In the days of the ancient gods, Surt had walked among many of the greatest. From Odin to Frey to even that lowest of imps, Loki. In those years, he had always been treated as a stepchild, a second son, someone to be ignored. Impugned. Someone who had no voice. Now that time had changed. No longer would he be silent. No longer would he be shuttled to the outer regions of Musspell, where not a single blade of grass dared show its sprout.
The fiery-red skies over Musspell were dotted with Surt’s army of flying beasts. They were known as boercats, giant saber-toothed animals with leathery wings that spanned two of his men. They belched fire that could incinerate entire armies. Red and yellow scales covered muscled legs that could run down their victims, and the set of jutting fangs that curved out from their jaws could rip flesh apart.
The patrols he had sent to every corner of Orkney were returning. Soon he would have his proof the veil that had kept him prisoner all these years was down. Proof Odin was truly gone. Then Surt would not hesitate to crush every living creature in this world, and any world beyond.
A crowd of troops had gathered in the wide square below him. Musspell was made of plain stone buildings carved out of the volcanic rock from the many slaves who toiled for him. Slave or soldier; those were the only two choices in life. Fight or work. Male or female, it didn’t matter. There were no roles assigned based on gender, only what was clawed for. It had taken centuries to unite this kingdom under his leadership. Rebellions still sprouted in the outer regions where the fire giants battled for control with each other, bloody battles where no one emerged a winner. Surt encouraged it because it kept his soldiers hungry and battle-ready.
Surveying his legions below, the lord of the fire giants swelled with pride. They were chanting his name so that it rose like an ugly song from them, beating their chests with iron-wrapped fists and stomping their boots.
So what if it had taken centuries? Finally, the moment of victory was at hand. He would have liked to have been the one to crush the life out of Odin, but he didn’t let that bother him. Odin’s end was a thing of the past. The future was what mattered.
Stepping out into sight, Surt raised his hand for silence.
A hush fell over the battle-hardened soldiers.
“Brothers and sisters, how long have we waited for this day? For how many centuries have we been under Odin’s thumb?”
The crowd roared with anger. Somewhere below, a burning effigy of Odin was raised.
“We stand on the edge of victory. As we make our final preparations for our journey across the sea, know this: One day, the fire giants will rule all of Orkney. Every living creature will bow to our strength. We will not be defeated. We will not be stopped. Victory will be ours!”
Surt’s voice rose as he spoke until he was shouting the last words. Cheers erupted, and the warriors began pounding their spears into the ground so that the earth shook with their rage.
Surt waved and backed away, heading back into his council chambers.
Throwing his helmet onto the table, he grabbed a chalice and gulped down the contents, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Three of his generals stood before him. “What news do you bring me?” he asked. “Did you find the proof? Is Odin really dead? What are their armaments like?”
The soldier on the end, Lukas, an ugly beast of a giant with a face like a bull, stepped forward and laid a green swath of grass on the table. “The mischief-maker told the truth. The veil is down. We surveyed the western coastline. Odin’s dead and gone. You could smell it in the wind. Not an ounce of his magic remains.” He stepped back. Surt nodded at him, fingering the velvety grass in awe. How many centuries since he had touched greenery like this?
Bellac, a vicious female with two black ponytails sprouting from the top of her otherwise-bald pate, swaggered forward. A twisted scar marred her left cheek. Surt had given her that in a combat trial, and Bellac had proudly refused to stitch it up. Her teeth were capped in metal, and they glinted in the light as she growled out her report. “We flew the eastern coastline, lord. Burned seven Falcory villages to the ground. No sign of resistance or weapons, sire. They are feeble and weak.”
Surt nodded, excitement growing as he continued on to Arek, his second-in-command. “You have studied their strongholds?”
Arek was smaller than the others but just as brutal. Surt had once seen him wrestle a feral boercat to the ground, placing the animal in a chokehold until it collapsed.
Arek spread out on the table a map that showed the isles of Orkney. The general put a finger on the island marked Garamond. “Once we take their capital city of Skara Brae, we will shatter their hold on the realm.” He moved his finger to a smaller island. “The witches on Balfour Island will not come to Orkney’s aid so soon after they were defeated.” He moved his finger north. “Rakim is ruled by our brothers, the Vanir.”
Surt’s eyes narrowed. “What makes you think they will remember us?”
“They have no love of mankind. If we have to remind them of our bond, we will do so.”
Bellac snarled. “Let me show those frost giants what my love feels like.” She pounded one metal-clad fist into the other.
Surt waved a hand. “Let us hope our alliance holds. What of the Eifalians?”
Arek laughed. “Their magic is weak. Their only skill is to read auras and fire arrows.”
Even Surt laughed. Arrows could hardly penetrate their thick skin.
“Ready the men. We leave in the morning. We’ll make land here.” He stabbed his finger on a point just east of Skara Brae. “Lukas and Bellac will lead the ground troops. Destroy everything in your path as you move toward the capital. Take no prisoners.”
His two generals snarled with delight.
“Arek and I will lead the aerial assault from the boercats.”
Arek bowed. “Orkney will be ours before the moon wanes.”