Goblin Slayer, Vol. 14

“I wish to present a gift to the honored
goði
!”

Every eye in the room fixed on Priestess, who was clasping her hands and speaking forcefully. It was the morning after the feast, and the party had been invited to the
skáli
for breakfast.

The
húsfreya
blinked, unsure what Priestess had in mind; as for the chieftain himself, he stopped eating and looked at her, trying to divine what she might be doing. Even her party members gave her perplexed looks.

“Sorry… I hear what you’re saying, but maybe you could say it just a little softer…”

High Elf Archer may have been a high elf, but she was still subject to the toxic effects of alcohol—perhaps this was precisely because she’d said that the pain of the hangover was part of the fun of drinking. No doubt the Wine God favored her for refusing to recant what she herself had said.

“I wish to present a gift to the honored
goði
.”

“I see,” High Elf Archer mumbled and nodded. She frowned, groaned, and took a sip of some plain boiled water. She also seemed to be surprisingly fond of the thin, hard-cooked flatbread with which she was currently stuffing her cheeks. “First I’ve heard about it, I think…”

“Yes. Because this is the first I’ve said of it.”

High Elf Archer shot a suspicious glance in the direction of Goblin Slayer’s metal helmet. He inclined his head as if to say,
What?
The archer looked up at the ceiling, where the morning sun was seeping through the thin leather of the skylight.

“I understand that a warm welcome is expected by the culture here,” Priestess said, smoothly and naturally. “But surely it can’t be right to let such a fine reception go unrequited.”

It was impossible, she felt, that all of this could have been purely out of the goodness of their hosts’ hearts. She was learning that, admirable as pure altruism may have been, it was much easier to accept that everything had a reason.

And if I explain it this way, I’m sure they’ll be more likely to accept this from me…!

She didn’t yet seem to conceive that this very understanding was a sign of her own growth.

“Fine by me,” Goblin Slayer said with a nod, and Priestess let out a breath of relief. “We do at least owe them for the food and lodgings.”

“The Trade God smiles upon official negotiations. His blessing must warm a land as cold and hard as this one,” mentioned Dwarf Shaman. He took a sip of what would’ve been the hair of the dog for anyone else; for him, it was just another cup of mead. He looked quite pleased with himself. “You’ve had contacts with my people as well, as I think the honored
goði
well knows.”

“Ha-ha-ha. Needless to say, I didn’t give you lodging expecting anything in return,” the chieftain replied, laughing.

Visitors were to be welcomed no matter who they were—that was hardly unusual. It demonstrated the generosity of the master of the house, or the chieftain, or whomever. Many were the old stories of poor travelers who turned out to be the messengers of the gods, with those who rejected them meeting disaster and those who welcomed them being blessed with good fortune… Perhaps the very commonness of such tales pointed to their nature as didactic parables.
Those who couldn’t be bothered to spare anything for those who begged for just
a single night’s lodging would eventually come to a bad end
, they seemed to say. The rejection of the messenger sometimes came first and sometimes later. Consequences had a funny way of preceding their cause at times.

It was said that some villages even taught:
If someone is surrounded by enemies, protect them, whomever they may be.
To suggest that this was merely in hopes of a monetary reward would flirt with spitting on another culture.

“I know, sir. And that’s why I wish to offer this not as payment but as a gift.” Priestess—whether she was aware of all this background or not—smiled.

“And what gift might this be that you offer?” inquired Lizard Priest.

A “good priest” must not only be devout but also articulate enough to explain the teachings to people. Lizard Priest, a virtuous cleric indeed, rolled his eyes in his head.

“Well,” Priestess said with a nod. “With the honored
goði
’s permission, I wish to petition the Earth Mother for a miracle of healing, for his sake.”

“Hoh!”

“My!”

The
goði
and the
húsfreya
exclaimed almost in unison.

The chieftain seemed impressed that Priestess had noticed; it was clear from his tone that he didn’t think for a second that the
húsfreya
had spoken to anyone of his wound. The
húsfreya
, meanwhile, sounded rather more unsure; her tone was difficult to place. Her one good eye—the one not hidden by a bandage—flitted restlessly back and forth between her husband and Priestess. She didn’t speak up, though, but chose instead an uneasy silence, biting her lip.

“It’s true that my right arm is injured and that miracles are precious in battle. It’s more than I could wish for.” The chieftain’s eyes flicked toward his wife, and his expression relaxed into an easy smile. “And you wish to offer it not
to me
but
for my sake
, I see.”

“Yes, sir. For the teachings of the Earth Mother say: ‘Protect, Heal,
Save.’” Priestess nodded, making herself suppress the smile she’d had on her face until a moment ago.

Confronted with this, the chieftain let out a breath and shook his head resignedly. “Far be it from me to deny the request of one of my guests.” Then he stretched out his right arm, which had remained hidden under his cape until now, on the armrest of his high seat. Bandages ran from his upper arm all the way down to his wrist, a bit of blood oozing out. It looked painful, but it was by no means a sign that his wound had gone untreated. To the contrary, the arm was carefully wrapped in fresh linen, tied tight and true.

It was important to make the wrappings tight enough to stanch the blood, but if they were too tight, it was possible for the rest of the limb to rot and fall off. Priestess had heard that in places where the sadistic god held sway, there were strange ways of treating wounds, such as opening them further.
But this first aid was obviously heartfelt
, she thought. And who might have provided this treatment? The idea alone warmed Priestess’s heart.

She was shown right in her guess by what the chieftain said next.

“Wife… No, let me say, my dear one. Behold and observe this wound on my arm.”

“My…” The húsfreya blinked her remaining eye.

The chieftain sighed dramatically. “You’re so quick to pout, my dear one, when I ask anyone but you for help.”

“Y-yes, I suppose sometimes…!” Her lovely cheeks, as pale as snow, took on the hue of roses, and her voice became that of a blushing maiden.

It was a little much for the others to stomach, all this sweetness between the
gyðja
and his
húsfreya
right at breakfast. It was quite touching and all, but the adventurers all averted their eyes—all, that is, except Priestess and Goblin Slayer. Not, of course, that they didn’t understand what was going on.

The húsfreya quickly straightened up in her seat, while the chieftain cleared his throat. “If you wouldn’t mind taking our guests to the captive,” he said.

“Mn,” squeaked the
húsfreya
, looking at the ground in embarrassment. It was probably a sound of agreement, for the chieftain nodded, satisfied. Then he looked Priestess in the eye and said, “I must receive this gift of your healing miracle, then, and you shall speak to the prisoner as well. Would that be all right?”

“Yes, of course!” Priestess’s modest chest naturally puffed out as far as it would go, and she brimmed with confidence. And that was the end of it. The subject that had so suddenly interrupted breakfast was resolved harmoniously, and the eating resumed.

High Elf Archer, drinking hot water out of a cup (unlike the night before, an ordinary one), smiled. “You’re getting used to this, aren’t you?”

“You think so?” Priestess asked quietly. She meant it quite literally; the question came neither from embarrassment nor humility. “I can only hope…”

“Not like we have any right to talk. Am I wrong?” High Elf Archer asked the others, and she sounded genuinely amused. Maybe the warmth of the water was finally reaching her insides. Or perhaps it was the pleasure of an older friend watching her younger counterpart grow and mature.

“You’re right,” Goblin Slayer said, laconic as ever. Then he added, “It’s not bad,” as if he was offering his thoughts on the cooking.

“You don’t think I overstepped myself?” Priestess asked.

“No,” Goblin Slayer replied. “As I said earlier, I don’t mind.” He munched some of the thin grilled bread through the slats of his visor, then sipped some soup that appeared to have been made with fish stock. “You considered it and decided for yourself, and therefore, I doubt there should be any problem.”

“…Right!” Priestess nodded, feeling as if these words from the man sitting beside her made everything just fine.

Whenever you attempt something, judging success or failure entirely on your own can be a challenging prospect. Without the acknowledgment of someone else—someone you trust—it’s hard to convince yourself that you’ve done the right thing.

No sooner had she breathed a sigh of relief than Priestess felt that particular hunger one feels after just getting up in the morning. Like any young lady her age, she wanted to avoid her stomach growling, so she put a hand above her navel and gently pressed against her stomach. Suddenly everything—the flatbread, the fruit piled in its bowl, and the fish soup—all looked delicious. She was sure the tastes would all be surprising, including the seasonings, which must be quite different from anything they used on the frontier. Then she thought back on the dishes they’d been served at the feast the night before—and now it really seemed her stomach was about to growl.

“Well, before any miracles or what have you…,” Dwarf Shaman began somberly. He’d been silent until this moment, but now he spoke like a sage who had seen an underlying truth of the Four-Cornered World. “We’d better have something to eat!”

Lizard Priest promptly gulped down an entire pitcher of goat’s milk, crying, “Sweet nectar!” and slapping his tail against the ground.

§

“O Earth Mother, abounding in mercy, lay your revered hand upon this child’s wounds.”

“Hoh! The pain subsides…!”

A soft light glowed where Priestess had placed her palm, and the Earth Mother’s healing fingers brushed the prisoner’s wounds.

The prisoner in question was the man with the bandaged face who’d had the staring contest with Lizard Priest at the banquet. He, too, had been granted a room and invited to the feast as if he was not a prisoner but a guest. The way he lounged at the house to which the
húsfreya
guided them was enough to bring a smile to one’s face. Priestess didn’t think too hard about it, accounting it as simply another cultural difference.

Still, the man said, “This is quite astonishing. You’ve done well to lead me away once more from the Fields of Joy.” Priestess was very
happy to see the man smile, giving no hint that he was anywhere close to death.

“The Valkyrie says you still have many brilliant deeds to do,” she told him.

“Ha! I shall have to keep going, then!”

It was true that the people of this land charged toward the abyss of death of their own accord.

But to decide how you want to die has something to do with deciding how you want to live… I’m pretty sure.

To spend one’s life deliberately in a chosen purpose was not something to which a disciple of the Earth Mother could object. Protect, Heal, Save: So long as these pillars remained unshaken, there was no change in what she had to do.

Finally, relieved, the
húsfreya
stepped forward. “And what is it that brings you here so suddenly?”

“Are you sure about this?” Priestess asked, to which the
húsfreya
replied, “’Tis the role of a
gyðja
of the sadistic god.”

A shrine maiden of the sadistic god, she’d said, was at once a healer of wounds and a torturer of prisoners. Priestess saw that the teaching of the sadistic goddess was to exult in the pain of injury at the same time as love of life. At least, she grasped this intellectually…

But is it really okay for us to be present at this interrogation…?
she wondered with a sidelong glance at the
húsfreya
, who was prepared with an instrument that looked like either a particularly cruel scalpel or a torture device. In that she felt little or nothing, perhaps her emotions had been dampened as well.

“Ah, milady
húsfreya
. I’ve no intention of playing the defiant prisoner. Let me speak.” And thus the prisoner with the wounded face began to talk.

He and his people hadn’t meant to come to take brides so suddenly, he said. Pillaging another village in the name of finding brides was not necessarily frowned upon. However, that didn’t mean one could neglect a proper
festalmal
, or engagement ceremony. The two would
swear vows to each other and share ale, and the groom would remove the veil his bride had worn for a year to repel evil spirits. Failure to respect this
bruðsvelja
, the wedding ceremony, was unthinkable.

“True, there has been much battle, but…”

“But nothing can take precedence over the holding of a feast, is that not so?” Lizard Priest, who obviously felt he very much understood what the man was saying, nodded eagerly.

High Elf Archer looked at him dubiously. “Excuse me…?”

“Did milady ranger not prefer a lavish wedding ceremony?”

“Well, yeah, but…”

“And would you not prefer a man strong enough to prepare such a ceremony—or at least to come and carry you away?”

“Ah, that’s it—that’s it exactly!” the prisoner exclaimed.

“Indeed, indeed,” Lizard Priest said, nodding amiably.

High Elf Archer looked to Dwarf Shaman for help, then Priestess, but what could they say?

“Ha-ha…,” Priestess offered.

“It’s important to keep an open mind, Long Ears,” Dwarf Shaman said bluntly. Maybe, in light of the exchange at the banquet, they felt they couldn’t say anything careless.

Most importantly of all, banter between High Elf Archer and Lizard Priest was, of course, not in the least the point of this convocation. The
húsfreya
spoke up loud and clear, sending a chill through the air. “Yes. However… You attacked our
ætt
, our clan, yet there hasn’t been a
þing
”—a legal assembly. In this case, she seemed to be speaking not as the shrine maiden of the sadistic god but as the wife of the
goði
.

It was true that in receiving the
goði
as their leader, they had chosen to come under the kingdom’s umbrella. But that didn’t mean that all the northerners had chosen to obey the kingdom. Then, too, neither did it mean that they were necessarily hostile. The northerners were sworn to guard against the barbarians from even farther—which is to say, the encroaching forces of Chaos. Amid the ceaseless battle and the never-ending flow of blood, somehow they managed to maintain peace.

At least, so far…

But if there was to be unrest in the north for any reason, that would mean trouble. It would invite catastrophe. The storm would become a whirlwind of Chaos that could swallow up not just the kingdom but the entire Four-Cornered World.

Goblin Slayer, who had been sitting in one corner of the bench and listening quietly, now asked a single, cutting question: “Goblins?”

The prisoner went quiet. After a moment, narrowing his eyes suspiciously, he nodded slowly. “Sooth.”

All Goblin Slayer said was, “I knew it.”

“Wha—?” Priestess asked, blinking in surprise. “You mean, you thought it was goblins all this time?” Was everything he had done until now, including the things that had surprised and confused her, aimed at that end?

“I heard some talk of it at the banquet,” he explained brusquely.

Priestess, meanwhile, had been so engaged by the atmosphere at the feast that it hadn’t even occurred to her to listen to what people were actually saying.

Guess it’s important to stick around at times like that…

She would have to be more attentive to things she perceived as difficult to handle. Though of course, slipping away to chat with the
húsfreya
was a special memory for her, as well.

“Besides, I expected as much,” Goblin Slayer continued, interrupting Priestess’s thoughts. “Because of the ones we encountered under the mountain. They weren’t built like the ones from the south. But their numbers were too great and their equipment too varied to have moved from somewhere else.” (Although, he added, their equipment, skill, and numbers were not
that
great.) “Thus, I decided it was best to assume that they were survivors of a battle to the north.”

“Quite the shrewd observer, you are,” Dwarf Shaman commented.

“Naturally,” Goblin Slayer responded. “For I knew the warriors of this land would never be defeated by goblins.”

“Truly, I must agree,” said the prisoner. “The Vikings, the People of the Bay, would not be bested by the likes of orcs.”

Even if, at times, one might be ambushed, wounded, and then finished off. That wasn’t the same as being defeated, though. Their spirits would never be broken. The harsh north wind had forged these Vikings into a courageous people. Both these men here seemed to harbor an innocent faith in this conviction.

Ahhh, I see…

If it hadn’t been for her epiphany the night before, Priestess would certainly have been confused at this moment, as well. It was just like her own infatuation with
him
. Her faith that he would never make a mistake.

For him…

For him, this barbarian hero from the north, the one Priestess had never known, was the same thing. He was sure that the warriors who hailed from the same land as that great fighter would never give in until the instant of death. It seemed almost an article of faith for this person called Goblin Slayer.

“The pigheaded little beasts were riding on ships, they were.” The prisoner with the wounded face, seeing that he was speaking to someone who understood him deeply, became increasingly voluble, gesturing as he spoke. The goblins had come sailing on ships to attack. And so proud of themselves, too, he sneered.

But it was nothing special. He sounded as impressed as someone from the frontier when some lost goblins happened to stumble upon a village and attack it.

Once? That was one thing. But two times, three times? Again and again, unwilling to be intimidated or to learn no matter how many times they were destroyed?

“That has to mean there’s a nest or something, right?” High Elf Archer, listening with her arms crossed, asked with a wave of her pale hand. “You just have to find it and smash it.”

“I’m afraid ’tis not that easy.”

Naturally, this northerner, the survivor of a hundred battles, ready to charge into any fight, would have realized that much. And if there
was a reason that, having realized it, he couldn’t do anything about it, it could be only one thing.

“The ships haven’t come back, have they?”

“Even so.” The prisoner nodded. “Not a single
helskip
war vessel we’ve sent out for trade has returned home.”

Needless to say, not one person thought this was the doing of goblins. Why should they? No northerner was afraid of any goblin. They were, however, afraid of draugs. And they feared the fell spirits of the sea.

Then of course there was the chill of the frozen earth, its cruelty, which visited itself upon all equally, struggle as they might. All things in the Four-Cornered World were equal. All received blessings, and all suffered. If one could not deal with these things, then destruction was the only fate that awaited them.

Hence why the northerners first rushed to their relatives in hopes of scaring up some material goods, a stopgap solution only. At least with the connection to the kingdom to the south, they wouldn’t starve in any event.

But not to actually ask for help… I don’t know about that…

“Well, this is, in practice, another country now,” Lizard Priest responded to Priestess’s brow-furrowed question from his place curled up on the bench closest to the hearth fire. “Bride-taking may be simple trade, but asking for provisions or reinforcements—that’s politics.”

Matters would get bigger, everyone’s problems would come to the fore, and things could end up more chaotic than how they started.

“I see,” Priestess said. “I think.” She cocked her head, not sounding wholly convinced. She put a finger to her lips and thought (“Hmm…”), but still it didn’t quite seem to come to her.

“Gotta be a matter of face,” Dwarf Shaman drawled; he was making a show of gulping down some mead where he sat on the bench. Alcohol proved quite fortifying against the cold, and he was having a drink with breakfast—or just perhaps continuing his drink from last night. And there was nothing and no one in the Four-Cornered World
whose mind worked faster than that of a dwarf enjoying alcoholic spirits. “Imagine any kind of warrior begging for help:
Some goblins beat me! I’ve got no money! Help me!
He’d be a laughingstock.”

“Oh…”

That much, Priestess could certainly understand. She, of course, knew little of a warrior’s pride. And yet—and yet, even the most pitiful excuse for an adventurer could never imagine behaving in such a way. If someone could be sent running by some goblins, left to beg others for a bit of help, why had they even become an adventurer at all? Adventurers were a rowdy, uncivilized lot. They made their way in the world by their own strength.

That first adventure, that first party, those first friends. They were painful memories for Priestess; each time she thought of them, she felt a throbbing ache, like a thorn stuck deep in her heart. And yet, it was precisely because of those memories, precisely because all of them had fought to the bitter end, that…

“You’re right… That would never happen.”

To beg for help because of your own humiliating incompetence? No one wanted that.

“This is…most troubling…” The
húsfreya
looked grim.

Fighting the forces of Chaos that pressed down from the north, fighting their own “northern barbarians,” could almost be called the northerners’ duty. And now this was the northern edge of the kingdom. They couldn’t run away. They had to make their stand—show their valor.

The goblins, they would manage somehow. But—a sea devil.
Something
that refused to let any ship return home safely. Whatever it was, it lurked somewhere beyond the sea of ice.

“……” Priestess took a deep breath, filling her lungs with air, then let it out again.

She and her friends were adventurers. Adventure was what they had come here for. It was why they were here. If everyone from
that
time had been here now, she knew what she would have said. And the people who
were
here now—she was sure they would understand.

“It’s all right…isn’t it?” she asked hesitantly.

“Sure, why wouldn’t it be?” High Elf Archer replied. Her laughter was as beautiful as a ringing bell, and she winked with genuine elegance. “You can count me in. I think it sounds like fun. Even if I’m not thrilled to know there are goblins involved.”

“As for myself, to add the sea to the terrible chill… My goodness…” Lizard Priest, still curled up, stretched out his neck as if the trouble was obvious and rolled his eyes in his head. Priestess had known him a long time now, though; she would have known if he had really thought it was too much bother. Instead, he said, “However, all the more reason why I must show my prowess in battle.”

“Because nagas don’t run away, eh?” Dwarf Shaman chuckled, wiping some drops of wine from his beard.

“Indeed!” The long head nodded.

“If the girls and even Scaly here are going, then my dwarf self can hardly beg off, can I?”

“Sure can’t!” High Elf Archer laughed. “A wine barrel should float even on the sea!”

“And an anvil’ll sink…”

“Bah, you’re heavier than I am!”

And then the two of them were off and arguing, just like always. The
húsfreya
and the prisoner looked downright flummoxed, but Priestess laughed, a girlish giggle of relief and happiness and gratitude that bubbled up naturally from within her.

Then she asked the last of them, “It’s all right, isn’t it?”

She was speaking to the one in the grimy leather armor and cheap-looking metal helmet, and he replied nonchalantly, “I don’t mind.” His usual clear, decisive tone. “It’s your adventure—you conceived of it, and you decided on it.”

That gave her a greater push than anything; on the strength of those words, Priestess got to her feet. She turned to the
húsfreya
and said, proudly and clearly, “Leave it to the adventurers!”

§

“Listen, I appreciate the offer, but…”

They were back at the
skáli
. Unlike that morning, however, the
goði
was now surrounded by a crowd of other northerners. One could easily imagine that they were convening a council of war based on the information the
húsfreya
had gotten from the prisoner. And why were the adventurers, outsiders, present?

“They’re going to help?”

“Adventurers—are they not thieves, rogues? They may go into battle, but they would be among the first to die.”

“Across the great mountains they may have come, but rogues they remain.”

The northerners’ faces told the tale as they stood with their arms crossed.

In short, this is a problem of trust
, Priestess thought. She kept an ambiguous smile on her face—a trick she’d learned from Guild Girl—even as she gave a little sigh inside. There was a time when she might have been panicked by this reaction, but now she was at least able to hide the shock, more or less.

Adventurers were an uncouth bunch. She’d heard that only their kingdom had an Adventurers Guild. (Or did other countries have them, too?) Which meant that the status tag hanging from her neck, the one she valued almost as much as her life, meant little in terms of “trust” to a great many people in the world.

And this was one of the places where it carried no weight. They’d been lucky this hadn’t been much of a problem in the eastern desert country when they had visited…

As Priestess was thinking it all over, Goblin Slayer broke in. “Where is the problem? Is it that you don’t trust us? Or that you have no confidence in our fighting prowess? Which is it?”

“You certainly get right to the point,” the chieftain said with a wry smile.

“If it’s a problem that can be readily solved, then we should solve it as soon as possible,” was all Goblin Slayer said. “So?”

“I don’t believe an
álfr
would indeed be a thief.” This response came
not from the chieftain but from one of the other northerners. Several others nodded, chiming in, “Just so,” or, “Indeed.” It seemed as if they all had a voice here. It might be the
goði
who sat on the high seat, but it appeared everyone was equal in the council.

What struck Priestess more than that, though, was the great trust they seemed to have in High Elf Archer. As a Porcelain, Priestess had often been looked down on as an adventurer, but she had at least been respected as a cleric of the Earth Mother. Here, though, hardly anyone paid her any mind—but High Elf Archer they revered simply for being a high elf.

And here Priestess was pretty sure that her much older friend was only acting all aloof because of her hangover!

I guess trust involves a lot of different things…
The time, the situation, and the people—virtually anything could change everything. It was, honestly, a very reassuring revelation for Priestess.

“You all may have come across the mist-laden mountains,” one of the northerners said.

“But us, we ain’t seen you do it,” said another.

“So if you were to see us, then?” Goblin Slayer said.

“Mm,” replied yet another northerner with a nod. “Show us what you’re made of.”

“Hoh, a test of courage.”
Wumph.
Lizard Priest leaned forward like a dragon waking from sleep. The northerners didn’t fear him, so it must have been either from sympathy or consideration that he kept his huge body curled into one relatively small space near the hearth. But now, his blood was warmed by the fire, and the anticipation of battle pulsed in his blood… “If possible, I would like to perform mine at the hour when the sun is highest in the sky, ideally while sitting beside the fire.”

…or not.

Everything about him curled up again—from his long neck to his tail—and it seemed Lizard Priest had every intention of nesting down right there.

Thinking about it, if they were going to head even farther north, they
would naturally spend most of the adventure tromping through the snow. And rare was the moment on a cold adventure when one had the luxury of curling up by a warm fire. Refusing to miss even a moment of such warmth—was that not, in fact, rather naga-esque?

“We’ll let you know when we really need you, all right?” Priestess called to him, and having received a shake of his tail in response, she turned back to the room. She put a finger to her lips in thought. “How should we handle this, then? We can’t have a fight, so maybe a contest of strength… But in that case…”

“Say, isn’t it true that around here you lot prefer to…yeh know…?” Dwarf Shaman, having finished his mead, was now enjoying a
bjórr
. He sat cross-legged on the bench, looking entirely at ease (although for reasons quite different from those of Lizard Priest). Priestess, who deep down inside still felt a tad nervous, was honestly jealous.

Nonetheless, she asked, “What’s
‘yeh know’
?”

“Dunno what they call it around these parts. The name changes everywhere you go. But it’s, yeh know, this.” He mimicked grasping something with his thick fingers and tapping it against the table.

“Yes, indeed, we have it.” The chieftain grinned, baring his fangs, leaning his chin on his right hand as if to flaunt how the
húsfreya
had healed him. “All four corners of this world are the gods’ game board. Shouldn’t adventurers, then, test their skill upon the game board themselves? Dear wife?”

“Very good, I should think. Riddles might do as well, but before a battle, a
hnefatafl
is good luck.” The
húsfreya
’s snow-white countenance set firmly, and she nodded. The gaze of her unbandaged eye ran across the adventurers like lightning. “As
gyðja
, we will accept a match from any challenger, whosoever they be.”

Before Priestess could speak, Goblin Slayer said sharply, “Very well.” He met the woman’s gaze squarely from behind his visor, as if to say there was no problem. “We need proof of our strength on the board, then.”

“Sooth.”

“In that case…” Goblin Slayer’s arm moved. His hand, wrapped in
a rough, well-used glove, landed on Priestess’s delicate shoulder. She gulped a little when she felt him squeeze firmly. “This young woman will do.”

“Huh?” Priestess sounded absolutely ridiculous.

She looked to the right: Goblin Slayer’s helmet was gazing directly at the
húsfreya
. She looked to the left: High Elf Archer was playing innocent, Lizard Priest was nodding, and Dwarf Shaman was taking a drink. She looked forward: The
húsfreya
’s eye was ablaze as she stared at Priestess, as if she could see directly into her heart.

Priestess blinked.
“Huh?!”

§

“In short, ’tis a game of war.”

On the table that had been placed by the high seat, spanning the hearth, the Four-Cornered World was spread out. In other words, it was a square, with spaces carved in it, decorated with engraved characters: a stunning wooden board. Two armies stood upon it in battle array, differentiated by their colors: white and red. At first, Priestess thought they were made of the teeth of a sea monster or some such thing—but no, this was tin, a so-called “white metal.”

The armor of the king and his soldiers was sculpted in fine detail, their clothing represented with delicate brushwork. Each piece was a riot of color, with swords and helmets, and even the sparkling of the gems that adorned them, carefully painted in. The banner bearing the letter
omega
, fluttering in an undetectable wind, made the pieces look as if they might come to life and start marching around this very moment. They looked like nothing so much as actual soldiers who had been shrunk down to the size of a finger.

It wouldn’t have surprised Priestess a bit to learn that this board and these pieces had some sort of magic spell or blessing on them. One thing, however,
did
surprise her.

“The, uh, red pieces are surrounding the white ones—is that right?”

The two armies didn’t stand confronting each other across the field;
rather, the white army was hedged in by the red one on every side. Priestess, studying the board with a serious expression, put one thin finger to her lips and glanced down.

The northerners—big, burly warriors—crowded around, seemingly less with real interest than with the attraction of a spectacle. Fear, horror, an inability to think straight—any of these would have been perfectly natural reactions for a young woman in this situation.

“I’ve never seen this game before.
Hnefatafl
, you called it…?”

Priestess, however, looked up without a trace of fear, meeting the gaze of the player sitting across from her.

“Yes, precisely,” replied the
húsfreya
, smiling as if, for some reason, Priestess’s attitude made her happier than anything. “If the white player is able to move their
konungr
, their king, from the ‘throne’ at the center of the board to any of the corners, he escapes, and the white player wins.”

“So that means that if the surrounding red army is able to capture the king, they win, right?”

There really is something almost ritualistic about it.
She wasn’t sure whether it was the movement of the
húsfreya
’s fingers over the board, the tone of her voice, or the craftsman’s art displayed in the board and pieces.

From the four “corners,” out beyond the board. Priestess didn’t know what that could signify.

“…And how do the pieces move?”

“Straight forward or back, or from side to side, as far as they wish until they strike another piece.” With her fingers, beautiful despite, or perhaps because of, the battle wounds they bore, the
húsfreya
slid one of the red pieces smoothly along and back again.

Okay, got it.
Priestess nodded a couple of times. No diagonal movement. Which meant…

Priestess stared intently at the battlefield of eleven by eleven rows, 121 squares. She’d played a tabletop game once, sometime before—a game that had involved trekking across the Four-Cornered World to
slay a dragon. This world with its square spaces was just one battlefield in one corner of that one.