7. A Wanted Man

“Despite controlling vast swathes of the overland and the underland, The Small King’s search for Lucius Chance, or The Old Enemy, proves fruitless.

By all reckoning, we should have located him times over. Which confirms to me what I have long thought. That not only is Chance not of our world, but he must visit other worlds as well.

To what purpose, I have yet to gather. So far he seems only intent on destabilization and an ancient vendetta against Agrak. But surely he must have some purpose other than meddling and malice to drive him.”

Alrik sat in the back room of Sifa’s tavern. He shifted on his stone stool, his posture made uncomfortable by the aches and pains he had suffered since being beaten by Hjorvarth. Those gathered had fell to a silence of lifting mugs, slurping ale, and clearing throats.

Despite the heat in the air, the close stone walls gave a sense of foreboding cold.

Alrik had taken meeting with one rough woman, Sifa, and three men, no less rough, ranging from youth to infirmity. Arrayed on the stools opposite as they were, and being kin, it seemed a deliberate scene of generations, or the same man growing older from left to right, with Sifa an oddity in the middle. Alrik had been here for almost two weeks, bringing news of Brolli’s death, but he still felt a stranger.

He could see the doubt and distrust in their eyes, most their gazes glazed by ale, reflecting the steady flame of the brass lantern between them.

He wasn’t convinced that the three men all shared the same name, Afi, but he was certain that they all shared similar ambitions, of cutting his throat and claiming leadership for themselves. He was glad that they still thought him a capable fighter, even though he struggled not to wince with the effort of sitting upright.

“Well?” Sifa pressed.

Alrik scratched at his pocked cheeks, scarred flesh rough to touch. He buried the anguish that he always felt when he remembered his mired face. “Carry on as we are. We don’t know—”

“What?” the oldest Afi rasped. “Our people are being stolen from their homes… and you want to carry on as we are? Until there’s nothing left of all us but bags of teeth?”

Alrik struggled with his anger. “The slums are huge. We don’t know where these Crooked Teeth are hiding, or who they even are. Until we have some clue as to—”

“We should be grabbing them from the streets,” the youngest Afi snarled. “Cut at them until they give us answers. It’s either that or we go about our business until the Crooked Teeth put a bag over all our heads and drag us away.” He shook his head. “What about the Gem Cutters?”

“They murdered Dyri,” Sifa hissed. “Dumped him outside the tavern with two rubies punched into his eyes. It would seem that Coalhair’s daughter is blaming Brolli for murdering her father.”

“On what grounds?” Old Afi grumbled.

“Brolli hated Coalhair,” Alrik said. “The body was left, and there was no bag of teeth. We brought word that he died after Brolli did, but it seems a lot of folk aren’t ready to believe that Brolli’s actually dead.”

Fear flickered through each of the Afi’s gazes. Alrik wondered then if the only reason he hadn’t been murdered was because they all thought this was a twisted test of loyalty.

Sifa kept her gaze towards the lantern. “Is he dead?”

Alrik chose the truth he thought would serve him best. “I’m as sure as I can be without having seen his body.”

A surprised murmur rippled through the adjoining taproom. A man began to speak in a deep voice that rumbled through the air and rolled through the barely open door.

“Company,” all three Afi’s muttered.

“You expecting someone?” Sifa asked.

A second voice started to shout, which Alrik recognized as belonging to the barkeeper. The stone door groaned open on old hinges. He blinked at the huge grey-cloaked figure standing in the doorway.

Hjorvarth swept his gaze across the table, settling on the youthful man with scarred cheeks. “Alrik… I’m here to speak with Alf.”

Alrik grimaced. “Alf’s dead, Hjorvarth. I found his wedding band near a scattered camp on the Snake Basin path.”

Hjorvarth furrowed his brows. “You’re in charge, then?”

“Actually,” Sifa said, “if we are indeed going by Brolli’s wishes, you are in charge, Hjorvarth.”

Alrik nodded without hesitation. “That’s true, but you told me you had no mind to come to Timilir.”

Hjorvarth recognized unease. He studied the rough men at the table, saw resentment in faces young, middling and old. “Has Alrik done poor work in my absence?”

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Young Afi seemed eager to speak, but was silenced by the shaking head of Old Afi.

The middling Afi cleared his throat. “No… but we would of course welcome the foster son of Brolli.” He narrowed his eyes on Alrik. “Gods know we need a leader who understands what it is to fight.”

Hjorvarth’s hard face remained unchanged. “Sifa?”

Sifa glanced at Alrik, and shrugged. “Seen worse. Seen better.”

Hjorvarth nodded, turning to the rough men. “You three can leave.”

Old Afi scowled. Middling Afi raised his brows.

Young Afi scoffed in disgust. “Say again? We were having a private—”

“Were having,” Hjorvarth echoed without sympathy. “I don’t recall ever seeing a man talk back to Brolli.” He shifted his cloak, resting a hand on his runic axe. “But I could make best guess at how he would respond.”

“No need,” Old Afi rasped with a servile smile. “My son’s son was ever a rash man.”

Hjorvarth stood in a scowling silence while the three men muttered under their breaths and departed. He sighed, and pushed the stone door to a close, leaving the room bathed by the hazy glow of the lantern. He took a seat opposite Sifa. “I have no interest at all in pecking at the rotting corpse of the Black Hands.”

Alrik faced them both, smiling in confusion. “Then why the hard words?”

“The taproom is empty and it’s not even late. I had trouble getting by the man at the door, and the barkeep made best effort to stop me from coming into this room. Add to that, the two men I had view of were belting knifes as I walked through the door… and I would guess that they meant to murder you.”

Sifa had paled and her gaze shifted between both men.

“You meant to murder me?” Alrik hissed.

“I mention it for their sake.” Hjorvarth shrugged under his grey cloak. “They should be glad that I was the first to arrive. You can leave now, Sifa, but if I suspect further betrayal I’ll have to mention all this to Brolli. Though in honest truth, I think you’ve more to fear from me if Alrik ends up with a cut throat.”

Alrik was both gladdened and chilled by the hate-laced words.

Sifa swallowed. “I thought—”

“Brolli doesn’t pay you to think, Sifa. You had clear word to follow me, or to follow Alrik in my stead.”

Sifa scowled at Alrik. “Why was I brought word that Brolli was dead?”

Hjorvarth roared a false laugh that spoke to disgust. “I think you’ve offered proof enough that you can’t be trusted.” He shook his head. “You can leave… but if you mention any of this to anyone, anyone at all, then I’ll make sure your children end up as little more than ornamental corpses.”

“To think,” Sifa spat, “I used to think you were a better man than Brolli.”

Sifa wobbled up from her chair, walking over to open the door. She glanced back at both men, earnestly considered stabbing the huge brute in the back of the neck. Hjorvarth turned to meet her eyes as if he had plainly read her thoughts.

Sifa bowed her head, pulling the door to a close behind her.

“Ornamental corpses?” Alrik worriedly asked.

“I had hoped to shock her.”

“Right… so you’re not—”

“It would strike me as odd if our conversation isn’t already overheard.” Hjorvarth shrugged his huge shoulders. “I’m happy that you now have things in hand… so, as agreed, I’ll continue with my part of the plan. I can only hope that you’ve learned a lesson here, because I’ll be busy enough without carrying your weight on my back.”

Alrik stared in all severity. “You have my thanks, Hjorvarth.”

“If you want to thank me, keep the carrion at bay. And put an end to the mad men taking people’s teeth.”

Alrik rose as he did. “You heard of that?”

“Without pressing my ear against a wall,” Hjorvarth said. “But I think we both know that rumors are soon to abound. Keep the faith, and I’ll be back before you know it.”

Alrik dipped his head, knowing with cold certainty that he was on his own. “It’ll be done.”

“Good luck to you, then.”

“And you.”

Hjorvarth pulled his grey cloak tighter about him, and marched out the door. Sifa stood with five other men at the end of the narrow stone taproom. He stared at the gathering without inclination, even when they reached for their weapons.

“I’ll expect a gift on my return, Sifa,” Hjorvarth said. “In exchange for the trouble I’ve spared you.”

Young Alf glared. “One day someone is going to stab you in the back.”

Hjorvarth sniffed. “Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve snapped a coward’s neck. If there was any doubt, Alrik’s words should be heard as my own. You all have my leave to return to your meeting.”

The rough thugs stood as if restless, waiting for one or the other to lead a charge.

Hjorvarth thought for a moment that he had overreached, talked too tall, and that he was about to fall.

He strode forward in spite of his fears and the men stepped clear. He kept walking, expecting to stabbed or slice by a knife, but no blade came. He sighed in deep relief when he crossed into the cold darkness of stone streets.

Hjorvarth glanced back at the narrow tavern. He had come there hoping to learn what he could of the mines from Alf, but had managed to spare Alrik instead, for the night at least, and he would not trade that for a chance at small knowledge.

He strode along the shadowed cobblestones, becoming ever more certain of the path ahead. He would save Sam, he was sure of that, whether it led into danger or darkness.

A cloaked figure emerged to block the paved street. “That’s far enough!”

Hjorvarth heard a soft step behind him, then a sudden thud as an iron bar smashed into the back of his legs, driving his knees down onto the hard ground. Two men ran past with rope, binding his arms under his cloak.

Hjorvarth tried to struggle but a blow took him in the back of the head. He frowned drunkenly at the gloomy street as the running pair ensnared him, as the lead man strode forward with a sack in hand. He barely heard the thump of the third strike.