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

into the ship. The frigid air bites my lungs and I hurry to pull up the hood of my anorak and loop the smelly scarf around my face. The coarse wool does nothing to protect me from the internal chill spreading through my bloodstream when I realise what makes me so ill at ease about the mechs.

Strategy is not my forte, but if Eirik was expecting an attack, shouldn't they be outside the wall?

If I were a roguish smuggler in an ancient space adventure feed, I'd say 'I have a bad feeling about this.'

I wish I were. I've always wanted to say that, and this seems like a splendid time to say it.

Into The Hall of the Mountain King

Eirik and his Goliath posse are first down the ramp. Jagr holds our team back and turns to Braden.

“Stay with the ship, Braden. Keep the engines on standby. We might need to leave in a hurry if things go pear-shaped.”

“When things go pear-shaped,” Braden corrects her.

“If things go pear-shaped.”

Jagr sounds convinced pear-shaped is not a given. I'm not so sure. “We'll be fine. The ship is just a precaution.”

I wince. Don't jinx it, Jagr.

Heavy thumps echo between the buildings outside. The whirr of powerful servos accompany the thumps, and two of the heavy battleframes lumber onto the landing pad and come to rest facing the Sundowner.

Jagr swears under her breath. “Can you keep the close defence weaponry on standby without it being too obvious?”

“No problems boss. Give me the word and I'll level this place.”

I admire Braden's faith in her ship, but she has never seen how much hurt a Goliath battle mech can take before going down. Or how much hurt it can dish out.

“If the mechs come, take out the legs first,” I say. “They can still fire back, but they won't be able to manoeuvre, and that's their weakness. It takes a lot of concentrated fire to disable a Sentinel. If it can't move, that makes your job so much easier.”

“Thanks for the tip, Perez, but the Sundowner can take care of herself.” Braden pats the hull of her ship, but she's not her usual confident self. She can see those mechs too. They are mean-looking machines.

“When we get down on the ground, you leave the talking to me,” Jagr says, addressing everyone but scowling at me. “We have to be careful around these people. OK, let's go.”

We follow Eirik and his soldiers down the ramp.

I take a moment to admire the scenery. The storm has passed, and a single frozen sun glares from an iron sky. To the south is nothing but snowy mountains as far as the eye can see. To the north stands the Raven's Home. Far below the landing pad, a single road winds from the rampart gate down into the valley below. Hundreds of Goliath dwellings surround us. Built like dark Viking longhouses and covered in snow, they resemble so many overturned boats. Which is the whole point, I guess. I've never understood why the Goliaths bother with the Norse imagery. The Goliaths are no more Norse than my ass.

Though impressive in their own right, the longhouses are nothing compared to the fortress of Jarl Ragnwald Wagner. The Hall is even more impressive up close. It stands over a hundred metres high, spans two hundred metres and dwarfs all other buildings on the planet. The great gnarled ash Yggdrasil stands in front of the building like a giant troll. I assume the idea is to awe Goliaths when they approach their king. To us of mere human stature, it's breathtaking.

“This way, little ones,” Eirik calls as he waves Berengar and the twins off on some unknown errand. “My father will be dying to meet you.”

We follow him and the red-haired woman across the frosty concrete landing pad. Light snow blows across the surface.

Vicious-looking anti-aircraft weaponry sprout from the bunker-tops like weird plants. Trying to set a ship down here without clearance would be suicide. Goliaths in heavy fur cloaks idle around the landing area, glowering at us under bushy brows. We're not welcome here, but they respect Eirik enough to let us be. For now.

Eirik leads us between the mechs, and Soledad can't help staring. I don't blame her. Those battleframes are ridiculously cool. They stand over three metres tall, are fashioned out of white ceramics, black hypercarbon, and grey titanium, and weigh at least two tonnes each. They are vaguely humanoid but much too wide, and the legs have one joint too many. Where the lower arms would have been are two heavy autocannons. On each shoulder sits a rocket launcher. No one knows where the Goliaths got their mechs. Who would be foolish enough to provide already dangerous giants with even more strength and firepower? I guess it's another example of money speaking louder than reason and self-preservation. I hope Braden's confidence in the Sundowner wasn't all bravado. If something goes wrong, and Braden has to shoot her way out of here, these are the ones who will shoot back.

I can't suppress a shiver as we leave them behind and enter the dark streets of the town. The gloomy houses stand almost shoulder to shoulder, with narrow, shady alleys between. Every corner and crevice is filled with dirty snow and everything smells of rubbish. Beams and wires run between the buildings, supporting large sheets of torn cloth to offer shelter from the harsh elements. The street is lined with frowning giants come to glare with disdain at their foreign visitors. Nifelheim is not a place for the weak of spirit.

I wave to the gawkers as we pass. An old, grizzled Goliaths hawks and spits in the snow. I smile at him, and he pulls a fat thumb across his beard, in roughly the area where his throat should be. The implications are clear. When Eirik looks away, we're dead.

“No sudden moves,” Jagr cautions. “Nice and easy does it.”

“As the girl said.”

My attempt at humour to ease the tension fails miserably. No one