9. Reviled Arrival

“The Old Enemy has reportedly reappeared in the Quiet Isles.

How did we note the arrival of a single human? Because he emerged with a middling clan of seemingly harmless, mercantile dwarves. Which begs the question of whether the original dwarven empires were ever of this world to begin with.

And yet more questions of whether they can travel worlds at will, or if they were brought here by the God of Chance? Surely if they possessed a way to translocate themselves then they would have done so when they were backed into a corner by humans and goblins alike?

This event bothers me to no end.

I have asked for permission to travel to the wintry mountains in which they appeared but Agrak has denied me. He wants the new dwarven people to be left entirely alone.

But I cannot abide this. By fang or by claw, I will leave Grorgin and find answers.”

Jarl Gudmund crossed through the southern gates of Timilir’s monolithic walls at the head of a modest procession. They had reached the city of stone not long after dawn, waiting till noon for the gate to be opened. They trudged forward with four oxen and two carts, one half-laden with sacked goods and caged livestock, the other stacked with crates and chests that housed expensive possessions.

Gudmund had expected a large number of guards to greet him, but there were only a dozen, and they paid little mind to the two score visitors.

The people of Horvorr appeared tired, lean like their beasts, most eager to ply their trades or at least to come to a place where they might not starve or freeze in winter. They spoke among themselves, grumbled while they gathered their possessions, clapped shoulders and shook hands before departing.

Those that remained stood in an paved square fronted by three main structures, each separated by a paved street, facing the southern gate so that the buildings half-enclosed a grey fountain that served as ornate centerpiece.

A large tavern of white stone loomed opposite. Leftmost, a storefront squatted beside an expansive forge; while a tall wooden structure, home to Matilda’s Finery, towered to the right. Metal rang out into the square, punctuating hissing water as steam wafted up from the domed forge’s three circular chimneys. A small bell tinkled now a portly man in garish dress squeezed through the open door of Matilda’s Finery.

Gudmund was watching him struggle with the descent of a three-step stair.

“Business?” the guard captain growled.

Gudmund sniffed, smiling at the arrayed dozen that had come to greet him. The guards grew more wary the longer he held to silence, each grasping tighter to the shafts of their spears.

“Business?” Sybille asked. “This is Jarl Gudmund of Horvorr, and I am his daughter, Sybille. We are here to see Jarl Thrand… and more than expected an escort.”

The guard captain’s well-worn scowl held firm. “You look like a band of passing mercenaries to me.”

He turned to study the Jarl of Horvorr, making no effort to mask his contempt.

Gudmund had been beaten by the weather, his proud face weighed by missed sleep. “Blind as well as deaf, then?”

“What was—”

Arfast stepped forward, his sword half-drawn. “Mind your tone, friend… and learn your place before you find yourself groping for purchase in the Lady’s Shadow.”

The armoured guards stood in a wary silence, readying weapons. Ralf wrapped thick fingers around his axe.

“You all seem eager for a fight,” Gudmund muttered. “But it would probably be better odds for you all if you lead us straight to Jarl Thrand’s estate.” He rested a hand on Brolli’s sword. “Unless you’re set on death? War, even. I doubt my Jarldom will take too kindly to the death of their well-loved leader.”

The guard captain blinked. “What business do you have with Jarl Thrand?”

“Diplomatic matters,” Sybille answered. “He should have already received word from messenger.”

The guard captain searched the worried eyes of his dozen men. He turned back, taking a slow breath. “Forgive my rough manner… as you’ll soon learn, the city is in trying times. I’m sure Jarl Thrand has been busy with other matters, but me and my men will be happy to escort you in his stead.”

Gudmund glanced back at the helmeted guard sat on the wagon’s seat. Reins cracked and oxen clopped forward.

Arfast had not stopped staring at the guard captain. He sheathed his sword when the hoary man turned away.

The guard captain waved his men forward and they took easier grips on their spears. “It’s up this way.”

***

Jarl Gudmund, his daughter, and his three guards had taken their two carts and four oxen as far as they could go. They had followed the paved roads between storefronts and small square-built homes, each wrought from chalky hues of stone, and passed by the wide plazas that served to house the wooden stalls of the markets.

Despite the bright hour and the mild weather, most of those had been closed due to lack of custom, allowing view of the stock on offer: sliced meats both salted and smoked from neighboring regions, fresher cuts that glistened wet in the hazy weather; fish caught from rivers or brought up from the sandy beaches of the Low Lands; thick bolts of cloth from the High Lands, dyed to bright hues or not at all; simple spices that sat in dry bags, or exotic herbs that were displayed in wooden boxes or brass pots.

Gudmund stared at the pots as the carts carried on without him. He recognized the grey herbs that had so poisoned his brother’s mind. The old trader that tended the stall smiled. Gudmund gripped his brother’s sword, and stepped forward.

“Gudmund.” Ralf’s voice broke the murderous reverie. “You didn’t come here for that.”

Gudmund had a sickly pallor when he turned. “For fish? No, I suppose not… we had plenty of those at home.”

“The road’s blocked.” The helmeted guard strode to meet them both. “Folk are out in the streets by the hundreds, gathering outside of Jarl Thrand’s Estate. They’ve all come to watch a public trial.”

Gudmund turned his gaze towards the stalled cart, recognizing his daughter’s panic as she stared back at him. “Engli’s managed to get himself caught already?”

“No,” the guard answered, more worried than annoyed. “It’s Hjorvarth.”

***

Hjorvarth had walked through the stone city, gathering guards like a corpse to carrion. They had done little more than shout warnings, only to realize that he was already going where they wanted him to go. He had glimpsed the marble walls and ornate gate of Jarl Thrand’s Estate, and looked back to see crowded hundreds.

The estate rose atop a jutting promontory that overlooked the sea of poverty and filth that was the city slums. That filth often provided in form of rain by emptied chamber pots and slop buckets from the rarefied elite.

The marble gate had vantage of the northern third of Timilir.

It opened out both to the paved road that sloped down to the rest of the stone city, giving access to an elevated gallery beside the gate, which housed its own benches and overlooked a raised octagonal platform that had found use for the pronouncements of messengers, but would serve well enough as a podium for the accused.

Hjorvarth had found his place there, his elbows resting on the stone railing. He could feel and hear the seething mass of humanity behind him. He could see the vengeful gazes of the dozen rich-garbed men looking down at him.

Jarl Thrand’s serpentine gaze scrutinised his very spirit. Ekkill and Fati both sat to the Jarl’s left, as if arrayed in size from withered to skinny to excess flesh. Dragmall sat to the right of Thrand, an empty seat between them.

Hjorvarth saw the dozen elevated spectators as one man with a dozen faces. A man that had little sympathy, who entertained mild amusement. They all appeared thoughtful, deliberate, but he saw behind the steeled gazes a shared confusion of not knowing what to do with a man who had so presented himself for justice.

In truth, Jarl Thrand had no such dilemma. He had sat biding time, judging the mood of those who had come to witness this momentary spectacle. Unwashed fools gawking and jeering at the filthy brute who murdered the noble son of a respectable man.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

“Has he not spoke at all?” Fati whispered.

Ekkill shook his head. “Perhaps he’s taken a vow of silence.”

“Thrand,” Dragmall murmured beyond the pair’s hearing. “The gods and spirits answer not at all. But I hear, as if so very far in the distance, a woman’s sorrowful keening. I can—”

The Jarl of Timilir surged to his feet, belying old bones and ancient aches.

“Jarl Thrand of Timilir!” Hjorvarth announced before the withered man could speak. “I declare myself as Hjorvarth, son of Isleif the Bard, and have come here to admit to the murder of Thorfinn, coward son of a coward Jarl. I would have it known that I meant not to bring death upon him, but I do not regret his death. And Brikorhaan knows that Thorfinn the Coward meant to violate the sanctity of a duel in the Shield Brother’s honour. That he meant to stab the son of Jarl Gudmund, Geirmund, in the back.”

Jarl Thrand could only stare in mute disgust.

“I expect no thanks for sparing your son from the Lady’s Shadow.” Hjorvarth’s hard visage did not at all hint towards the sickness and fear writhing within him. “And though I would take it as a grave insult should you wish to press punishment upon me for the slaying of a man that deserved to die, I must admit that I do not have the copper needed to compensate you for his death. As such, I have come here to volunteer myself to work in the slave mines of Timilir,” he added. “Though I would fully understand if you saw fit to reject my gracious offer.”

Silence descended atop, beyond, and ahead of the marble gates. The dozen elevator spectators watched in open-mouthed surprise. The crowd that covered the slope had not spoke, and that tact carried as the murmurs of what had been said passed back to those further into the stone city.

Jarl Thrand’s gaze wandered, sunken eyes widening in unbridled hatred.

Hjorvarth turned to the crowd behind him, gathered together in a snaking mass of colourful clad folk that stood all along the slope and spilled out onto the stone streets below.

A single man stood ahead of them all, his isolation leaving him exposed. He had wild red hair and wore fine black clothes. Hjorvarth recognized the proud visage, but had never seen it weighed by such profound regret.

Gudmund wanted nothing more than to speak out, to offer to pay the death debt owed by Hjorvarth.

“Gudmund, son of Geirulf,” Jarl Thrand announced. “I welcome you to the city of Timilir. Have you come to lay judgement against a man sent from your own lands? Do you have words to speak for or against him?” He grinned. “Perhaps you would like to cough up the coppers that he seems to feel owed.”

“Or,” Gudmund wanted to say, “You could compensate me for the deaths you brought to hundreds of my people. To the deaths you brought to my own sons. To the death you brought to Agnar’s own. You could come down here to discuss it in private and I’ll happily—” He straightened. “I am afraid,” Jarl Gudmund declared, “that this man is well known to me. And it was by an ill-fated judgement of a charlatan that he was spared judgement for the murder of four men. That said, I hold myself responsible for the actions of all my people… and so I would gladly settle the debt in silver, if not gold. Whether you choose to punish Hjorvarth, son of Isleif the Ghost, or not.”

Hjorvarth nodded, not turning back to Jarl Thrand. “It seems the truth of my character is on full display. Yet I would ask again to be sent to the mines, where my violent nature might best be put to use against the kobolds that so harass the city of stone.”

Jarl Thrand’s aged face held no sympathy. “Hjorvarth, son of Isleif the Disgraced, I have your judgement.”

Hjorvarth turned back to back to face the marble gallery. “I would be glad to hear your swift wisdom.”

“In my power as the Jarl of Timilir, as head of The First Family, as ruler of the City of Stone, with the wishes of the gods and the people close to mind… you shall spend twenty winters in the service to our city for murder, working in the northern mines with the rest of your ilk. You have murdered five men, so you will serve a hundred winters in sum. For the insults paid to me and my fallen son, you will be made to pay your own weight in copper, a debt I expect to be covered by the man before us, Gudmund, son of Geirulf.”

Jarl Thrand took in a slow breath. “Know that the city of Timilir wish you well in your service, Hjorvarth. And let your mind be at ease with the thought that your name will well be recorded against your own father’s. A man so reviled that his equal will likely not be seen until your full sentence has ended. The gods may never forgive, and the Lady may well take you, but the stone city accepts your penance and wishes you naught but peace.”

The Jarl of Timilir settled slowly into his seat.

“Thank you,” Hjorvarth answered in all severity. “I had ever expected the people that served under Jarl Thrand of Timilir to be a forgiving, peaceful, and forgetful people.”

“With crooked teeth!” a man screeched, which sent a fearful ripple through the crowd.

“I only wish I could say the same for those of Horvorr,” Hjorvarth finished.

“Stinking Horvorrians don’t have any teeth!” another voice shouted.

Atsurr, stood behind Jarl Thrand, signaled his men to disperse the crowd.

Chains rattled now the steel gate groaned open. A chorus of heavy boots, jingling chain, and ordered commands began as grey-liveried guards marched out from the marble archway. The colourful crowd began to shrink back while a dozen leather-clad and rough-faced members of the Crooked Teeth strode forward, drawing bows.

Terror gripped the rich-dressed spectators of the gallery.

The guards, once in formation, broke out on their own, readying spears to throw.

Gudmund turned with his brother’s sword leading, cleaving through shaft and cheek. He stepped forward, bringing the swing back into an old man’s neck, then shoved him into an aiming archer.

Bowstrings wobbled and missiles took to the skies.

Atsurr stood ahead of Jarl Thrand’s seat, serving as a wall of metal and flesh. Those around him had already fled, were stumbling in flight, or collapsed to their knees. Dragmall lay flat on his rounded belly while both Fati and Ekkill had took to the tact of hiding behind the squat backing of their stone chairs.

Arrows struck with a muffled thud. Screams split the air. A spear crunching through a young man’s head offered answer, as did Gudmund’s sword as he cleaved through those around him. A bulky man had come up behind him, ready to cleave the Jarl of Horvorr in two, but a thrown knife took him in the throat and Gudmund side-stepped the blow.

Ruby fell back among the horrified spectators, and called the rest of the Gem Cutters into a careful retreat.

Those of the Crooked Teeth still standing loosed another volley of six arrows, one skewering Dragmall through robe and stomach, another striking Ekkill in his exposed shoulder. A pair punctured Atsurr’s armour, causing him to fall to his knees and the remaining two flew clean over the gallery, one killing a hurrying man who was late for work, the last planting in the eye of a seamstress that sat weaving by an open window.

Gudmund narrowly avoided the spears hurled from the approaching guards.

He watched most porcupine a single man while four other leather-clad men and women fled back into the crowd, parting the way with knifes.

The gathered folk stumbled into one another in a panicked flight, trampling those fallen, sending others tumbling from the slope.

Hjorvarth charged out from behind the marble platform, his axe and shield ready. He slowed to a stop now the crowd convulsed in a cacophony of shoving, cursing, shouting and screaming.

“Clear the slope!” Atsurr ordered, struggling to his feet. “No man in or out. Kill all those that approach.” He scowled down at the armed pair of Horvorrians. “Disarm the visitors and bring them both to me!”

Hjorvarth and Gudmund stood side to side. The guards shouted warnings and threats at either side of them, faceless behind their helmets.

Jarl Gudmund frowned down at his own hand, weighing Brolli’s sword.

Hjorvarth dropped to one knee, offering his runic axe. He eyed the withered Jarl of Timilir now Atsurr led him across the gallery. “Are we fighting, Jarl Gudmund?”

Gudmund knelt as well, placing his brother’s sword on the paved ground. “That was a mad thing you did,” he complained. “They’re going to murder you the first chance they get. Though I’ll admit I did like your words… even if they were costly for me.”

“The Crooked Teeth are going to abduct you,” Hjorvarth mentioned before the guards urged both men to rise. “I would be wary of walking in the dark if you live out the day.”

Gudmund smirked, and started to trudge forward. “Oh?”

“They did the same to me,” Hjorvarth explained. “I missed killing them by a small margin. I expect they will tread with more care.”

“Careful deeds like an open attempt at murdering Thrand and his counselors?”

Hjorvarth shrugged. Both men crossed under the shadow of a marble archway.

Jarl Thrand’s Estate lay arrayed before them. A twenty-stall stable of stone stretched to their left, where horses watched without enthusiasm or busied themselves with nets of hay. Two rows of five outbuildings squatted on the left, walls wrought of grey stone, adorned with bands of brass; doors single slabs, beaded curtains, or newly-hinged wood.

The main structures stood ahead, where the paved path forked three ways, to a four-story barracks towering on the left, to a low-roofed and expansive workshop opposite, and to the columned entrance of a once-monumental temple that served as Jarl Thrand’s home. The occupation had caused much bad blood over the years between the ruling family of Timilir and those that served the Eleven Elders. Of all the complaints, those loudest came from the Muradooners, whose own imposing temple rose to the same monumental height as the stone city’s monolithic walls.

The dozen guards split into two groups at a crossroads.

“Joyto’s luck, Gudmund,” Hjorvarth shouted.

“You’ll be the one needing that!” Gudmund stopped but an armoured shoved him forward. “If you make it back, your father’s things are waiting for you in Brolli’s tavern!”

Hjorvarth slowed. “What—” A gauntleted hand clouted him across the head.

“Words are a privilege, prisoner,” a woman growled. “One easily removed with a dull knife.”

Jarl Gudmund was escorted into the grand entrance of Thrand’s home, while Hjorvarth was forced down the descent that led to the Estate’s dank dungeons.

Approaching after them, Atsurr led a disgruntled Jarl of Timilir with the rest of the surviving counselors while those badly wounded were carried to the barracks. Beyond the gates, Dragmall lay where he had fell, his stomach punctured, his intestines shredded by a shattered arrowhead.

He had been cursed by his weight to be left abandoned, by his ominous reputation as a spiritualist to suffer a slow death. Fati had walked back for him though, and used his belt knife to answer the man’s plea for mercy.

Further into Timilir, three guards of Horvorr conferred without fruition about the way to proceed until Sybille ordered Arfast to lead the carts forward to Jarl Thrand’s Estate. Beyond that group and their two carts, far into the shadowed shacks of the city slums, word reached the ears of a mad man and a hooded man of a costly failure.

The leaders of the Crooked Teeth discussed, argued, and planned while Ruby led her small group from the Gem Cutters to their nearest haunt. Alrik sat, unaware of this all, in Sifa’s tavern, talking at length to a handsome blond man, while beneath the city a father and son struck stone in the hopes of avoiding a cruel whip.

Under even their feet, King Rubinold the Fifteenth prepared for yet another raid on Timilir’s mines.