Under A Winter Sun Johan Dahlgren (digital e reader .txt) 📖

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