Sons of Ymir

by Alaric Longward

  I cursed. The risk of taking faces of people you didn’t know, was great.

  “Rest, soldier,” I said. “I—”

  “Sir,” he said, frowning. “Why do you not wear your gear, sir? Have the legions been destroyed? Are there still men who—”

  “We shall still fight,” I told him. “Now, sit. I am moving on from the legions to something else.”

  He nodded, and then, suddenly, his eyes went round.

  I turned to follow his gaze and found he was staring at Quiss.

  She had forgotten her mask.

  “The princess of Aten!” the man called out. It echoed in the barrack and across the levels above. Silence followed. Then, a soldier went to his knee. Another as well. A surgeon was staring at her, aghast.

  Quiss smiled and stepped for the door.

  “Greet them,” I hissed.

  “No, we must—”

  The soldier who had noticed her grimaced. “They say she went to the side of the enemy! She was in Hillhold! Wait, she was in the Pass! She is a traitor!”

  She ran out. I followed her, and together, we slammed against the door. It was being pushed from the inside. Men were calling out.

  I placed a hand on the door and called for ice. It was a strong braid, thick and brilliant, made of wind, the freezing, gleaming ice of Gjöll and her sister rivers. I let it go on the doorway, saw the wood groaning, and then, ice running out of the cracks. There were dismayed yells inside.

  I pulled her along and ran. We took to the alleys and walked when soldiers were in sight.

  I dodged a pair of merchants, then we passed into an eatery, found a backdoor, and sneaked for the Riddle and the Coin.

  We got in, and dodged through a silken curtain, stained by greasy hands.

  “No mud!” called out the innkeeper.

  We nodded and brushed our feet on a rug. I looked at the place, and it was empty. There was not a soul inside. Abandoned round tables were scattered around the main hall, and stairs led to rooms upstairs. The barkeep was singing forlornly and offered us nothing.

  I chuckled and went to get us ale. He took his time, gave me an unfriendly look, and then listened as I placed a coin on the bar. It was thick and heavy, and he gave me a smile like a draugr might, sour and evil. He went to the doorway and began preparing for dinner. I went back to our table.

  “Rotten meat, ancient vegetables,” Quiss said, and took the pitcher and a mug from me. “As usual. He’ll not be in business for long. So, we must leave. I say we find my butler, and then, we will have a place to hide in the palace. He’ll do it for me. Then, later, he will invite some of the better minds in the city to help you solve the riddle.”

  “I guess we have no other choice,” I agreed, and watched the door.

  The door opened.

  A pair of dark-robed men came in, holding their full helms under their arms. They were men who served in the Black Ships. With them, there was an official, a man, and another, a young woman, both with Balic’s symbol of throne and skull in their long, white coats. They looked around, saw us, and we tensed.

  They ignored us.

  Then, they walked over to the table next to a fireplace and sat down.

  They appeared to be friends, whispering softly, and telling jokes, for three of them were laughing, and one, a heavy-set man, grunting. It might have been mirth, or anger.

  Soon, the tavern keeper appeared, seemed delighted by the customers, and waved his hands at them, six fingers in the air. The men nodded. Six pitchers of ale were carried to them, and plates of bread, and a large pitcher of wine.

  Obviously, they were well used to visiting the place.

  They sat in silence, enjoying their ale, wisely not touching the food, and eyed the two pitchers with remorse.

  They stood abandoned.

  One, a hook-nosed man in the black robes, shook his head and sighed. “So many never coming back.”

  A white-coated official, the male, flicked back his long hair from his eyes and cursed as some foam from ale was on his chin. “Talic and Mun were good friends. One owed me money, and the other married my sister. Who would have thought the northerners fight so well, eh?”

  The hook-nosed man winked. “They have been talking about it for decades, eh? How savage the enemy is? Yeah. They have. It was always coming, the war. Morag’s arrogance and northern stiff-necks, and Morag’s duplicity? No, it was always coming, even before this terrible business.” He tapped the skull symbol. “Who would have thought? Now, we know. Next time, they will go in with all the legions and in the summer.”

  “They will have to be rebuilt,” said the other official, a woman with a copper-brown hair, braided around her skull. “All of the lost ones. Most all. Some companies got home. Only the fleets are intact, though I hear they lost the trader ships and many transports in Nallist. Forty ships and more. Not easy to move supplies without them. We will have to hire mercenaries.”

  She sighed and gave us a curious look. Then, she spoke on. “They will have to call new men to the colors, raise the youth guards into the companies, and I hear they will have to put new arses on many thrones.” She leaned to the large black-robe. He was thick-necked, bearded man, and the beard jutted as she came close. He was either ready to fight or attracted to her. “Will they raise the royals again?”

  The man grunted and wrung his hands.

  The hook-nose smiled. “Gult is upset, Tris. Ask him nothing and don’t pick a fight, eh? Alas, what is dead again is dead for good. Balic—”

  “Some say Balic’s dead,” Tris insisted while staring at Gult, apparently relishing the risk of having a fight. “They say that jotun king killed him in Hillhold.”

  “Nallist,” Gult rumbled. He waved a hand to indicate he had nothing else to say.

  “Balic is the One Man,” the hook-nose said reverently. “The One Man . He walked out of the darkness and brought hope to men. He cannot be dead. Gods curse those who robbed us of the gloriously raised kings and—”

  “Gods?” Tris laughed. “I knew you believe in gods!”

  Hook-Nose looked at her darkly, and the white-coated male, having won his battle with the foam from the ale, placed a hand on Tris’s. “Shh. We are friends, remember? Relax. You are like an entertainer, poking a stick at snakes. We’ll bite you back. Don’t talk evil of Balic. And don’t mention gods. We might all hang. They are really jumpy out there.”

  Their eyes roved over the tavern, visited us, but we were not looking at them, and then, the hook-nose went on. “We take their corpses back to Malignborg. That is where they will rest. They have all now been loaded up and dug from Dagnar’s ruins, at least what can be found. One ship for them and another for those warrior Balic shall raise. He<< is alive, of course.”

  Tris bit her tongue. I could see it. She nodded. “I hear they look terrible, when they have been killed. I don’t mean the wounds. I mean—”

  Hook-Nose sighed and rapped his fingers on the table. “Shh. It is the unfortunate duty of a Serpent Guard. We collect everything. Do not worry about it.”

  “How do you decide,” Tris asked carefully, “who has fought well enough to merit Balic’s blessings, and who remains behind? I have no idea how you fit them all in Malignborg. Ships have been going that way for as long as I have been alive, from all the wars in the Verdant lands, from beyond the sea, even, and now, from the north. Where do they go?”

  Gult spat on the floor. “The royals who die again go there. To the Eye Keep.”

  Hook-Nose shook his head, and Gult went quiet.

  “But where do all the others go?” Tris asked. “There are always ships in Malignborg, and they push carts to the Eye Keep, and then, the ships leave, and come back with more—”

  The white-coat pushed one of the abandoned tankards to Tris. She grasped it.

  Hook-Nose sighed. “Look—”

  Tris shook her shoulders, stubborn. “Look. Did you rescue our friends? That’s what I’m interested in. Will they walk amongst us again?”


  “The Black Ships sail,” Gult rumbled. “They sail, and they come, and they go, and do not worry about it. Let it remain a puzzle. Let us toast our friends, instead. No, they will not come back. We didn’t do that to them … I mean, we couldn’t find them.”

  They toasted their friends, and then, the white-jacketed man pulled out a board and a sack of gaming pieces.

  They proceeded to set it up.

  They argued over dice, over ale, and then, we got into trouble.

  Gult spoke up sourly. “It will be boring with but four. I know Tris and you,” he growled and pointed a finger at the white-coat, “will make an alliance. Hook and I hate each other, and so one of you will win. At least usually we had one of the other who would play along with our schemes.”

  Tris snorted. “They played as Aten and Malignborg, or they didn’t play at all, and you know they always allied with each other. Always. You lost then, and you’ll lose now. So, just be happy they don’t backstab you after suggesting you lead the attack on us.”

  The male official sighed, turned, and looked around.

  We got up, hoping to get to our room. “You two,” he said.

  We looked at him.

  “Do you have papers?” he asked.

  Tris turned to me. “He seems rich. Merchant. I’d not—”

  I frowned. “I have my papers.” I clutched my ax under my cloak. “We came to the city last night for some ale, and—”

  “A handsome one, nonetheless, no matter if he reads, or not,” she purred. “Your girl has brains in her head?”

  Quiss shrugged. “I do.”

  Tris nodded. “In that case, you’ll retire later, you have an ale, two, and you fill in for our dead friends,” she said simply. “This good for all?”

  The other official opened his mouth to argue, but the others were nodding. The man deflated and waved his hand.

  I cursed under my broth, and Quiss smiled, pushed back her hood brazenly, and walked over to the table. She crashed next to Gult who looked at her gruffly. Reluctantly, I walked after her.

  Tris winked at her over Gult’s shoulders. “Girls play nicely with each other, eh? In fact, let us show them how to fool kings.”

  ***

  It was late night, and a third game, and Gult was frustrated beyond words.

  The girls, in fact, were the only ones who were not.

  Gult, however, was the worst off. He seemed to roar and shake with anger after each lost battle. When Tris and Quiss finally killed his last army, he held his face and shook again, this time so hard, the table shook with him. The other official had succumbed to the two devilish women earlier, and Hook-Nose had such a dreadful bad luck in dice, he had basically lost before he could start and had died of hunger and elements.

  I was facing Tris and her armies now, and Quiss was actively helping her.

  I threw the dice, and she did as well, and I removed two of my armies as she besieged Palan.

  She whooped, Quiss grinned, and Gult downed more ale, making him, probably, the most drunk of all in the room, though that was hard to be sure of. Everyone else, including myself, was having a surprisingly good time.

  I lost another army to Quiss.

  “By the ball-hair of Odin!” he roared as he eyed my slow demise. “By Balic’s rotten nutsack! Beaten by girls,” he wept. “You too. We should—”

  Hook-Nose, half dozing, chuckled. “They’ll beat us all anyway, if we try to play together. I bet they would. Look, we must hurry. They’ll be searching this part of the town, house-by-house this night, so we cannot dilly-dally.” He winked at me. “It is your turn.”

  I looked at Quiss and she looked back at me. “I pass. But I guess we should hurry, indeed.”

  Quiss smiled.

  Tris frowned and shook her head. She tossed dice, and Tris took another part of my city. I decided I had not placed my armies in properly defended positions. She grinned, anticipating my demise.

  Quiss was moving her troops to make ready for her and Tris’s showdown.

  She had no faith in me.

  “So, they are looking for someone?” Quiss asked. “Who?”

  She shrugged, as she watched Quiss moving on the board, calculating and worried. “They seek people who are looking for a horse. A man who serve the Black, the Serpent Skull,” Tris said, as she eyed the two men in the table, “came seeking a horse. They turned out every stable in the city days ago. A true puzzle.” She poked a finger on the table. “And now, they say people who are not serving the Serpent search for the same. They say there are spies in the city. They are jumpy as shit. The general blocked the city and the harbor at three days ago, save for the Black Ships, and we, of course, have to govern it. The guards are all young and stupid. Hopelessly so. Here.”

  She surrounded my keep, we threw dice, and she killed two of my armies and took the fortress.

  She downed an ale, laughed, and winked her eye at me. “If you lose one more time, you’ll have to be my plaything for the night.”

  Gult looked glum. “You never played like that with any of us.”

  “You are my friends,” she laughed. Then, she went quiet and got up. “I need to piss. You wait here.”

  She got up and walked to a doorway near the bar. She entered, and we heard her cursing, for it was apparently dark.

  The other official was looking bored. He was eyeing us, and then, he frowned. “Wait. Didn’t you say you entered the city last night?”

  I nodded.

  “But the city was closed, wasn’t it?” he wondered.

  Gult nodded darkly. “It was.”

  The white-coat smiled at me thinly. “They have papers, though.”

  “I never saw them, did I?” Gult wondered.

  The hook-nose looked troubled. “They are looking for you, no? You had best—”

  I grasped Gult by the throat. I moved up and axed him, smashing him to the wall. Quiss stabbed down the white-coat. I took hold of Hook-Nose, while Quiss turned on the barkeep. The man belched in fear and turned to run. I took a hold of a tankard and tossed it. It struck true, and the man fell on his face. She walked that way, eyeing the writhing mass legs and feet.

  “Keep that Tris alive for a while,” I told Quiss.

  “Why?” she asked. “Will you be her plaything for the night?”

  “She seems clever,” I answered. “We won’t stay the night.”

  I turned to stare at the hook-nose in the eye.

  “You know,” I spoke to him. “The question Tris asked earlier is a good one. Where do they take all those corpses? They say Balic raised the very best to the ranks, but the ships are packed with the dead, no?”

  He shook his head and made a meowing noise.

  “And still, most of the Hammer Legions are all living men and women,” I said. “Balic grooms his armies, makes them up out of idiots and young fools, and then finds a war to find corpses. He seems to have had a war in his hand every year since he was reborn. I was going to follow the Black Ships to find someone, but you tell me something about them first. Speak.”

  “The cost,” the man wept, “of changing Midgard is war. They must all believe, and if they do not, they must learn. He has a war, or two going, all the time.”

  “And still, you don’t believe, and neither did your friend. You don’t, because you are not fools. Where do they go?” I asked him. “I shall make it fast for you, if you answer.”

  He struggled and gagged. “Wait,” he said, his feet dangling furiously in the air. “Listen. The thing is, that those who die again, the royals and others that have been raised before, really do go to Malignborg.”

  “Many of late,” I laughed. “Though not Balic. I killed him.”

  He looked at me, puzzled. Then, he gasped as I changed. I kept my size, but not my looks. I was pale blue, fiercely blue-eyed, and powerfully built jotun. “Speak.”

  “We bury the ones that do not fit the ships,” he said in panic. “On average, if a battle takes some hundred lives, we take fifty, and those wh
o still have a head, arms, and legs. Must have legs. That is crucial. We take those and bring them here, to Aten.” He went quiet.

  “And?” I asked, and watched Quiss stabbing down on the barkeep, then knocking on the door to the shitter.

  “Come on out, love,” she said. “We need to finish the game.”

  The door stayed closed.

  “Speak on,” I murmured.

  He did. “Look. We change them on the pier. They take the pick of the corpses and put them on other ships,” he said. “Usually, they pack all of them in another boat. There are many. Maggot’s. The Vigilant Wife. Many others.”

  “What?”

  He took a desperate breath. “We take the royals and empty caskets to Malignborg. It is a show of empty caskets and wagons, and a parade of possibly dead royals. It is a silent, deadly solemn, holy procession, and people think all the dead go to Malignborg Necropolis, where Balic will raise his best followers, one day, and the rest, much later. What we have collected goes elsewhere. The other ships, not the Black Ships, take them away. I know not where the corpses go. North. I don’t know.”

  I nodded. “Fine.”

  “Look. There is a Black Ship filled with royal dead. There are other corpses they will take off, but the royals will go south,” he panted. “Some are rich as shit. They still have gold, silver. Let me go, and I shall let you loot them. Please. I—”

  I laughed. “You think a jotun king is a grave robber? Now, I am going to steal kingdoms from Hel, and not trinkets from corpses.” I snapped his neck and turned to see Tris looking at me, Quiss holding a sword on her throat.

  “I asked her the question,” Quiss said. “I asked her if she knows where the adopted horse might be found.”

  I walked over to them and stared down at Tris. “You know who I am?”

  “The man whom they whipped before the keep,” she said with some acid. “You killed my friends.”

  “You get to down all six ale-tankards, Tris, if you know an answer to a puzzle,” I said, as I showed my bloody ax to her. “I take no pleasure in this. None.”

  The jotun in me disagreed. She saw it.

  “Your woman and a traitor to Aten, and aye, I know her now,” she said softly, “tells me you need to figure out where an abandoned horse might be found. She said you seek a man called Caru.” She smiled. “That Caru, I know of him. He is a man Balic and King Sarac have been hunting for long, long years.”