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

important as the grizzled warrior on the centre throne. Ragnwald Wagner, Jarl of Nifelheim and the most powerful Goliath in the world. If the Goliaths had been interested in conquest at all, he would have been the most powerful man in the universe.

No one even notices our arrival.

Except for one ancient Goliath seated next to the Jarl's high-backed chair. From the moment we walk through the door, his milky white eyes never leave us. It's impressive he can see anything at all with those eyes. For a man that should be technically blind, his gaze is uncannily clear and focused. Something that cannot be said about the other guests at the party. They are a long way down the road to Merryland.

I tap Hildr's shoulder and nod at the old man. “Who is that?”

The redhead scoffs.

“That is Geirmund the Cunning.” She leans in. “Rumour has it his father dropped him on the head when he was a baby. Made him lame on the left side.”

The old man whispers something into the Jarl's ear with both hands cupped around his mouth.

“Looks like he got better.”

“He says the gods favour him. When he was thirteen, he killed his father in revenge.”

“And his family was fine with that?”

Killing your kin in cold blood is normally frowned upon in Goliath society. Unless you have a blood debt to avenge, in which case you are more or less required to slaughter your relatives.

“No. They came to kill the boy, but he pleaded sanctuary with the priests of Odin, and they took him under their black wings. A priest is untouchable.”

“I see. Clever guy.”

“Be careful around him. He doesn't like outsiders. Especially humans.”

I make a mental note to beware of the old git as we follow Eirik between the tables. They are stacked high with food and drink, and the Goliaths are doing their best to stuff it into their mouths. It's all meat from the local fauna. There is no place for vegans on an ice world.

“This way, my friends,” Eirik calls and waves for us to hurry. “Come greet my father.”

As we pass, warriors get up to clap Eirik on the back or hug him. He's popular among the men.

Except for Hildr, all Goliaths in the hall are male. There are only a handful of Goliath women in the world, and most of them live in the breeding grounds, making little Goliaths with the Breeders. No one knows why there are so few of them. Some say the Goliaths put their girls out into the ice and let the garms take them. Many years ago, a scholar travelled to Nifelheim to study the phenomenon. They found him hanged with his own intestines from the tree outside the hall. No follow-up study was ever made. How they can still make so many little Goliaths is one of many mysteries surrounding the giants.

The Goliaths realise we're there, and silence spreads behind us like the wake of a boat. Midgets at a party mean entertainment, and I fear this joke might be on us.

“Stay sharp,” Jagr cautions. Not that we could do much if the Goliaths decided to take us out. We have no weapons.

Eirik leads us straight for the main table while he pulls his tunic back on. He stops only to bump fists with friends and punch out the occasional drunk who stumbles into his path.

Long before we reach the central table, news of our arrival has reached the ends of the hall, and the place has gone eerily quiet. Like the calm before battle, when everyone is busy coming to terms with the possibility of his imminent death.

The communicator in my ear crackles to life as we climb the stairs surrounding the central dais. It's Braden.

“I thought you'd like to know I'm picking up comms from the hall. The signature is similar to the ones we've seen before.”

“Her assessment is correct. This signature matches the previous transmissions, but less powerful.”

“Thanks, Aeryn, but Braden has this covered.”

Jagr scans the faces of the crowd. “So. Someone knows we're here. Nice catch, Braden.”

“Father,” Eirik calls as we arrive at the head table. His voice echoes through the silent hall.

Ragnwald Wagner the Allwise, Jarl of Nifelheim, replies in their strange language. “Eirik, sonur mein.” His voice is appropriately deep and gravelly.

“English, father.” Eirik gestures at us. “In honour of our esteemed guests.”

Ragnwald rises from his wooden throne and glares at us, with a large bone of meat in his hand. He's in his sixties, with an impressive grey beard and a beginning paunch, but he's still broad over the shoulders and looks fit for his age. Silver beads decorate his hair and beard.

The hall holds its breath, waiting for the horns to signal the start of the carnage.

Jarl Ragnwald chews his mighty grey-bearded jaws around a piece of meat. He swallows and throws the cleaned bone on his golden plate with a clatter before he addresses us in perfect but accented English.

“Welcome, honoured visitors, to Nifelheimr.”

He spreads his arms wide to embrace the hall. The thick golden chain of command around his neck glints in the light from the fires.

“Welcome to the House of Wagner. My food and my drink are yours. Come. Sit at my table.”

Two Goliaths across the table from the Jarl have fallen asleep. The Jarl signals to the men next to them. Without further ado, they drag the sleepers off the bench and throw them from the dais to make space for us to sit. Ragnwald sits down on his throne again and picks his teeth with a splinter of bone.

The withered Goliath I saw watching us earlier rises on shivering legs from his place at the table to stand behind his Jarl. He supports himself on a long, wooden staff as he strokes his thin beard and whispers something in Ragnwald's ear. Thick woollen scarves wrap his scrawny body, but they can't hide that he's got the worst hunchback I've ever seen. So, we have an actual bona fide evil advisor in the house.

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