61. Unexpected Ends

“Hilda is dead. The gods would not even allow Gudmund the happiness of a family. Grettir had fetched us so that we could take turns keeping a watch, only for us to walk in as he was about to take his own life. I didn’t know a man could cling so tightly to a sword. In our effort to save Gudmund, we nearly beat him to death. We have bonded him in his room and Kata has taken his children into care.

During my watch, Gudmund swore, spat, and cursed at me, until his throat grew too hoarse to speak. I am glad I only had to suffer it the once. I do not know what Brolli said to his brother, but whatever it was it restored Gudmund to a shadow of his former self.”

Loffi had checked and sniffed many times before turning to his cave. It had took him a long time to find a mountain goat, and he hoped that his clan had not been fighting. He dragged the bleeding animal into a rocky wall covered in long vines, his clan’s cavern being hidden behind there.

“…I did,” came a strangled snarl. “I bested the One Swing… and the Fire Giant as well! So you should all come with me. I demand you come with me! Or I’ll eat you all. Get down from those holes, and come here to praise me!”

“Balluk,” muttered a worried Moonkin.

“Balluk,” agreed the other.

“Balluk.”

“Balluk.”

“Help Loffi.”

“Loffi Help.”

Loffi had forgotten his goat, and crept carefully into his cavern. All of his clan slept along high ledges of the rock, which meant that Balluk had no real way to grab at them, especially with the wounded stink that billowed off from him.

“Loffi?” Balluk spat. “The pet of Lazarus? Is he your Chief?” The monstrous goblin tried to laugh, but only coughed in agony. “I need help! Can’t you see? Help me, and I’ll help you. I’ve got a bit of metal stuck in my chest, and I need one of you to cut it out for me… and then you won’t need Loffi. You’ll have Balluk the Burnt. Great Chief of the East! No, wait. West… Chief of Chiefs… of everywhere!”

“Stay in cave,” Moonkin ventured.

“Stay in cave,” they all echoed.

“Balluk leave,” Moonkin added in whisper.

“Balluk leave,” several quietly agreed.

“Leave?” Balluk snarled. “Why don’t you come and make me?”

Loffi had slowly crawled vines and moss on the cavern roof, and was almost above the wounded, monstrous goblin. Balluk swept his uneven feline gaze about the darkness, desperate for something to eat.

“I am getting very angry,” Balluk growled. “All of you need to come here, before I jump up and grab—” He stepped out of the way of a falling goblin, and swatted it into a cavern wall. “What was that? Trying to jump on my back like some coward, is that it? Don’t you know that I killed the One Swing?”

Loffi groaned, and pushed up from the floor. “You killed Moonkin.”

“Moonkin?” Balluk stalked forwards. “Half the goblins in this world call themselves that. Of course I’ve killed a Moonkin, and I’ll kill a thousand more. As to you, you little worm, I think it’s about time I had a good meal.”

“I challenge you!” Loffi decided. “Loffi the Throat Ripper challenges Balluk the Burnt!”

“Throat Ripper?” Balluk reached for his own neck. “You…? You did this to me!” He laughed a mad laugh, forcing it through the pain. “What a day this is. I accept your challenge, little worm.”

Loffi rushed forward, light on his feet, stepping one way then the other, slicing at the monstrous goblin’s leg, rolling away from a stomping foot, raking his crotch, rolling clear once more.

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Balluk kicked the goblin mid-roll and sent him tumbling across the cavern. “Loffi loses. Loffi dies.”

“No!” Moonkin screamed. “Not that! Not do that!” All of Loffi’s clan began to screech and clamour from their high hiding places.

Balluk shook his misshapen head in disgust. He walked over to the groaning, bleeding goblin on the floor.

“Fight!” Moonkin screeched. “Save Loffi!”

“Go ahead,” Balluk growled. “I’ll happily eat you all.”

He raised his foot, meaning to stomp on the small goblin, but he staggered when a stone smashed into the back of his head.

“Fight! Fight!”

“Do that,” Moonkin agreed, throwing another stone.

Balluk snarled, and raised his foot, but a goblin jumped onto his back, scratching and biting. He tossed it off, turning now another stone struck him fully in the eye.

Claws ripped down his thigh.

He roared, half-blinded, swiping out and kicking as more small goblins leapt on him, clawing into his flesh, dragging him to the floor, beating at him with their bony knuckles.

“Stop!” Balluk demanded. He struggled against the hard stone. “Get off of me!” He searched with his one eye for some hold or leverage he might use for escape, but there were too many hands grabbing and holding him. Balluk lifted his misshapen head to see orbish amber eyes staring down in judgement.

“Better that you’re dead,” Loffi said.

***

Sam sat facing a tavern counter, feeling out of place.

The walls were stone and metal-worked instead of plain wood. The folk of Timilir were all rounder and more expensively dressed than those of Southwestern Tymir. Worse still, he was on the wrong side of the bar.

A green-clad man that looked not much different from Arnor tended the counter, chubby and pleasant in his own way.

Sam had long found large crowds uncomfortable though, ever since his wife and son had left, and now he found them close to unbearable. It was as if all the death and slaughter he had seen made him no fit company for ordinary folk.

He laughed aloud, realizing he was bad company to begin with.

“Something funny, Horvorrian?” asked a gruff, armoured guard beside him.

Sam glanced around the stone-wrought tavern, seeing that the fanciful folk had turned their gazes and conversations. He stared into the dark eyes of the bearded guard. “What makes you think I’m from Horvorr?”

The guard shrugged, his metal armour rattling. “You’ve got that stink about you, and the half-starved look of most folk from Southwestern Tymir.” He refused to look away. “What’s your name, stranger?”

“Sam.”

The guard sniffed. “Odd name is that.”

“Sam the Spearslayer?” the green-garbed barkeeper asked.

Sam struggled not to cringe. “Sam Longarrow.”

The armoured guard staggered back, his stool clunking into the stone. “Longarrow?”

Fear and intrigue rippled through the richly clothed folk at the tables.

A group of five more guards stood up at the corner table.

“Did one of you say, Longarrow?” a stentorian voice demanded.

Sam watched in confusion now all the guards drew sword or spear and came to surround him. It reminded him all too much of the gates of Fenkirk when Hakon had come with his men and they had screamed and spat at him, only this time he had no weapon and posed even less of a threat.

Sam bared his palms in surrender. “I… that isn’t my name. I didn’t—”

“On your knees, Longarrow!” a hoary guard captain roared, brandishing a spear. “Or by the gods, I’ll skewer you where you stand!”

Sam swallowed, and slowly got to his knees.

“Under the authority of Jarl Thrand you are to be arrested and tried for the murder of three men, for the wounding of a dozen others, and for the robbery of gold from Jarl Thrand’s own estate.”

“I did none of that!” Sam shouted. “I swear to you, this is a mistake!”

The guard captain paused, and nodded to the barkeeper. “Hand me that notice.”

Sam didn’t struggle as they forced him onto his stomach. He had only enough room to lift his head to look at the warrant when the guard captain dangled it ahead of him.

“A mistake?” the guard captain demanded. “What part? That you attacked and killed Jarl Thrand’s own men? That you stole from him? Or are you saying that we’ve made a mistake, and that you just happen to have the name and face of the man on this notice?”

Sam stared in stupefaction at a drawing of him that looked months old, yet still detailed wounds and scars which had only just healed. “The Salt Sage did this!”

“Salt Sage?” The guard captain barked laughter. “You’ll be lucky if the next holy man you see isn’t a Godi of Muradoon.”