Sons of Ymir

by Alaric Longward

  Men in the keep were gathering up their fallen arrows, bows, and rushing to create defenses around the stairways. In the lowest level, there were sounds of battle again.

  Many of them looked up at me, as I stood there on the roof, and all thought it was my doing. Fear and anger were clear in their faces, and, also, looks of meek obedience.

  I turned to look at the jotuns, and they were finally moving. They walked forward, pushing past the riders.

  Lisar was yelling at her standard-bearer. He was riding forward and waving the standard furiously. Horns were braying, and the bashed and battered remains of the legions answered. They gathered in companies. Their generals were pushing men together, companies to each other. Near decimated legions found their standards and took places with the others.

  They marched forward, staring at the great, gutted keep with a mix of loathing and fear.

  I lifted my ax, pulled out the shield, and watched the jotuns.

  They shifted and took to wings. There were five, and then, there were seven huge, white eagles, as two joined them from the woods.

  They took to the sky, beating their wings frantically, banking hard in the storm, and then, they suddenly dipped and flew to the storm, disappearing in it.

  I rushed around, looking up to the sky, then down to the keep.

  The Skull and the Mask legions were already pushing in, spreading around the once so deadly moat, and climbing over the heaps of rubble. The enemy were running across the fields in the east.

  Maggon was yelling. “Move to the second floor! Fast, but orderly! Now!”

  They began clearing the below, retreating to hold the stairway.

  I had to find the jotuns.

  There was no sign of them.

  Archers around me were loosing arrows below, desperately. Our men below were pushing spears at the legionnaires. Desperately, they fought to give the archers time to kill the teaming foe, and more of the militia were preparing with spears on each level, while others tossed down stones to the enemy.

  The battle was born of a desperate chaos, and it would be lost.

  I saw the thousands of Hammer Legionnaires, enraged, climbing through from the east. They came in ones, in pairs, in squads and companies, and with them were horned helmeted draugr. Arrows were falling around them, tearing to the heart of the enemy, and felling men by the dozens, but it wasn’t enough. They swarmed through the debris to aid the Mask and the Skull legions, and far below, defending the stairway of the first level, our hundreds were determined to hold until an orderly retreat upstairs was finished. That stairway was full of men, all loping up.

  What I thought was Lisar’s husband stood forward, riddled with arrows, his horned helmet bobbling up and down.

  He released a line of fire that cut our massed men around the stairway in half. It was a wall of fire, and it burned with terrible heat, and many died. The wall of fire spread to the stairs. Hundreds were cut off.

  Arrows, stones rained down on the enemy, but finally tasting revenge, the legionnaires pushed in, hacking into the men isolated below, pulling them down, bashing them dead, and the draugr were laughing as they followed the men for the stairway that was filled with men, going up while fighting, streaming upstairs, where officers and Nima were pushing them further, so those below could get there.

  The stairway was a butcher’s block. The fire died away, and swords and spears took its place.

  Slowly, agonizingly slowly, the men fled up, being pushed and butchered.

  The draugr, calling spells to kill indiscriminately, loosed fire and more fire at the men holding on below, or up in the stairs. Dozens of men were jumping down, running up, flaming, dying horribly. Many were Hammer Legionnaires. Some of the enemy, dodging such fires, got to the second floor with the mass of our men, and spears began stabbing them down.

  Gal Vittar was coming up the stairs, a fiery shield and whip in his hands.

  He slashed the whip around, taking down men. He was nearly on the second level, where he bashed his shield on one of his own men, flattening him, and the whip slapped down and killed six of our defenders. He was trying to take that level on his own.

  I prepared to call down a spell at him. I was robbed of the opportunity by Nima, who had all her remaining archers shoot down at the creature.

  Dozens of arrows snapped into the draugr, shocking him. He roared and stepped up, tottering forward, and then, Nima hefted a rock and threw it. That rock tumbled true through the air and struck his helmet, crushing his skull. I watched as the enemy was rolling down below, where more legionnaires pushed up with few other draugr.

  “Ready the third floor!” I yelled. “Retreat back up!” Hundreds of them were still on the second, and they were not prepared to defend against the draugr. They looked up and began running up the stairs. I’d have to stop the enemy undead at the stairway of the third level.

  I turned to go there.

  Then, I saw the white birds circling the tower, and they swooped in to the third level, and disaster struck.

  I heard the calls of distress, the crunch of ax-born butchery, and wails of the fallen.

  I shapeshifted into a white wolf and rushed across the roof for the stairway. I rushed down to the fourth level, where hundreds of Nima’s men were preparing rocks and arrows. I rushed past them for the third level and found a mass of men looking down.

  Below, six jotuns were in a terrifying shieldwall around the stairway—tall, dreadful, and deadly.

  Their axes were heaving at the mass of men trying to get up from the second level and at the men trying to push them away on the third. Arrows were striking the jotuns, and they seemed not to care. Below, I could see the Hammer Legionnaires taking the second level, grimacing with rage as they tore at the men and women desperately trying to keep them down, while knowing there was no way up. The enemy were there to avenge themselves, pushing at the defenders with brutality. Our warriors were cut off in the second level, and it looked desperate.

  “Come down, rebels, come down!” called out the enemy below, thousands strong and enraged. “We’ll show you Hillhold again!”

  Our men, bloodied to their chins, most wounded, fought in the stairways, in the second level, and sold their lives by taking lives.

  I prepared to fight a desperate, last battle.

  At least I’d not have to pay Bolthorn , I thought, and chuckled as I pushed past men on the stairs. I pressed forward and saw how the massive, gleaming axes claimed lives by the dozens. It truly looked like a monstrous butcher had set up shop in the middle of the stairways. Men tried to get past, and failed. A boy pushing up from below, managed to dodge under the legs of one, then another, but was stepped on by the third. He died fast, thankfully.

  One jotun, the one with no beard and huge, flowing hair, hesitated and looked up at me as I walked down the stairs.

  “Ah, cousin!” he laughed. “You fool. You’ll pay bitterly for what you did. I wonder what he asked of you. Nothing cheap, I bet! No blood-kin of his should ask him for such favors. I would never, nor would my sister and father, but we are the lost ones, and you think you are not, eh? Fool. But perhaps I shall release you from such fear, eh?” He eyed his friends. “Hold them down. Give me room!”

  They nodded and kicked and hacked down at our men, killing ten, twenty, so fast, so terribly that bits and pieces flew around the third level and over to the second.

  The jotun shifted, and a white wolf, equal to my size, loped up for me. The jotuns tightened their wall of death around the stairs.

  I snarled and jumped down as my foe came up, and we crashed together in the middle of the stairs, scattering men. His jaws snapped over the fur in my neck and ripped at it. I missed as I tried to bite his. He was shaking and tearing at me, his claws deep in my skin, and I rolled with him, a step down, then another, until I managed to clamp my maw around his throat. He yelped and changed, and I changed with him, two gigantic bears snarling down the stairs.

  We landed amid the wall of jotuns.

>   They dodged forward, hesitating as their leader and I roared savagely and tore at each other in animal rage.

  He surged forward, and I changed and jumped back. My ax snapped down fast.

  It split into his arm, and he fell on his side, changing, screaming as he watched his missing arm, blood pumping out crazily. I kicked him, slashed the ax to his throat and spat on his face.

  The jotuns around me stared at me with horror and then rage.

  I charged forward and, pushing one, I fell down the stairs with him for the second level. We fell off the stairs and crashed amid battling men.

  I was faster than he was.

  I chopped down at the struggling jotun, who fell dead.

  Bloodied Hammer Legionnaires and our people were staring at me, all over the level. I grinned, and looked up to see five jotuns staring at me.

  I grasped the fallen jotun’s head, and spat on his face. “Filth. Weak and cowardly. Come, and show me you are better!”

  They roared, moved, and I rushed forward, my ax slaying legionnaires as I pushed into a company of them, hacking about.

  The jotuns followed, heedless of who stood against them. They were emptying the stairs, axes chopping, their eyes on me. They tore to the legionnaires and our people, axing their victims down, eyes wide with anger, beards bloodied.

  I turned, changed into a sauk, a white lizard of armor and claws, and pushed deeper into a surprised company of the Grinning Mask, who had been stabbing spears at me.

  Still, the jotuns came.

  “Kill the Ymirtoe!” one jotun roared. “Don’t let him get away!”

  The jotuns didn’t let the Hammer Legionnaires stop them. Their axes went up and down, and they tore to my enemy and killed some of our fleeing archers. Blood, limbs, and bits of armor flew in the air as they pursued me. They stepped over and through the legionnaires, who died in scores to their savagery. A draugr had come up and hissed a command.

  “They are all together. At them!”

  And so, the enemy fought back, finally, pikes stabbing and stabbing again up at the giants, dozens of them, two taking the place of any that fell. Then, one lucky sergeant finally tore his spear into a jotun neck, stopping the giant in his tracks, and others pulled him down with hooked axes.

  The other four hesitated, and stopped pursuing me, and hacked at the foe. I was now being surrounded by legionnaires armed with hammers, the blows coming with painful accuracy and strength, so I fled back towards the jotuns, changing into myself, and hacked into the backs of the men fighting the jotuns. I stepped into the middle of the jotuns, who spat, cursed, and hacked around, and I joined them.

  The enemy came at us.

  The pikes were thick as a forest, and our shields clanged with hits. Arrows rained down on us from below and above. Each ax-strike took down an enemy or two. The sweeping, terrible weapons cut down lines of them.

  The draugr was pushing forward, and I felt him braiding a spell together.

  I turned and did the same, and he and many of his men fell on their knees, spitting a near endless stream of ice.

  The draugr soon understood the spell would not kill it, its blood old, cold anyway, and useless and, tearing its helmet off so it could see better, it stepped forward, calling for fire.

  It met my ax, and I quickly retreated to the line of the jotuns.

  It was utter, horrible chaos as the legionnaires tried to kill all the jotuns. It lasted for a while, until we began retracing our way to the stairs. We were all bleeding, all in a battle rage, and the enemy, despite their best efforts, couldn’t stop us.

  They tried, one more time.

  They rushed to the stairs after us, many of their larger fighters holding hammers and axes.

  There were a dozen of them.

  The jotuns struck shields together and held the stairs easily. Tireless, cruel, brutal, they beat the enemy into a pulp, and it seemed our people, skulking in their dozens in the far ends of the second level and above us on the third, and the enemy simply stopped fighting so as not to attract attention.

  There were thousands of the enemy below, but like the peace in the heart of a storm, the enemy stopped for a moment.

  One jotun looked up at me. “This is no peace, you bastard-born thing of Morag. Know that.”

  I grinned and axed him in the face, kicking one other forward to the spears and fled back up, changing and rushing fast as a wolf.

  I looked down and saw the jotuns changing, bleeding, and fleeing the tower, beating their wings furiously. There were only two left.

  I leaned on the wall and looked at the mass of enemy slowly making its way up. Our men were running up the stairs, those who could, and our people began to prepare for defense.

  Nima came to me. She looked exhausted, and she was bleeding from her shoulder.

  “How many do they have?” I asked, holding my head. I was bleeding profusely all around my body.

  “Six thousand,” she said. “Perhaps five. We have less than two. Maggon is counting them. The archers are tossing stones now. We have no more arrows.”

  I nodded. We had to hold a bit longer.

  The enemy tried to get up with pikemen. They swarmed the stairs and failed. Then, they came a second time. When they were resting, we listened with dread as they searched the floors below and hunted for our survivors in the gutted keep. The terrible calamity that had taken place, and what was taking place below, sapped our remaining strength. Others looked down, bitterly disappointed by what they had seen and endured. Some prayed, others wept.

  Most all looked at Nima for strength. She was going from man to woman.

  They looked at me with hope, for I was their strongest weapon, but many looked at me with distrust and fear.

  They had a good reason.

  Their suffering had been great, their losses greater, and still, they would have to suffer more.

  And then, I heard something. It was far, but not too far, and I felt relief surging through me.

  I got up. Men were watching me, shifting, thinking the enemy was coming again.

  “The nobility of Red Midgard,” I called out, and they all turned to look at me.

  There was even silence below.

  I pointed my ax down the stairs. “We have held the enemy, we have starved the enemy, we have put his best into bitter shame, his horned ones to graves. And we have not lost. We have endured against all the odds. You people will be rewarded for your glory. You shall all have your own castle, and as old men, and as ancient frail women, you shall tell the tale to your grandchildren and, no doubt, to theirs. Rich, affluent, and scarred with the enemy blade, people shall look up to you as gods for all time.”

  They smiled, too tired for more.

  The enemy below, began banging heir shields, chanting. “Death! Death!”

  “Listen to them,” I called out. “Echoes of the dying. Listen to the woods instead.”

  And then, somewhere out in the snowy woods, men and women were cheering.

  I heard the voices and smiled.

  They would be refugees that Nima had called to answer the call of their king. They would be scattered, impoverished nobles and men of lost garrisons. They would be bastards and thieves, with good men. They would be men of Dagnar and Fiirant who had survived Hillhold’s battle all the people Thurm had mustered in Hillhold. They were all out there and marching from the woods.

  If lucky, there would be something more as well.

  The effect of their arrival was immediate.

  Below, in the keep, men were calling out orders. Harsh commands echoed, and the army turned to march out.

  Nima was watching me.

  I nodded at her. “A thousand men shall hold this. One thousand. And you shall command them,” I told her.

  “Will you go out to lead?” she asked, incredulous. “They are still boiling for a fight. You might die.”

  I nodded. “I must face Lisar in battle. I must pull her apart. I’ll take half of the boys and girls here and join the army. Keep th
is place for me. Don’t let them get past the breaches in the walls. Find arrows. Stones. Keep it.”

  “As long as I have a crown and Nallist,” she said with a grin, “you shall have this fort.”

  CHAPTER 12

  The enemy was deploying into a wide shieldwall. In it, were men of ten and more legions. They were all palest of ghosts of what they had once been. They had perhaps four to five thousand in the ranks, many wounded, all tired. Their standards were waving proudly, their men standing tall, ragged and hungry.

  The remaining draugr royals were standing behind the men.

  Most of the kings were gone. Few queens were left. There were princes that had been raised, cousins to power, lesser in power, commanding ranks of the living. Their horned helmets were visible behind the ragged ranks. Lisar was in the head of White Lion and Harrian cavalry, now only three hundred strong.

  “They look ready for ax-business, don’t they?” Thrum muttered, eyeing his ax and then mine with approval. “Suits you. I know that weapon, though.”

  “I cannot use it,” I said. “I’ve barely learnt swords from—”

  “Your Taram the Draugr,” he agreed. “Keep your shield up and bash down with the ax. Usually that does—”

  I saw Roger in the ranks. He avoided looking at me.

  “He came back to Hillhold,” Thrum said. “Tried to give orders. Had some support from some panic-filled fools. I put an ax to their necks, save for the high and mighty here. See, it is simple. You really only must make sure it is the blade part that touches the target. You have—”

  “Did you know about the other clan of jotuns?” I asked him. “And why are they with … the enemy?”

  He scratched his neck. “Well, now. There seems to me another terrified noble in the ranks today. Yes. I knew they had left with Medusa. She had an army and a clan of them. Some hundreds. I’ve not had time to wonder if any survived. They have chosen their side, and if you knew anything about jotuns, Maskan, you would know their king’s oaths are their oaths. They are with the draugr. Not much you can do about that. Be glad you are alive. Balic’s gone, then?”