Under A Winter Sun by Johan Dahlgren (ink ebook reader txt) 📕

We leave the town behind and start up the wide stairs to the hall.

Everything is too fucking large here. The steps cut out of the rock are twice as high as normal steps, and the railing, beautifully carved from actual wood, is too high to be of any use to us.

We reach the top of the stairs and the great ash towers above us. The tree must be at least fifteen metres wide at the base. From the branches high above hang tattered banners, charms, and totems. One or two rotting carcasses swing in the freezing wind. The Goliaths still practice blood sacrifice. Thanks to the deep cold, the stench isn't too bad.

The hall's great gate is set midway along the building, at the top of another great flight of stairs. The doors are a successful marriage of form and function. Carved from two massive slabs of hypercarbon, the doors are covered in the swirling snakes and animal motifs so beloved by the Norse Vikings of old. The craftsmanship is exquisite, and it's rendered even more impressive by the fact you can't carve hypercarbon. To fashion a portal like this must have required thousands upon thousands of hours of work. Not to mention an untold number of diamond-tipped drills worn down to create the intricate details.

The gate stands ten metres tall by five wide, crowned by a massive lintel of unidentified origin. It's said to be a piece of a starship hull, but there have been no unresolved reports of missing ships since the days of the colonisation. I asked Finn about it once. He shook his head and said it might be alien. I'm not sure he was joking.

Far above in the late afternoon sky, two giant birds circle the building, their pitch-black wings unmoving on the breeze. Something about them makes me ill at ease, but I shrug it off. We've got more important things to worry about than the interest of the local fauna.

On each side of the entrance stands a Goliath sentinel. Soledad can't tear her eyes off them as we mount the stairs and pass between them. They twist to follow our passage with their tracking sensors.

Inside the gate is a lofty antechamber, with another set of doors at the other end. It's constructed like an airlock, to keep the frost out. The air is warmer in here, but it's still too frigid for comfort. There's a large stone basin at the centre of the room, filled with water. Along the walls are rack upon rack containing weapons of all kinds. Swords, axes, and spears share space with assault rifles and rocket launchers in an unholy shambles. All Goliaths are required to leave their weapons in the chamber before entering the hall of the Jarl. The custom arose out of necessity. When drunk, Goliaths inevitably resort to violence and keeping them unarmed limits the damage.

The Goliath woman named Hildr pulls a set of intricately carved heavy iron daggers the size of short swords from her belt and sets them on a rack.

“You can leave your coats there,” Eirik says and points to a bench.

We strip out of our warm gear, and Eirik tears off his shirt and plunges his head deep into the stone fount. Swirling tattoos and scars criss-cross his muscled upper body.

When I knew him, many years ago, he was not much of a fighter. It is clear he has been training, and he wears the lessons on his skin like badges of honour. Judging by the number of scars he must not have been especially good at first. The fact he's still here means he got better fast. Slaying the Jarl's son would mean a lot of honour for his killer. His tutors would not have held back.

He pulls his head back out with a roar and shakes the water from his hair and beard.

“Ah, much better.”

We follow him, still bare-chested, across the chamber.

“I see you've been working on your honour since last we met.”

“I have.” He traces the scars with his fingertips. He seems to know each one by heart. “No one can touch me now. This honour is mine.”

“Honour is not a shield, Eirik. It's a target.”

We reach the inner door.

“I would have it no other way.”

He flexes his powerful shoulders and throws the giant double doors wide. The bedlam assaults our senses like a fist in the guts.

“Come. Father expects us.” Eirik Wagner has always been a poseur. Now he bears the scars to back it.

We step across the threshold into the hall of the mountain king.

* * *

The hall's interior is no less impressive than the exterior.

Compared to the frigid temperature of the antechamber, the great hall of Hrafnheim is an oven.

The stagnant air carries the smell of roasting meat and bad mead, and I suddenly realise how hungry I am. Hundreds upon hundreds of Goliaths line the long wooden tables, eating, drinking, and fighting. In one or two instances it looks like the fighting has gone over into more amorous groping. The Goliaths are not known for their modesty.

Like the Viking houses of old, the hall is open to the rafters a hundred metres above. Balconies and ladders line the inside of the roof. Keeping it all up are massive beams of what appears to be gnarled and polished wood, carved with giant runes. It's most likely hypercarbon sheathed in thin wood veneer. There is only one tree big enough to craft beams that large, and that's the giant ash outside. Even the Jarl of Nifelheim couldn't afford to import that amount of wood from off-world.

The social area spans almost the entire length of the building. The far ends of the hall disappear into the smoke rising from the bonfires roaring along the axis of the building. At the hall's midpoint is a raised stone dais, twenty metres long and two metres tall. A massive wooden table sits on top, with matching chairs around it. They are all occupied by important-looking Goliaths, but none look as