26. Harper
26
HARPER
H alvar led them to the armoury to tend to their weapons and clothing. Harper had never seen so much metal in one place before, and she gawked at the cavernous space filled with different levels, from forges on the bottom, to tooling and crafters in the middle, to stores of finished armour at the very top. The space was kept to a temperate warmth by the heat of the forges, where molten metal ran white hot.
“Take anything you need, by gift of the konig,” Halvar instructed them, then eyed Brand’s bulk. “We don’t have anything to fit you, I’m afraid.”
Brand shrugged. “It’s no matter. My weapons and armour are suitable.”
Halvar looked over Brand’s worn leathers as if he would disagree, but said nothing to him, instead, turning to the rest of them. “We travel fast, so take only what you are sure you will be able to carry. Our light mails and leathers are over there. Weapons over here.” He gestured in one and then another direction. “I shall wait by the entrance. Be swift, for we must sup before we leave.” He pursed his lips, as if somewhat annoyed that he had to mind them rather than attend to his usual duties.
“Thank you, Jarl,” Brand said, then made his way over to the racks of armour and weapons to admire the craftsmanship. He let out a low whistle as he fingered their chainmail shirts. “Come, look at these. I’ve never seen anything like it in my life.”
Harper followed the rest over. She picked up a small mail shirt, immediately surprised at how small and fine the links were and how light the garment was. “Surely this won’t protect anyone. It’s so fine, you could stab straight through it.”
To her surprise, Brand guffawed, his laugh echoing around the space. “You may think it, but I would trust my life to dwarven armour. I only wish they could make something large enough to fit me. I wager this is the finest mail you’ll see anywhere this side of the Great Sea.”
Harper looked back to the gleaming silver metal. It seemed impossible, but she knew Brand would not jest about such things. She unclasped her cloak and slipped the shirt on over hers to check for sizing. It was loose and fell to halfway down her thighs.
“That looks a decent fit,” said Aedon.
Brand, however, cocked his head, narrowing his eyes as he looked her up and down. “It’s light, but are you sure you’ll be able to carry its weight for days there and back?”
Harper nodded, not wanting to seem weak, though she was not entirely sure she could manage it. She would need to if they were to encounter goblins again. A shudder chased down her spine at the thought. As casually as she could, she returned the mail vest to the racks and found a smaller, shorter one that was half the weight.
Once they had all chosen some small pieces of armour to supplement their protections, they wandered through the weapons, but nothing did they take, save some arrows to top up Aedon’s small quiver, which only had four left. The arrows the dwarves made were too short for his long reach, but with nothing better, he would manage. A bell tolled in the distance, the peals booming through the rock.
“Lunch time,” Brand groaned in appreciation, his grumbling stomach choosing that moment to make itself known audibly. Harper looked at him in surprise. Had it already been so long since breakfast?
“It’s time,” Halvar called up to them. They hastened to his side. He led them back to Korrin’s giant feasting hall, where the rest of Jarl Halvar’s command now sat at one of the farthest tables away from the king, next to the huge doors.
“Sit anywhere you like.” Halvar made his way to sit at the head of the table nearest the choicest foods, as was the privilege of his rank. They scrambled to the remaining spaces at the far end of the table, but luckily for them, their gracious dwarven hosts passed platters of food down to their end.
The companions tucked in ravenously, and for long minutes, all that could be heard was the sound of eating, for the pies, meats, and creatively cooked root vegetables lathered in gravy even surpassed the fare of the Maiden’s Beard. When they had eaten their fill, they slumped back on the benches with full stomachs and sluggish minds, only to be plied with a variety of brews that the dwarves specialised in. The drinks made friends of them all. Soon, some of the dwarves, who had eyed Brand apprehensively, howled with laughter as the Aerian recounted tales of battle, while others stared, eyes wide, at his huge blade, which was taller than half of them. He laughed as they sang drinking and battle songs in the Common Tongue, and the dwarves cajoled them all into joining in.
Heigh-ho, to battle I go,
With a full belly now
And an enemy to show
How deep my axe can plough!
Heigh-ho, I drive deep and hard,
Fast as the goat that leapt,
Eager as the singing bard,
As the fleeting elf that swept!
Heigh-ho, ‘fore our ranks they flee,
Goblin scum dare not stand
Where dwarf-kin rule undernea’
High peaks in halls so grand!
Heigh-ho, I strike fast to pierce,
Brave as the maiden Lar,
Like the great black bear so fierce,
My enemies bleed far!
And so it continued on for many verses until Harper had quite lost track. Soon, Erika and Brand roared along with their dwarven hosts, weapons clashing in a smashing percussion with every verse. Aedon seemed at ease, too, happy to exchange banter with them on the many merits of elf magic and speed to his dwarven kin, whilst the dwarves insisted, most vociferously, how mistaken he was and that elves could not hope to compete with dwarven valour and strength. It was all in good spirit, and the insults thrown in good humour.
Harper sat quietly amongst them as she digested her meal—and the task ahead—unable to join in the merriment. A cold dread crept deep within her. Soon, they would be on the road once more and away from such comforts. Out there, somewhere, Ragnar awaited them—alive or dead.
Sooner than she would have liked, yet not at all soon enough, they left Keldheim, passing through the great gates onto the octagonal-paved road, down into the valley and east. Harper’s shoulders already ached with the weight of the dwarven mail and her pack, and her feet stung from the hard road beneath them, but she ducked her head and jogged behind the rest of the dwarven scouts nonetheless.
It was a long and hard day of travel through the mountains, following the forested valleys as they meandered east. They were watched by the dwarf gods, whose stone likenesses lined the road at one-mile intervals. After a while, though, the blessing of the dwarf road became a curse. Harper was sick of the punishing pace and hard surface, all too glad to collapse by the side of the road that night as they stopped to make camp within the shelter of the woods.
Before dawn the next morning, Halvar called them to rise. They were so deep in the mountains that hoarfrost coated the entire camp, and Harper found even her cloak frozen solid. She was glad for the extra layer now, though, for her frigid breath billowed before her and the cold bit her face. Around her, the camp shook off the layer of rime that covered all in glittering white. After a warming brew and breakfast—dwarven travelling fare of folded pasties filled with gravies and meats—they were off, and Halvar set a punishing pace once more.
By the middle of the afternoon, Harper was so exhausted, and her body hurt so much, that when Brand asked her if she was okay, she growled at him. He lifted an eyebrow at the guttural sound. “I beg your pardon?”
“I think death… would be… preferable… to this,” she snarled through ragged breaths.
He laughed, and Erika and Aedon turned to see what the fuss was about. “I’m afraid you’re used to a more leisurely pace with us, Harper. You’ll find no sympathy with our hosts!”
Harper groaned. Just as she envisioned curling up by the side of the road, Halvar threw a fist into the air, calling a halt. They stopped at once, and all hands fell to axe handles. The jarl surveyed their surroundings, slowly scanning from left to right and back again. Harper craned her neck to see over them. Not that she was not grateful, but why were they stopping? It was a valley much like any other. Evergreens filled the steeply ascending sides up to rocky heights and snow-capped peaks.
To either side of her, she felt Brand and Erika tense, waiting for the signal to draw their blades, their hands already on their weapons. As the lazy breeze blew, it carried the perfume of carrion. It was the scent of death and decay, and with a jolt, she realised what it reminded her of. Goblins. Fear shot through her at the memories of them. She drew her dagger, just as everyone else took out their own weapons to hold ready.
“Formation,” Halvar commanded in a low voice. The dwarves spread out to cover the entire road, several layers deep. Brand, Erika, Aedon, and Harper filtered into their ranks, scanning the trees warily. Were they being watched?
“Remember, we are on a scouting mission only . We do not engage. We must remain undetected.” The jarl surveyed them all before his gaze returned to the trees surrounding them. “I don’t like this. It’s too obvious. It’s either a trap, or they’re so confident, they care not that we could smell them a mile off.”
As they slowly advanced, their first sign of obvious disturbance was the dwarf god statue smashed across the road. Covered in blood, mud, and faeces, the figure was shattered beyond recognition. The dwarves cursed at the desecration of their deity, and their curses only intensified as the next mile marker passed, then the next. The destruction grew worse, until the last god they encountered had been obliterated to nothing more than jagged rubble and dust. Jarl Halvar grew grimmer with every step. Harper almost pitied any goblin who crossed their path. Almost.
Around the bend, trees thinned to reveal the sprawling valley. In the distance, the city of Afnirheim rose. Like Keldheim, it was mostly within the mountain, but Afnirheim was like a city partly buried, for some sprawled upon the face of the mountain, too. Tiered levels spreading down into layers of green, crops that fed the city, were smooth against the jagged mountain from which they emerged. It was a spectacular view, even with the dirty smoke rising. The walls were dark with it. The forest smouldered, the valley scarred with black. That scent of smoke mingled with the strengthening stench of carrion.
They found the first bodies around the next bend. Harper vomited at the sight and smell of them, and she wasn’t the only one. From the position of the bodies and the way they had been stripped of anything worthwhile and piled up unceremoniously, it was obvious the dwarves had not died a kind death. They had been dead for weeks, if Harper’s knowledge of animal decay was anything to go by. She averted her eyes. Jarl Halvar murmured a prayer for them as he passed, which was echoed by his kin.
It was late afternoon, yet the sky had already begun to darken.
“We cannot stay outside the safety of Afnirheim with goblins about,” Brand murmured to Erika. She nodded in agreement. It seemed that Halvar had the same notion, for he made for Afnirheim with singular purpose, chivvying them along. It was only when they drew within sight of the great door that he halted and his jaw tumbled open.
The land lay empty of trees and shrubs at the base of the mountain, which was a defence feature of the city, but it was clear no more. Afnirheim’s standards were torn from the battlements and lay burnt upon the road. Blood spattered the doors, which hung ajar, and crusted between the octagonal stones. Carcasses—of dwarves and goblins alike—piled high, left where they had fallen.
The ornate carvings on the doors had been smashed in much the same way as the effigies upon the road. Overwhelming all was a great mark upon the door, daubed in blackened blood.
The Riven Circle.
The Mark of Saradon.