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  With a loud creak, the great stone doors swung open and Jarl’s name was called out, echoing down the hall towards the throne of the King. The throne, embellished in gold, stood out against the black granite of the rest of the hall. Torchlight lined the walkway that ran alongside the hall, and it caught in the hundreds of gems that where embedded in the solid gold throne, making it sparkle and glitter.

  Jarl felt the eyes of every courtier and noble as he walked forward, but he kept his eyes fixed firmly ahead of him. The hall echoed with whispers and Áfastr Gull’s distinctive laugh rang out above the muttering as soon as he saw Jarl.

  Clenching his fists together, Jarl approached the throne. Old King Hábrók slumped pitifully in it, an old tired man who looked like he had lost the will to live a long, long time ago. His hair was pure white and his bright blue eyes looked quite terrifying under his thick, bushy white eyebrows. His deformed legs were hidden beneath a red velvet blanket draped over his knees.

  Finally reaching the bottom steps of the throne, Jarl bowed, slowly taking a deep breath before he lifted his head to speak.

  ‘King Hábrók, I -’

  ‘Let me guess! The goblins are coming!’ Áfastr’s voice rang out, interrupting him. Jarl winced at the sound and loud chuckles echoed through the throne room. The King’s eyes barely moved as if he had not even heard what had just been said.

  ‘My Lord, when Knute Villieldr was slain in the northern hills, I reported to you what he told me before he died. He told me of a young goblin king, barely in his twentieth year but with the bands of over ten tribes wound into his hair. I do not think it is a coincidence that the attacks around Bjargtre have been increasing.’

  ‘You believe that a young goblin boy has somehow united enough of the northern tribes to become a threat to us?’ Áfastr mocked. ‘My King! Jarl Vǫrn has never fully recovered from the death of his friend or his family. The last of a once great house desperate to scramble together a small shred of dignity!’

  Jarl’s face set as hard as stone. He was raging at what Áfastr had said but knew that any violent reaction would weaken his position.

  ‘My concern is that while we pretend to be blind, the goblins, whether they are led by Ulf or not, are growing stronger.’

  ‘I’m utterly terrified!’ Áfastr laughed. ‘A few more useless and untrained goblins will throw themselves against out walls...the end must be coming!’

  ‘I believe that the goblins have an Agroku,’ Jarl bellowed. There was a sudden hush in the hall; even Áfastr was silenced for a few seconds. The King stirred slightly and looked up at Jarl.

  ‘Why...would you believe that?’ he rasped, his old eyes fixed on him.

  ‘The attacks on the traders from Lǫgberg are far too frequent. Soon they won’t trade with us at all. Our patrols are being attacked almost daily now, and by goblins in numbers far greater than we have ever seen before. Not goblin swarm, but organized planned attacks! Before long the farms will suffer and we will start to suffer! Knute Villieldr’s warning cannot be ignored!’

  ‘The patrols have suffered because of the hard winters. The goblins just took advantage during the storms. Besides, Knute was dying and in pain. If he had said he had seen a griffin dancing with a goat you probably would have believed him!’

  ‘I am not wrong!’

  ‘What...would you... have me do?’ the King asked, between violent coughs. A servant dashed up to him and helped him drink from a golden goblet. The King took a long sip, and Jarl watched as some of the water dribbled down the sides of his mouth, his abnormally large jaw making it difficult for him to close his lips against the goblet.

  ‘I would ask that you send word to Queen Vígdís and ask her to send her armies here to help us push back the goblins to Lake Krewa. We do not have the men to push them back. We must ask for help.’

  ‘Ask...Vígdís...for help? Can we not fight our own battles?’

  ‘Today, my Lord, I do not believe we can,’ Jarl said firmly. Several people scoffed from the walkway. ‘There is no dishonour in asking the High Queen to assist her people.’

  ‘Dishonour...no. It is the Queen’s duty to answer to her people. But our pride?’

  Jarl paused for a second. He knew how he had to reply but also knew how badly it would be received.

  ‘Our pride will serve for nothing when the city is under siege. It will not feed us or protect us when they break through the Mad Gate.’

  To Jarl’s surprise, King Hábrók suddenly burst out laughing, his frail body looking like it might snap in half from the movement. Jarl wasn’t sure exactly what he was laughing at.

  ‘I’m afraid I do not believe we are in danger!’ the King finally said, and Jarl inwardly cursed. ‘The city has never been taken, the goblins are far too unorganized and chaotic to possibly allow an Agroku to rule them, let alone a young goblin as Knute described. No, I think whilst well intentioned, your worries are misplaced. I will not request that Vígdís send us aid.’

  There was no point in arguing. The King had made up his mind, and any attempt to disagree with him would be seen as a sign of disrespect. Though he did his best to hide it, Jarl felt his face, along with his heart drop, as Áfastr Gull smirked down at him.

  Bowing, Jarl slowly turned and left the throne room, and the guards opened the great stone doors to permit him to leave.

  Halvard knew how it had gone as soon as he saw Jarl’s face.

  ‘So... I guess we’re leaving?’ he said, flexing his shoulders as they walked back through the palace grounds, passing the now hundreds of dwarves who were waiting in line outside. Guards at every corner watched them and Jarl was anxious to get back home as soon as possible.

  He didn’t like the palace, everything about it made him nervous. From the enormous granite pillars which towered above, to the black, polished marble floors, as slippery as ice, that forced everyone to walk slowly or risk falling over. Everything was built in true dwarf fashion of being far too big and grand, and made anyone who entered the city - elf, dwarf, or human - feel utterly insignificant in comparison to their gigantic surroundings.

  ‘We should leave first thing tomorrow. If we take a few ponies we should be able to make it to Einn within a week.’

  ‘Provided we don’t get caught and killed,’ Halvard muttered.

  Jarl laughed. ‘Always the optimist!’

  ‘I was being optimistic!’ Halvard protested. ‘If they capture us it will be far worse than death!’

  Jarl breathed a sigh of relief as they left the palace and stepped out into the much smaller and busier tunnels of Bjargtre, where the ground wasn’t polished till it shone like glass, and where he was able to walk without slipping.

  It took them another half hour to cross the many tunnels of the city and reach the academy. Neither of them said another word as they walked, both deep in thought and worried about the journey they were about to embark on.

  Even if they succeeded, it would probably be the last time that Knud and Halvard would see Bjargtre for a good few months. As for Jarl, if he succeeded then he had no doubt that Áfastr would drag what remained of his family name through the mud, having gone against the wishes of his King. At the very least he would become an ósómi and have his hair and beard cut in front of everyone . He’d be a disgrace to Bjargtre.

  As they walked through the academy, Jarl gazed up at the statues that lined the halls like stone guards watching over them. Several of his ancestors were within their ranks and he stopped for a moment to stand in front of the statues of his grandfather and grandmother.

  Whomever the stonemason had been, his name had been long since forgotten, but his work was without a doubt exemplary. The carvings were so lifelike that in a certain light they almost appeared alive. The pale marble had an almost skin-like quality in the glow of the lamps.

  Jarl’s grandparents had both been great warriors, honoured guards of their current King back when the house of Vǫrn had been respected. So much had changed since then, and in a way Jarl was glad
they were not here to see it. From what little he remembered of them, he knew they had both been fiercely proud, proud of their house and their accomplishments. It would have broken them to see its reputation crumbled and the line reduced to only Jarl. It was better that they were dead.

  ‘I still think you look more like your grandfather,’ Halvard muttered. ‘The same face. Okay, you’re shorter than he was, but you still have the same face.’

  ‘I am not shorter! They make the statues bigger!’ Jarl retorted.

  Turning away from the statues, they strolled down the hallway and out onto the sidelines of the training arena. Several boys were fighting in pairs with the masters circling them, watching their every move and barking out orders.

  Jarl watched proudly as Knud practiced his sword fighting with the other boys. His wild, red hair was tied in a braided top-knot above his head and a few stubborn strands had come loose and stuck out like curly, red grass.

  As Knud moved to attack far too quickly, the other much larger boy dodged his blow and tripped him. Halvard chuckled, but Knud instantly picked himself back up and continued to fight, always preferring to attack relentlessly. The other much older boys had quickly picked up on his method and continued to dodge him until Knud wore himself out. Jarl had tried to teach him several times that he needed to be patient and observe his enemy, but the minute he had a weapon in his hands everything Knud had been told vanished from his head.

  A loud gong echoed through the tunnels announcing the end of the hearings, and Jarl and Halvard shuffled restlessly. It wouldn’t be long until the nobles, Áfastr especially, would make their way to the academy for their next round of amusement. Lately, the hearings had been getting shorter and shorter. Jarl remembered when King Hábrók’s father, Hastein, had held hearings that lasted for days on end.

  ‘You’d think they’d learn,’ Jarl said, gazing up at the royal box. Several people shuffled about inside as King Hábrók was carried in on his litter, his two sons walking alongside him. Their eyes were as blue as their fathers, but both had abnormally long, heavy jaws which jutted out at a painful angle. ‘At least he never had a daughter. I wonder what poor cousin is going to be forced to marry them?’

  ‘One of these days someone is going to hear you!’ Halvard said, irritated. ‘You shouldn’t say things like that out loud.’

  ‘Nobody is around to hear,’ Jarl replied calmly. ‘Besides, now it’s just a matter of time till they make me an Ósómi’,

  ‘Maybe they won’t,’ Halvard suggested, his tone implying he did not believe a word that he was saying. ‘If you’re right, you will have saved the city.’

  ‘I think you believe that just as much as I do,’ Jarl said, raising an eyebrow. Halvard shrugged his shoulders and looked back down at the ring.

  Jarl noticed King Hábrók, up in the stands, watching curiously from the box, his old eyes following Knud intently. Jarl looked back at Knud who was panting, his face almost as red as his hair.

  ‘Come on Knud!’ Jarl shouted over at him as he fell. Knud flashed him a smile and instantly threw himself at his opponent again. The boy stepped aside and tripped him but Knud was instantly on his feet and lunged again, only to fall a short moment later. Jarl growled frustratedly but said nothing. He had told him enough times to be patient. Knud would just have to keep falling until he learned the hard way.

  Finally, Knud fell for the last time, barely having the energy to lift his sword. When his opponent knocked the weapon from his hand, Knud was forced to surrender, with a blunt sword tip pressed against the side of his neck.

  With his head hung low, Knud trudged from the ring, the sand from the training ground covering his knees, boots and sleeves. He climbed the stairs to where Jarl and Halvard were waiting for him with the spectators politely clapping at his performance.

  ‘I lost,’ Knud mumbled, kicking at the floor.

  It wasn’t about the fight, Jarl knew that. Today was a bad day. Even if he had won the fight, he would still be downcast.

  ‘You miss him too, right?’ Knud asked suddenly, and Jarl’s mouth pressed into a tight line.

  ‘Every day,’ he whispered.

  ‘Good! I don’t want anyone to forget him!’ Knud said, looking over at Jarl’s cloak, the Dip tears in it clearly visible, and Jarl’s crude stitching making them all the more noticeable.

  For all his good intentions, Jarl was no tailor. His sewing, especially whilst studying, was aesthetically of a very poor standard. Not that it really mattered. As a fallen house, the only people who cared what he looked like were the Gulls. Even then, he could be dressed from head to toe in gold and jewels and they would still find a way to mock him.

  After walking for over half an hour through the many grand tunnels, they finally reached the Vǫrn halls. Knud’s cheerful face had returned and they raced up the tall stone staircase and pushed open the sturdy doors that led to the hall.

  The halls were unpretentious compared to the other houses, especially the Gull’s, whose love of ostentatious gold filigree on pretty much every surface was renowned. The Vǫrn halls were simple: great grey stone pillars that were hewn with knotted patterns, an axe and a long thin dagger, the emblem of the house of Vǫrn, carved into the top of each one.

  ‘What’s this?’ Jarl asked, taking a seat opposite Knud at the long pine table that ran down the centre of the hall, and staring at one of the many contraptions Knud had been making. Kindling was splayed out across the table, and string, wire and wood shavings were everywhere. Knud tied another thin twig to the frame, his tongue protruding from his lips in concentration.

  ‘Not sure yet, Uncle,’ Knud replied, looking at it intently. ‘I was thinking of trying to make a weapon so we could shoot goblins before they come near. But I can’t get it right,’ he said frustratedly, pushing the contraption aside and scribbling wildly over the sketches he had drawn.

  Goblins...of course he would make something like that today!

  Jarl patted Knud reassuringly on the shoulder and headed to his chambers. Once there, he hung his cloak on the peg on the wall and closed the door to his room behind him. Three bags were propped next to his bed. He sighed. They were packed and ready to go. All they had to do now was tell Knud.

  There was a gentle tap on the door and Halvard walked in, took his packed bag from the line and slung it over his shoulders.

  ‘I assume we’re leaving now?’

  ‘Just a few more hours. Let Knud play with his drawings a little longer.’

  ‘Have you told him the plan?’ Halvard asked, raising an eyebrow so high it almost disappeared into his hairline.

  ‘No. I don’t think I want to tell him till we reach Lǫgberg.’

  ‘If we reach Lǫgberg!’ Halvard laughed, and Jarl grinned, shaking his head at him. He could always rely on Halvard to give a cynical reply to almost anything he said.

  ‘I’m just hoping the journey will toughen him up a little. Make him a little tired of me and wanting some space of his own.’

  ‘I doubt that! The boy idolised you long before Knute died. A few months on the road isn’t likely to change that!’

  Rolling his eyes and slinging his bag onto his back, Jarl strode out of the room.

  As much as Jarl enjoyed Halvard’s company, having known him almost as long as Knute, at times his constant pessimism really wore him down, especially on topics that worried Jarl, when he just needed someone to listen and let him reach his own conclusions.

  Knute had never been like that. He’d been his best friend and was fiercely optimistic. He was also a determined prankster and Knud was so like him at times that Jarl found himself doing a double take, thinking for the tiniest of moments that his old childhood friend was standing in front of him.

  Hiding his bag in the hall so Knud wouldn’t see it, Jarl made his way to the servants’ quarters and knocked on the door. Four voices called out from inside for him to enter and he walked in to the smell of food wafting through the air. There was chicken, meat and more meat. A few t
oken vegetables were strewn across the stone sideboards and several pots bubbled over the fireplace. The oldest of the women, Holmvé, whose hair had long since lost its colour, cooed loudly at him.

  ‘Jarl! Have you finally come to acknowledge my wisdom and beauty and take me as your wife?’

  Jarl grinned at her fondly. Eilíf, Gísla and Hlín laughed out loud.

  He had known Holmvé since he was a child; in fact he was pretty sure she had been the midwife who had helped his mother deliver him before she was appointed stewardess of the household. She had always been a grandmother figure to him and only became more so after the death of his family.

  He had known all of them since he was a young boy, and even then they had been old. The teasing had originally been initiated by his mother as a plan to bolster his confidence as a young dwarf.

  He had been a quiet boy, his grandfather mistaking his stoic silence for weakness. Vidar had constantly tried to put him in the company of other young female dwarves but Jarl had been completely at a loss as to how to behave around them. Although he would not admit it, he was slightly terrified of them. Holmvé, Eilíf, Gísla and Hlín joked with him afterwards to make him feel better and pretended to be young silly girls themselves in an attempt to make him more used to the irritating giggling and shameless flirting he would have to endure.

  Over the years the habit had stuck, the tradition making Jarl smile still, and remaining an enjoyable hobby for them. Each of them always tried to outdo the other in their ridiculous impersonations of silly young girls in awe of him.

  Not that it wasn’t warranted; far from it. Jarl was an extremely attractive dwarf with long, dark brown hair that looked almost black, and with pale blue eyes, which at times looked slightly green, especially in the firelight.