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

there?” I kick some fallen furniture away, keeping the rifle trained on the figure. He's a pale, thin man in his mid-twenties. Draped over his scrawny body is a grey sackcloth robe with a hood. His mousy brown hair has been hacked into a horrible bowl cut, with the sides of his head shaved clean to expose his prominent ears. That is one ugly ass hairdo.

He scrambles into a corner behind the cupboards and raises long-fingered hands before his face. The robe rides up uncomfortably high on his pale thighs. “Don't kill me. I'm a priest. I'm a man of peace.” His accent hints at Terran descent. He wears sensible shoes under the robes, and not much else. The little priest looks like a man who wouldn't dare kill himself for fear of what the neighbours would think. He will be a burden, but we can't leave him. They would slaughter him. Besides, Jagr said their contact was a priest. This might be him.

“Get up. You're coming with us.”

I grab his rough robe and pull him to his feet. “We're getting out of here.”

“Oh, praise the Lord.” He hugs me. “Praise the Lord.”

I slap him, and he falls back to the floor, holding his ear. He stares at me with tears in his eyes.

“Violence is the last refuge of the incompetent,” he whines.

“Wise words.” I move off, then stop and turn back. “Hang on. Are you calling me incompetent?”

I raise my fist to strike him again but Hildr grabs my arm.

“Later, Perez. No time for fun and games. We must go. Now.”

I glare at the priest. “Fine. Keep up or stay behind. Your choice, priest.”

He swallows his sobs and scrambles to his feet. “I was just trying to be friendly.” Hildr raises a fist as if to punch him, and he cowers in fear. Hildr leers at him and the priest makes a face. I guess they have met before.

I take a peek outside. The Raven's Hall burns, and there's fighting going on all over the grounds. It looks like Ragnwald's remaining loyalists are losing rapidly.

“Follow me.” I run out into the icy night. The snow is deep, and in places we have to wade knee-deep through the stuff. The going is slow.

We're spotted the moment we clear the monastery wall.

Five Goliaths have been standing guard outside the main entrance, and they charge as soon as they spot Finn.

I open fire a tenth of a second ahead of Wagner and Hildr and two enemy Goliaths go down. Then their pals are upon us, wielding vicious-looking short swords.

Skallagrim and his band take them on. Bearded giants fighting to the death with swords, against a backdrop of a burning stave church is a surreal sight. Unfortunately, we don't have time to admire the view.

“Come on.” I wave to Finn, Hildr and the priest to follow me and run off towards the landing pad. I'm an arsehole leaving Skallagrim and his band to do our fighting for us, but we have to get to the landing pad before our ride leaves.

“No.”

I spin around. Wagner shakes his head. “I stand with Skallagrim.” He parries a sword blow with his assault rifle and punches his opponent in the face. Blood spurts everywhere.

“We all stand with Skallagrim,” adds Hildr and ducks a wild sweep.

Damn it. Damn the Goliaths to hell.

I turn back and join the fight.

You Will Come To Regret Saving Him

One musician takes a sword through the neck and gore splatters the snow. The blood steams briefly in the frosty night before the vapour dissipates along with the musician's life.

An enemy Goliath swings at Wagner's back and I put a burst through his head. The Goliath drops. Then my rifle goes click and I'm out of ammo.

“I'm out,” I call and throw my rifle in the snow. I pull my pistol and rack the slide.

One musician grunts something to Skallagrim as he grinds swords with his opponent. It's man against man, and an artist is no match for a seasoned fighter. The enemy Goliath forces the tip of his sword closer and closer to the musician's eye. Skallagrim stumbles through the deep snow to reach them, but he won't make it there in time.

I fire three quick rounds at the enemy, but with the snow and the dark and the chaos, I can't tell if they find their mark. Handgun ammunition is mostly useless against Goliaths, anyway.

A howl splits the night as the icy steel slowly pierces the musician's eyeball. The enemy Goliath throws his long black hair back and roars in triumph as he pushes the blade into the artist's skull. We're losing this fight.

Skallagrim reaches the pair. He swings his sword in a wide arc and severs the head of the black-haired enemy from his shoulders. Only a few seconds too late to save his friend's life.

Another group of Goliaths charge out of the night. We're now outnumbered two to one.

“We've got company,” I call. “Time to go.”

One of the approaching Goliaths has a rifle, and he opens fire.

The one remaining musician takes a large calibre round through his sword arm and his weapon drops point down in the snow.

He says something to Skallagrim, who leans in and puts his forehead to that of his wounded friend. The musician grits his teeth in pain. “Am nacht in Valhalla.” Even I understood that one. See you tonight in Valhalla.

Skallagrim turns his back on his friend. “Follow me.” He stomps off through the snow toward the airfield. Finn picks up a sword from the ground. You can't accuse Goliaths of being sentimental.

As we run off after Skallagrim, I glance back. The wounded musician bends down to pick up his sword with his good left hand. His useless arm gushes blood onto the snow. Then the attackers are on him, and he goes down under the onslaught.

Unfortunately, he sacrificed himself for nothing.

As I reach the corner of another building, a group of heavily armed Goliaths spot me. I duck back behind the building as they open