SKELD’S KEEP
820 AD
When Jarl the Sword’s Son and the fighters returned from their successful travels—the monasteries across the sea had yielded many treasures—there was a story waiting at Jormungand’s house. Three different messengers had come from the north weeks apart to carry the news.
The first item related that Skeld the Boarstooth had been killed by the warlord Asger the Spear, who had taken Skeld’s lands as his own. There had been a great, bloody battle in the early fall, and Asger and his men had won.
The second story was that Asger had gone mad, and was burning the farms and villages near Skeld’s Keep, slaughtering livestock and driving people into the wilderness.
The latest was that Asger was dead, and had been dead since the day he’d taken the Keep. It was Skeld and his council who were murdering everyone within reach; they had risen from their graves as draugar, as the long wet days of fall crept into the early days of winter. Now they roamed the borders of Skeld’s lands and fed on any man that dared come close.
Jarl didn’t believe in draugar—a monster story to tell children over the fires—but he believed that it would be just like the dishonorable Skeld to spread such a tale, to keep a weakness hidden. If he’d suffered heavy losses to Asger, he was vulnerable. Skeld was getting old, and Jarl the Sword’s Son had more gray in his beard than red; if he meant to have his revenge on the Boarstooth—as honor dictated—what better time? The Keep boasted three fine long houses, stables, a high wall, and the sturdy stone watchtower that had given the place its name.
Jarl’s Keep. He liked the sound. He would stock it with fighters and women and spend his late years making sons and drinking and watching over the villages that gathered round for his protection, making raids as it suited him. All that had to be done was for him to take it.
When the warriors had gathered to celebrate their successful return, Jarl stood up. Stelgar shouted at the drinking men to shut up and listen, for the Sword’s Son would speak. The laughter and calling died quickly, drink-bright eyes turning toward Jarl. Jormungand the Skull was chieftain, but Jarl had been his best fighter and raider for long years. It was Jarl who trained the new fighters; it was Jarl who led them.
“I want to take Skeld’s Keep,” he said, loudly and clearly. “Skeld once said that I was no fighter, and he spat at my feet. I have waited many years.”
There was a rumble of approval. The ordeal of waiting to take revenge was proof of good character.
“It is said that Skeld has become a draugr. I believe he has run out of fighters, and looks to frighten men away with stories.”
“What’s a draugr?” Ult called. Ult was from inland.
“Almar, will you speak of draugar?” Jarl asked.
Almar was strong, a good fighter, and was also the most superstitious man Jarl had ever met. He was full of lore and always carried charms and fetishes to battle. He stood reluctantly.
“There are times that when a willful man dies, he becomes a draugr,” Almar said, his low voice a rumble in the warm lodge. “The draugar are not alive but stalk the living, eating their flesh and drinking their blood. They swell and grow tall, some as tall as giants, and can weigh as much as an ox. They carry no weapons, for each has the strength of ten. It is said they are hideous to behold, corpse-blue and stinking; it is said that a draugr spreads madness to all who hear its voice. It will attack every man or animal it sees until the flesh rots from its bones.”
Someone made a joke about man-bones and there was another swell of laughter, but Jarl saw that Stelgar wasn’t laughing; nor were Helta the Bowman or Ult or Thrain, all strong men, all top fighters. They looked interested.
“How are they killed?” Ult asked.
“They are already dead,” Almar said. “They can’t be killed. Burn them, or chop them to pieces. And burn the pieces, and throw the ashes into the sea. And that is all I know of draugar.”
He sat down, nervously fingering one of the charms he wore on a string around his neck.
“We have just returned from a long journey,” Jarl said. “I know some of you have business to tend to, wives to keep warm, and would not choose to travel again so soon… But I will speak to Jormungand on the morrow and leave the next, to put an end to Skeld the Boarstooth. If he is a draugr, I will burn him and claim the Keep. If he is a man, I will do the same. Are there those who will accompany me?”
Stelgar stood immediately. He was Jarl’s closest ally and sworn brother since childhood. “Skeld has no honor. When he spat at your feet, he spat at mine. I will come.”
Helta and Ult and Thrain stood. All were of Jarl’s age, all had fought beside him for many years. Thoralf rose, still grinning.
“Sigrid will keep warm whether I’m here or not,” the younger man said, to new laughter.
More men stood up to be counted: Rangvald the Hammer, Geir, Bjarke, Sten the Reckless, Egil… Seventeen in all, a mix of young and old, enough to drive a small knorr up the coast, enough to take the Keep if the stories about Skeld’s losses were even close to accurate. A week on the sea would bring them to the borders of the Boarstooth’s lands.
The chosen men settled down to feast and drink, their spirits high at the prospect of brave battle; there was no satisfaction to be had stealing from the Jesus-men, who died on their knees. Even those who wouldn’t travel were excited, satisfied that the Sword’s Son would have his revenge on the dishonorable Skeld.
Almar did not volunteer. He clutched at his talismans, his thick face a mask of worry.
* * *
In the warmth of the hovering ship, Tli’uukop and the three young Hunters watched the small vessel riding the coast, the men that drove it armed with primitive weapons, blades and bludgeons and spears, a few simple projectile devices. Tli’uukop—One Eye, to his students—was pleased. He had promised the young Hunters that the long trip would be worth their time, but after many days of watching men working in crop fields or pulling food from the sea, they’d grown impatient. The thick musk of their agitation was barely filtered by the ship’s cyclers. One Eye had been about to announce that they would travel to fight the great white animals of teeth and talon instead when the ship informed them of the traveling men, detecting the forged metals they carried.
One Eye felt a growl of anticipation stir in his throat, and was immediately joined by his students. All three were recently Blooded, and all from prestigious lines. As Blooded, they were free to pursue their own Hunts, but additional training by an elite Hunter was considered an honor, and One Eye had come from a long line of great Hunters, elites and clan leaders. After an honorable retirement following the loss of his eye, he had chosen to teach, and found that he liked it. Taking Unblooded on their first outing wouldn’t have suited him—Unblooded Yautja were tiresome creatures, vibrating with bloodlust and inexperience—but training a select few in the finer points of tracking and wrist blade was a different matter entirely.
“They’re small,” Shriek observed. Shriek was tall and angular, with thick mandibles. He was an excellent fighter but tended to rush to battle. He’d gotten his name for the distinctive sound of his victory cry.
“Primitive,” Ta’roga said, dismissively. Ta’roga was a prodigy with a fixed blade, but was far too sure of himself. “They wear skin, not armor.”
As usual, Kata’nu said nothing. Of the three, One Eye thought Kata’nu the most promising. His physical skills were not as advanced as Shriek’s or Ta’roga’s, but the slight, nimble youth looked before he thought, and thought before he spoke.
“When I first saw them, I thought the same,” One Eye said. “Too weak to fight, too small, too simple. But they think. They reason, and adapt. Experienced Hunters have been bested by them on a level field.”
“When will we begin?” Shriek asked, too quickly.
“When they leave their vessel to cross the land, you will track them,” One Eye said. “Study them; watch what they do. You will choose an appropriate target and engage at your best discretion.”
“I will take a dozen trophies,” Ta’roga trilled.
“Trophies are the result, not the reason,” One Eye said, as he said often. “The Hunt is the practice of the Hunt. It’s an experience, not a goal.”
The students nodded but he doubted they heard him; the air was charged with their excitement, the scent like hot, thin oil. Even Kata’nu’s measured gaze was eager.
One Eye sighed inwardly. They would succeed or they would fail, but either way, they would learn.
* * *
Seven days on the icy sea and they reached the small fishing village that marked the beginning of Skeld’s lands. The dim sky spit new snow at them as they dragged the boat ashore. The village was deserted, although they found no bodies, no signs of violence—only clear evidence that the villagers had packed up and fled, heading north. An inconvenience; Jarl had planned to raid the village for supplies to see them inland, but the villagers had taken their food when they’d gone. The men ate the last of the dried herring and stale bread that they’d brought and slept in the drafty meeting house, taking turns at watch.
Skeld’s Keep was two days from the shore. In the morning they started east, collecting squirrels and rabbits in the woods along the way, a winding climb into hills lightly dusted with snow. They passed a handful of small farms and found them as empty as the fishing village—dead fires and signs of hurried packing, footprints in the rotting wet leaves where the snow hadn’t yet gathered. Some of the men laughed at first, joking about the fearful farmers running from draugar, but as the day wore on, the laughter fell away. The woods and snowy fields weren’t only empty but silent, a watchful tension in the air that all could feel.
Helta, who had the best eyes, saw branches move without wind, thrice. Bjarke, Olav, and Haavid had heard steps beneath the barren trees. The information that they were watched, followed, was passed casually from man to man, and just as casually, Jarl slowed their pace, and put his hand on the hilt of his sword.
As the weak sun began to cast its long shadows, they saw smoke just south, thin and high above a stand of snow-flocked evergreen. They approached carefully; the scent of smoke was overwhelmed by the smells of shit and blood as they moved through the trees. Jarl drew his sword before stepping into the clearing.
It had been a pig farm. There were a dozen of the dead animals littering the ground in front of the smoking timbers of the farmhouse, the fences torn down around their blood-soaked bodies.
Jarl scanned the small clearing. Nothing moved but the thin smoke. The men spread out, their weapons and shields at the ready.
Jarl squatted next to one of the animals. Its eyes had been gouged out, its jaw broken and hanging open; its guts spilled from a ripped and ragged hole in its belly. A bloody, jagged rock next to the glass-eyed sow was clearly the weapon of its demise. Finger marks of dried blood decorated her spotted skin. Clear teeth marks—human teeth—marked her skinny flanks.
Jarl dipped his fingers into the pool of entrails. Cold, but not frozen, and no smell of rot. That, and the smoke… A day or two, no more.
“Here,” Helta called softly. He and Geir were looking at something hidden by the heap of burnt wood.
Jarl nodded at Stelgar, and they went to see. The farmer and his family. There had been three sons, the youngest only a few years old. All of them—the farmer and his wife, their young—had been beaten to death. Broken bones poked through their ripped clothes, splinters and dirt marking each injury. Jarl saw more teeth marks, on the slender, milky limbs of the children. The woman’s skirt was hiked up, her sex battered into pulp.
“Not a clean wound in sight,” Stelgar said, and Jarl nodded. There were a number of bloody sticks and rocks around the pitiful family. There was no snow near the smoking ruins, and Jarl could see footprints on the ground. Four or five men, perhaps. One of them had been barefoot.
“Draugar,” Geir said. A few of the others nodded, the whispered word passing between them like a breeze.
“There are no such things as draugar,” Jarl said. “These people haven’t been eaten, they’ve been bitten. And beaten. By normal-sized men.”
“Madmen,” Geir said. “Almar said the draugar spread madness.”
From the state of the farm and its inhabitants, Jarl couldn’t argue against insanity. Still, he wouldn’t put it past Skeld to create such a fiction.
He shrugged. “We’ll know when we know.”
Thoralf, standing over one of the slaughtered pigs, called out cheerfully, “So, pork for dinner, then?”
Most of the men chuckled, but no one lowered their weapons. Jarl nodded. They could salvage meat from the animals and use a cook fire near the smoking farmhouse, to keep themselves hidden from—
Skeld’s soldiers? Cannibal madmen?
—from anyone watching. They would camp beneath the trees, though, and there would be no fire after dark. They needed their night eyes.
“We’ll be at the Keep by noon tomorrow,” Jarl said, firmly. Whatever answers there were to be had, he was sure they would find them there.
* * *
Ta’roga watched the men sleeping on the ground, rolled into their cloaks and grouped together for warmth. He sat with his back to a massive tree a hundred paces away, occasionally sneering at the three puny guards that slowly circled the camp. They couldn’t see him.
He clicked his mandibles, pleased with himself. Shriek and Kata’nu would burn with envy when they saw him take out the leader of the traveling men, the clear choice. Ta’roga would prefer to see them fight before he moved in, to confirm that the leader was the best, but he didn’t plan to spend another day following these animals around. The legendary man was a short, pale flat-face who ate meat off the ground, nothing more.
One Eye had sent a message that there was a herd of them farther inland, the direction that these men traveled, too many to fight without tech—expressly forbidden in Hunts against primitives. There was a small pulse-beam emitter in Ta’roga’s kit—One Eye had all of his students carry the failsafe—but the young Hunter couldn’t imagine any circumstance that would require him to use it. When the world’s star came into view again, Ta’roga would separate the leader out and dispatch it with a clean blow from the fixed blade on his dominant arm, the weapon as sharp as teeth, as strong as honor. The first trophy would be his.
Ta’roga’s legs went numb from waiting for them to stir; he ignored the discomfort for a while, but after one of the circling guards—the tall one, that carried a bow—had passed him by, Ta’roga quietly shifted, stretching his legs out in front of him.
The guard, the tall one, had stopped walking—and now moved back in Ta’roga’s direction, holding its bow in both hands, an arrow resting between the curved wood and the string.
It heard me.
Ta’roga didn’t move. A minute passed, and then the man took off its head covering, a thick animal skin with metal stitched around the eyes, and set it gently on the ground before standing again, looking directly at the tree where Ta’roga sat. It moved closer, but didn’t seem to be searching for anything. Rather, it turned its hairy face from side to side, slowly. Listening.
Ta’roga had never seen one so closely, and felt, for the first time, that perhaps One Eye was right to speak so respectfully of these creatures. It wasn’t charging to attack, or shouting for help, or deciding to ignore the small sound; it was thinking. Presented with evidence by its senses, it was searching for the source of what it had heard.
Ta’roga’s mask blocked the sound of his breathing, but his heart beat quickly. If this man found him because he’d acted foolishly, if there was a forced interaction, he would be shamed.
The man looked up into the branches, its long, thin hair ruffled by a frigid breeze. Then it took a step back, widening its point of view, scanning the trunks of the trees, finally looking at the ground.
It stepped closer again, lowering its center of gravity by bending its knees… and focused on Ta’roga’s feet.
Ta’roga carefully looked down without moving his head, and saw the symmetrical depressions in the soft dirt beneath his boots. He tensed, ready to react. If he killed the man, here, he would ruin the Hunt, disgracing himself. He could try to lead the man away, claim that it was his plan, to gain a trophy… but if he moved he would be heard, possibly seen, and the man would attack.
The man’s gaze ran over the ground… and then it straightened, its body relaxing. Since there was nothing visible to its eyes, it obviously thought that whatever had made the tracks was gone.
Ta’roga let out a slow breath as the man turned away. He was embarrassed, but if there was no disruption to the Hunt, no reason to—
The man had continued to turn and suddenly whipped around to face Ta’roga, its bow drawn, an arrow nocked. The man released and already had another arrow in place as the first drove deep into Ta’roga’s inner right thigh.
The suit stunted the arrow’s brief flight but the powerful hit pierced the thin armor, the metal arrowhead tearing deep. Ta’roga rolled to the side and onto his feet, shocked and furious with disbelief.
The man loosed a second time, the arrow thunking into the tree where his head had been a second before, and Ta’roga extended his arm, wrist blades snapping into place, stepping forward to cut the throat of the man—who leapt backwards and shot again. The arrow hit Ta’roga’s chest plate and was deflected, but the sound of it had the other guards calling out, running toward the bowman. Most of the men were suddenly on their feet as if they’d only pretended to sleep, their weapons in hand.
The bowman shouted something—and was cut off mid-cry as its head was split in two. Ta’roga recognized Shriek by his height and the angle of the cut. The bowman collapsed, blood and brain running down its shoulders. Suddenly there were a dozen of the men upon them, raising swords and heavy bludgeons, more running over. Their eyes burned, their strange mouths set in lines.
Shriek cut the throat of the first to leap forward. Red blood spurted from the cut, steaming in the cold air, gouting across the arm of his suit. Another man brought its bludgeon down on the moving splash of red. Bone crunched and Shriek fell backwards. Ta’roga spun, driving his wrist blades into the man’s soft belly. Astoundingly, the man raised the bludgeon again, trying to attack even as the blood poured down its body, even as it died.
Ta’roga jerked his blades free and grabbed Shriek, pulling him back from the attacking men. The leader shouted something and the men circled, facing outwards, their weapons at the ready. They ignored the three who bled at their feet.
Combat through incompetence was not a Hunt. Ta’roga had failed. The only honorable choice was to turn off his camouflage and fight, to face death, but Ta’roga was not thinking about the Hunt or his honor; he only felt a profound dismay at the realization that he had so badly underestimated these creatures.
Shriek was backing away and Ta’roga backed away at his side. The men raised their weapons and started after them, showing their teeth, shouting in their incomprehensible tongue, loud and furious. After a few steps Shriek turned and ran, cradling his injured arm. Ta’roga clutched at the arrow in his thigh and ran after him, his humiliation complete.
* * *
They followed the sound of running steps but in seconds, the sounds were lost… and although there were a few strange green splashes to be seen, spattered and far apart, glowing like fire, those, too, dried up after only a short distance; beneath the shadows of trees, they could not track which way the invaders had gone. Jarl called a halt and the men returned to their camp, to investigate where the attack had taken place.
There were marks on the ground as of footprints, but too big and oddly shaped to be a man’s. There was a small pool of the liquid green fire at the base of the big tree, next to where the three dead men lay.
Jarl counted Helta’s arrows. There was one in the tree, a second on the ground, its tip bent. A third was missing.
Stelgar squatted by the green pool. He carefully touched it with his finger.
“What is it?” Bjarke asked.
Stelgar shrugged. “Helta is missing an arrow. He hit something.”
“It is draugar,” Geir said, nervously. “The draugar must bleed green!”
“Draugar don’t use weapons,” Stelgar said, and motioned at the dead men. Helta the Bowman’s skull was cleft in twain. Thrain’s throat was cleanly cut, and Sten the Reckless had been stabbed in the gut by dual swords. “They don’t hide, either.”
“There were two of them,” Bjarke said, pointing out the strange prints, at the tree and just east of it. “One rested here. The other came this way.”
“Helta heard something,” Rangvald said. He had also been on watch, as had Thoralf. “I saw him take off his helmet, to better hear. He shot only a moment later.”
“I saw something,” Thoralf said. “The air moved, like shadows.”
Geir looked around anxiously. “We are tracked by monsters.”
“Grow some balls or fuck off to your mama’s teat,” Stelgar said, standing. “If they bleed, they can die. And if Helta heard them, so will we. We know to listen now. And we know to watch for shadows in the air. If they return, we will kill them.”
Jarl nodded, along with most of the others. Stelgar was the voice of reason.
“Gather branches,” Jarl said. “Keep in pairs and threes, with one to watch and listen. We will build a pyre for the fallen, and to warm ourselves for our journey to the Keep. From the tower we can hold off any foe.”
The men nodded and broke away. Jarl gazed down at the dead men, at the two wet pieces of Helta’s head, hanging from his broken neck. Stelgar nudged one with his boot. A powerful blow, to be sure, and it had come from almost directly above; Helta had been a tall man, too.
“Walking corpses and green-blooded giants we can’t see,” Stelgar said “You sure you want this Keep?”
Jarl laughed. “What better path to Valhöll? Any fool can be killed by men.”
Stelgar laughed along with him, a full, bright sound in the cold air.
* * *
The arrow had to be cut out of Ta’roga’s leg, leaving a good-sized hole in his suit. A tab of disinfectant and a skin-seal took care of him, but he did not meet his teacher’s eye, as was appropriate. Shriek’s forearm was broken in six places; he sleeved it himself and injected a painkiller, his head even lower than Ta’roga’s.
One Eye wished he did not have to share in their shame, but he’d known their deficits and sent them to hunt men, anyway. A Hunter’s code was strict, but early mistakes were tolerated as part of the learning process. They had been arrogant and reckless, as he might have expected; it was their decision to flee that was unacceptable. Bested and injured, they had run.
He looked coldly at the two shamed and silent Yautja in the medical bay. It would be within his rights to kill them, but there was his own culpability to consider; the last time One Eye had hunted this world, there had been no fighters quite like these.
A clicking from the ship called his attention. One Eye stepped to the console closest and raised a screen, running his claws down the lines of symbol. Kata’nu was accessing sensory information. Their travelers were crossing an open field, moments from the barrier to the village, or whatever it was. Kata’nu was south of the men, but close; he was counting the villagers and checking for forged metals behind the village wall. Kata’nu’s patience, his lack of arrogance… these were the traits of a Hunter.
One Eye looked back at the disgraced Yautja, thinking. Ta’roga and Shriek might yet be given a chance to redeem themselves… either by exhibiting excellence, or by dying well. There would be no trophies, but they might erase their shame.
“The men you were hunting are about to enter a village, where there are four times their number,” One Eye said. “A Hunter worthy of his blood might shed all of his weapons and stand without armor, without hiding, and face his prey with bare claws. A Hunter worthy of his blood might even win… and if he dies, he might die cleanly.”
Ta’roga and Shriek were on their feet before he stopped talking.
“You will not disrupt Kata’nu’s Hunt,” One Eye said. “Get in his way and I will carry your heads to your fathers and tell them of your dishonor.”
Ta’roga fastened his suit and started shucking its armored plates. With only one good arm, Shriek struggled to keep up, his blades clattering to the floor. One Eye watched their sincere, solemn preparations without comment. There was a chance that they might survive; even injured, both were technically proficient.
He would move the ship closer to Kata’nu’s position, the better to clean up afterwards and to keep the two disgraced Hunters from charging in prematurely. And he had already decided, he would not be bringing any more of his students to the man’s world. Hunting men was a skilled warrior’s game.
* * *
Skeld’s Keep sat against the low peak of an iss fell, at the top of long slopes where the snow was starting to build; the Sword’s Son and his party walked through fields of bowed winter rye, past empty houses and empty farms. They saw signs of Asger’s siege, dead men and rotting horses, and the remains of large fires where bodies had been burned, blackened bones sticking up from the snow. Stelgar pointed out drag marks through the crops, long lines of crushed rye and dead barley leading toward the Keep. The one house they stopped at had dried blood on the walls, and dried shit, and vomit, and torn clothing. What they didn’t see was a single living person.
The snow was picking up as they finally climbed within sight of the Keep, thick flakes coming down. No one guarded the high wooden wall; the heavy gate was standing wide open. The tower of stone peered over the top, gray and empty, its windows like dead eyes.
A few hundred paces from the wall, Jarl turned to look at his allies, his friends and brothers. He saw wariness but no fear. Whatever they were to face—hidden giants, madmen, draugar—these men would fight well.
“There seems no need for stealth,” Jarl said. “We have come for the Keep and will have it. Stay within reach until we know what we face. And watch for shadows in the air.”
“They should watch for us,” Thoralf said, and everyone grinned, and Jarl’s heart was full. What better feeling than to head into battle with skilled men, united against an unknown foe? They would win or they would die, and both had their rewards.
That was when a man screamed from behind the Keep’s walls, his single hoarse cry joined by another, a third, a dozen, twice that, too many to count; the wordless shrieks of pain, or anger, or hunger, the sounds of lunacy and loss rose into the snowy sky like the howls of wolves.
“Odin owns you all!” Jarl cried, and they stormed the gate.
* * *
Disguised by the falling ice, Kata’nu closed the distance with his travelers as they hesitated outside of the opening in the wall. They carried themselves at the ready, clearly expecting conflict.
Inside the enclosure, men cried out, and the leader led his shouting travelers through the gate. Kata’nu followed them. He could see the heat signature of many men pouring out from the large structure farthest north, still crying as they ran toward the travelers. Most carried no weapons. Many moved unsteadily, falling and staggering.
Kata’nu veered away from the travelers, toward one of several massive heaps of dead herd animals, swollen with rot, dead men piled on top of them. The travelers circled up, facing outward, screaming like Unblooded at their first kill.
The men from the structure ran and stumbled into view… and Kata’nu could see that there was something wrong with them. More than half wore little or no clothing. Many shook as if from fever, and fell down, and were trampled by others. Their legs were striped with thin waste and they made strange faces as they shouted and called.
Sickness. Kata’nu checked his mask’s filter read, as he had regularly since leaving the ship. The humidity was up, ice falling ever more heavily from the sky, but he didn’t see—
There. A high concentration of organic material was in the air, some kind of alkaloid; the makeup was that of a fungal spore. The fields outside the village were cultivated, heavy with cereal grasses; had their crops become infected? Their meat? Had they ingested the spore, or was it carried on the air?
The first sick men had reached the travelers. Screaming, weaponless, they attacked, and the travelers stepped fearlessly into the fight. Kata’nu trilled and shifted on his feet, excited to watch the unfolding battle—until he realized that a number of the charging sick men had abruptly changed direction and were running toward him.
* * *
The people of the Keep shouted gibberish, their eyes wide and rolling, their hands mostly empty—but their obvious madness was a weapon in itself, as they charged unflinching into the swinging swords and axes of Jarl’s men. Jarl saw soldiers of both Skeld and Asger among the villagers and farmers; whatever plague had come, it had taken all.
The first man to reach Jarl wore shit-stained breeches and nothing else. Jarl swung and slashed the man’s throat. Steaming blood poured into the snow as the man collapsed, gurgling.
Three more attackers took his place. A naked woman with slack, hanging tits covered in bloody vomit screeched and clawed at him. Jarl gutted her, quickly, as a man wearing a stained cloak grabbed for Jarl’s shield and a teenaged boy threw himself at Jarl’s feet, scrabbling at his boots with rotten fingers.
“My father’s boots!” the boy cried. “You stole them!”
Jarl slashed and hit, kicking, cursing as he stomped the mad boy’s head. The man in the cloak fell backwards, clutching at his stomach as his entrails spilled through his fingers. Blood misted the falling snow.
He saw Stelgar, grinning, cutting the throat of a bloody man wearing a string of boar’s teeth around his neck. Rangvald smashed his hammer into the skull of a wild-eyed farmer raving about ghosts, crushing in the side of another man’s face on the upswing. Therin loosed a half-dozen arrows, men and women falling like the snow, more coming. Geir had stepped away from the group to better swing his staff; he went low and wiped out three men with a single blow, thigh bones cracking beneath the heavy wood, but the attackers came on, fearless in their insanity. Many hands grabbed at the staff, and as Geir fought to free it, a soldier wearing a cloak of Asger leapt on him, tearing at his throat with cold-blackened fingers.
Another woman ran at Jarl, screaming, blue with cold and brandishing a thin stick as though it were a sword. Jarl slammed his shield into her face and she went down, still screaming through a mouthful of bloody teeth.
“Look!”
Olav and Bjarke were both shouting, gesturing toward the wall as they fended off the encroaching mob. Jarl looked, and saw gathered snow hanging in the air, in the outline of a great man-shaped beast’s giant, shaggy head and wide shoulders. A stream of deranged attackers threw themselves at the creature, the tops of their heads barely reaching its chest, which still looked somehow like falling snow. Jarl saw shining blades sweep out of the flickering air, saw the creature taking shape as steaming blood sprayed across its body.
“Giant at the wall!” Jarl called, as a fat man with a spear ran at him. Jarl got his shield up and ducked, swinging his blade at the man’s legs. He hit hard enough to feel the bones breaking through the blade, the impact humming through his fingers. The man shrieked and fell.
Hot blood dripped from Jarl’s beard. Some of the unarmed people were running in fear now, away from the battle, shouting nonsense, but the soldiers of the Keep were picking up weapons, some memory of skill returning. A number fell back from the direct attack, their mad eyes searching for openings.
“At least now we can see the fucker!” Stelgar shouted, sidestepping as an old man tripped over the hacked bodies that surrounded them, dropping his stick. Stelgar chopped into the man’s face.
“Odin smiles upon us!” Thoralf called, and the men still standing laughed tightly. A soldier with an axe got to Olav, though the young fighter managed to take his killer with him by a final swing. Egil and Haavid were also dead.
Jarl and his men fought on, trying to keep an eye on the slashing, silent giant as the bodies piled up, as their own number dwindled.
* * *
Kata’nu fought well, killing ten men in the space of a few heartbeats… But by then he was visible, dripping with man’s blood, and the travelers, the skilled fighters, were edging toward him as their battle raged. One Eye had no doubt that Kata’nu would fight to his death… But he would lose his only promising Hunter.
“Go,” he said, to the Yautja standing silently behind him, not looking away from the visual. “Redeem yourselves. Fight well.”
They hurried to the lock, thanking him for his leave in respectful clatters. One Eye growled an acceptance of their gratitude, already divorced from concern for their fate. He watched Kata’nu move with the grace of youth, his form strong, his movements measured; he watched and was pleased.
* * *
Kata’nu spun and slashed, knocked men aside with crushing blows, well aware that he was likely to die if the attackers organized. And it was his own fault for not brushing the falling ice from his suit. For all of his care, he’d proved as foolish as the others.
He glanced at the travelers frequently, feeling an odd kinship with the men he’d followed to this place of sickness. More than half had fallen, overwhelmed by sheer numbers, but those standing continued their gleeful dance, slaying the howling villagers, as committed as any Hunter to victory or death.
A man had picked up a spear from one of the fallen travelers and rushed at Kata’nu, screaming, raising the weapon over its head. Kata’nu dropped to one knee and slashed open the man’s gut with his wrist blades, but another with a sword took the opportunity to rush in from the side. The man swung, the tip of the metal blade slicing deeply across Kata’nu’s shoulder.
Kata’nu pivoted, still on the ground, and drove his blades into the attacker’s chest. He pulled back but the blades stuck, dragging the dying man in close. Frustrated, he shook his encumbered arm, using his other to strike at a man with a rock in his hands. Wet heat coursed from his bleeding shoulder.
Over the screams of the dying and the sick, Kata’nu heard voices calling out, drawing his attention. He shot a look at the leader and his second, followed their gazes—
—and saw Shriek and Ta’roga striding in through the open gate, weaponless, their camouflage turned off.
Distracted, Kata’nu didn’t see the man with the axe until it was too late.
* * *
Jarl had formed a vague idea of what the giants looked like from the blood-splashed monster stabbing men not twenty paces away, but he still felt his eyes widen. These newcomers wore dark metal masks, shining and smooth and ominous; black beaded braids hung to either side. Each wore a thin gray covering that outlined their bulging physiques, muscles hewn and chiseled like the strongest man’s.
No armor. No weapons.
Jarl glanced at the giant dressed in blood just as it fell to its knees, an axe in its guts. One down, and two to take its place.
“Giants at the gate!” Stelgar shouted, and the men tightened what was left of their defense. Stelgar’s cry seemed to redirect the mad attackers. At the sight of the giants, the men of the Keep seemed driven to new heights of fury. They screamed and ran toward the two massive creatures, howling like animals, slashing each other in their frenzy to reach the new enemy.
One giant dropped into a crouch, opening its arms wide; the other, taller, stepped directly into the oncoming attackers, smashing faces and pounding heads. Bone snapped. Men went flying through the snow, broken and bleeding. The tall monster made its way to where Thoralf and Ult fought, back to back, and both men turned to face it. Thoralf rushed in low to slash at its massive legs. Ult spun away, coming around to thrust at the striding giant with his heavy sword.
Ult’s blade pierced the giant’s side, the cut deep. Glowing green poured from the wound. The monster swung around and grabbed Ult by his head, twisting and pulling—and tore it from Ult’s body. Blood gouted into the air, Ult’s headless corpse crumpling to the snow. The giant threw Ult’s head at one of the Keep’s raging soldiers, knocking him off his feet. Thoralf slashed at the monster’s thighs and danced back, drawing more green blood.
The shorter, crouching giant tore at the half-dozen armed men who’d crashed into it, ripping arms from sockets, tossing them like sticks, but as more piled on and brutally hacked at the creature, it faltered. Bjarke rushed in and swung his axe, the curved blade opening a thick line of green on the crouching monster’s back. It turned and slapped him hard enough to break his neck, dropping him. Therin loosed an arrow at the creature and more shining green blood poured from where it lodged in the thing’s massive chest.
The giants were stumbling. The red snow at their feet was spattered with heavy splashes of green.
When the taller one turned its back, Jarl ran forward, his sword high, barely keeping his balance on the slippery bodies of dead and dying men. He reached the bleeding giant and brought his blade down and across, howling with joy.
His sword sank deep into the side of the monster’s neck. Green sprayed across his face, hot and bitter, and the giant turned, and punched its fist into Jarl’s chest. Jarl felt his sternum shatter like ice, and pain like heat shot through him and a terrible, crushing pressure squeezed his heart—but the giant was slain, the spurt of its terrible blood already slowing.
Jarl grinned, and died.
* * *
The battle seemed to die with Jarl the Sword’s Son. Men still screamed, but they were the failing screams of the mortally wounded. The last of the armed madmen had gathered around the two dying giants, were expending their fury in thrusts and jabs at the strange beasts. Thoralf walked behind the crazed men, slashing their throats easily.
The third giant, the one that had hidden, was also down. Stelgar could only see a mass of green and red in the snow, unmoving. Across the blood-soaked yard, he saw the men and women who hadn’t fought, a dozen or so, huddled together by the stables. They sang and cried and fell to their knees, weeping, shaking from cold or from whatever madness had cursed Skeld’s Keep.
Cursed. Thoralf, Rangvald the Hammer, and Therin still stood, scratched and bloodied but alive. Everyone else was dead. They had taken Skeld’s Keep, but Stelgar didn’t want it; no one would. They should set it on fire.
Stelgar directed the others to put the dying to rest and walked to where Jarl lay, and squatted next to him. Jarl stared up into the falling snow, not caring that it landed in his eyes. Stelgar was happy for Jarl, but also felt an emptiness. He would miss his brother.
“Stelgar!”
Stelgar looked up at the urgency in Thoralf’s voice, saw Thoralf pointing at him, saw Rangvald and Therin both running toward him—
He turned his head. Behind him towered the giant dressed in blood, not dead after all.
* * *
Kata’nu woke up to One Eye clattering in his ear.
“You’re not dead. Pressure patch the suit, inject a stim, and get up. Use the pulse-beam to ensure your safe return to the ship. This Hunt is over.”
Kata’nu blinked at the read in his mask. The ship was close. The axe had gone deep, though, and he knelt in a puddle of his own blood, already crusting with ice. His head felt light, hollow.
He looked across the battle site and saw that the leader— his trophy—had fallen, his sword buried in Shriek’s throat. Ta’roga was a pile of chopped meat a few paces away. One Eye was surely disgusted by how his students had performed, all bested by men. Many of the travelers had died… but they were also the last standing.
The leader’s second had gone to kneel by the dead warrior. There were three others who still lived. They walked among the field of fallen men and dispatched them with their swords.
Kata’nu crawled to his feet and staggered toward the second, holding his guts in with one cold arm. He wasn’t sure what he meant to do, but he couldn’t imagine cutting the brave men down with a pulse-beam. He had failed; they had not.
He stopped behind the second, swaying on his feet. He expected the pale man to stand up and kill him, but it only stood, staring up at him, its eyes moving back and forth. Curious, perhaps. Kata’nu slowly lifted his free claw and reached for his mask. The other three surviving travelers had run toward them but the second spoke in its strange tongue and they only stood by, their weapons ready.
Kata’nu wanted to express to the man that he, Kata’nu, son of Esch’ande, had learned from this Hunt. Whether or not the man understood was not the point. He unlatched his mask and pulled it free. The cold was like a slap and the air was foul, but he liked the feel against his fevered skin. He was alive. He looked at the man, wishing that he could read its face or understand its language.
He held his mask out. An offering. A trophy.
After a long moment, the man reached out and took it.
Kata’nu was glad.
* * *
The giant turned and staggered for the gate, stumbling, parts of it seeming to disappear into the snow. In seconds it was gone.
“What the fuck was that?” Rangvald said.
Stelgar held up the fine, heavy helmet, big enough to cradle a babe. “We beat him, that’s what. He pays tribute to our dead.”
He bent and placed the helmet on Jarl’s chest. I will see you in Asgard, brother.
“We’re leaving, and burning this cursed place to the ground,” Stelgar said. “Get those people to start gathering wood.”
Therin nodded somberly. “The Valkyries will see the smoke and come to lead our brave friends to Valhöll. Skeld’s Keep will make a fine pyre.”
“It’s the least he can do, spitting on Jarl’s feet like that,” Thoralf said, and even Stelgar had to chuckle. It was a good joke.