Frostborn

by Lou Anders

  “I bet you don’t,” laughed the After Walker. “But you haven’t got a choice.”

  “Yes, he does,” said a voice. Karn turned in time to see his father, Korlundr hauld Kolason, stepping from the darkness into the ring of stones. “Father!” exclaimed Karn, never so relieved in his life to see anyone.

  “Give me my sword,” said Korlundr, holding his hand out to his son while keeping his eyes trained on Helltoppr.

  Karn started to hand the blade over when something stopped him. His arm was literally shaking with the effort to pass the blade, but it wouldn’t obey.

  “Karn, give me the sword,” his father repeated.

  “Don’t blame the boy,” the dragonship captain said. “He can’t. It’s the rules of the curse. The same rune magic that keeps me trapped inside the stones compels you all. You fight me with the weapon you bring, or you choose one of my own. The boy brought the sword—a very familiar sword, now that I see it clearly—so only Karn can fight me with it. If you want to challenge me, you’ll have to use what you brought or pick one of mine.”

  Korlundr looked down at his belt. He had his sax knife, but that dagger was pitifully small against Helltoppr’s great ax. The After Walker smiled.

  “Won’t you come in,” he said, gesturing toward the tunnel entrance. “I’m sure we can find something in your size.”

  “Father?” Karn’s voice cracked with worry. Helltoppr looked up as if only just remembering him.

  “Keep the boy here,” he said to his three followers. “He’ll be child’s play after I’ve dealt with the big man.”

  “Don’t worry, Karn,” Korlundr called to his son. Then he squared his shoulders and walked bravely into the earth.

  Karn flinched as a cold hand rested on his shoulder.

  “Don’t worry so,” said Snorgil. “Some you win, some you lose. The important thing is to be a good sport about it.”

  Karn gulped and said nothing. All his thoughts were for his father under the earth.

  Korlundr reemerged after only a few minutes. He had a short spear in his hand. Karn saw that the shaft was made of the same metal as the blade. Maybe it would give him a chance to block the draug’s ax.

  “How do we do it?” said Korlundr.

  “Like this,” said Helltoppr, rushing forward and swinging his ax in a great arc.

  Korlundr leapt back, then jabbed at the draug with his spear. Helltoppr was quick, though, and darted away before the blade struck. Karn surged forward, but Snorgil’s grip tightened on his shoulder, holding him fast.

  Karn tensed up as he watched his father and the After Walker dance around the barrow. Helltoppr was supernaturally strong, swinging his heavy weapon without tiring or pausing. Korlundr blocked it or dodged it again and again. Karn felt a swell of pride for his father. His father was a hero, just like the great Norrønir in the songs of old. He’d never seen anyone fight so well. But Korlundr was tiring. Even in the cold night air, Karn could see the sweat standing out on his father’s forehead. He’d have to do something soon.

  Korlundr raised his shaft to catch the ax as it plunged down in an overhead swing. He kicked out with his booted foot. The blow caught Helltoppr right in his chest. The draug went reeling backward. Korlundr swung his spear around and drove it into the draug’s side. Helltoppr gasped and dropped his ax, clutching the shaft buried in his chest.

  Snorgil and the other undead shifted their feet nervously. Taking advantage of their uncertainty, Karn knocked Snorgil’s hand off his shoulder.

  “A very good blow that was,” said Helltoppr, with something like genuine admiration in his voice. “And if ordinary weapons could harm me, you might have won.” Then his left hand grabbed Korlundr by the neck. “Too bad the only named weapon here is in a boy’s hands, not yours.” Helltoppr tightened his grip on Korlundr’s throat. “And so you lose.”

  “Karn!” called his father. “Run!”

  Korlundr stiffened in the draug’s grasp. And then the strangest thing happened. His skin hardened and grew gray. The air shimmered around him. As Karn watched in horror, a runestone appeared where his father had been standing. Carved on its surface, as if it had been chiseled there years ago, was a crude image of his father. But unlike the carvings of Helltoppr’s other victims, who looked frightened as they were defeated, Korlundr’s image still appeared proud and defiant.

  “No! Father!” Karn cried. There was no answer.

  Helltoppr walked around the new runestone, sizing it up.

  “A nice addition to my collection, if I do say so myself,” he said. “ ‘For if you stand, you’ll surely fall. And if you fall, stand you will for now and all.’ Come on, boys. Place it in line with the others. Just need one more to see my curse lifted.” Then the draug turned his eyes on Karn.

  “One more.”

  Karn’s scream was pure rage. Not only at the After Walkers, but also at himself. If he hadn’t come here, if he hadn’t knocked three times … He hefted Whitestorm in both his hands and swung it in a wide circle around him.

  Snorgil, Rifa, and Visgil leapt away, hissing when Whitestorm brushed them. Karn saw, and he lunged out at the nearest. Rifa yelped and jumped back a pace. Karn followed. He’d cut them all down.

  Suddenly Helltoppr was before him, the great ax lifting up.

  “You may frighten my boys, boy,” said the dragonship captain. “But you don’t frighten me. After all, that sword used to be mine.”

  Karn’s eyes widened. Then he couldn’t help himself. He glanced down at the weapon in his hand. Whitestorm, Helltoppr’s sword? The sword that was stolen from him when he was betrayed. But that would make Whitestorm the legendary sword of Folkvarthr Fairbeard. It was only called Folkvarthr’s Fortune in the old legends. But swords could have many names.

  “I’ll be wanting it now,” said Helltoppr. “That’s right. Your great-great-great-great-grandfather took the sword off me, curse him and curse all his children. But it warms my undead heart to think it will be two of his descendants who complete my stone ship.”

  Helltoppr took a step closer, the ax still poised high above his head. Karn saw all the pieces. Saw their positions. He was facing uphill, which put Helltoppr at the advantage. Or did it?

  Karn raised Whitestorm before him, as if prepared to fight. Helltoppr smiled.

  Karn threw himself backward, drawing his knees in and somersaulting in reverse in a way that would have impressed even Thianna. His own momentum and the slope of the hill carried him over and over again. It wasn’t graceful, and he had to struggle to hold Whitestorm straight out so the sword didn’t trip him up or cut him, but he rolled down the barrow mound and through the stone. Above him, he heard Helltoppr hiss as the barrier of the longship kept him from pursuing.

  “After him!” the draug screamed at his followers. Karn didn’t wait to see if they obeyed. Scrambling to his feet, he cast one last look at the runestone where his father had fallen. Then he turned and ran.

  At the edge of the forest, Karn skidded to a halt as someone stepped from the trees.

  “Uncle Ori!” he cried out in relief. But his uncle was looking at him strangely.

  “Oh, Karn,” he said, “what have you done? For Neth’s sake, boy, what have you done?”

  “M-my father,” stammered Karn. “Helltoppr, the draug …”

  “I saw it all,” said Ori.

  “You saw?” exclaimed Karn. If his uncle had been there, why hadn’t he helped?

  “I hid behind the runestones,” his uncle explained. “You had the only weapon I carried. We both know I’m not much of a fighter. But Karn—what you did.”

  “What I did?”

  “You woke Helltoppr, challenged him to a fight. Your father—”

  “It wasn’t my fault,” said Karn. “I didn’t know—”

  “Wasn’t it?” said Ori, his eyes narrowing and his voice taking on an accusing tone. “You went to the barrow mound on Winternights, woke the draug, challenged him to a fight with his own blade.”

  �
�That isn’t how it happened—it isn’t …”

  “Please, Karn,” said Ori. “I’m your uncle and even I can see how bad it is. The Norrønir don’t look kindly on those who betray their own kin. I really should turn you in.…”

  Karn’s heart pounded in alarm. He’d lost his father, and he was going to be blamed for it. Norrøngard justice was swift and harsh. His world was crashing down around him, and the earth felt shaky beneath his boots.

  “I know I’ll regret this,” said Ori. He grasped Karn’s shoulders in his own and looked deep into the boy’s eyes. “But I’m going to help you. You need to run as far away as you can. Quickly … the draug are coming!”

  Behind them, Karn heard footsteps. Snorgil, Rifa, and Visgil weren’t far. Ori glanced at the sword in Karn’s hands.

  “Give me that,” he said. “I’ll hold them off while you flee.”

  Karn started to hand his uncle the sword, but something stopped him. His uncle couldn’t fight any better than he could, and it was all he had left of his father. He shook his head defiantly. Ori reached for it anyway and Karn stepped back.

  “Oh, very well,” said his uncle irritably. “But go. Leave Norrøngard and never come back. It’s what you wanted, after all.”

  The draug were close now. Clutching Whitestorm tight to his chest, Karn ran. He raced through the woods, pine needles tearing at his face and neck, tears streaking down his cheeks. He ran away from Dragon’s Dance. Away from Korlundr’s Farm. Away from everything he had ever known.

  Ori watched his nephew disappear into the woods, listened as his footfalls faded into the night. Then he turned to the three figures that waited at the edge of the glade.

  “He still has the sword on him,” Ori said.

  “Blast it, Ori,” said Snorgil. “I knew that blade was going to be trouble.”

  “Trouble,” said Ori. “No, I don’t think so. He’s never bothered to learn to use it. You’ll get it back easy enough.”

  “Helltoppr won’t like it if we don’t,” said Rifa, kicking at the ground with a rotting boot.

  “Helltoppr should be quite happy with his latest runestone,” Ori told the After Walkers. “Enough to keep him content for the time it will take you to hunt down the boy.”

  “Why didn’t you catch him yourself?” asked Visgil.

  “What?” sneered Snorgil. “Lazy ol’ Ori get his hands dirty? Not on your unlife. Not when he can get someone else to do it for him.”

  “Yes, well,” said Ori. “It’s not like you three can get your hands any cleaner.”

  The draug all laughed at this.

  “You do have a point,” said Visgil, holding up a hand of rotting fingers.

  “Always,” Ori replied, blanching at the purple flesh. “Now, before my nephew gets any farther away …”

  The three draug looked at him expectantly.

  “You’re called After Walkers, aren’t you?” said Ori. “Shouldn’t you be walking after him?”

  “Oh, oh right,” they said. Laughing again, they set off into the woods after Karn.

  Ori sighed as he made his way back to Dragon’s Dance. The draug were useful, but they weren’t the brightest. Fortunately, he was. He had a bit more acting to do in the morning, something about how sad he was that Korlundr and his son had fallen. How he would only assume control of Korlundr’s Farm with the deepest regret and the heaviest of hearts. He’d wait at least a month before he fired the freemen and replaced them with newly bought slaves. It would be only one of the many changes he hoped to implement. But his first act as the new hauld would be to do away with this ridiculous tradition of trading with Ymirians.

  Speaking of the giants, that strange little giantess was looking at him when he reached the campsite.

  “Have you seen Karn?” Thianna asked. Ori gave her an unfriendly glare. “We’re leaving early tomorrow,” she explained. “I thought I should say goodbye.”

  “My nephew and his father have already gone,” said Ori. “Korlundr decided to return to the farm early, and Karn went with him.”

  “Without saying goodbye?”

  “I’m sure he didn’t give you a second thought,” said Ori. “We Norrønir only deal outside our own when we have to. Presumably, you were a pleasant enough diversion for a week, but I wouldn’t flatter yourself he’ll ever think of you again.”

  Thianna lunged at him and smirked when he started. Then she shrugged and walked away. Ori scowled as he watched her go. He didn’t see how she could be trouble. But you could never be too careful. He didn’t relish the idea of going up against a village of frost giants, or even one little one. But what was this creature with her strange half-giant height and olive complexion?

  Glancing around to make sure no one was watching, Ori produced a horn from his satchel. It was smaller than the horn that Thianna’s father had given her, but remarkably similar in design. Ori raised it to his lips and blew a single blast. No sound came out of it, but he had been told not to expect any. Unlike the single occasion that Thianna had blown her own horn, this blast wasn’t heard by hundreds of creatures. It was only heard by one. And this creature wasn’t thousands of miles away. No, this one was quite close by.

  The Huntress

  The final steps up to Gunnlod’s Plateau made for the hardest part of the entire climb. Broad and high, built for giants and not humans, they were carved to look like part of the natural rock of the mountain. This made the steps hard to spot if you did not know what you were looking for, and they were even harder to use if you stood shorter than twelve feet. This was how the giants ensured that only their fellow giants ever visited the plateau.

  Despite being too short to use the steps comfortably, Thianna still somehow managed to be at the head of the party of giants when they came in sight of home. Being among humans had been an interesting experience. Not as unpleasant as she had expected, but giants didn’t belong down in green valleys; they belonged up in high, snow-covered peaks. She was glad to be back among her own and glad to return to life as usual. While she did not miss Thrudgelmir, she did miss beating him at Knattleikr.

  As she took the last step, her father suddenly straightened up and came to an abrupt halt. Then his big hand gently but firmly pushed her behind him. She tried to move around, but Eggthoda stepped close as well. Not to be deterred, Thianna crouched and peeked through a gap between their limbs.

  Creatures like nothing she had ever seen before, three of them, stamping their claws in the snow. They hissed and flicked their tongues out of their snakelike heads and twitched their batlike, leathery wings in discomfort in the cold.

  “What are they?” Thianna asked, wide-eyed.

  “Nothing that belongs here,” her father replied. That was no answer, so she prodded Eggthoda in the back.

  “Wyverns,” the giantess said. “Nasty reptiles. Quiet, now.”

  Beyond the beasts, standing near the ornate door to Gunnlod’s dwelling, Thianna saw three humans—humans on the plateau! It was unheard of. Her immediate thought was that some of the Norrønir had followed them from Dragon’s Dance. But how would they have arrived here first? Plus, it only took an instant to see that these humans were nothing like the party from Korlundr’s Farm. These newcomers were dressed in strange fashion. They were armed with swords and long lances and armored in bronze and black leather. They wore bronze helmets with black manes, and long, furred cloaks.

  “Eggthoda,” said her father, “get Thianna away from here.”

  “Dad?” said Thianna.

  “See that she is not spotted,” Magnilmir continued. “I will learn what I can.”

  “What’s going on?” Thianna asked.

  “Come, Thi,” said Eggthoda.

  “But …”

  “You can help me unpack,” Eggthoda said, swinging her packs from off her back and onto her side. The giantess kept them in front of Thianna as she ushered the girl swiftly toward her door, hiding her from the strangers’ view. Inside the house, Eggthoda shut the door quickly.

&n
bsp; “The women outside,” said Thianna. “Who are they?”

  Eggthoda ignored her. Instead, she tore open both of her packs and upended them over her workbench. The carefully wrapped foodstuffs and wooden items bartered from the Norrønir tumbled out in a pile. The giantess rooted through them, tossing the carved cups and containers aside, picking the dried meats and vegetables, her own cooking utensils, clothing, bedding. These she began to repack, adding in food and other supplies from her quarters.

  “Where are you going? Are you going somewhere?” asked Thianna.

  “Not me. Us.”

  “Us? We only just got back.”

  “I hope it won’t come to it, but better to take warning early rather than late.”

  “Why? What’s going on?”

  At that point, Magnilmir strode into the room. His eyes found his daughter, and Thianna saw the hurt in them. He spoke to Eggthoda.

  “It has been so long. I did not think to fear this day.”

  “Dad, who are these humans?”

  “I do not know their kind, and they will not volunteer who they are. But their complexion, except for the hardness in their eyes, reminds me of your mother.”

  Thianna only had hazy memories of her mother. She knew her more as the still form under the ice in the Hall of the Fallen than as the warm woman who had held her as a child. Even so, she would never forget the dark look that crossed her mother’s face whenever she was asked where she came from. Or the silence that followed. If the strangers were from her mother’s past, they were to be feared, not welcomed.

  “What are they doing here?”

  “More to the point,” said Eggthoda, “why now?”

  “Good questions both,” said Magnilmir. “And I can only answer one and only partially. They have heard rumors of a half-sized giant who is darker in appearance than a Norrønur or Ymirian. Gunnlod is warning them off, hoping that they will leave. But we must trust the whole village to keep silent.”

  “Thrudgey.” Thianna spat out the name.

  “Will not place humans over giants,” her father said. But Thianna knew. Thrudgelmir did not consider her a giant. “We will trust that the village will keep silent and the strangers will fly away. But if it comes to it, I will lead them into my home first. While they are inside …” His voice trailed off, but he nodded to the two packs.