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

“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