57. Hollow Victory

“I asked Gudmund if he was relieved to have finally finished his conquest. He looked at me first as if he didn’t recognise me, then as if he hated me, and then he said that this was a war that would never end. He knew that the day he met Ragadin. He had come here to brush aside disorganised animals and instead come into conflict with steadfast enemies.

Gudmund told me that he left the High Lands because the neighbouring Jarls had banded together to murder him, and his greatest regret in this life is that he hadn’t stayed to die. He later decided that it would have been good of Brolli to let him know that he wasn’t actually dead, and then he wouldn’t have needed to make so many enemies trying to revenge his young brother.

Brolli laughed for the first time in a week when I mentioned it to him.”

Asgeir and his men had been surrounded and broken not long after trying to fight through to Hjorvarth. Asgeir had his skull split open, but fought on until a goblin chewed through his throat. Bjorn had lain amongst the carnage of slaughtered goblins. He was soaked in dark blood, appearing almost unmolested save for the spears through shoulder and heart. Hjorvarth now strode across a barren plain scattered with crushed and trampled bodies, watching with hollow satisfaction as an army of men drove hundreds of other goblins into the forests, where Skorri and Ottar and dozens of other trappers waited to ensnare and slaughter them.

Hjorvarth was wary of the goblins fleeing out of Horvorr, and fought off those that attacked him despite his wounds. They often ran off to the northern forests or fled East instead, thinking the manling too much of a threat even if he walked alone.

Mugg staggered out from the broken gate, carrying half a broken raft, with the remnant dozen of his clan behind him. “Black Heart!” he called both in fear and respect, and ordered his clan to run away.

Hjorvarth barely noticed the big goblin. He stared towards the smoking wreckage of Horvorr with a glazed gaze. He thought that he should feel more, but mostly he felt sick and dizzy and tired. All his rage and disgust and fear had become frozen and muted.

***

“Here he is!” Gunnar called. “Bad day when a man with one eye can see better than the rest of you.” He dragged a crushed goblin off of a man that wore grimy armour. Engli had lost his helmet, his blond hair stained red. Gunnar hauled him up all the same, surprised to see that a half-naked and bandaged man was lying beneath.

Sam groaned in discomfort, then squinted up at the black-capped man. “Am I dead?”

“No.” Gunnar shook his head. “Looks like Engli covered you.”

“Oh.” Sam frowned. “Is he dead?”

“Looks like.” Gunnar offered his hand. “You want to help me carry him?”

Sam swallowed his guilt, and grabbed Gunnar’s arm. They spoke no more than that as they carried the man, floral armour and all, towards the southern gate. The folk of Fenkirk who had helped Gunnar in his search went back to look for their own friends and loved ones. Roaldr had led most the gathered fisherfolk into Horvorr, telling them to be mindful of goblins and ditches, while the rest remained to guard the open gate.

Gunnar and Sam carried Engli past his mother, but Anna didn’t even notice them. She couldn’t see through her tears as she nestled her dead husband in her lap. Linden had saved her, had been struck by a stone as he paused to gloat. They passed Ingrid, as well, but she was busy tending to Ragi as he bled out, listening to him murmur about speaking to a man from Redstone so that he might make things right with his brother.

Sam barely recognised his home now they took the safe path towards the Ritual House. Houses were smashed, burned and broken; people were splayed and dead along the dirt, whole families half-eaten. All the ground around the dead had been strewn with goblins, flesh savaged by claws and teeth, bodies ripped into pieces that lay in pooled black blood.

Sam had lost something of himself in Fenkirk, and with each step he took and each scene of slaughter that he witnessed, he lost what little was left. He passed by his tavern to find the doors and walls untouched, beyond the door being crisscrossed by sprays of blood. He wondered if the Salt Sage had spared him the slaughter, or whether he and Isleif would be safe behind those walls. He had seen no sign of Horvorr’s Guard, and had begun to dread each step for fear that he might would find them all dead.

They came to a wary approach to the Ritual House, then froze at the sight of a massive goblin garbed in odd, dirty clothes.

“It’s dead,” Gunnar assured, glancing at the axe buried in its head. “A nice throw by whoever killed it.”

Sam wondered if Hjorvarth had made a safe return to Horvorr. He hoped that his friend still lived and hadn’t only made it back in time to die. Sam was beyond elation when he turned to the Ritual House, to see an old man in a night shirt holding vigil ahead of the carved visage of Muradoon.

Isleif seemed to hold an unwavering gaze towards any enemies that might come. He crouched, axe to hand, as if ready to pounce.

Sam watched his old friend for a long while before he realised he was not a man waiting but a man passed.

***

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Hjorvarth came upon the Ritual House, having had a short scare from seeing a massive goblin that he thought he had recently seen killed, only to realise that this one was dead as well. He smiled to witness what he thought was Sam and his father talking, what he saw as Engli reclining in his fanciful armour against the wall.

Hjorvarth stepped into the yard of the Ritual House. He knew within a moment that his father was dead, if only by the absolute certainty in the old man’s milky gaze.

He stumbled forward while something close to everything sought to crush his spirit and bring him to his knees, but then he took a steadying breath and slowed to a stop near the gathered men. “I’ll carry him in.”

Sam startled at the deep and sorrowed voice, then turned to see a huge black-lacquered man. “Hjorvarth?”

Hjorvarth nodded slowly, his hard face shaking with emotion. “Engli is dead, too?”

“No.” Engli coughed in pain, having been woken by a familiar voice. “Not yet.”

Hjorvarth let out a long sigh. He bent down to scoop his father up from a fighting crouch. He shouldered open the door, and strode through the many-candled altars of the Ritual House, most still burning and filling the air with bitter smoke.

He ducked under the doorway and into the cluttered room where Lovrin had once bound Gudmund, then turned towards a curtain of bone strings and small beads.

Hjorvarth remembered the way to the place where wooden cots lay, ready with blankets for those who were wounded or already dead. He had slept there himself after freezing in the lake, both when dragged by Brolli and when his mother had jumped in to push him out.

There was no fire now though. Sunlight leaked through warped boards to make the gloomy air seem choked by dust.

Hjorvarth laid his father on the blankets of the cot closest to the hearth, where his mother had laid before she succumbed to the cold. “Look after him,” he remembered her words. “Swear to me, you’ll look after him.”

He only then considered she might have thought she was speaking to Isleif, that she had never meant to ask the son to look after the father.

“Hjorvarth?” Alrik croaked, turning his scarred face to look up at the huge man. “What’s happening…? Are you here to end me? Ivar’s already dead. He died last night… kept screaming and shivering, until Lovrin cut his throat. The other people didn’t even care. I tried to stop him, but he had the knife.” He stifled a cough. “Hjorvarth…?” He coughed in earnest. “Is Brolli really dead?”

Hjorvarth regarded his frail father, untouched and unbloodied. He paid no mind as the young man struggled out of his cot and onto his feet. Alrik staggered over in a temper, but his anger vanished when he understood. “I heard screaming. I thought they were dreams or part of the fever… but I was feeling better this morning.

“A lot of people are dead,” Hjorvarth spoke in a faraway voice. “Most of Horvorr. We were broken by goblins that brought slaughter. Brolli is dead. He died the night we fought. He took me out to the Lake to drown me, and we both fell in. I think everyone in Horvorr might be dead… except for you two.” He squinted at Ivar. “Except for you. I didn’t see anyone living on the way in.”

“So we’re going to die?” Alrik asked.

Hjorvarth shook his head. “Fenkirk and Wymount are here.” He raked a hand through his blackened beard. “I need to go back out and fight, and then collect the bodies of those who stood with me. Would you watch over my father’s body while I’m gone?”

***

The Chief of Horvorr sat on his imposing chair, while the young black-haired girl who had slain Lazarus with a bow hid behind the backing. Gudmund had considered killing her out of mercy, but then he’d heard the horns and shouts of men, so decided instead to wait and see who came through the door.

Arfast and Ralf leaned on either arm of the chair, both men gripping their weapons and keeping watch despite their wounds. For whatever reason, Gudmund had lifted Eirik up and sat him against Muradoon’s altar, so that the dead blond man seemed to look up on his former Chief in judgement.

Gudmund, truthfully, had no preference to whether he would live or die, but he thought he should apologize to the men who had given him such unearned loyalty, so cleared his throat to get their attention. “Well… that didn’t go as I’d hoped. Good to see that you two survived so far, I suppose.”

“I wouldn’t worry.” Arfast stared straight towards the ornate doors. “A wood witch cursed me with a long life. Whoever comes through won’t be here to kill us.”

Gudmund frowned, his proud face almost scratched clean of black blood. “You say that as if you’re not ancient.”

“True.” Arfast met the sentiment with a half smile. “But it’s a little more complicated than that.”

Outside, Sybille ordered the men of Redstone and Kollkleif to break down the ornate doors of her father’s hall. Gudmund hadn’t actually barred them though, so they struck the wood and the doors swept inward with ease.

“Is anyone alive?” a man yelled. Hardy fighters crept into the hall with weapons ready, seeing the maimed corpses of folk spread about the floor. The fisherfolk looked about the hall for whatever monster caused the carnage, unable to believe that the small dead goblin on the floor had managed it all with his sharp claws.

Gudmund thought about the question of whether he was alive more than he should. He had almost decided that he wished he wasn’t, when a young woman ran at him, clad in leather armour and padded wool, her red hair cut short as if with a blunt knife.

Sybille paused in the half-light. “Father?”

“Sybille.” Gudmund sighed, then rose to his feet. “Is Grettir really dead?”

Sybille reached an answer she must have known all along, but lost all the courage and hardness she had held so tightly to when she did. “Yes,” she murmured from wobbling lips. “He tried to save me.”

“Succeeded.” Gudmund wrapped his fur-cloaked arms around his daughter, squeezing now she sobbed into his shoulder. “Had he not then we would all be dead,” he whispered. “I only wish that he had lived to see me be less of a bastard.” He sighed again, and tightened his grip. “I am no great father, or even a man, but I do love you, Sybille. Never doubt that.” He wrestled with his doubts and his fears and his failing for only a moment, before an endless rage burned them away, leaving him with a singular desire for revenge. “But this war came too sudden, and I need to find out why. I need to know who did this, and I need to make them pay. If I live through that then maybe I can be the father you deserve… and if not, then at least you had Grettir.”

“I think Agnar is alive,” Sybille murmured, her words reverberating through fur. “I saw him.”

“Whether he lives or not,” Gudmund spoke in a calming voice. “He is lost to us. But we have each other, and that will have to be enough.”