Under A Winter Sun, page 9
“Right people. There's a miner's pub on the beach. That's where we'll meet our contact. I've not spoken to him myself, but Command informs me he is trustworthy.”
Command, huh? That's the first time I've heard anyone mention the people in charge. I hope they're not as incompetent as people in command usually are. You don't want to mess up when you're around Goliaths.
“Braden, lower the ramp.”
Braden taps a command on her wrist terminal and the Sundowner lowers her tail ramp, letting in the icy chill of Nifelheim. After the recycled air on the Sundowner, the air smells fresh. Crisp.
It freezes the small hairs in my nose to ice in seconds and the first few breaths are painful as hell.
Jagr stands to the side and watches her small team disembark. I sidle up to her.
“Who's this contact of yours? Is he army?”
“No.”
“Navy?”
“No.”
“Special ops?”
“Nope.”
“So, who is he?”
“He's a priest.”
Jagr walks down the ramp, leaving me behind with my mouth hanging open.
“He's a what?” I hurry after her, trying to reconcile myself with this fresh piece of information.
“He's a Christian missionary,” she says without looking at me, “sent here by the church to baptise the heathens.”
“Well, that usually turns out well.”
“The Jarl has taken an interest in Christianity. He requested a priest. We recruited the priest to our cause. Beggars can't be choosers, Perez. We take what we can get.” Is she talking about the priest? Or me?
“Do you trust this priest?”
“Only as far as I can throw him.” She pulls down the shaded snow goggles over her eyes. “But he's all we've got.”
Great.
We've landed twenty kilometres from the space needle construction site. The hypercarbon spire is visible far out to sea, where it stretches from the immense raft it's anchored to, all the way into low orbit. It hangs from the satellite that will become the Nifelheim spaceport. Construction vehicles travel up and down the thick cable, transporting workers and supplies. It's the second greatest construction project in the system, after the particle accelerator in the rings of Avalon.
In the sky beyond the needle, the gas giant Nirvana looms like an evil presence in the icy sky. A thunderstorm rages across the face of the planet. It's beautiful.
This mission is so doomed.
Do We Know Him?
The miners' pub is a squat building set against a gloomy cliff between giant blocks of dirty ice. Its walls are made of ice, and the roof of crude iron sheets. A deep layer of snow covers everything, and if you didn't know it was there, you could miss it altogether. A handful of mining vehicles are parked outside, but apart from them, there's not much to show the place is inhabited.
As we walk closer, the muffled sound of voices trickles from inside.
The thermometer on my terminal says it's thirty degrees below freezing, but it feels much colder thanks to a light wind. The sky is still clear, but ominous clouds are drawing in from the west. We'd better get inside before the bad weather hits.
Jagr opens the door and the voices inside fall silent.
The pub is full of bearded giants.
Except for their size, these Goliaths would not have raised any eyebrows at the Viking court of Harald Hardrada. They all stand over two metres tall, and they are almost as wide in their heavy clothing. They all wear cloaks made of long white garm fur. The garm is Nifelheim's apex predator, named after the dog that guards the entrance to Hel in Norse mythology. When a Goliath is fifteen years old, he goes off into the icy wilderness to kill one. Then he makes a cloak out of it and wears it all his life. Those cloaks smell as bad as you think, and the atmosphere in the pub is pungent.
There is a bar made of rough concrete, a dozen metal tables and a score of rusted iron chairs and stools. Everything is slightly too large in here, and I feel like I'm six years old again. The chairs and benches are covered with furs. Not garm fur, but a darker, scraggly kind. A huge gas fire burns in one corner.
Our contact is not here. Everyone in the bar is a Goliath and not one of them appears to be a Christian priest.
“Where's our man?” I whisper to Jagr, trying to work my frozen lips.
“How the fuck should I know.” She peers around the place. “Don't worry. He'll be here.”
The Goliaths eye us with mild disinterest like we're nothing more than annoying bugs. They respect only brute strength, and they do not see us as a threat. If only they knew. I could arm wrestle every man in here and win, and so could the girls. If the Goliaths knew that, they would stand in line to try us on, and we don't have time for that.
There's not much else we can do but go to the bar.
The Goliaths follow us with pale, deep-set eyes under bushy eyebrows. One giant elbows another and grunts something with a hoarse laugh. I catch the word “draugr”, which means some kind of ghost. The elbowed Goliath swears and punches his companion's arm. Ghosts? What's going on here?
Jagr slaps her hand on the bar. “Beer.” Even indoors the temperature is close to freezing and her breath steams around her face.
The bartender is a fat, older Goliath with hair and beard like a thatched roof. “No beer. Only mead,” the Goliath barman says in a gravelly voice and jerks his head at the short, handwritten list of beverages available. There are two options. Both with names that sound like clearing your throat.
“Mead is fine. I'll take the strongest one you have.” Jagr flashes the barman a bright smile.
He shrugs and gets a large ceramic jug from behind the bar and cleans it with a dirty towel. I'm surprised he doesn't spit in it first. He pours her drink from a frost-covered stainless steel vat standing on the bar. They don't have any problems keeping their beverages chilled on Nifelheim.
I let my gaze wander around the place and notice a Goliath woman sitting alone in the far corner. She studies us with pale green eyes from under her fur-lined hooded cloak. Hair as red as blood falls in curling waves over her broad fur-covered shoulders and ample bosom. Gold beads glint between the strands. The Goliaths may be the most racist and bigoted people in the universe, but at least you can't accuse them of looking down at women. As long as they can fight, women are regarded as highly as men and are welcome to drink and brawl with the best of them. And these days, with the current shortage of Goliath women, they have gained an almost godlike status.
She's not exactly good-looking, but there's something strangely attractive about her. I grin at her. She laughs and takes a drink from her jug.
The barman hands Jagr her drink, and she takes a quick gulp without even smelling it first. A wise move. Goliath mead is infamous for its potency and horrible taste. Much like the Goliaths themselves.
“Quality stuff.” Jagr tips her head back and drinks the whole jug in one go. The yeasty mead spills from her mouth and runs down her chin, her soft neck and down into her anorak. I can't help but imagine it running on downwards …
Jagr slams the ceramic jug on the concrete bar top and rudely interrupts my train of thought. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and gives a burp.
The silence in the bar is almost tangible.
Then the Goliaths scowl at each other, shake their heads and interrupted conversations pick up again. They speak a mixture of modulated Scandinavian and guttural German, a language both harsh and beautiful like their icy home planet. We're all but forgotten.
Way to go, Jagr. Ignorance is about as much recognition as you will ever get from a Goliath.
“Same for us.” I signal to the barman, and he pours another three jugs and hands them over.
“That will be eighty crowns,” he says.
Shit. I forgot they still use physical money on Nifelheim. Some consider that quaint. I consider it a pain in the ass since I don't have any.
“Give me a second, big guy.” I hold a finger up to the barman. “Just going to find my leather purse of silver.”
I turn to the women.
“Does anyone have any money?” Soledad shakes her head with a smirk on her face, no doubt hoping I'm about to get my ass kicked into next Tuesday. Braden shakes her head, as does Jagr.
“Shit,” I swear under my breath.
“Money. Now.” The bartender looks like a rising thundercloud crossed with a haystack.
“How about we sing you a song for the mead?” I try. Goliaths are famous for their love of a good story told in song, and I hope the barman is a sucker for it.
“No song. Money. Now.”
Oh, well.
“All right, all right. I'll get you the money. Relax, man.”
“Or you will be sorry.”
Something in his face tells me he looks forward to making me sorry.
Perhaps I could borrow coins from the redhead in the corner?
There's a crash as the door slams open, and we all turn around to see who the new arrival is. I hope it's our contact, come to pick us up and pay our bills.
It's not.
First through the door is the largest Goliath I've ever seen. His enormous head sweeps the room like a wolf smelling wounded prey. He swipes the hood from his head to uncover a short, grey-speckled mohawk. The rest of his head is shaved clean and covered in dark swirling tattoos. He unwinds the long scarf covering his face. Underneath is a wide, ugly mouth with fleshy lips and a short grey pointed beard. A pair of wide scars run down the left side of his face. If I'm not mistaken, Finn gave him those scars. “Shit.”
“What?” Jagr leans close. “Do we know him?” she asks as two more Goliaths, almost as large, enter in a cloud of snow and ice.
They unwind their scarves and shake their heads to clear the snow from their thick beards and long black hair. They are mirror images of each other, except for different facial scars. All three newcomers wear studded black leather armour over their white fur coats, and they carry heavy iron swords at their sides. Hypercarbon has better durability and strength, but when damage is your aim, you can't beat cold, hard steel. These guys mean business.
They head straight for the bar.
“Yes, we know him. That,” I nod at the giant in the middle, “is Berengar the Defiler.”
A moment later the full importance of my words registers. “Shit.”
I nod. “Indeed.”
“Who are the other two?”
“Ulf and Varg Gulbrandsen. The Wolf twins. This is bad.”
We edge out of their way.
The barman seems to have forgotten the money I owe him. Berengar the Defiler has that effect on people.
The newcomers don't even glance our way as they march up to the bar, which is odd. Even if Goliaths don't give a shit about humans, our being here should at least cause some mild curiosity. Something is going on here.
“Mead,” Berengar says and slaps his massive slab of a palm on the bar with a resounding boom. The barman hurries to comply. Why is Berengar speaking English?
“This is not a coincidence,” I whisper to Jagr as we move towards an empty table close to the door. “If Berengar is here, your priest talked. We've been compromised.”
“Shit,” Jagr whispers again and slides into a chair.
Berengar waits in silence for the barman to pour his drink. Then he grabs the jug, tilts it back and swallows the contents down in one go. “Another.” He slaps the jug back down on the bar, splashing mead all over himself and the barman. The place is once again silent like a tomb.
When Berengar gets his second drink, he takes a long swallow and turns around. He leans his massive elbows on the bar and surveys the silent crowd. The temperature has dropped several degrees in the pub.
He wipes the mead from his beard with a grubby hand.
“So, what goes on here?” He speaks in heavily accented English. “Has this become children's bar?”
He waves in our direction with his jug and scowls at the other Goliaths with a wide smile plastered across his broad, ugly face. He looks pleased with himself at the witty banter.
“Ignore him,” I advise Jagr. “Let me handle this.”
“Be my guest.”
We sip our drinks. The mead is a yeasty brew, but there's no denying its potency. My tongue goes numb after a few sips.
I've got to admire the girls' composure. They could be having tea in a fucking boudoir from the looks of them. But then, they have never been around Goliaths. They don't understand the danger we're in.
“What, children don't talk to adult?” Berengar's voice rumbles around the bar. The Wolf twins scoff. No one else says a word.
The Defiler pushes off from the bar and saunters over to our table.
“I said, children don't talk?” He towers over us.
“Yes, we talk,” I respond, taking another sip of the vile mead while I peer out a small window. Goliaths are like dogs. Never look them in the eye unless you want a fight on your hands.
It's getting worse out there. The wind is picking up again, and snow swirls from the iron sky. It's getting worse in here too.
“Good. Children talk.” The corners of his mouth rise in a satisfied grin. “I like children. Children funny. Say something funny.” He takes another swig from his jug.
“We don't want any trouble, big man. We're from the Gleipnir construction site. Just here for a drink.”
“Gleipnir is fifty kilometres away. Long way for drink.”
Perceptive, I'll give him that.
“You came in ship on ice?” He waves his jug at the window, spilling mead over the table and us.
“Yes, that is our ship.” I stare deep into my jug, refusing to meet his gaze.
“Nice ship.” He nods sagely. “Not for construction. Why you here?”
He pulls up one of the heavy chairs, swings it around backwards and sits down between me and Jagr.
A back door opens and five more Goliaths in long black hooded cloaks enter. One of them is half a head taller than the others but thinner. They carry heavy-looking cases.
I don't like this. Not one bit.
It gets even worse. One of the Wolf twins closes the door behind him and locks it. We're trapped.
“I told you, big man. All we want is a quiet drink.”
“You not workers. Why you here on Nifelheimr?” Berengar presses on.
I don't think he recognises me. No wonder. It was over twenty years ago our paths crossed. And I wore another face the last time we met. My face.
“Look. We don't want our boss to know we went for a drink on the job, OK?”
The cloaked newcomers at the back open their cases. This mess is about to get ugly.
“We not want your kind here,” Berengar says, pushing his massive, ugly face in mine. I can smell the yeast from the mead. He's close enough for me to see the damp curls in his beard flutter as he breathes. I wish he'd stop that. His breath stinks like a slaughterhouse. No wonder. There are bits of old meat between his yellowed teeth.
I nod. “But here we are. We'll finish our drinks, and then we'll be on our way, Berengar.”
The defiler leans back. Thank the powers that be for that. That breath was killing me.
“So. You know my name.” He takes another drink from his mead. The foam sticks to his moustache, and he wipes it away with his sleeve. “What is your name, little one?”
I weigh my options.
Why was Berengar sent here? And by whom? Do they already know who we are and why we are here? I dangle a little lure in front of his ugly face. “Perez.”
“First name?”
“Asher. Why?”
He shines up and points a meaty finger at my face.
“I know you.”
There's dirt under his broad fingernail. Or dried blood. A dangerous smile creeps across his face.
“Your drink is finished,” he announces and knocks the jug from my hand.
It goes clattering across the floor, spraying mead all over the place. The jug ends up against the heavy, furry boot of the tallest of the cloaked newcomers. I glance up as he plugs a thick cord into what I first take to be a giant double axe. Then I realise it's an electric guitar.
What? They are a fucking band?
“Hey, I was enjoying that mead.” I lick the spill from my fingers.
“A named man of the little people.” Berengar sounds genuinely pleased. “So there will be honour in killing you.”
Still seated, he unbuckles his belt and lets it drop to the floor behind him. The sword, as long and wide as my leg, thumps to the frozen dirt.
“Your name will live forever through Berengar's legend.”
The most important thing in life for a Goliath is his legend. You grow your legend by killing people and destroying things, and you shrink it by being defeated. You don't necessarily lose legend by dying. A good death can boost your legend and those of your nearest relatives and friends. Whoever thought up this system was a genius. It has bred a race of perfect warriors. No one knows how they keep count of their legends.
Berengar unties his leather armour. There are more points in killing a man if you do it both unarmed and unprotected.
The tall bandleader with the guitar crushes my jug under his heavy boot. Then he throws back his black hood to expose a thin, tattooed face with a red beard and short-cropped red hair. He has blackened his eye sockets to make his face resemble a skull. He roars and strums the first chord of what must be a popular Goliath song. The small crowd cheers in answer and the Goliaths raise their jugs to the roof.
Berengar nods his approval. “Good song to die to.”
He stands up and his chair and our table fall over, sending jugs and immortal commando girls flying. The band members throw back their hoods to reveal long hairy ears sticking up through their black hair. I'm too far away to tell if they're prosthetics or actual body-mods, but I'd put my money on the latter. They wield an unholy arsenal of guitars, violins, flutes, and drums and go into frenzied overdrive on their instruments. The wall of sound hits almost as hard as Berengar's fist when he punches me in the face. The blow lifts me off my feet and sends me crashing into another table that falls over and spills drinks and food over the grizzled old Goliath sitting there. He snarls a curse and pushes me back at Berengar. I spit pieces of broken teeth on the floor and face the Defiler.
