Sons of Ymir

by Alaric Longward

  A wind of ice was whipping inside the courtyard.

  It grew in power, and it was a cruel death for those inside. I spotted men tumbling in the wind, flesh and armor torn. Snow piled up immediately at the great gate to the keep itself, and stables around it cracked, grew white, then pale blue with the power and fell apart. The ground was shaking, the wind was blowing so hard the noise hurt my ears, and a wintry wonderland of broken yard and torn corpses was forming inside the courtyard

  And, apparently, the Ugly Brother was not in a great shape.

  What should endure siege didn’t endure the spell.

  I didn’t see what happened. The blizzard itself was thick, but the spell-storm was thick as porridge. I did hear men begging, wood snapping, and then, the ground tilted. There was a terrible, horrible rumbling noise as the keep’s wall fell apart. Stones were falling, bits of wall were flying in air, and some crashed into the outer wall, and the inner courtyard wall, collapsing part of that. It seemed to go on, and on, and then, even the gate I had stuck my hand through, broke apart.

  A side of the Ugly Brother had fallen. Up to the fifth floor, and the roof, you could see inside halls and rooms, and timber was jutting outside crudely. Men were looking down, shaking with fear, many in nothing but shirtsleeves. Calls to arms echoed.

  I turned to look at the men behind me. A semicircle of legionnaires was staring at the fort, out of which fell furniture, bits of wood, some more stone, and official papers snapped by the wind. A horde of crows was flying around it, croaking furiously.

  I thumbed towards it. “Well. We don’t have to take the gate, I guess.”

  They roared and moved at me, their horses pulling the wagons away, running for their lives.

  I smashed my sword on a man, whose sword snapped from blocking. I stabbed at him down, and then, a captain and another man crashed into me, and we fell against the remains of the gates and into the courtyard. I threw one off my chest, kicked at yet another, and smashed my sword down on the captain, who was getting up next to me, splitting him in half.

  I panted, turned around, and came face to face with a scene of death.

  I was fire and ice both, but a frost giant is a creature of wintry power, and while the blizzard had covered the land outside, the courtyard was a blue-white land of ice and destruction, filled with piles of wood and stone, and on the sides, swept there by wind, were icy statues of men’s corpses, snow-covered wagons, twisted horses, and some dead, ice-white women, formerly locals working in the keep.

  There was no gate. The courtyard was gone; its wall and part of the outer had collapsed.

  It was a gutted fort, with a three men wide breach from bottom where the gate had stood, to the top.

  I stared at it aghast.

  It would be shit hard to keep.

  But to keep it, we had to.

  And before that, I had to take it. The orders had said Balic would take residence in the keep, and would arrive with the supplies, and so, he would be up there.

  I walked towards the gaping hole in the keep and stared at the five levels on top, where you could still see people staring down at me.

  “Balic!” I called out. “High King of the Dead! Come out and play, o great cadaver, you shit stuffed in a stinky corpse!”

  There was only silence.

  I looked up, way up to the top, and saw some ballistae peeking over the sides, but I also saw something else.

  In the fourth level, there was a face, staring down at me. It had been a face of a golden-curly beauty, and it had looked shocked.

  He was there.

  Before I hopped over the pile of mortar, stone, and wood, I looked back to the town. I saw little from there. There were screams all over the city, and sounds of battle echoed. Out of the hole in the courtyard wall, I saw movement. Up on ramparts, I saw a mass of men running, weapons at a ready, screaming with anger, and even joy. They were rushing through the snow, almost looking like they were riding the blizzard itself. Guards and scattered Hammer Legionnaires were running away along the ramparts, some jumping over the walls, and many were getting cut down by the enraged mob, when they were too late to move from staring up at the Ugly Brother’s gaping wound.

  In the end, they would come to the tower, they would take it, and I had to hurry.

  Balic and his family would do to them what Lisar had done the others.

  I dodged inside the tower. There, the huge round main hall opened. I spotted quivering servants, and a company of Hammer Legionnaires holding spears at me, stepping back. Half of them were drunk, others half-dressed.

  I looked at the servants. “You can stay.”

  I turned to the legionnaires, who were walking back to the depths of the gigantic hall. “You lot, decide where you will die.”

  They stepped back. They didn’t want to die there.

  At the end of the hall, near the soldiers, I saw a throne, red and gold, and a desk heaped full of papers, most tossed to the floor, and gilded trunk.

  Balic’s.

  I looked left to see a stairway, and walked to it and began walking up, feeling the stone shaking slightly under my feet. Puddles of water were forming from the melting ice, as there were many fires still burning in the gutted tower, and it made the place look miserable ruin, instead of a haven.

  The floor above was filled with corridors, hastily abandoned gear, and boxes and sacks filled with wood.

  A captain of the Minotaur legion was there, in his shirtsleeves, staring at me with a bared sword.

  I stared at him. “Live, or die? The boys below chose well.”

  He licked his lips and dropped the sword. “Live.”

  “Balic?” I asked. “The High King of a bastard? Is he up there? Or is he hiding in one of these rooms?”

  He took steps away, and I stopped him with a raised sword. “There is a party of royals here. They arrived this morning. They are … about.”

  “Who? Where?”

  He nodded upstairs. “Balic Barm Bellic. His wife. I saw them fleeing up to the roof, likely.”

  I stopped and hesitated. “You had better find your men.”

  He nodded behind him. “What didn’t die down there,” he said, and eyed the crumbled bit of wall, “is hiding here.”

  “Pray my people listen. They might, if you tell them you are not in love with the dead,” I told him. I walked past him for the stairway, and he looked up at me.

  “Don’t go up there.”

  “Why?”

  “He is not alone,” he said. “His wife, as I told you, is there.” He flinched. “They have guards. New guards. Don’t fight them.”

  “What sort of guards?” I asked. “You make them sound like dangerous. I am dangerous, captain.”

  “Large guards,” he said, and then ran off, calling for his men.

  I walked up and passed empty, huge halls on four levels, and the final one with armory and storage of food. There were a dozen ballista, four catapults, and one gigantic ballista, with a box of terrifyingly large ammunition.

  Up on top, the blizzard was whipping across an open trapdoor.

  I walked up, and pushed to the open.

  I turned and spotted four figures standing on the other edge. None seemed bothered by the whipping wind and the thick blizzard.

  I walked forward, and they spread out.

  There, swathed in a fur, and holding a staff, stood Balic. With him, a woman with a beautiful, cold face, not young, not old, but of course, dead. She had a red hair with golden ornaments, and a delicate, beautiful neck. Her hips were shapely, and she looked regal as a statue. There was something odd about her, and I locked eyes with her.

  Fear, terrible fear coursed in my veins, and I knew she was no draugr.

  She, too, was a vampire.

  I looked away at the other two. With them, stood two men in silver chainmail and crude, black helmets, and large, double-bitted axes were over their shoulders.

  I saw the hate in Balic’s eyes. I also saw despair and fear. I had escaped
him, and I had burned his people and killed his kings and queens, and there I was still, scarred and determined, and he was trapped.

  He, the One Man, the golden savior of Midgard, the one who denied the gods, Hel’s puppet, killer of thousands upon thousands of innocents, was afraid.

  And yet, he wasn’t in charge.

  Like it had been with Shaduril, and Sand and I, so it was with Balic. Sand had said that.

  My eyes went to Queen Rhean, who smiled gently, and leaned over to Balic. She spoke to his ear, and then, she took steps back.

  Balic, in his turn, spoke to the guard on his right.

  The two men watched me with surprising hate. It was a different sort of hate I had expected, and I, oddly enough, felt the same.

  I turned my face to the queen, who lifted an eyebrow.

  “So, it is you, then?” I asked. “The serpent and the skull. Your husband’s emblem not good enough for you? He is just another plan, one on top of another plan, and you are the shit on top? You are the that, are you not?”

  She smiled. “Well, Maskan. You have certainly made a nuisance of yourself. A dreadful bother, with a foul mouth. Cannot abide boys with such foul language, no matter how bloody glorious and fine looking. How come you are here? Is Sand lost? And my Silas?”

  I looked at my sword and then at her.

  “I see. I see,” she said, her voice cracking with some emotion. “Silas? Aye. I cannot bring him back.”

  “Shame that,” I murmured. “He couldn’t kill two girls. Weak-hearted bastard. His sort should lead all your troops.”

  “Well, Maskan,” she said. “You have us trapped, you think? You have brought an army of the beaten to make yourself at home?”

  I nodded. “There is no getting down from here, filth,” I told her. “They are coming, the people whose happiness you have robbed, whose homes you have torched, and whose loved relatives rot in your Black Ships, and they will make an end of you, if not I. Or perhaps you have some fancy plan to get out of this one alive?”

  The woman shook her head and pursed her lips. “You know, my handsome jotun, you are close to the end of the plans, even those that are hidden within plans. You are very close to the end, indeed. You are just one step to the top, near the serpent herself. But, alas, I can escape, fool boy. It is no spell. It is what I am. I am night, and I am darkness. Nay, not like Sand and many of the draugr who can walk the night. I am the night. It is a gift of Hel. When we were raised by the Mother, by the Hand of Hel, most became draugr.”

  Hand of Hel , I thought.

  Hand of Hel had been lost thousands of years past. And Rhean was not two decades old. I was sure of that.

  She spoke on. “Very few became something terrifying, beings of hunger, and those who feed on sorrow and blood. Even fewer became lich-kind, but we, Maskan, the sorrow, blood-drinking ones, we are vampires. I ride the night winds, boy, and Kiss the Night like the mightiest of elven nobles. My poor husband is naught but a cover. Oh, he and I were not like this always. We loved, once.”

  “What Hand of Hel are you talking about?” I asked her, and ignored her ramblings.

  She shook her head. “I misspoke. Never you mind.”

  “Your boy, Silas?” I said, taking steps forward. “I took half his head. I bet I can take all of yours.”

  Her face tightened with rage, and she stepped back again. “You cannot stop what we are doing. Nothing can. We shall do the bidding of the Mother, of the Serpent, and she shall do the bidding of Hel, and only our few allies shall share in the success assured. One jotun and his bedraggled army cannot stop it.”

  She had grown fangs as she spoke, her eyes were ruby-red.

  Balic turned to her and seemed to hesitate. “Rhean?”

  She smiled at him. “I could stop him with only a command. But I shall not. It is time for you to prove yourself. For all the times you have failed, dear husband, for all the mistakes you made with Mir, and this one,” the queen said softly, “you will finally have a chance to pay me back. Kill the boy.” She snapped her finger at the guards. “But I am merciful. You shall not go alone. You two,” she said haughtily, “since my draugr have failed, Sand and my son, we have no more hunters to throw at Maskan. So, you shall step in, obey your king and, therefore, me. Go, and fulfill the pact your king finally made with me.”

  Balic pushed away his furs. Dressed in an ancient armor, that of the High Kings, and kings of Malignborg, the lords of what was once Odin’s haven, the Eye Keep, the intricate mail clinked as he walked forward. Old when he had died, the draugr was a powerful creature. He had a familiar black orb in his hand, and the staff radiated power.

  The two guards, casting Rhean unkind looks, flanked him and raised their axes.

  I dropped something to the snow.

  None saw it.

  “Ymirtoe,” one grumbled, thumbing his ax-blade. “A fool if I ever saw one. A lost little jotun, and barely of the royal blood. I’ve not killed one of the royals before.”

  “He is of the blood,” the other one said. “But also of the blood of traitors, and cowards.”

  The first one shrugged. “Traitor, a coward, and still a king, no less. The last of his kin. They’ll sing my praises in the halls, won’t they, when we go back to our kin. Let it be soon. The Hel’s bastards make me sick.”

  Balic waited as the two stepped before him. The other man pointed his ax at me. “Twenty years past, boy, your father robbed us of everything. He let the dead march on us, he sacked the Golden City, and left us homeless. It is no less than was expected from a Ymirtoe, but still, a coward’s act. Now, we shall take your head to him, so he can try to weep. The dead do not, you know. He’ll suffer without any.”

  I was confused.

  Hand of Hel? These people made a deal with Rhean, or her mistress? And what was this war with the dead just two decades ago?

  I’d have to find the Mouth of Lok.

  Balic lifted his staff. “His head. It is not for you. Give it to me.”

  Rhean smiled and nodded. “Take it.”

  The two charged. Their axes came at me from high and the side, as they danced around me. They were as the wind, and those gleaming, almost living weapons seemed like feathers in their arms. I struck at one ax desperately and had to retreat from another, luckily avoiding it. The one I had blocked struck down with his weapon over-handed, the other one was already swinging again, and I crashed into the first one, grasped his mail, and tried to throw him to his friend.

  He didn’t budge. He pushed me off.

  An ax was coming for my back.

  It struck my armor hard, and I fell to my knees. The man was over me, pulling at the ax, wrenching it off the dverg-made armor, that had been split and broken, and I felt the chain beneath had saved my life.

  The axes were dverg-made as well.

  The one with a free ax chopped down, a savage, short, fast strike that would indeed have taken my head.

  I kicked back, rolled away, threw my sword up, and blocked an ax, but not the boot that threw me back again.

  I kept rolling, and rolling, and saw them running on both my sides. I stopped, got up, and rushed the one on the right, and was smashed down by an ax shaft.

  I stepped back and fell down the stairs. I kicked off and came down hard, my sword high.

  The two above me followed resolutely after, their chain jingling, axes ready, and Balic was coming after them, silent as a snake, a serpent of death, a meek servant to his queen. I got up and raised my blade. They smiled down at me, and one jumped from the stairway. He came up standing to my side, the other one crouched and came at me from the front. Behind me, was the gutted wall of the fort, wind and snow whirling furiously on the breach.

  I heard the sounds of war.

  In the courtyard, below in the tower, and across the city, battles were being fought. Men and women were screaming in triumph, or defeat. I glanced outside, and many streets were burning. The ships in port were being taken by archers and Nima.

  I looked away ju
st for a moment, and that was enough.

  The two were there, so fast, so powerful, their axes cutting the air.

  I braided together a spell of wind and ice and threw it at them. The fell back a step, their faces and armor hammered by rough ice and snow, the terrible power of the spell tearing at them. Balic stepped away, guarding his face, and looked at us from the stairs. He was moving his hands. The two savage warriors took another step back and another and grinned.

  One spat out an icicle.

  I let the spell go.

  “Magic in battle, Ymirtoe?” one rumbled, spitting out the words. “No honor in that, Ymirtoe. You are Morag’s boy, after all.”

  They should have died. Their flesh should have been ripped off their bones.

  Then, I should have died.

  Balic had braided together a spell. He had once, in Aten, sent a terrible, unseen force to kill me, and that force suddenly whipped in the air around me, tying itself around my arm, tightening. I stepped back and swung at the air, struck something, and then lost my sword.

  The power came for my throat and slithered around me.

  I shapeshifted.

  The white bear, great and evil, ripped apart the power around it and charged the two guards. I sprung at them and stood up before the one on the left. I was thrice his size, a gigantic killer with a thick fur, and then, I buried him. I sunk my fangs into his shoulder.

  Instead of dying in my clutches, he grew into similar beast, slightly darker and as powerful, and pushed me back to my rear legs as he wrestled with me. I tore at his fur, and he clamped his fangs in my leg. I bit down harder at him, raked my claws on his sides, and luckily bit him in his face.

  He roared with pain, falling under me.

  I went for his throat.

  Something grabbed me, tore me off the bear, roaring with the effort, and tossed me down the next set of stairs. I fell heavily, rolled and crashed my way down the stairs, and landed in the middle of men of Dagnar’s militia, some fifty strong, who were busy herding legionnaires down, men who had surrendered.

  They backed off from me, prisoner and guard alike.