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

climbs the stairs to the dais, and I realise what's in his hand. It's a human head, impaled on a short Goliath battle spear.

The broad iron tip has cracked the skull like an egg, and the vile thing is discoloured and bloated. Both eyes and many teeth are missing. The injuries appear to be inflicted ante mortem. The poor man died hard.

Ragnwald takes the spear from the servant and sets the butt against the floor next to his colossal boot. He leans back on his throne. “Here he is. What did you want with him?”

The severed head stares at the ceiling with its empty sockets. Everyone holds their breath.

The rage creeping across Jagr's face is terrible to behold. Even more terrible is the way she reins it in and renders her features blank again.

“What is the meaning of this?” she asks.

“We caught him spying. On your orders, I presume.” Ragnwald leans across the table, staring at Jagr. Mead drips from the points of his moustache.

I glance around the hall, searching for an exit.

There is none.

Goliaths in heavy leather armour pour onto the second level balconies on both sides of the hall. They carry heavy assault rifles.

We're fucked.

Jagr grinds her teeth but pushes on. “Do you realise what you've done?”

You've got to admire her balls.

Ragnwald laughs. “What I have done?”

His deep voice is deadly calm. “You sent a spy to my court. My court. Like I am a simple enemy.”

“I don't have to remind you that Nifelheim has sworn allegiance to Earth.”

“We bow to no man.” Ragnwald shakes his great shaggy head.

Jagr cracks a thin, cold smile. “I am no man.”

Ooh, classic comeback.

“No, you are not. You are a fucking cunt.” Ragnwald reaches across the table and grabs Jagr by the throat with one hand and lifts her high into the air.

We're frozen in place, unable to look away as if watching a car crash in slow-motion. Jagr will die, we will all die with her, and there is not a thing we can do about it.

Ragnwald holds her a metre off the ground and crushes her windpipe, one-handed. Jagr kicks and claws at his arm, trying to reach his face, but his arm is too long. The Jarl wields the spear with the severed head in his other hand. Even from my seat, I can hear the bones in Jagr's neck crack as he raises her towards the rafters.

Her face turns red with the blood pressed into her head. “Fuck … you.” The light goes out in her eyes.

Ragnwald roars and moves to throw her to the floor to break her back, but then he freezes. A broad knife-tip slides out a foot from his chest, spilling blood down the front of his tunic.

The Jarl studies the bloody steel in silence for a while. “Ach, I know that blade,” he coughs as blood bubbles from his lips. Jagr tumbles from his grip and falls lifeless on the table. Plates and bowls crash to the floor.

A mighty arm reaches around Ragnwald's throat and the knife retracts from his chest, only to reappear again and again. Jarl Ragnwald Wagner thrashes against the arm holding him in place, and we're showered in his warm blood. The Goliath chieftain is powerless as the strength flows from his body with each beat of his mighty heart.

The Jarl's legs buckle, and he drops to his knees in front of his throne.

“Give my regards to Odin, father.”

Behind the dying Jarl, Eirik the Fair lifts the heavy gold chain from around his father's neck. He raises it to the roof and roars in triumph as the hall erupts into chaos. Berengar the defiler stands at Eirik's side and roars with him. Behind them both, Geirmund the Cunning shuffles forward. He rubs his withered old hands around his staff with glee and grimaces toothlessly at the crowd. The gem on his staff glows an eerie blue. I told you so.

“The time has come for the sons of Odin to rise,” Eirik calls to the hall, his voice deep. “Tonight, we will sacrifice as our ancestors did. White Christ will tremble in fear before us.”

He lowers the gold chain around his neck, and I've got to admit the bastard never looked better. Power becomes him.

Geirmund raises his thin arms and calls to the rafters in his bubbly old voice. “Odin himself has told me it will be so.” The old man is not only evil. He's a melodramatic bastard at that. I fucking hate him.

A roaring cheer echoes through the hall from Eirik's faithful, while Ragnwald's supporters charge the dais. They jump over chairs and scramble over tables to reach their dying Jarl. In their hands are knives, forks, jugs, and anything else that will serve as makeshift weapons.

Jagr has recovered and coughs and retches as she rubs her sore throat. Soledad drags her off the table.

Eirik stands over his dying father and points the bloody knife at the approaching mob. Those guns were never meant for us.

A deafening roar drowns out the howls of the charging Goliaths as the gunmen on the balconies open fire. Their aim is true, and the slaughter is grim and methodical, but still Ragnwald's men seek to reach their Jarl. The myth of Valhalla inspires some badass final stand heroics.

Why are we still alive?

I glance at Eirik. He nods to Jagr. She glares at him in disbelief.

Now the mechs in the grounds outside make perfect sense. The alleged coup of a no-name warlord was merely an excuse for Eirik to bring his troops into the compound. He saw a chance to get rid of his father and secure Terran support in one quick slip of a knife. Impressive thinking for a Goliath. But then, he was always an opportunist.

Eirik calls to Jagr over the chaos in the hall. “It is done. I have honoured our deal. Now it's your turn.”

“What the fuck have you done, Eirik?”

A look of uncertainty flashes over Eirik's handsome face. “You told me to handle my father. I did.”

All around