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

old Goliath is rare as an amicable divorce. Their harsh living conditions and penchant for violence make sure Goliaths seldom live beyond the age of fifty. If they do, the ättestupa is the preferred way to go. The Goliaths prefer to build their settlements near a tall, vertical cliff. If against all odds, a Goliath grows to old age, he walks alone to that cliff and jumps to his death with a smile on his face, knowing he will jump straight into a seat at Odin's table in Valhalla. Like most Goliath customs, it's all about efficiency. It saves the community from having to feed a useless mouth, and the old warrior gets to meet his friends. A win-win situation for everyone. Ragnwald's father jumped a few years ago, and I heard it was a merry occasion. I guess nobody liked the bastard. The fact the real Vikings did nothing of this sort doesn't faze the Goliaths. They're in love with the idea. Goliath settlements that don't have a suitable cliff nearby use an ätteklubba instead. It's a heavy mallet, but the general principle is the same.

Eirik takes the advisor's vacated seat at his father's side. Berengar has returned from whatever errand Eirik sent him on earlier and sits next to his lord. The faithful dog, always at his master's side.

The giant redhead walks up to the Jarl and embraces him.

“Maken mein” She gives him a deep kiss. I can tell there's tongue.

She peers at me around the Jarl's bushy hair with a mischievous glint in her eyes. She even winks at me. What the hell?

I glance behind me to make sure she's not looking at someone else. She's not.

The others do not seem to have noticed the wink. The redhead sits down at the Jarl's side and drinks deep from his mead.

Jagr bows her head to Ragnwald. “We thank you, lord Ragnwald, for your hospitality.”

Ragnwald dips his head a fraction of an inch and waves at the vacated bench across from him.

Jagr sits. “I bring the greetings of Terra and the Commonwealth government. We are honoured to be your guests, and we are honoured to eat and drink of your precious food.”

Soledad and I sit on the bench on each side of Jagr. I end up in front of the redhead.

“Welcome all.” Ragnwald nods at us. “I see you have met my wife, Hildr.”

His wife? That is Finn's stepmother? The Jarl is a lucky man.

“This is Hrym Steadfast, my steersman.” He points to the older, grey-haired Goliath next to me.

Hrym has a neatly trimmed grey beard and nods in greeting. I nod in reply. There is something likeable about him. Like a favourite uncle. I wonder what he steers?

“And this is Geirmund, my advisor, who served my father before me and his father before that.” Ragnwald stabs a thumb at the old man hovering behind the throne. That means the old bastard must be at least a hundred and fifty years old.

The withered Goliath squints at us while he fondles his long, gnarled wooden staff. There's a blue gem set on the end, held in place by twisted roots. A hundred credits say that stone can glow. He bows to us.

“I am Geirmund the Cunning.” His voice sounds like a bubbling mud geyser. “Like my ancestors before me, I speak to Odin through Mimr the Wise, his messenger. The All-Father bids you welcome and gives you his peace at this table.”

The old man's milky gaze seems to linger on me longer than the others, but that could be my ego talking.

Jagr dips her head. “Thank you.”

Anyone who calls himself the Cunning is, by definition, a wanker.

Ragnwald goes on. “What brings such honoured guests to my table?”

Jagr looks him in the eye without blinking. “Why not save the business for later, Jarl Ragnwald? Let us enjoy this magnificent feast. I'm starving.”

The Jarl sucks his teeth while he thinks. There's a hard-to-read expression on his bearded face. The hunchback whispers in his master's ear again, and the Jarl's face relaxes.

“Yes, let us eat and drink. We will talk later.”

Eirik stands and calls for silence. The hall was almost silent, anyway, but still.

“Let us raise a toast to our honoured guests.”

Everyone who can still stand rises too and Eirik goes on in the Goliath tongue. The Goliaths laugh and raise their jugs. They shout “Skål” and bang their glasses together. We do likewise and drink when Ragnwald drinks. The noise of conversation and singing returns to the hall, and I sit back down with a sigh of relief.

I find the best way to make new friends is to eat and drink with them.

It never fails.

I Know That Blade

The Goliaths may be brutal, vindictive bastards, but they know how to throw a party.

The night flies as we drink and dine with the giants, and as the beer flows, Hildr becomes more and more beautiful. She sits hugging the Jarl, but more often than not, I catch her looking at me. When she's not suspiciously eyeing Eirik.

What the hell is she playing at?

The food is good, the drink is potent and Ragnwald is deep in conversation with Jagr. To break the ice and sound the waters underneath, I reach across the table to touch jugs with Hildr. She taps my jug and drinks deep. Then she rests her elbows on the table and leans close.

“Anything I can do for you, little man.”

I reach out and gather a handful of her curly red hair in my hand. It's thick and soft and smells of weapon grease and something else I can't place. It's not an unpleasant smell. “Is red your natural colour?” The gold beads clink between my fingers.

She gives me a mischievous smile and replies in a husky whisper. “Well, there's only one way to find out, isn't there?” She lies back against Ragnwald and spreads her knees a little under her fur-trimmed leather skirt. When I lean in for a better look, she closes her knees again and cuddles up to her giant