8. Those Dead

“Trolls had always intrigued me. As a boy, they haunted my dreams. Mouths with hundreds of teeth. Cruel, featureless faces of wax. And of course, as most mothers told it, they had a penchant for eating unruly young children.

But in Southwestern Tymir I saw one for the first time with my very own eyes. Ten feet tall, as broad as a bull, with a thick-limbed coal-skinned figure that looked to have been shaped with all the nuance of a child’s hands.

Far from aggressive predators they were passive carrion. They had a penchant for eating anything dead or rotten. Swallowing whole like a snake, they digested all they ate in a bubbling bath of acidic wax. This caustic liquid then served to maintain the creature’s form. Through cuts and abrasions. Through more savage attacks. And even through movement.

Without nourishment, the creature simply hardened into a lifeless husk. In excess, the reserve for molten wax grew in the stomach and the outer layers of settled flesh grew broader and bulkier, until they dwarved even huge men. But that is not to say that they were harmless. Left alone, they ambled along the battlefields devouring the remnants of combatants. But when a man impeded them, they would not hesitate to eat him alive. And stopping that, when every attack was met with spray that burnt both iron and flesh, proved so difficult that most men were left to die.”

Geirmund sat, elbows resting on raised knees, in the back of the covered cart.

Sunlight lanced through holes in the battered fabric and every now and then the wheels would catch a rut or a rock and send his wrists jutting towards his chin.

He had been thinking for a long while.

Grettir believed this was a strength of Geirmund's but more often than not his mind simply wandered in circles. Ahead of him, through the wide opening at the back of the cart, the loyal warriors of Horvorr’s Guard, sturdy and sunlit, stretched out along the Snake Basin Path. Six carts, all uncovered, and over three score men.

This was once the most treacherous part of the journey, with a sheer drop to the right, and an open plain and an enormous forest to the left. The shadows of the towering trunks could shadow any force, be they a dozen or a thousand. And at one time they had. But those were his father’s days and the sprawling clans of old had long since diminished.

Now goblins attacked by the dozen or the handful, if it all.

Grettir hadn’t even sent scouts through the trees, to avoid any delay.

Horvorr’s Guard had done well, Geirmund thought, leaving the stone city at such haste without great losses or real challenge. They had done what he asked without question and reacted so quickly that Timilir’s guard were left wanting, unable to properly answer them. But Horvorr’s Guard were not pleased. Not one of them.

Firstly, because every man had business in the city, and had expected to stay there for ten days, not ten hours. Secondly, because most had friends and family in Timilir—some had wives and children—and they now had no clue when or whether they would be able to return soon or at all. But they did not blame Gudmund’s son. Nor Hjorvarth… or at least if they did they had no mind to raise it with him.

They blamed the weakest man they could find.

So Sybille had asked if Engli could ride in the lead cart.

To Geirmund’s left, he sat. Opposite Sybille. Geirmund glanced at his sister. Silent and sullen, she was. An ugly bruise marked her pale cheek. Her lip had been split. Her dress, once an illustrious purple, now ripped, wind battered. Stained and ruined at the hem.

She had not been badly harmed—thank all Eleven Elders—but she had lost no small measure of innocence. And though Geirmund did not show it, for he had found that being unreadable was a useful trait, his blood boiled within him. And he thought back to that sound of flesh on flesh. A sudden clap. And then the awful crunch of bone on stone.

Too swift, perhaps, but well deserved. And what terrible strength had the son of Isleif.

That his swiftness matched even that was a worrying thought. For any man, or monster, that faced him, at least. And like that a Jarl’s son, perceived to be untouchable, was transformed in a moment to little more than meat.

Hjorvarth had barely spoken since, save to Agnar. Geirmund had thanked him, of course—and he was in truth beyond grateful —but the huge man seemed aloof. Uncaring. Or perhaps Geirmund knew him too poorly and he was… troubled. But surely this was not the first time he had killed a man? He was an enforcer for the Black Hands, after all. Presumed successor to Brolli. But what if it was? Did he see in him that same loss of innocence? And is that why he felt such disquiet in his heart?

Or was it the fact that Jarl Thrand might now go to war with Horvorr? Did he simply fear what his father would think when they returned home?

Gudmund had trusted in his oldest son to see this venture through without incident.

“What will our father do?” Sybille asked, breaking his reverie. A moment passed before he turned. Her blue eyes were now sharp as ever.

“I do not know, Sybille.”

That keen gaze darkened. “What would you do?”.

Here Engli, who was what one might consider a pretty man, better fitted as a bard or a courtier than a hired sword, turned to look at the son of Gudmund. In his green eyes, hope and fear both. “I do not know,” Geirmund offered lamely. “I suppose… if there was a way forward without bloodshed then I would broker a peace. The stone city offers amusement that Wymount and Fenkirk do not. It is for some of our men, what they live for.”

“And if Jarl Thrand asks for Agnar’s head?” Sybille pressed.

“Now that would be difficult.” Here Geirmund upturned his palms with mock consideration. “Such a large and unwieldy—” He trailed off when his sister’s gaze turned plainly cruel. “Our father would never bargain with his son’s life.”

Sybille’s smiled coldly at that. “Only his daughter’s.”

“I did not mean,” Geirmund began with awkward laughter. “He loves us all, Sybille. He has no love for Thrand.”

She considered the words.

Then Engli asked, calmly, “And if he were to ask for Hjorvarth’s head?”

“Unless freely given by the man himself,” Geirmund answered honestly, “I doubt we are up to the task.”

Engli, expression blank, nodded in all severity. “And if he were to ask for mine?”

Geirmund fixed him with a severe stare, then gently smiled. “Is this why you are so quiet, Engli?” he asked. “You think I mean to pack and parcel you as livestock?” He shook his head. “My father is an unpredictable man,” he admitted, “but my brother is not. He is predictably unpredictable. And, should you think me so cold, that fire hearted fool would never would never allow it. I can tell you this, though,” he said in a more serious tone. “My father has never liked you. He will not like you any more or any less when all this is done. But, for your sake, you need to be kept apart. So I will suggest that you become a household guard. Which may not be to your liking, or it may be exactly to your liking,” he went on, with a mocking look to both the young man and woman. “But if you’re asking me plainly, Engli, would I trade away your life?”

Geirmund waited and watched the man. He kept a gentile smile on his face while he did so, pretending to deliberate. He could respect the blond man more for asking, even if it did in truth offend him that he would even think Geirmund capable of such a heartless act. He rose to what height he could in the cart, ready to return to the road, and clapped Engli on the shoulder. Well muscled despite his stature, Geirmund noted. But then he was the son of a blacksmith. “Of course not.” He glanced pointedly to Sybille. “You may not think so, but it takes courage to strike at a Jarl’s son. You did right by my sister and I will not wrong you in answer to that. Nor will Agnar. Nor will Grettir. And nor will Gudmund.”

“Thank you, brother.” Sybille looked at him with genuine warmth then. “It seems I’ve caused a lot of trouble.”

Geirmund chuckled, moving past them. “Fear not, Sybille. I’m sure there’s plenty more to come.”

***

“Is this what has become of the Young Wolf’s pack?” Ragadin asked.

The green kin around him, varied in their shapes and sizes, gibbered in joint answer. They were arrayed, as much as could be managed, under the shadows of the great trees above and around them. Horvorr’s Guard, like a labouring beast, trudged forward along the Snake Basin Path. To all appearances, which Ragadin knew deceived well enough, they were completely unaware.

These men were old. Grey. Staggering despite a lack of wounds. Most were only large in their bellies. Others were so thin that brittle pink skin clung to their weathered faces. Ragadin pitied them, studied his own wretched company, and then felt envious.

To have his old clan with him, to fight this battle with fallen friends, would have brought great honor.

He should have simply died in the Blackwood. He should have died when the true goblins died. Now he would have to reap his way through a band of no more than six dozen. Or he could simply stand here, taking no part, and send his hundreds to wash these manlings from the safety of the path and down into the Snake Basin. He had made that climb before, walked those sunken forests, and knew well enough that those lucky enough to scale the cliff side would in truth be those most cursed.

Ragadin was waiting, wondering why the charge had not yet been sounded. Yet he had faith in Lazarus. For now.

Horvorr’s Guard would have no chance. Their only good ground was that of the path. The corridor plain that divided the forest and the road was already piled with snow, which covered stony mud. The first charge would put their backs at a sheer drop, where most men might simply choose to leap to their deaths. To avoid whatever grim fate awaited those eaten by goblins. Eternal suffering, or so Ragadin had heard, as if to be eaten alive was not punishment enough.

Ragadin held the middle ground. Dalpho the left. Balluk the right. Three forces made up of dozens of clans. Lazarus would be somewhere, on Dalpho’s shoulder perhaps, but if he were anywhere else then none would recognise him. Ragadin scoured the ugly faces of his kin and knew well enough that he could not tell them apart. Dozens upon dozens stood around him, spreading like dirty mould, restless and waiting, fighting with or squeaking to one another.

A foolish sort of innocence.

Ragadin thought they seemed benign. Yet he knew they would feast on flesh, on each other, with rapture. Hunger ruled. In all things. After all, hunger for vengeance had brought him here. Hunger for honor. Or perhaps more aptly a quest to sate the eternal sense of absence. Ragadin would act for he knew of no other thing to do. He might well tell himself that his kin are not worth fighting for, and they might not be, but that did not sway his need.

This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

His hunger would be answered.

***

Horvorr’s Guard appeared weatherbeaten. Tired eyes and stooped strides made it seem as though their march had lasted for weeks, rather than a few days. They wore the clothes they lived in. Plain shirts, some dyed, most stained and faded; thick jackets stitched together from leather, wool and fur; and loose leggings, wrapped from knees to boots with strips. They all wore, without exception, a beard, though there were different cuts and styles. Those younger tended to have theirs twisted into braids, which were in turn decorated with rings of bone, metal, and cloth meant to bring luck or offer protection.

Grettir himself had twisted his into three braids, two short and one long, all three decorated with bone. He was unduly hairy, even by the standard of those around him, which made it hard to see his eyes at the best of times, but now, scowling, he bore a strong resemblance to the oxen trudging alongside him.

He appeared a savage man, built both brawny and lean. Scars marred his nose and bearded cheeks. He showed missing teeth when he chose to spit or speak. He walked at an odd angle, lop-sided, though that was a recent trait. He worried he looked odd, even piteous, while he made his way down along the caravan, talking and nodding to the fighters he passed, clapping them on the arm when he only had one of his own.

Grettir would often glance across the snowy plain that separated the road from the shadows of a towering forest. He would look to Hjorvarth as well, who was easy to spot as the only man in that caravan who stood taller and broader than Grettir.

Hjorvarth marched alongside a crate, sack and snow-laden cart. His tailed red hair swayed with a determined stride, clasped by three copper bands that glinted in the sunlight. He wore a great painted shield across his back, while his well sharpened axe hung at his belt alongside his polished dagger.

“Hjorvarth.” Grettir greeted, falling in beside him. “A word?”

The huge warrior’s stony visage remained unchanged. “You’ve had three.”

“More than a word then.” Grettir stepped off of the road, boots sullying the pristine snow, while the rest of the caravan rattled on. “It’s about Timilir.”

Hjorvarth strode forward. “Can you be more specific?”

“Jarl Thrand is going to want you dead.”

The warrior’s pale gaze shifted towards the shadowed trees. “Why would he want that?”

“Because you killed his son?”

“His son died.” Hjorvarth nodded, very slowly. “But he brought about his own death.”

“You had the right of it,” Grettir agreed, struggling to make his harsh voice sound earnest. “But Jarl Thrand is his father. He isn’t going to care why it happened, or whether or not you had good reason to hit him. All he’ll know is that his son is dead. He’ll know that you killed him, and he’ll send a runner to Gudmund asking for your head.”

Hjorvarth shrugged. “And?”

Grettir’s frown nearly hid his eyes.

“By what magic should I change Jarl Thrand’s mind?” Hjorvarth added. “It does me no good worry on the actions of some decrepit curmudgeon. His son is dead—and my sympathies for that. But had he been a better father—had he not raised such a coward for a son—then Thorfinn might still be walking the waking life.”

Grettir’s eyes narrowed. “You killed the son of the most powerful man in Timilir.”

“I killed a man who didn’t much deserve his life.”

“I can’t tell if you’re joking, Hjorvarth. Or if you think this is some kind of a joke.”

“A joke?” Hjorvarth growled. “Is that a joke?”

“What?”

“How else should I see it, when you think I would take to my murdering a man with anything less than severity.” Hjorvarth’s jaw grew taut. “Is this really what you wanted to talk about, Grettir? Because I have no interest at all in this discussion.”

“Clear enough to me now that I’m wasting my time,” Grettir muttered, looking past the huge man to see the train of carts leaving them behind.

“Jarl Thrand will want revenge over this,” Grettir then warned. “If you return to Horvorr, Gudmund will offer you safeguard, and all this ends in war.”

The huge warrior shrugged his shoulders. “Better to fight and die than live in fear.”

“Is it?” Grettir asked. “Timilir has enough men to destroy Horvorr times over.”

Hjorvarth turned to the distant carts. “Men are men, and Jarl Thrand is an old man.”

“How does it matter that he’s old?” Grettir asked, following after him. The larger man was unduly fleet footed in the snow, while the older warrior was struggling to keep up. “Jarl Thrand doesn’t have to swing his own sword.”

Hjorvarth grunted as if perturbed. “I only liked the way it sounded.”

“You’re an odd man, Hjorvarth.”

“A man is who he is.”

“I suppose you like how that sounds, as well?”

Hjorvarth looked over his shoulder, glancing at Grettir’s boots, then crossed onto the road once more. “That is just the truth.”

The one-armed veteran eventually caught up, and fell into step. They followed the dirt path, marked by hooves and carved with wheel ruts.

“Looks like you were wrong,” Grettir then mentioned, his rough voice a little lighter.

Hjorvarth did not even glance at the one-armed man. “Hm?”

“You said no goblins on the way in means goblins on the way out.”

“Hm,” Hjorvarth repeated in an unhappier tone. “No goblins.” He swept his gaze across tree trunks, then up towards the great canopy of settled snow and interweaved leaves. “Though I have the surest feeling that we are all soon to be slaughtered.”

“That’s a little grim.”

“Things happen as they happen, Grettir,” Hjorvarth declared without inclination. “I only wish you had sent scouts through the trees.

***

Agnar offered quick smiles and short words of encouragement as he strode by the men of Horvorr’s Guard. He wore a long blue shirt and dark trousers, thumbs in his sword belt as he watched the hugest of their number approach. “Hjorvarth!” He frowned now the man drew close. “You look unwell. I hope Grettir isn’t causing you grief.”

“It is nothing,” Hjorvarth muttered, his pale gaze unfocused.

Agnar’s smile was wolfish. “Nothing?”

“I didn’t sleep.”

“Don’t tell me you’re feeling bad about Thorfinn’s death?” Agnar asked. “Is that what Grettir asked you about? What did he say?”

“He wanted me to stay in Fenkirk for fear that Jarl Thrand would go to war with Gudmund,” Hjorvarth explained. “Though I wasn’t exactly sure how my staying at either town would start or prevent that.”

“I told him not to bring that up. You’re coming to Horvorr with us, and that’s that.” Agnar shook his head in disbelief. “Fenkirk. The Mayor would have his dog Hakon on your scent within the week, and then they’d both send you packed and wrapped to the stone city.” He laughed through his teeth. “That Grettir would even suggest it.”

“Forget I made mention,” Hjorvarth said. “He’s had my reply.”

Agnar nodded. “Come on. We’ll go sit with Geirmund and Sybille at the front.”

Hjorvarth looked to the trees once more. Small figures were now weaving in and out the shadows, small claws marking the distant snow. “Blow your horn.”

“What?”

“Your horn.” Hjorvarth nodded to the polished horn at Agnar’s belt. “Blow.”

Agnar frowned for a moment, then raise the horn to his lips. A deep note resounded along snowy plain and rolled down into the Snake Basin, echoing back, amongst the flutter of a hundred birds, as if a horn had been blown by a faraway on-looker in reply.

Half a dozen men, those that had charge of a cart raised their weathered palms to call a halt. Wooden wheels ground to a stop amid the crunch of boots, rasp of hooves, and the angry lows of shaggy oxen. A cold and lonely wind swept along the path as the exhausted gazes of three score fighters turned to regard the towering forest.

Scores of creatures stood beneath the canopied leaves.

The figures seemed in discord with one another, screeching and fighting, stepping out onto the sunlit snow then scampering back into the shadows. A shrill horn blared from the trees, sending more birds to flight, then more sounded out to form a discordant and bombastic chorus that echoed back on itself.

A sprawling rows of goblins emerged from the forest. Humanoid creatures that were shaded from green to brown to black, weighted from skinny to obese, standing from the height of a man to only as tall as his hips. They wielded wooden spears, their own long claws, or small blades carved of stone and bone.

“Cut the oxen loose!” Grettir ordered, his rough voice cutting through the din.

Axes bit through wood with a snap of leather, leaving pairs of oxen yoked together, wandering forwards without the familiar weight of a cart at their backs.

Hundreds of goblins stepped out from the shadows and onto the snow.

Screeching and jeering assailed the Snake Basin path amongst the shrill horns.

The goblins seemed to grow encouraged by their own noise, quickening their pace, encouraging those behind them to step forward in a charge of misshapen creatures.

A seething wave of brown, black, and green spilled out over pristine white.

“Turn the carts!” Grettir roared. “Then form together and stay low!”

Hands found holds on worn wood. Horvorr’s Guard forced the carts over, wheels splitting and sides cracking while crates and sacks tumbled onto the deep snow.

Only two carts remained upright, one that was larger and roofed, furthest along the path, and another at the back of the caravan.

“I’ll help at the back,” Agnar suggested. “Go up front and help Geirmund.”

Hjorvarth hesitated for only a moment before running towards the lead cart.

A dozen goblins drew within a stone’s throw of Horvorr’s Guard. With a snap of their wiry limbs, they started to throw rocks: one hurtling over a cart to crunch into the cheek of the old man that crouched beside Agnar.

He turned to the end of the caravan to see two yoked oxen facing the cliff’s edge, while three men, Grettir among them, tried to flip the cart that they were fastened to, but it was overburdened and too heavy for them to shift.

Head low, Agnar rushed to join them now countless goblins swarmed through snow.

“I thought you said you could lift it?” Grettir was growling at the old man who then flopped over with a rock locked in his caved skull.

“Back to the others, Grettir!” Agnar grabbed his one-armed uncle. “I’ll cut the yoke.” He went to haul the lanky man nearby clear as well, but a goblin leapt over the wagon bed and barreled into the man to send them both screaming down into the Snake Basin.

Agnar then clambered onto the cart, cutting through the goblin at his right, while a dozen others were trying to clamber up after him. He deftly leapt forwards to cleave through the yoke, but the shaggy oxen caught the smell of blood and the noise of battle. They lurched forward and Agnar’s footing shifting, forcing him from his feet while they veered towards the cliff edge. Using all strength in his arms and elbows, Agnar clawed himself upright by aid of sacks of grain and then forced himself up to unsteady feet.

He watched the oxen lowing as they sailed over the cliff’s edge to the basin below, and turned, vaulting over a rogue crate, while the rest of the cart went after them.

Agnar cleared the lip of the wagon before the front dipped and rattled over the edge, smashing into the cliff with a clamour of cracked bones and shattered wood.

He landed amid a screeching crowd of goblins. Slamming his boot into a bony head, he tumbled into a rolling fall. He slashed wildly with his belt knife, catching flesh, before thumping to a stop atop a different goblin.

The creature snarled, fangs bared, and tried to scratch out his eyes.

Agnar drove his head down, cracking the smaller skull, before a spear punched through his shoulder. He tried to roll clear, but the ragged spear anchored his flesh with unyielding agony. A great weight then slammed into the young man’s back, forcing his face into the goblin beneath. Blood gushed forth, blinding Agnar, while broken fangs sliced into his mouth and cheeks. He bit down on his own tongue, hoping to muster the strength to rise, but there was no force left in his limbs, just the cold burn of nauseating pain, worsened as more claws savaged his back and a dull blade sawed through his ear.

Agnar lashed out with a blind swing—his arm caught and wrenched back.

Freed with searing pain. He sagged onto the broken goblin, and made a last effort to turn his head. Recognition flickered through his mind at the sight of a severed arm.

His last thoughts, fogged and suffocated by a hopeless agony, turned to Grettir.