Sons of Ymir

by Alaric Longward

  Nima frowned at me. “Why?”

  “Because I can hear them coming,” I said. “And now, we shall finally face their full might. And hopefully, if things go well, they must face ours.”

  Through the blizzard, we heard deep drums. They echoed across the land, and Saag and his men below looked startled. Riders came from the blizzard and waved hands at him, and Saag turned up to me.

  I nodded, and he turned and led his men away.

  “Lisar Vittar?” Nima asked, massaging her neck. “She is here, then.”

  I nodded, and men on all the levels gathered to look at the enemy that was marching for us. Most had been told they might. Most knew what it would imply. The enemy wasn’t marching to the city. They emerged from the snow and marched for the eastern edge of the city. There were heavy lines of infantry, men swathed in cloaks, their shields swinging. The great column looked like a snake or gigantic caterpillar. The White Lion’s cavalry, those of Harrian, rode on the flanks. Aten’s thousand came forth, and a depleted legion from the east, having marched from the coast to aid her, were there. Millar Illir and Ontar, Palan, and the others, victorious from their war near Hillhold, were there, company after company marching on, pushing resolutely through the snow. Low in supplies, their gear war-torn, they looked like a hungry beast preparing for a meal. Ten thousand strong, they were there to destroy us, to finally finish with us, and then, they would rule Red Midgard.

  With them came a train of their remaining, stolen supplies and taken standards, prisoners, and slaves. With them, also a massive train of catapults, ballistae, and shot for the weapons.

  They were led by the White Lion herself.

  She was swathed in cloaks, held her barbed spear on her side as she looked up at me, her confidence unbroken. She wouldn’t fail. Whether she knew I had killed Balic, I had no idea.

  With her rode some ten to twenty draugr. Many were royals, or princes and princesses, easy to spot by the horned helmets. Many others had fallen, but what remained was prepared and gathered. Next to her, very close, she guided a king from Palan, the Bull proud in standard behind him. It was, perhaps, her former husband.

  Gal?

  Yes. Rhean had said …

  I shook my head to clear her off my thoughts. Lisar was speaking to another, a short man, and pointing a finger at me. Her body-language looked like she was proud of him.

  It was likely her son.

  Lisar’s army heaved past the walls and faced the Ugly Brother from the east, her troops setting up camps from the coast to the woods. They began setting up the siege. She rode back and forth the entire time, ignoring people demanding her attention, especially men from the two miserable legions in the city, and kept staring at the fortress.

  Then, she finally stopped and called out.

  Out of the masses of troops, a party of men walked out. They wore tunics alone, had no need for coats of cloaks, and held two handed axes. Their hair was blond, their beards as well, and all listened to Lisar, and then looked up at me.

  I would have to fight soon.

  She had jotuns on her side.

  CHAPTER 11

  That night, very few people slept. Instead, we prepared. The captains were building new defenses inside the main hall, ones that faced to the east. Wood, stone, and debris were being heaped into a wall. Men would face that way, as well as hold the breach that already had claimed so many of the enemy.

  Maggon, muttering, was sure the whole thing would fall on our heads.

  It was possible.

  The siege would bombard us mercilessly. It seemed impossible the enemy could set them up in the snow, but magic helped, and we had watched the draugr casting fire fields to clear the snow and ice, and so, it would all start soon. Walls around the fort would go down, and the fort’s side would crumble. In places, there would be more breaches, and so, the captains were trying to teach our companies how to disengage in an orderly fashion, so as not to get trapped by the enemy that would try to enter from the gates and the breaches at the same time. When the battle would move upstairs, we could make them pay.

  Of course, the draugr and the jotuns would not let spears and pikes butcher their men like we had before.

  They would be involved and, inside, calling for spells.

  Oil, stones, and what arrows we had were ready. On the roof, hundreds would make life terrible for Lisar’s legions, and inside, others would try to hold the gate. The archers were now arming themselves with spears and swords looted from the dead, and the ballista, which had but few scavenges spears left, had been redeployed strategically.

  Everyone prayed, save for me. I felt Bolthorn watching, and I knew it was alert, and waiting.

  We would have to beat them. Surrender was not an option.

  The prospect seemed dubious. My newly found mentor was silent. It had left me with Bolthorn, and I was terrified to ask it for anything.

  This time, I’d not be below. I’d fight on top. The jotuns, I was sure, would come in that way.

  I walked the roof. I watched the enemy preparing, and I watched the land beyond them.

  We would have to last one day. At least that long.

  I heard warning shouts.

  “For Hillhold,” echoed below, and then from every throat.

  I saw why. There were enemy rushing around the ten catapults. Officers were yelling, and then, men pulled at levers. The weapons made an eerie sound as they tore through the air. The enemy began hammering the outer wall of the fortress, their crews working in the cruelling cold like ants, likely trying to keep warm.

  First, they took down the city walls, to make it easy to shift from one breach to the next.

  We heard the outer walls falling apart and saw how the huge stone-shots arching through the snow-fall and rolling in the courtyard.

  Then, they began breaking down the outer wall of the Ugly Brother.

  It was thick. It took time.

  Most hit the fort’s eastern walls, near the second floor, and dust was falling with each strike, and the fortress was shaking like a man in fever. Eventually, stone and wood chips began dropping and rattling on the floor.

  And then, suddenly, there was a crack.

  And another.

  I shook my head and looked around the keep. It might very well fall apart.

  In an hour, a shot struck the wall where it was the weakest, and, like it had with my spell, the wall broke from third to second floor, and the debris spread around the bottom halls and created a slope of stone and wood out, and inside. I saw several shots coming down and rolling to the keep, and men were screaming in pain and horror.

  Below, they took cover, and waited for the enemy to climb up the breach, and then inside.

  The enemy kept firing, and our men suffered. Many, many died.

  In the morning, the catapults went quiet.

  Four thousand men of the Grim Mask and Skull legions marched yet again for our breach.

  Ten thousand of Lisar’s men marched for the breach.

  ***

  I stood on top of the tower, looking down at Lisar’s army. The Six Spears came first, bitter enemies of the men waiting below. With them, Aten. The snow was falling heavily, but we saw them yelling, mouths open, readying themselves for the butchery, for the terrible climb up the breach, and for the arrows and deadly stones that were sure to rain down on them. A new, small legion was jogging after them. It was likely one from the east, and had marched brutally hard to join Lisar. Their standard had a golden eye on black. The rest followed. Archers were running on their sides, unsure where they would be useful. A mass, ten thousand strong, was going to try to swarm Ugly Brother as ants might the carcass of a boar.

  Lisar, her lords, and her kings and queens sat on their horses at the edge of the siege, and there, too, were five men in silvery chainmail.

  I turned to the approaching enemy. Around me, hundreds of archers were looking down, shaking with fear and cold. Their skill would be measured, indeed, when shooting in the windy weather. Piles o
f dead from the night could be seen in the enemy camps. Saag’s men had been busy again.

  It wouldn’t matter, if they took the keep.

  The enemy stomped closer, ever closer, a thick column of spears. In the breach on the city side, there were men calling for warning as the miserable two legions were coming for the bloody breach we had defended. There, the battle began.

  I waited and looked down as many companies of Lisar’s troops reached the breach below, probing under the snow-topped stones, looking for a way to scale it. Many held their shields up.

  I aimed to make it hard for them.

  The enemy massed before the breach, like a tide trying to conquer a sand-castle. They began climbing it, hundreds of them scrambling up the terrible slope.

  On the second and third floors, Nima yelled out an order. Hundreds of bows were lifted, and arrows loosed on both invading armies. The arrows sank down in the quivering mass below, and the butchery began.

  The men around me joined in.

  They stepped forward and began killing Lisar’s exposed men.

  I watched them, stood amongst them, and waited.

  Men were dying and slumping down on the breach. Ten, and then twenty, fell on their faces. Captain and sergeants and their soldiers seemed to consider this a great opportunity for a good hand-grip as they pulled themselves up using their stricken comrades. They kept coming, at least half their army below.

  The jotuns had not moved.

  They stood and watched, and that might change at any time.

  I stood there, feeling the power of the winter, relishing it, and let the snow caress my hands and face. The spells I’d call would be powerful, terrific things to kill men in great numbers.

  I could call for magic to cover the breach in ice. I’d call wind and the terrible force of the blizzard, and it would rip apart a hundred men, more. Some might fall to their blood turning to ice. I felt that braid as well. There were others.

  And still, that would not suffice.

  It was not enough.

  Not by far. A victory was needed, and a sacrifice had to be offered. It sickened me, it made me afraid, and it … thrilled me. I felt ashamed for that.

  I looked at Lisar.

  The draugr, they were waiting for me to act. I saw them all on their horses, seeing what move I’d make.

  I’d have to make it something they couldn’t counter.

  I’d have to pray.

  I had rested after killing Balic. My wounds were mending fast. I would be ready, as ready as I could be. I had let my soldiers do the killing, and the dying. I had planned, commanded, and acted like a king.

  Now, I would trade lives for a spell to kill an army.

  I told myself to be patient. I tried my best.

  Below, thousands of the enemy were now climbing up the breach. Thousands were concentrating on the slope, waiting for their turn. They were all there, the old enemies, and they were cheering, as they heard the two legions on the city pressing an attack furiously over the moat. Some of Lisar’s archers were now shooting arrows to the floors on top, inside the yawning pit that would be filled by waiting soldiery. They were moving closer and closer. Harrian’s riders and those of the White Lion were sitting still around the draugr and looking on. A company from Malignborg got up the breach first and jumped in and down the rubble, roaring with joy of battle, invading our hall. Many fell out, killed by arrows, and the sounds of battle intensified.

  Our men, the archers below me, and on the roof with me were cursing and firing as fast as they could.

  I looked down and closed my eyes. I kneeled, and put my hand in snow.

  “Bolthorn, the father of jotuns. Twenty lives for aid,” I whispered. “Smite the enemy for me.”

  There was silence. I felt a brief tug of irritation, of anger, of resentment.

  I frowned. I felt unsure I had done it right. I looked to the jotuns, who stood in a row, staring at me, and suddenly thought they might be the reason for the lack of aid. One of them might hold the same blood as I did, in their veins, praying to Bolthorn as well. I might have sounded pitiful.

  No.

  The deal wasn’t fair.

  I took a shuddering breath.

  “Bolthorn,” I whispered, and felt the thing watching me. “A hundred lives of my own men for aid. A hundred men, and a sacrifice of jotuns.”

  I felt a moment of hesitation as the being considered me. Then, like a father to a stupid child, it spoke, the voice thick as ice.

  Your kin, it whispered, pray to me too. Your kin know better than to do so too often, or to ask for too much and to offer too little. And your kin, they will come for you anyway. I piss on your hundred men.

  I gritted my teeth. “Bolthorn, kill many of the foe below, do it, and I shall grant you much.”

  It was silent. Then, it whispered. Much? You would grant the great frost giant, a god of all jotuns, much? You, barely a jotun?

  Yes. Much.

  He laughed, and I felt his amusement. Then he spoke. I have watched you. I have hated your weakness, and applauded your bravery. You think like a man, and then you kill like a jotun, and still you fight battles that are meaningless to me. No gold, no slaves, no honor flow to Bolthorn from your work. And yet, still … perhaps your road will re-make you. Perhaps at the end of it, you shall stand above all others. Aye. I shall give you your wish. You ask for much, too much, and promise me much in return. So here it is. Aid. I shall aid you now. I shall aid you now, and before I aid you again, or even listen to you, you must give me something.

  Yes, I thought.

  You must walk a dark road, and you will give me a sacrifice of a great being, a living creature of ancient times. You will give it to me, as well the treasure it carries. If you do, your debt is paid. If you do, you will be what Morag never was, and you agree to serve me forever. We shall feast our great future together. If you survive, this is what shall be. Do not give me these things, and you are what Morag was. An outcast, a man, more than a jotun, and I shall aid those who hate you. Do you agree?

  I shook my head and breathed deep. No more aid. Only a sacrifice of a great being, at the end of a dark road, and a gift. His thoughts about our great future, and my servitude to him were all terrifying.

  And yet, I needed him. I needed him then.

  I raised my ax at the army below. “Smite them for me,” I yelled, my mind made up.

  He did. He heard my call, he made his pact, and fearing what it would be, I felt him moving a great power around me.

  The air seemed to twitch.

  The blizzard seemed to twist in the air.

  The winds and the twirling snow seemed to stop for a moment. The enemy soldiers, pouring into the keep, hesitated and stopped, and then, they looked up and around, confused, sensing trouble. Many of the archers were backing off, and I saw one of the jotuns, a man with exceptionally long hair, clean-shaven and angry, pointing his ax at me.

  Lisar was shaking her head, apparently yelling back.

  What followed was terrifying, and men would tell tales of it, and none who had not been there would believe them.

  The storm was taken over by Bolthorn. A wind was howling so loudly, it hurt our ears. A mass of snow was rushing around the keep in a massive show of power, wide as roof, and as thick as the fort itself. It whirled on top of me, and the fortress groaned with its power. It snatched archers from the roof, it grabbed men from the other levels, and tossed papers, supplies, weapons, ballista, and broken furniture with it. A part of the breach widened, the stones falling silently as we held our ears. The powerful spell-storm rushed around, growing before our eyes, a swirling creature of ice and snow, and I watched the hordes of men below, cowering and praying, pissing themselves.

  The price for this would be terrible. Bolthorn wanted something that would change everything. I was sure of it.

  It would change what I was, and everything I had begged for, and prayed for, and hoped for, all my life. It would cost me my humanity.

  Of course,
I’d not have to walk that dark road.

  I could be Morag, and settle to rule men. To rule well.

  The power suddenly stopped, and the snowy monstrosity seemed to stay still in the air. Then, it formed into a ball, and smashed down, looking like a fist made of ice and snow. It smote the breach, the stony slope, and the troops and archers around it. The power exploded in a brutal force of the god itself into the hapless men and threw them around for miles. Broken, beaten, torn, the legions suffered a terrible calamity. Stone, men, and armor fell in a wide arc, some raining to the bay, others around to the woods and the city, and white and bloody snow rained on who had survived.

  Many thousands of the enemy had not.

  Their corpses littered the ground, and their wounded were crawling amid snow, stone, blood, and discarded armor and flags.

  The breach was gone, flattened. It almost seemed too good to be true, and it was.

  The fortress seemed to lurch. A corner of the fortress, the one between the two breaches fell with groaning horror, and men were screaming inside as well. I watched as dozens of archers disappeared with half the roof.

  The sound ended, and the wobbling half of the fortress remained standing.

  I turned to look down to the gutted fortress. The wind and the blizzard returned to normal, and I had to shade my eyes to see what had taken place inside.

  The breach where we had fought remained. The stairways as well. Half the levels were still there. Men were looking in shock at the fallen half of the fortress.

  I saw Nima, sitting below on the third floor, and staring at the destruction below.

  A thousand men and women had been crushed.

  I looked over the enemy. They had lost multiple legions. Of the ten thousand, some six to seven were standing up, horrified, looking at the terrible destruction.

  And yet, it would not be enough.

  They would still keep coming.

  Bolthorn, his immense power spent on my prayer, would exact a heavy price from me.

  So many dead. So many.

  A jotun wouldn’t care. Father had spent his men ruthlessly, but felt sorry for it. But I still did. For a time, at least.