Sons of Ymir

by Alaric Longward

  I acted without thinking.

  I changed and kneeled, now a man-sized jotun.

  I thrust my hand in the snow.

  For a man, the snow and the winter was a thing of beauty and death, both. It stole lives and killed without mercy, and children still shrieked with joy as they saw the first flakes coming down. For a jotun, the ice and freezing winds of Nifleheim were a source of magic. We could braid and pull at the power of ice and fire, both, and create powerful magic, but icy spells came more naturally for my kin. That was the power I had used to kill hammer legionnaires and many draugr. I knew many such spells, and I embraced the power to do so. And still, such spells exhausted one, and sometimes, they would not suffice to save one.

  Not alone.

  The wind had spoken. I was to learn of the jotuns.

  An ice giant, a jotun of Nifleheim, was more than spells and ability to shift. I was, the wind had told me, a creature of winter and magic. In the cold, my spells were more powerful. During winter, my power truly grew. I was one with the winter, I was an ally with snow, and I could beg it for aid? I did.

  I thrust my hand in the snow, deep inside it, and even if the winter was only a blanket of snow on the ground and not very old, I felt it was suddenly … alive. Waiting.

  A spirit of cold, something one does not see, sense, was intrigued.

  It was cold as god, inhuman, and beyond human cares. And still, it felt familiar, a part of me.

  It all happened so fast.

  I begged it to aid me. The voice had told me how. Aloud.

  “A life for a boon. A life for your aid,” I whispered, as the dead raised their swords.

  There was a power I had not expected. It came to my rescue. It clenched its icy hand around my heart and agreed.

  Like a heartbeat, the snow around me jumped up. It blew high up into the spell of darkness, a thick, white blanket, and, not unlike a storm, it swirled in the air. And then, it grew in strength and power.

  The darkness dissipated.

  The draugr howled, swords high around me, holding their faces and eyes, filled with snow.

  They were freezing, slowly, in pain, as the snow swirled around me, tearing at their flesh.

  I struggled to break the connection with the spirit. It was reluctant to let go, happy for company, unyielding and harsh, and only reluctantly agreed. I felt a brief terror as the thing seemed to caress my soul before leaving, and then I went into attack.

  My sword was humming in the air as I struck down a draugr.

  It fell apart, and I danced to the next one. Its sword stabbed at me, resentful, dead eyes staring at me, rime-filled and freezing, and I hacked it down. They slowly regained their ability to move, but far too slowly, and harshly, with rage, and crude violence, I split their skulls, chopped through their chest and arms, and stamped them all to the snow. I spat and paced back and forth over them and then sensed eyes on me.

  I looked to the depths of the woods.

  There were two figures.

  One spoke to the other, and it whirled and ran off.

  The other one stared at me a while longer. It held two swords, curved and bitter black blades, and then, it stepped to the pale light of the moons.

  It was Sand.

  I laughed. “Just you and I, friend? Do you have more I must send to Hel before you dare to try?”

  He lifted a rotten eyebrow. “You did something odd there. It was unexpected. I guess the jotun part of Maskan is finally taking over. It was there all the time, wasn’t it?”

  I kicked a skull of a draugr to a tree. The noise echoed in the frozen woods.

  “Yes, it was,” I hissed. “Balic’s dog still, eh?”

  He shook his head. “I serve someone else now. Just like the vampire said, Maskan, so it is. But you need not worry about it. I will be back. You cannot hide. For now, fare you well.” He stepped back.

  “Midgard won’t let your lot rule them,” I roared at him as I ran after him. “They’ll hunt you down, Sand. They’ll find the strength to pull down Balic, and you, and all the Hel’s things.”

  He disappeared into the shadows, and I stopped and whirled as his voice echoed in the woods. “Soon, there will be no army for you to command, Maskan. Soon, after they receive supplies, they’ll make the Pass a graveyard of your dreams. Goodbye, for a while, friend!”

  There was a silence.

  I stood there, trying to concentrate.

  It was hard. Our plans to enter Hillhold were dashed. There was a party of draugr and a new threat coming for us, for me .

  And there was the power I had touched, the spirit of ice, the winter’s very essence. I was a jotun, indeed, but was a jotun supposed to fear it or obey it, and what would it want of me, should I call on it again? I felt afraid, unfulfilled, and nervous, and then, I realized why.

  I felt unease, and impatience, and I knew something ancient, and evil was waiting.

  “Life for a boon,” I whispered. I had promised it a life.

  I had given it nothing, so far. The dead were dead. Their blood had no weight in our pact. I felt I was right, and also felt a demanding impatience of the thing I had discovered, a judgmental beast lurking deep inside the cold land.

  The thing of winter might never aid me again. It might actually harm those whom I loved, or those who served me.

  I turned to the cabin, its lights flickering far in the woods.

  I heard a crash, and a muffled crash. I walked that way, and when I got to it, I heard noises inside. I walked to the doorway and looked inside.

  The draugr had killed the soldiers in the cabin. They had been waiting for me. Quiss had been betrayed, and so had I.

  A soldier was standing by an open trapdoor, having hidden himself below.

  He was young, clever, and with him, there was a local girl, who clung on to his arm. She opened her mouth to scream and then closed it as she saw what was, likely, a living man.

  The soldier, too, walked forth, hands out. “Thank Balic, it is over. I have no idea what they were. Rebels? I know not. Did anyone survive?”

  I felt the thing watching. I knew it preferred the girl.

  I grasped the man instead and struck him in the belly. I dragged him outside, and he struggled as I did.

  The girl was there, beating on my back. “No! He is my brother! Do not!”

  “He belongs,” I said heavily, feeling sick, “to a jotun and, through him, to winter.”

  It was no battle. It was, in a way, an abomination. What jotuns did in Nifleheim was not what men were supposed to do in Midgard. A dark rite, dark gods, and evil, depraved men might do what I was doing, and still, I had no choice. I had an ally, a jotun’s ally, and the man in me had to step back. I could butcher a man in battle, I could kill them to save myself, or my friends, but the boy was weeping, and my heart broke.

  I hacked down. The blood spread on the snow. I felt the wintry spirit, mollified, sated, and still, perhaps unsure I had given it my due.

  Then, leaving the girl weeping, I changed back to an eagle and took off.

  One day, that girl would do me great harm. Such a fate was also part of being a jotun. Chaos and blood on the snow follow you all through your life, until it is your blood on the snow.

  Sand’s words echoed in my mind.

  The enemy would attack my army. All they needed were supplies.

  And so, I headed for Nallist.

  ***

  Later, at the edge of the woods, near the coast, I spotted a caravan of wagons headed south for Hillhold. I had no doubt Aten’s legion had been sent to meet it.

  I banked and circled it, and then, I dove down for the woods.

  CHAPTER 3

  I landed with a rustle of feathers. I stared at the supply caravan of a hundred tightly packed wagons that was stalled just inside the woods where a large hill ran down. There, just on top of the hill, a few wagons had slid off the icy road, and the men were trying to pull them back, save for one that had a broken wheel. A horse had broken its leg and was
still on the side of the road, dead. In the dark, a swarm of Hammer Legionnaires were busily moving gear from that one wagon and loading them on others. There were guards on horseback and companies of soldiers staring at the woods, and men calming their bullocks and horses as the work went on. There were hundreds of men and almost as many animals.

  ​ Aid was finally on its way to Hillhold.

  I’d make sure the men in Hillhold would not receive food, unless I was driving one of the wagons. Sand’s words echoed in my mind, and while in a few days, the enemy would be chewing on leather straps, this load would give the enemy hope and strength, and perhaps they would indeed surge out and beat my army. Winter might do it anyway.

  If possible, I could get inside, disguised, with papers to prove my identity. Aten’s troops would escort me inside, and perhaps, after a successful adventure in Hillhold, I might find aid and indeed open the gates.

  But first, I’d have to make sure there would only be a few wagons left.

  I watched the enemy march, and when they had pulled the vehicles back on the road, made checks, and listened to the complaints of a fat officer, miserable on his horse, the hundreds of wagons began a slow decent down the hill. Far below, there was a small, dark pond and some snow-covered ruins. They would follow the road to the north and would, eventually, meet Aten’s legions. I hopped on a tree branch to look at their progress. The hillside was icy, and the advance riders rode uneasily down, the bullocks and draft horses whinnied with fear.

  I heard a noise.

  I turned to gaze to the depths of the woods.

  From there, a band of men and women sneaked forward. There were some fifty, perhaps more, and they were on foot, save for two. A clever looking, muscular woman, her thick, dark hair braided over her shoulder, was whispering to a bald man, who was dressed in barbaric splendor of furs and golden belt. They, too, seemed to have business with the legionnaires.

  Hunters, rebels, or just robbers, the Alantians were out for blood and supplies.

  They went to my right and disappeared deep into the woods.

  I turned back to the wagons. I let twenty of them pass. A hundred men, perhaps sailors on escort duty judging by their lighter shields and armor, and archers a plenty stalked the woods around the road, and it seemed they were jumping at each creaking noise from the frozen pines.

  Thirty wagons had passed down hill, the drivers screaming at each other.

  One in the middle was in trouble. The horses slipped and took steps to the side, and there, the wagon toppled, spilling bread and grain in a wide arch. That stopped the progress for a moment as the soldiers pushed and pulled the wagon aside, cursing the winter. When they moved again, soon, half of them had passed me.

  I took a deep breath.

  I flew to the top of a tall, dark green fir tree, its evergreen boughs billowing in the wind peacefully. I landed and changed to my human form. I hung on, hoping the tree would not break. I maneuvered to look down at the road and found I saw much of it from that high. I tried to turn, but my sword was caught by a bough. I ripped myself free and was very still, as some archers below stopped to look at the woods. When they moved again, I ignored all discomfort and concentrated on what I’d need to do.

  The slope would make a fine ally.

  I called for magic. I felt the spirit of the winter wasn’t far and fascinated, intrigued by what I was doing, but instead of it, I just called for a thick braid of magic, one I knew well. I braided it together in my mind, a perfect, fine mix of freezing wind, the vibrant, slippery ice of River Gjöll and her sisters, and made it thick and tough in my mind. The plate and chainmail around me jingled gently as I worked the magic.

  The two archers from before strode back uphill, apparently not happy with their earlier efforts. Diligent soldiers, they came back and looked again at the woods.

  Then, one looked up. He frowned and then spotted me, and he opened his mouth to scream.

  I released the spell and threw it on the road.

  Ice and mud cracked. Rushing, frigid water made crunching sounds that echoed across the woods. The hillside, from the top, rushing towards the bottom, iced over in thick, terrible grip of winter. Men were screaming, horrified to their core, their legs caught. Such a spell could envelop a man, suffocate, and turn one into a statue of ice, but I spread the spell, and the result was perfect.

  The forest echoed with the animals and men calling out in panic.

  Not all were panicked, though.

  An arrow flew past me. Another struck the tree, and yet another clanged on my pauldrons and spun off to the night.

  I ignored them and watched the road.

  With even louder cracking sounds, accompanied by screams of horror, the heavy wagons broke off the grip of the ice and began to tumble down the hill.

  The horses and the bullocks were dragged with them.

  Even the archers below turned to look at the carnage.

  I watched an avalanche of supplies, breaking wagons, desperate men, and draft animals sliding, tumbling, and pushing into each other go past. The forest echoed with the noise of the dying, a bloody slide of doom scaring most birds into a headlong flight. They flapped in the darkness around the hill, they croaked and screeched in an unholy concert with the dying caravan, and when it was over, on the bottom of the hill, there were a huge pile of scattered supplies, broken wagons, and thrashing draft animals lit by discarded torches. Men were rushing down, horses were running around in panic, bullocks were mooing in the woods, and officers, whipping their horses, were screaming for order.

  On top of the hill, the fat officer sat in shock, his horse prancing, surrounded by twenty men.

  Below from the ruins and the woods, the hunters surged forth to reap the rewards of the unexpected chaos of the caravan.

  Fifty archers released arrows from the woods. Another fifty rushed out of hidden pits with spear and sword and began to butcher the soldiers that were pulling at their companions stuck under wagon and scattered supplies.

  Arrows cut down men like a scythe. They put down horsemen and killed troops that had been rushing down to help. Men fell on their faces, others ran to the woods to flee, and some few formed a wall of shields around the wreckage, killing a few of the robbers.

  The officer on top screamed.

  His men were being shot at, and he turned to flee.

  I watched the carnage in dismay. What might be salvaged for my purpose to enter Hillhold was going to get looted and burned by the robbers. They were finishing below, their men stabbing down at the few enemy who still moved.

  I jumped out of the tree and changed into my eagle shape. I fluttered after the dozens of the enemy that were fleeing, though few fell, struck by arrows. I spotted the fat man, a high lord on a black stallion, ploughing into the woods, his silver helmet over his eyes, a general of some sort. His heavy jowls were hanging on his chest over the armor, and he was yelling at his men, though not orders but curses, and who survived the archers didn’t go after him.

  The man was alone.

  I flapped frantically to get ahead of him, and then, changing into a jotun, I landed before him.

  I grasped the man from the saddle and lifted him face to face with me. I flicked his helmet up, and his eyes widened at the sight of an enemy, and not a human one. A pale blue, fierce face, inches from his, made him shit himself. I ignored the smell and his horror and spoke. “Name?”

  He blinked.

  “Name!”

  “Mine?” he asked.

  “No, your horse’s damned name,” I growled. “I would speak with it about hay and mares. Of course, your name, you bastard.”

  “My name is Naris Malcan,” he said. “Of Miklas. A … a supply general. Please—”

  “Naris Malcan,” I said with spite. “And your boys came from Nallist.”

  He nodded that way. “Yes, since the supplies are there and must go elsewhere, yes, we came from Nallist.”

  “Are there,” I snarled, “any of the One-Eyed Priests in the ci
ty? Any of the filth?”

  “Most died, they say,” he stuttered with a shudder. “I don’t know. They don’t always wear the horns. Please, I’ve never done a thing to—”

  “The fleet is there?” I asked him.

  “Aten’s, and Katar Kas Opan’s, yes,” he answered. “The merchant vessels will stay, but the other ones will go to Aten soon. I can help you, see?”

  “You will help me, indeed,” I laughed. “Is there a draugr High King there?”

  He looked confused.

  “Balic!”

  He flinched. “The One Man. Aye, and no. Balic is coming there, they say, his armies shattered in Dagnar. They will come here, and garrison the city. He sent some of his riders ahead, but he had not arrived yet when I left. He is, they say, visiting Aten first and then on his way to north. That’s what they say.”

  “Since this caravan,” I asked him carefully, “is history, will they send a new one?”

  He frowned. “Yes, of course. Hillhold and the legions will need food. They will make sure—”

  I nodded. “I thank you. And now, close your eyes.”

  He did. I snapped his neck.

  I wiped sweat off my face and thought about Balic.

  He would be in Nallist. I’d have to get to Hillhold, and I’d need to find a new supply wagon to infiltrate into in the city, but if Balic was on his merry way north, then perhaps, with luck, I could kill him and stop this entire business.

  And then, there was the thing what Sand had said, and what that terrible undead had mentioned.

  Balic wasn’t in charge.

  I should be a king. I should think like one.

  Hillhold was the priority.

  And still, I was also a thief, and a jotun, and jotuns were bitter, vengeful bastards.

  I had business with Balic, for those who were dead.

  I flew away and would be Naris Malcan, and my vengeance awaited.

  CHAPTER 4

  I dragged myself to the gates of Nallist. While the guards, already notified of the calamity by others who had fled, fetched help, I watched the twelve-foot tall, rough walls and small towers. The city was a large one, though nothing like Dagnar. Not even close. It was wealthy with trade, however, and the harbor far below was enclosed behind a sea-wall, guarded by sea-towers, and the true miracle of Nallist was the Ugly Brother, no doubt a rival to the Fat Father of Dagnar, which was a large tower. This one, however, was a huge, circular fort. It was a simple affair, with five levels and top bristling with siege machines, and it was part of the outer wall on the far edge of the city. It was far too large to house local troops, but it would suit well to shelter thousands of legionnaires.