7. Messengers

“Messengers like priests are god guarded. To strike one is folly, and to curse oneself. And yet I have lost count of the number of messengers who have to my knowledge been slain. By monsters, of course, but also by men. Whereas I cannot think of a single man who has not dearly suffered for slaying a follower of any one of the Eleven Elders. And these could be numbered with a single hand.”

Eirik and Ralf stood in the shadow of Gudmund’s Hall. They both served in the household guard of the Chief of Horvorr, which made them men of little prominence, because they had both not fought for over a dozen years. They appeared the more insignificant for standing ahead of the grandiose doors. The hall itself seemed out of place. A masterwork monument amid a dreary town of long wooden houses, one-room fishing huts, and small storage sheds.

Those two guards, one old and rotund, the other young and skinny, served as truth to a plainness that the hall belied. They stood as mundane reality behind the carved imaginings of wolves and bears that showed light against dark on the wood of the doors. Both men had had easy days of late, and spent most their time sleeping or turning folk away when asked for an audience.

The Chief of Horvorr had requested no visitors until his children returned. He had been restless, shouting in the night, and often wandered around at odd hours or went fishing for longer than those who made a feeble living from the trade. But neither Eirik or Ralf, despite their loyalty and concern, had any great urging to question Gudmund. On any matter at all.

They were both looking forward to Grettir’s return. Or Geirmund’s. Or even Agnar’s. So long as there was someone else around to reason with Gudmund.

Footsteps sounded out as a a blue-cloaked messenger approached.

He crossed onto the churned mud of the fenced yard, passing between a pair of blackened braziers. Coughing to announce himself, he declared, “I bring message for Chief Gudmund from Grettir of Horvorr’s Guard.”

Eirik’s curious smile creased his smooth cheeks. “Is that right?”

The messenger frowned. “I have no reason to lie.”

“I’m not saying you are. I’ve just never known Grettir to send anyone that wasn’t a man of Horvorr’s Guard.”

Ralf had been dozing against the wall, but the words woke him. He murmured then plucked his spear from the ground. He wore thick cotton and leather that made him appear all the rounder. “Who’s this?”

“Messenger,” Eirik muttered.

“Messenger,” the messenger echoed firmly. “I must speak with Chief Gudmund. Will you let me in?”

Ralf scratched at his bulbous nose. “What’s the message?”

“I have been instructed to bring it straight to him.”

Ralf squinted up at the clouded noon sky. “He’s likely sleeping.”

“The sun is fully risen,” the messenger snapped. “If you will not let me pass, then give me my payment.”

Eirik laughed. “What a rat bastard we’ve got here. If Grettir sent you then you’ve already got the coin. Because he would know that he’s sending a bad message and he would know that Chief Gudmund doesn’t like to hear those.”

The messenger’s face lapsed. “That is not true.”

“Then I suppose we ought to let you in so you can explain that to Chief Gudmund.”

“Or I could leave and not deliver the message.”

Ralf scratched at his bulbous nose. “I think we’d be obligated to chase you down and beat the words out of you.”

“I am guarded by the gods,” the messenger hissed. “You would not dare strike me.”

“Look around, friend,” Eirik said, sweeping his arms to encompass rows of homes and the rounded surround of towering logs. “There’s no gods here to guard you.” He nodded towards the many-roofed Ritual House of Muradoon. “Save for the Spirit Talker. But if that’s where you want to end your day, I’ll take you straight to the Godi.”

“Godless Horvorrians,” the messenger muttered.

“Exactly that, friend. Exactly that.” Eirik nodded, reaching for his spear. “Now about this message.”

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***

Eirik and Ralf rowed further onto the dark expanse of Horvorr’s Great Lake. They sat in a small fishing boat, sparing no words. Oars dipped and rose with a patter. Water hushed against creaking wood. Birds wheeled through clouds, circling in silence.

The walled settlement beyond the embankments shrank, while tall forests and chalky mountains beyond the water loomed ever larger. They had passed within sight of distant boats, and now slowed to turn their own as they drew close to a smaller vessel.

The dory floated on the rippling water, seemingly abandoned.

“Gudmund?” Eirik shouted. “Are you sleeping or drowning?”

Ralf’s wheezing breaths underscored a long silence.

“Neither,” replied a tired voice.

Eirik smirked. “A messenger came to the hall.”

“Then you should have brought him instead of Ralf. Either way, it could have waited.”

“You don’t exactly look busy.”

“You can’t see me.”

Eirik frowned. “You’re not…?”

“Not, what?” Gudmund asked. “Not rowing onto the lake to play with my cock?”

“Your words,” Eirik said.

“Always better to judge a man by what he thinks.”

“I didn’t think that.”

“No?” Gudmund doubtfully asked. “And what do you think, Ralf?”

Ralf scratched at his nose. “A messenger came to the hall.”

“Sounds more like an echo than a thought to me,” Gudmund chided. “Echo his message, then, if you’re so inclined.”

“Grettir’s sent word that things went wrong in Timilir.”

Gudmund’s hands brushed against wood. His heart began to beat very heavy in his chest. Brolli had been warning Grettir that Ragadin was back and they were all soon destined for the Lady’s Shadow. Of course, Brolli had long gone mad from a lifetime of violence and wraithweed. But then Agnar had, had a strange way about him before he left. He’d even gone so far as to tell his father that he hoped to see him soon. The Chief of Horvorr was now deeply regretting not traveling with his children. “Is anyone dead?”

“Four men,” Eirik replied. “Score more wounded.”

Gudmund’s throat was dry when he swallowed. “My sons?”

“No.”

“Grettir?”

“No.”

“Sybille?”

“No.”

Gudmund laid back with a sigh. He silently mocked himself for being scared by his mad brother and a few night of awful dreams. “And you two are still living,” he replied. “So how wrong can things be?”

“Thorfinn was murdered,” Alf said.

“Really?” Gudmund’s laugh was baffled. “I take it the blame goes to Agnar?”

“No,” Eirik answered. “Engli ended up in a duel with him. The messenger wasn’t clear on why, but they fought in pairs. Agnar and Engli against Thorfinn and Atsurr.”

Gudmund had never liked the blond man. Something about his smile was too eager to please, which made it all the more clear he wanted to impress the Chief of Horvorr. Doubtless not because of his standing in the town but because he was Sybille’s father. “Never would have guessed the little man would be so vicious.”

“The duel only caused wounds for Atsurr,” Eirik went on. “Geirmund tried to leave when it was finished, but Thorfinn gave chase. They bandied words until Geirmund turned his back. Thorfinn tried to stab him, only to get punched in the head by Hjorvarth, which threw him onto the road…”

“…which cracked his head right open,” Alf finished.

The two guards held to silence, boats rocking as they waited for reply.

“Did they leave the city?” Gudmund asked.

“They did,” Eirik replied. “A few men were struck by arrows, and they crossed blades with a dozen guards. But I doubt they were too eager to trap a group of armed men inside the walls. The messenger said they’re on their way back.”

“Is Hjorvarth with them?”

Ralf nodded. “Aye.”

Gudmund whistled for a while. “No word of a pursuing force?” he reasoned. “None of my children are wounded? Grettir’s not going to show up with another missing arm to offer an uncomfortable hug?”

Eirik raised his blond brows. “No to all three, I’d say.”

“As would I,” Ralf agreed.

“And here I had myself braced for something more tragic or exciting,” Gudmund declared. “Row on back, then, and pass word to someone that works for Brolli. Or just sit in his tavern and start spinning the tale. I expect he’ll want to hear it.”

“Or you could always tell him yourself,” Eirik offered. “He’s your brother, after all.”

“No sense breaking a habit that old.”

“Better to hold tight to grudges until you’re dead?” Ralf asked.

Gudmund smiled bitterly as he considered all the betrayals he’d suffered in his life, and how he dearly hoped to repay them. Then he sighed, contented with the knowledge that his children would soon be safe at home. “Past that,” he answered. “If you can.”