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

stories about putting baby girls out into the ice were just lies to cover an even greater atrocity.

Tyrus joins me at the railing. “Twenty thousand newborn Goliaths every year. That would make one hell of an army.”

He almost sounds impressed. He turns to Soledad. “How long have they been doing this?”

She steps back into the room and taps commands on a console. “Here's a list of births that goes back at least twenty years.”

“So they could hide close to half a million Goliath warriors down here.” There's awe in Tyrus' voice.

With that army, the Goliaths will conquer the universe.

“Alright. We've seen what we need to see here.”

He enters the room again and heads for the exit. “Let's see what other surprises wait below.”

He almost sounds excited. I can't blame him. This is high adventure stuff. The kind they made horror feeds about when I grew up. As I recall, the first people to die in those feeds were the ones who just had sex.

Hildr and I are so fucked.

* * *

I lose count of the doors we pass on our way down the tunnel. Eventually, the floor levels out, and the ceiling rises. The chanting is much louder and there's a steady vibration in the ground, like thousands of feet stamping in unison. Who knew the Goliaths possessed a sense of rhythm?

The main tunnel continues down another floor, then stops at a great gate. A wide passage leads off to the side from the platform we're on. The noise is louder from there.

I wave the others into the passage. With every step, the chanting grows louder.

“Careful. We're close.” Soledad states the obvious.

“No shit, Soledad? You think so?” I whisper through clenched teeth.

“Cut it out,” Jagr whispers. Then we see where the chanting comes from, and we all fall silent.

We've come out on a balcony overlooking an immense cavern. It's at least two hundred metres wide and twice as long. The ceiling is arched like a cathedral. We must be directly below the shaft of the incubation facility.

Below us on the main floor is the largest gathering of Goliaths I've ever seen. They stand shoulder to shoulder, filling the hall. There must a hundred thousand of them, standing at silent attention. Now and then, one of the Goliaths jerks, like he tries to wrestle an invisible opponent. They all fail and return to attention.

Their number is not the scariest part. What gets to me is their perfect order and the synchronisation of their chanting. It's like clockwork. Goliaths do nothing well except kill. Whoever whipped them to this level of discipline must be one bad motherfucker.

At the far end of the chamber is a raised dais, like a stage. Even at this distance, it's hard to miss who stands at the centre. Our old friend Geirmund the Cunning.

I zoom in with the scope on my rifle and have a closer look. Next to Geirmund is a large hi-tech container of outlandish design, and a tall black-haired Goliath kneels before him, facing the crowd.

It's Hrym the steersman.

Now I know what he steers.

Eirik Wagner stands next to Geirmund.

“So, this is where everyone is.” Soledad stating the obvious again. I swear, if she does that again, I'll punch her teeth in.

“What are they doing?” Jagr asks, and Tyrus takes out a pair of high-end binoculars from a compartment in his dropsuit.

“No idea. But we will soon find out.”

The Goliaths fall hushed as one. The silence rings like a fart at a wake after the loud chanting, and the stillness even more disconcerting.

Geirmund calls out in Norse, and his old crow's voice echoes around the chamber.

I've known Wagner for twenty years and all I've learnt in their language are swearwords and the odd saucy come-on line. Why are those always the first things we learn in a strange language?

“Hildr, what's he saying?”

She leans close. The shoulders of our armoured suits touch and I can smell her body. She smells of sweat, adrenaline and hypercarbon. It's not an unbecoming mix.

“ 'Behold Hrym, the Steersman. Behold his sacrifice.' ”

Geirmund pulls a long knife from his robes and plunges it deep into the side of Hrym's neck. The look of surprise on Hrym's likeable face would be funny in any other situation. He tries to get to his feet, but Eirik plants a hand on his shoulder and holds him down. Blood pools around the old Goliath and Geirmund calls out again.

Hildr translates. “ 'We need no steersman on this trip.' ”

Geirmund raises his staff high in the air, and the gem bursts into blue light, momentarily blinding me before my visual dampeners kick in.

A deep, sonorous voice fills the hall.

“ 'I am Naglfar. Ride with me,' ” Hildr translates.

Hrym tips forward on his face and lies still in the widening pool of blood.

The bubbly voice of Geirmund pitches into a scream, and he throws his arms into the air. “Hell, Naglfar.”

That needs no translation.

The assembled Goliaths chant as one. “Naglfar. Naglfar. Naglfar.”

Eirik steps forward and addresses the assembled horde.

Hildr translates. “ 'Sons of winter and stars, our time has come. Odin has called us to claim our rightful place as rulers of Midgard. The wine of the ravens will flow, and the river of swords will wash Midgard clean. You have all joined the brotherhood. Now I will join you, and you will follow me aboard the Naglfar to Elysium. And then to Earth.' ” The Goliaths roar in triumph.

Jagr leans close. “And you thought this was just another Goliath wank fantasy?”

“Goliaths wank to shit like this all the time. What's the Naglfar, Hildr? It sounds bad.”

“It is,” Hildr replies. “Naglfar is the longship of Hel, built from the uncut nails of men who do not die on the battlefield. It will carry the army of the dead into battle with the gods at Ragnarök.”

“Yeah,” I nod, “that is bad.”

“No shit.” Jagr looks at me. “What can we do?”

“Against that lot?”

I jerk a thumb at the assembled Goliaths. “Jack shit.”

“Like hell,” Tyrus says and lowers the binoculars. “I've dealt with worse.”

“Oh, yeah, like what?”