly what he had planned, beyond perhaps that he might call the man out on his false name and then challenge him to a duel if he denied it.

The large doors swung soundlessly inward to reveal a young man. He narrowed his eyes as if wary. “Good day, friend. You here for a reason, or did you just get lost in the mountains?”

“I’ve come here to talk to the bastard that’s using a dead man’s name.” Sam was surprised by the anger in his own voice, but he held his scowl. “Hjorvarth the Red. Where is he?”

The young man glanced around the narrow reception room. “Why don’t you wait—”

“I’ve come a long way, lad, and I’m not going to wait out in the cold. You lead me to him and he can deal with me, can’t he? And if he can’t, well, not like you had a chance at stopping me, then, is it?” Sam upturned his palms. “Don’t you dare draw that knife. I’ve no weapon of my own, but I’ll bite off your ear just to spite you.”

“You can wait inside,” the man replied carefully, one hand still on the hilt. “But you can’t go down the stairs.”

Sam’s smile was savage. He nodded, stepped forward, and watched the man hurry through a hole in the wall and down a stone stairway. Sam glanced back at the snow to see he was alone, and then crossed through the narrow lodge and started down the steps. He was impressed by the size of the structure below ground, but part of him was made all the angrier that this pretender had found the place, stealing a home as easily as a name.

The youth had disappeared down another flight of stairs, which led all the way down to a training room below where two men, similar in appearance, fought with one another. Sam almost recognized the pair, but he started putting his ears to doors instead.

Soon enough, he found a door that was ajar where folk seemed to be taking a meeting.

Sam took a deep breath, stepped back, and kicked open the door. It squealed on hinges then shuddered into wood. “Which one of you fools is claiming to be Hjorvarth the Red?”

He frowned at the seven people seated on a rustic table, most of whom he did know. On the left side, Gunnar, Engli and Ingrid, while Sybille, Alrik and Arfast sat opposite.

They all looked at him in confusion or anger, but the huge man at the head of the table was the first to react.

He laughed a deep, almost maddened, laugh. “I suppose that would be me, Sam.”

Sam hesitated at the sight of a man that could have been Hjorvarth’s twin, who shared the same deep voice and rust coloring, who looked entirely the same save for a considerable loss of tailed hair and a thinner beard. “You’re not him. You’re not Isleif’s son. I saw that man lying dead under the earth.”

“Indeed.” Hjorvarth nodded. “You ripped a shield off my arm and woke me with your screams.” He paused, reassuring those around him with a measured smile. “I searched for you. I had the kobolds search for you, but you were not found and I feared you were dead. Dan is here, in one of the rooms, but I don’t expect that he will stay. He has told me he has no great urging to be a fighter.”

Sam was shaking his head. “Dan is alive…?”

“I submitted myself to the justice of Timilir to come and find you in the mines, but I found him instead. I made a deal with King Rubinold, after he had captured myself and Dan, to rescue you from the care of Queen Zelerath. But I suffered fatal wounds before that and Russ went on in my stead. I do not know how I came to wake, or to heal as well as I have… but that is the truth. Ask me any question and I will answer it to satisfaction.”

“Sam,” Engli put in, “if this really wasn’t Hjorvarth, don’t you think one of us would have noticed?”

Sam blinked, dropped to his knees, and wept.

***

Hjorvarth closed the door to Dan’s room, leaving the son to comfort the father in an awkward reunion. He felt supremely glad and slightly worried with the advent of Sam’s arrival. He crossed back into the counsel room, and closed that door behind him as well.

Gunnar, Engli, Ingrid, Sybille, Alrik and Arfast were all still seated at the table. They were quieter than usual, and paid a deal of attention to their cups and mugs.

Gunnar’s smile was wry, one eye covered by a leather patch. “That was a little odd.”

“He crossed the Midderlands Pass,” Hjorvarth replied. “A mountainous climb before that and spent a good while imprisoned under the earth. He started with two dozen and ended with three, and thought all the while that I was dead and that his son was dead.” He paused, settling his own emotions. “I would disagree, is what I mean.”

Gunnar assented with a respectful nod.

“Was there anything further to discuss?” Sybille asked.

Engli leaned forward on the table. “We’re happy with the coin provided. And we’ll arrange the patrols among ourselves for the wider region, and select some men to live in New Horvorr while you finish building your wall.” He glanced at Hjorvarth. “I suppose I should stay there as well, to oversee things.”

“That suits me well enough.” Hjorvarth came to the end of the table, but didn’t take his seat. “I’ll remain here until the building work is finished.”

Ingrid regarded the huge man with skepticism. “Shouldn’t you be looking for more work? Between what Sybille and I are paying you, you’re not going to have enough coin for wages, and you’ll run short long before you get a chance to erect those buildings.”

“I can arrange a meeting between the Brotherhood and Wymount,” Sybille offered. “I’m sure Roaldr and Aerindis would be willing to at least consider it. Though I expect you have your own coin to account for current losses.”

“We do,” both founders replied.

Sybille clasped her hands atop the table, and scrutinised Engli. “I suppose this meeting is at an end, then.”

“I suppose it is,” he agreed. “I’ll see you soon, Sybille.”

Sybille nodded and rose as Ingrid did. They spoke brief words of departure to the others, and then Arfast opened the door and led both women into the stairwell.

The door was closed behind them.

“Are you good friends with Sybille again?” Gunnar pointedly asked.

Engli frowned. “I’ve never not been friends with her.”

Hjorvarth took a seat beside Alrik, opposite Gunnar and Engli. “I invited Sam to join the brotherhood, but he said he had no heart left for fighting. I thought we could erect a tavern instead… and Sam could run the place.”

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“That’s a costly gesture,” Alrik said.

“We’ve got a tavern downstairs,” Gunnar added.

“Too small and too narrow,” Engli dismissed.

“That’s true.” Alrik nodded. “But then it might be simpler to build him a tavern in Fenkirk.”

“He doesn’t like too much custom,” Hjorvarth said. “I think here would suit him better.”

“Fair enough,” Alrik and Gunnar replied at the same time. They eyed one another suspiciously.

Hjorvarth took a slow breath, and contemplated his situation. “I’ll want Alrik to go with you to New Horvorr, Engli. Take Fleinn and the twins as well. If you meet any likely men there then feel free to recruit them. I’ll travel with Gunnar to arrange whatever needs to be arranged with Wymount and the fishing villages.”

Gunnar’s nod was almost reluctant.

“And after that?” Engli asked. “Ingrid did have a point about the coin.”

“My mind is towards helping Sybille resettle the region,” Hjorvarth replied. “I expect that Horvorr will need to be replaced by a trading village that bridges the gap between Wymount and Fenkirk. So perhaps we could find work helping to protect that. I would guess that the Stone Sons expedition will have either crippled whatever lives to the far West, or we will have more enemies soon upon us.”

“Cheery,” Gunnar said.

Hjorvarth barely smirked. “I think, in terms of helping Sybille, our best choices would be to either clear the Midderlands Pass… which is perhaps a terrible choice, or to search the caverns south of Timilir. Brolli thought that there were tunnels which could be used to pass straight through to the Low Lands. I think opening or maintaining trading passages would be the best way forward in any case.”

“That’s a lot of work that Sybille isn’t likely to pay us for,” Alrik mentioned.

“Now, now,” Gunnar rebuked. “I’m sure Engli will be rewarded.”

“I was paid a good sum of coin for duelling the Low King,” Hjorvarth said, still angered by the violent memories. “I have no concerns over funds for the winter at least.”

“But,” Alrik pressed, “eventually… we’re going to have to make more coin.”

“The likely choice would be to meet with Jarl Harrod the Younger and help him in his war with the goblins.” Hjorvarth rested his palms on the table. “I believe that the far North is well handled by the Golden Men and plenty of others, and, along with the Western Bogs, is a too great a distance to travel. In that sense, only Southeastern Tymir would be easy to reach, but we could spend the mid seasons in the Eastern Plains if needed. They’ve plenty of monsters there and not enough men to protect their holdings.”

“Simple, then,” Gunnar said. “We’ll get our house in order, help Jarl Harrod the Younger reconquer his father’s lands, and then go round the Eastern Plains and save those who are suffering at the hands of monsters.”

“I take it we won’t be venturing around the Low Lands or the High Lands?” Alrik said.

Engli dismissed it with a shake of his head. “The region is safe compared to everywhere other than Vendrick.”

“Any work there would be for butchering men and stealing lands from neighbors.” Hjorvarth scratched at his short red beard. “I was hoping we could leave all that to the hands of harder hearted men.” He was happy enough when all men nodded in agreement. “There is one further issue,” he distractedly added. “Sam mentioned that he ran across Astrid in the Midderlands.”

Gunnar forced a smile. “We’ve gone over this, Hjorvarth. If I thought she was in trouble, any at all, I’d be out there searching myself. Sometimes you’ve just got to take things on faith.”

“So says a man that worships goblins,” Hjorvarth replied in poor humour. He sighed. “I will trust your judgement, Gunnar. Sam thought she was in good health from his brief meeting. In better health than his group at any rate.”

“Sam’s proved me right, then.” Gunnar raised his brows. “I wonder if Dagny’s still searching for her.” He looked away as if in grief then shrugged. “I’m sure she’s fine, as well. Shame about the rest of them but then what can you really do about that?” He yawned, rubbing at his smooth cheeks. “I think I’m going to go sleep.”

Alrik’s eyes narrowed. “It’s not even dark out.”

“It will be, though,” Gunnar said, rising. “It will be. Best to be prepared, as Hjorvarth tells us.”

Hjorvarth frowned. “I hadn’t meant it in that sense.”

Gunnar didn’t offer an answer, and he left the door open after he had departed.

“I’ll go get ready to leave.” Alrik pushed up from his chair, and regarded Engli. “I am right in thinking you mean to travel with Ingrid and Sybille?”

“Can’t forget about Arfast,” Engli replied. “But, since you mention it, I suppose we’d be wise to go together.”

“Since I mention it,” Alrik echoed skeptically, walking away and closing the door behind him.

Engli turned to Hjorvarth. “Why do they think that everything I do is owed to Sybille?”

“We could trade places if you like,” Hjorvarth replied. “You’re defter in negotiations than I am. I’ll likely drive Gunnar to frustration as well, but I thought he would serve best to speak on my behalf.”

“You could’ve took Alrik.”

Hjorvarth shook his head. “He knows the stone city better than the rest of us, which should prove useful for the men in New Horvorr and for Sybille as well.” Engli seemed to be searching for a reason to disagree. “I’ll go to Wymount,” Hjorvarth assured. “I’m sure my reputation will serve us equally well as would your words. No sense changing things when we already spoke of them to others. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” Engli said with slight relief. He started to rise but settled back in his seat. “I’m not going to come back and learn that you’ve marched off on your own to the Midderlands?”

“My odds of finding Astrid would be slim. I’ve a better chance here of doing some good for a wider group of people.” Hjorvarth paused, brows furrowed. “In honest truth, I fear if we do not secure this region then all of Tymir will be under threat. Had we been broken at Horvorr, the goblins could have marched up through the Midderlands Pass to take Jarl Harrod on all sides. With that region conquered, they could have commanded Ouro’s Scales, poured into the Eastern Plains, and burned most the grain that feeds Vendrick. I am not sure if it is plain arrogance, but I do fear that all our people would have been faced with a bloody end had we failed here or in Timilir.”

Engli’s smile was crooked. “That’s hardly reassuring.”

“It assures me that I can no longer risk my life in reckless quests.”

“I suppose that’s consolation.” Engli chuckled quietly, and then looked around as if taking in their surroundings anew. “Do you ever wonder what happened to the Sage?”

***

“Uncle?” a boy asked in his lilting voice. He appeared far too small as he sat upon a masterwork throne of green cushions and golden wood. He wore a crown that sat heavy upon his blond-haired head. A brown cloak was clasped to his shoulders, draping down to his dark boots. “Where are you, uncle?”

The hall was dark and the candles had burned low.

The boy shivered, and realised he must have fallen asleep. “Uncle…?”

“I am here, my king,” came the answer, words sounding from the darkness of a thick hood. The robed man strode up the rugged approach to the raised throne. “I would have lifted you to bed, but I thought it was simpler to let you sleep. Did you want me to take you now?”

“Yes… no.” The boy’s face creased in thought. “I have decided I do not want to be king. Is that alright, uncle?”

“Of course,” the robed man assured. “But we’ll have to take you somewhere else. You’ll have to give away your crown and your robes and your bed and your home. You’ll not be able to see your friends or the men and women that help you. And you’ll have to choose a new name and decide on who you want to be instead.”

The boy sat staring at the shadowed figure. He hummed in contemplation. “What if you are the king, and then I can stay here with you?”

“I’m too busy to be the king,” the robed man dismissed. “I’m here to teach you, and then I’ll need to leave. And if you were to give your crown to another man then they likely couldn’t afford to keep you. Or at the very least they would have to hurt you before you came of age. And you’re the only one that can truly be king, and truly help people. Because if you aren’t the king, then people will suffer… and that will be all your fault.”

The boy crossed his arms and scowled. “That isn’t a very nice thing to say. You are a nasty uncle.”

“I am only telling you the truth. Don’t you want to help people?”

“Don’t you?”

The robed man chuckled. “Yes… that is why I wish for you to be king. Because I know that you’ll be the best king that there ever was. Better than I ever would be.”

“Better than my father?” the boy asked.

“Of course.”

The boy lifted the crown from his head, arms straining with the weight. “How does this help people?”

“It won’t… not right away. But that gives you power, and it lets you tell other people what to do. And you can tell them to help people. And if you’re not king, then someone else might tell them to hurt people. So you see you’re the one who needs to be king because you’re the one that wants to help… not hurt.”

The boy regarded him with suspicion. “Why?” He waited for an answer that didn’t come. “Why do I have to do it?”

“Let me ask you this,” the robed man replied. “What would you rather be? If you can tell me that, with certainty, then I will help you to become whatever it is.”

The boy’s eyes narrowed. “This is a trick.”

“It is not. You are my nephew, and I wish for you to be happy. If you decide that you want not to be the king… even though other people will suffer because of it, then I will endeavor to help you.”

“See. A trick.”

“The Low King can do everything he wants to do. He can fish, and dance, and sing. He can do whatever he wishes, and while he does that, he can use his power to help people. There are a hundred of boys all over the Low Lands, all over Tymir, that would very much like to be the Low King. There are grown men that share the same ambition.”

“Why does there even need to be a king?” the boy asked, plainly frustrated.

“Well, if there wasn’t a king, there would still be Jarls. Those Jarls would fight among themselves, over and over, causing harm to animals and men and women and children. The Low King prevents that because the Jarls are sworn to his service and they are sworn not to attack the other Jarls.”

“They should not even want to attack one another.”

“Perhaps not… but they will. They would have, were you not here to claim your father’s seat and crown. They would have fought among themselves to be the new Low King. Simply by sitting there, you have saved hundreds, if not thousands of lives.”

The boy sighed. “So I need to make all of the Jarls my Jarls, and then there will be no more fighting?”

“I am afraid it not that quite that simple,” said the robed man. “You can unify the Low Lands, which is mostly done, and bring the High Lands under your banner as well. But there would still be Timilir, and the Midderlands, and the Eastern Plains and the Western Bogs and the frozen places in the north.”

“I see,” the boy murmured. “And if I am king for all these places there will be peace.”

“Peace in Tymir,” the robed man agreed. “Which is exactly what is needed.”

“And I can do that?” the boy asked in tentative fashion. “Even though father couldn’t?”

“Yes.” The robed man nodded. “But there are places, beyond Tymir and the endless seas, and there are other peoples. And those people are going to come to this island. And they are going to bring their war and their own gods. And if they succeed, then they are going to kill our people and they are going to kill our gods as well.”

The boy blinked. “They can kill our gods?”

“In memory, yes. If all of Tymir is dead then there will be no one left to honour the Eleven Elders.”

“You trouble me with your tall tales, uncle. The gods would not allow this.”

“And that is why the gods have chosen you to be the Low King. Because they know that you will unify Tymir, and you will fight back the heathens and protect the memory of our ancestors. They know that you will save us.”

The boy shook his head. “I think they should choose someone else. I’m only a boy.”

“There is plenty of time left to prepare,” the robed man gently assured. “But first you must decide whether or not you wish to be king. You must decide whether you want to be the man that saves all of Tymir, or whether you want to be someone else… someone without responsibility. If you are in truth the Low King, the son of your father, then I will help you to become the king of all Tymir. I will make sure that you are safe and that all our people are safe.”

“Wouldn’t that make you the king?” the boy asked.

“No. It would make me the king’s uncle.”

The boy nodded slowly. “Why didn’t you keep my father safe?”

“I wish that I could have. I warned him, but he would not listen. I am here now, to help you, in penance.”

The boy swallowed, eyes tearful. “Will you keep me safe, uncle?”

“I swear it,” the robed man’s words were fearsome. “I will protect you, nephew. I swear it by the all the gods, by the true gods, that you yourself will in turn protect. Together we will guard the Low Lands, and the High Lands, and all of Tymir. We will unify all the Jarls under one banner. And we will be the bringers of peace.”

“Peace.” The boy’s nod was more certain. He managed a hopeful smile. “And then no more fathers will die because no one will hurt each other?”

“Exactly that, nephew.”

“And how do we bring peace, uncle?”

The robed man upturned his palms. “It is not so different to swinging a sword.”

The boy cocked his head, crown nearly toppling. “What do you mean?”

“I’ll explain it another day. Come, nephew, you look tired.”

“I am tired,” the boy agreed with a yawn. He managed a meek smile. “I am the Low King, as well.”