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

husband. She holds my gaze with her clear, green eyes. Ragnwald doesn't notice. How can Finn not like his stepmother?

Ragnwald laughs at something Eirik just said and waves to someone in the crowd.

“Music,” he calls drunkenly. “Music.”

Three musicians climb onto the end of the dais and plug their instruments into hidden sockets under the table. It's the band from the ice-bar. Maybe they only have one band on Nifelheim?

Something is wrong because no music ensues.

“Music,” shouts Ragnwald again.

One of the band members calls something about someone called Skallagrim, and I notice the tall singer from the mead house is not here.

“Skallagrim,” calls Ragnwald. “Where are you? Where is my fucking skald?”

Like the Jarls of old, Ragnwald employs a skald to entertain his court with song and poems. Cute.

Scattered calls of “Skallagrim, Skallagrim,” grow into a steadfast chanting that goes on for some time.

“Skallagrim, where the hell are you?” Ragnwald calls again.

“Over here, my lord.”

The tall, red-haired singer comes in through a side door. His eyes are still painted black like a skull, but the big smile on his face negates the intended scare effect. “Can't a man take a piss in the snow without being hailed?” His English is perfect.

The hall roars with laughter and Ragnwald laughs with them.

“You can piss all you like, as long as you sing.”

The hall joins in a chant of “Song. Song. Song.”

I chant along with them and bang my jug on the table. “Song. Song. Song.”

“Well, you ugly sons of winter and stars, if you insist.” Skallagrim swings onto the dais and one of his band members hands him a guitar. He strums it and the chords echo through the hall from hidden speakers high on the walls. A microphone lowers from the dark ceiling on a long cord. Ragnwald whispers something to his withered advisor, and while the microphone descends, Geirmund the cunning shuffles over to the singer to whisper something in his ear. Skallagrim frowns. Then he nods, and Geirmund returns to his place at the Jarl's side. The singer grabs the microphone. He lowers his head and waits for dramatic effect. Most of the noise in the hall dies out.

“My brothers and friends. At the request of our most esteemed sovereign.”

With his head still bowed, he raises a hand to Ragnwald who nods amicably.

“First …” Skallagrim's voice drops an octave, and he looks up at his audience. “… an old poem.”

The hall falls silent. Dead silent. “It goes something like this.”

Under a Dark Sky a plague shall rise, the morning star so bright will fall

Under a Winter Sun in icy skies, a ship is found, a god will call

Under a Demon Star a general dies, the house of Usher brings the end of all

Jagr leans close to me. “That's some bleak shit right there.”

A shiver runs down my back. There's something familiar about those words. “Tell me about it.”

Jagr takes a long drink from her jug. “Is he threatening us?” She wipes her lips with her hand.

I rub my stubbled cheek. “Nah. It's just a Goliath wank fantasy if you ask me. They are always on about how the Master Race will conquer the universe and bring about the end of the world.”

Jagr looks unconvinced. “I hope you're right. I really do.”

Is Ragnwald stupid enough to threaten us? Or does he not give a shit? Who knows how he thinks? I hope Braden has the ship ready because this situation is swelling into something resembling a big-ass pear.

Skallagrim strums his guitar again.

“I think you all know this one.” He hits three rapid chords, and the crowd goes wild. It must be another old favourite. The band joins in and the hall goes into a frenzy. The song is a mess of distorted minor chords and guttural howling, but now and then the merest hint of folk harmonies shine through the noise. Just the kind of shit Goliaths get off on. Throughout the hall, head-banging giants roar along to the chorus. Too bad the song is in Norse. I recognise a word here and there, but the full meaning of the song is lost on me.

Jagr takes the chance to get down to business with Ragnwald while the Goliaths are busy.

“Lord Wagner, as you guessed, this is not merely a social call.”

Ragnwald wipes his mouth and beard with his hand. “I figured as much.”

He sets his jug down. “So, tell me, little woman. What are you doing here?”

His face is dangerously calm and composed.

“We're looking for someone.”

“And who might that be?”

“A man named Acheron. Thane Acheron. He is here at your court as an envoy from Terra.”

“Ah. Him.” Ragnwald nods sagely.

Geirmund the Cunning leans close to his master. Ragnwald listens while the old man hisses something in his ear. The Jarl turns back to Jagr with a strange smile playing across his fleshy lips. “Yes. He is here.”

Geirmund cracks a parody of a smile that is one of the creepiest things I've ever seen. He's got a mere handful of teeth in his gums, and the ones he has are rotten and ugly. I don't envy Ragnwald who has that old fucker whispering in his ear all day. That breath must stink worse than Berengar's.

“He's here?” There's sudden hope in Jagr's voice, and she squints around the hall. “Can we see him?”

“Very well.” Ragnwald waves to a servant and shouts something in Norse. Then he turns back to Jagr. “We'll get him for you.”

The music goes into a crescendo of noise, and the song ends on a horrible grating of guitars. Skallagrim's growling voice drops into the deepest tones I've ever heard from a human throat.

Ragnwald raises a hand, and the hall falls silent once more.

Heads turn to follow the returning servant as he runs between the tables with something held in one hand like a sceptre.

“Comms-spike,” Aeryn notifies me an instant before the communicator crackles in my ear.

“Another comms-spike,” Braden reports. Jagr doesn't reply. Her eyes are locked on the servant and the smile on her face freezes to ice.

The man