Kætil I: Jotun and Man, Mortal Both
The Sixth Day of the Third Moon, 873 AD.
Dyfed's Warcamp, Hoarsoil Valleys, Scelopyrea.
The world north of the Einar was broken.
Some called statements like that defeatist or pessimistic. Kætil knew it as the truth. Winters were growing longer, summers were growing shorter, and the nights ever colder. Something was coming. The druids said as much when he'd asked them, but none of the stuffy old bastards would elaborate about anything, which was infuriating. Didn't they know he was the son of Dyfed Ostæinson himself? The Great Jaerl of all Scelopyrea, opposed only by the Valkyrie-Queen in the east? Of course they did, for despite all their blustering he was their favoured warrior amongst his father's court, but he digressed. Something was coming. The sun's eye blinked shut longer and longer with each passing year, with each moon, and all knew it would soon fall to sleep once more as it had so long ago. Lakes and rivers were beginning to freeze over, and the land was almost constantly covered in permafrost.
He clinched his helmet a little and secured his belt above his chausses, making sure each piece of equipment was tight enough to be secure, but loose enough so as not to be noticeably uncomfortable. Father had spoken about the prospects of peace with the Valkyrie-Queen again last night, but Kætil had made sure to convince him not to throw away his credibility so soon. The druids claimed that the encroaching darkness could only be staved off by a sufficient offering of blood to Krakevasil, the Raven God, and where else was father to find a tide of blood to eagerly spill if not in the veins of his last and greatest foe? Father loved him dearly, but Kætil made a note to keep himself quiet for a few days. The man had come close to a rage at his harsh words last night before he'd set out, and he didn't want to risk usurping father's authority in front of the assembled men of power so brazenly.
The hauberk slipped over his head, coif and mitons following soon after. A surcoat found its way over the armour, though without any of the pomp of the arrogant southerners; a plain dark grey cloth, only a little darker than his mail itself, covered his chest and back. He checked himself over once to make sure he hadn't forgotten anything. He'd forgotten his chausses once and had taken a pretty nasty blow to the leg later that same day. He was in no hurry to repeat that particular folly, for one long scar on his thigh was enough thank you very much. There were a few other bits and pieces to equip on his person as befitted his status, but they were trivial things that he wasn't likely to forget anytime soon, and took but a moment to gather and put on.
When all was said and done he was fully armed and armoured with a few spare weapons on his back and an expression of what he hoped was professionalism across his face. He gripped his helmet in his hands, aventail dangling beneath his arm as the cheek and face guards swayed ever so slightly while he stalked through the twisting paths of the war-camp. He was leading a score of mounted huscarls north towards a convoy of druids that had gone missing a few days ago, and given what the druids had said coupled with the reports of bellowed roars and men as tall as trees, Kætil had no questions as to what had caused the disappearance of the convoy. Jotun. Lesser Jotun hopefully, but even so, Jotun. Well, he said hopefully, but he knew for a fact that it would definitely be a Lesser Jotun or two. After all, if one of their Greater cousins had finally come down from their mountains then there would have been a great deal more commotion than there had been already; a Lesser Jotun might grow in size to the height of half a dozen men, but a Greater Jotun could dwarf even the mightiest of pines or larches.
"The men are ready, Chieftain. We await your command."
Kætil looked over at the voice and smiled, moving forwards to clasp his friend's arm in a soldier's greeting.
"I am glad to hear it, Syren. Mount up; we're setting out immediately."
The man nodded as he stepped back, hammering a fist on his chest. The bones that lined his forearm and upper chest made an odd sort of clanking noise as they collided with each other, grating in his ears as the man walked away. Syren was a good man, his go-to second in command, and damn loyal to boot. His competence was never in question, but for a young man with so much promise to show so much loyalty in a time like this, a time when men's loyalties seemed to shift just as easily as autumn snows? That was a most refreshing thing. Syren may have been more than a little odd, what with the extra accessories he'd made to his armour over the years involving a dead horse, a fire, and a great many hours of knapping, but they certainly gave him a unique presence. Besides, the man was good at what he did and true to a fault; Kætil certainly wasn't going to turn the his friend's services away.
Aside from all of that though, Syren was just a genuinely good person. Well, as good as one who killed and reaved for a living could be. Krakevasil help him, but Kætil had even begun to rely on the man for a few small things, and he firmly believed that if his friend was able to survive until his twenty-forth winter then he'd earn the position of Huscarl Chieftain himself.
He walked out into the courtyard with purpose and made to mount his barded steed, Syren only a few paces in front. He'd ridden the lengths of Scelopyrea these last few years, had seen battle and taken lives more than once, but this trip was to be something different. It there really were a few Jotun out there that had wondered down from the mountains... well, he'd always wanted a bit more of a challenge.
"Come now, hunters of the north! Come on and find these giant bastards with me! Find and kill the fuckers!"
A bravado-filled cheer went up from the score of men around him as he kicked his horse into a canter and made for the last known location of the druidic convoy. The hunt was on.
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The road wasn't exactly a real road, more of a wide trail beaten into the dirt and frost-covered vegetation of these lands, but it served its purpose well enough. The land was silent and empty of life save the occasional scattering of birds that took wing as the thundering of twenty sets of hoofbeats neared the little creatures, but he wasn't surprised by the lack of life in these parts. Scelopyrea had always been sparsely populated, but the wars of both his father and the Eyvindottir as the two of them vied for power and influence over the last remaining neutral holdouts had done a number on what few farmsteads were left that had been able to eke out a miserable existence up here. Kætil had little sympathy for them, hardy though he had to admit they were; northmen were supposed to take what they wanted, to reave and plunder to make their living. It was blood and war that the Raven God wanted, not peaceful homesteads growing hardy crops in half-frozen fields. Father might not have seen that, but the druids did. Oh, what things the druids had seen.
They liked him, the druids. That's why they'd asked father to send him personally to find their missing convoy. They didn't like making requests of any Jaerl, even less the Great Jaerl, but he was special. That's what they'd always told him, anyway. They'd cast their bones, read the signs and portents in the stars at night, and had seen what he would do. 'Great things' were all they would tell him of the specifics, but he didn't need to know any more than that. Greatness was in his future, and if helping out the druids here and there meant that they'd continue to tell of his destiny then he'd do it without a second thought.
After all, he'd never wish to offend one who had the voice of a god in their head.
He slowed his horse a little, patting the side of her neck, and looked around as they approached a clearing. If he remembered the route he was supposed to take then this put them less than half an hours ride from the site of the convoy. Well, the last known sight of the convoy anyhow. If the Jotun had gotten up to their usual fare of glutting themselves on the alcohol that had been transported in the wagons then they'd almost certainly have remained in the area. After all, going back up to the thin mountain air with a hangover never seemed to sit well with the big bastards. Heh, that still felt weird to think about. If anyone would have told him ten years ago that he'd be intimately aware of the practices of Jotun then he'd have called them mad. That's just the way things were nowadays though; old certainties were melting away like summer ice, and a new world was being birthed before their eyes.
He stopped himself from carrying on down that trail of thought, unsure where it had come from. There were more important things to worry about at the moment than his own pseudo-philosophical thoughts.
"Right boys," he said as he turned a little to look at the men around him when they pulled up to a stop in a clearing, "ignore the stories your grandmother used to tell you about the giants, 'cause they ain't cannibals. They won't eat their own, and they won't eat you. More than that, these fuckers don't eat meat at all, so don't worry about ending up as their dinner. What you do need to worry about is keeping a good read on your horses; the scent of a Jotun can make even the sturdiest mount falter and rear. I'll not have a man dying on the trail before we even meet the bastards 'cause he couldn't keep a hold on his reins and dashed 'imself on a rock."
There were a few snorts and chuckles at his comment, but he did notice one or two of the younger huscarls nervously patting their horses' manes already. Well, I guess it can't hurt to be cautious.
"We've got no clue how many of them there are, nor if they're armed or armoured. We don't know if they're even still there. What we do know is that all twenty of us will be coming back, 'cause I don't plan to lose anyone to an overgrown frothing lunatic. Now get moving again; we'll be on them come the evening, and I don't want to let it get dark while we're out here with them. They've got shit eyesight, but an unmatched sense of smell. They'll have the advantage come nightfall, but the day belongs to man so let's make the most of it. Ride on!"
He'd judged the time well, for within thirty minutes the score of men broke out of the trail and found themselves looking down into the valley where the Jotun lay. There were two of them, which was less than he'd been expecting but in all honesty more than he'd hoped for. He looked at the leaves on the trees around them, watching carefully at which way they blew. He didn't want to be downwind of the big fuckers yet, not if he could help it. Satisfied that they weren't yet likely to alert their quarry he looked again at the men around him and gestured for them all to dismount.
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"Tether your horses to the trees. If they were out in the open I'd order a charge on horseback, but as it stands with them still in the dense wreckage of the convoy we'll have to negotiate the terrain on foot. Boys, we'll ditch our Longshields here. They won't do shit against a man that large and 'll only serve to slow us down. Syren, sound off on weapons."
His trusted right hand didn't even need to look around to answer the question, probably having known such a query was likely even before they'd set off.
"Including the two of us you've got ten poleaxes, seven bardiches, and four greatswords. Javelins and throwing axes as well, of course. How do you wanna do this?"
"We need to split in two. Syren, take ten men and take the one on the left, I'll lead the other nine around to the right for the other. Keep them separate and unable to help one another; isolate them then strike 'em dead."
"As you command, Chieftain. You lot, with me! You heard him, so step to!"
The men bustled around him and his second in command, checking their weapons over as well as their armour one last time, knowing that in a few moments they'd be staring up at giants.
"Good luck, Syren."
"Yourself as well, boss."
With that the men split into two loose groups and marched down to face the giants below. The two of them sniffed the air, looking around a little before their gazes settled on him as he strolled out in front of the men he was leading, languidly carrying his greatsword over his shoulders.
"You're a long way from home, Jotun!" He cried out. "Who're your kin? From which tribe do you hail? The Stonetrees? Mistsons?"
"Snowborn." Came the one-word response from the giant closest to him.
This gave Kætil a moment of pause. Snowborn? But then these Jotun would be... Krakevasil, the Snowborn hadn't been seen outside their peaks in a generation, let alone this far south!
"Then you have come a very long way indeed! I would know why, half-men!"
The insult at the end of his question made the giant that had previously spoken bristle, whilst his partner looked at him in confusion. It seemed that only one of the half-umbra knew the Scelopyrene language well enough to hold down a basic conversation.
"I answer many questions, small man." The giant replied. "Why do I need answer more?"
Kætil shrugged nonchalantly at the creature.
"I don't know, but you'll answer me anyway. Why are you so far from home? Were you exiled from your tribe?"
The giant let out a rumbling laugh at that, but it sounded like a hollow and mirthless thing.
"Not exiled, small man. Your kind will not understand for many years yet."
Something in the giant's tone caused the hairs on the back of his neck to stand up, and gave him that strange scratching feeling he got behind his eyes whenever something dangerous was coming. He called out again, this time more than a little curious and confused.
"Tell me regardless! Why come south now after spending so long in the far north! What drives you, making you come south!"
The giant let out an annoyed huff. It seemed Kætil had all but used up the patience that the creature possessed.
"Seasons come and go, little man, and what once was will be again. You cannot stop it from coming; the seasons are turning upon the wheel of centuries, and winter comes for us once more."
"Winter comes every year, oafish creature!"
The huge man rumbled out another mirthless chuckle.
"Your kind forget much, little man. But we do not. Our kind are cursed to remember what you forget. You will talk no longer. We fight."
Kætil licked his lips a little in anticipation, deciding in the spur of the moment that a pair of giants really could be quite useful to his father.
"Are you certain you wish to fight? My father is a strong and powerful man, he'd see that you had all the mead and goat's milk you could want."
The giant men looked at him with contempt, brandishing their weapons and sneering as they challenged him in their guttural tongue. Guess that tells me what these ones think of mankind, then. One carried what looked like a tree stripped of branches and bark, some sort of massive caber, whilst the other carried a colossal sword twice as tall as Kætil himself.
"You come, Son of King." The sword-wielding giant bellowed out, sniffing the air mightily once again. "You come face us, or prove yourself weak."
"Far dath tauma Bairn Liard-Liard. Hrethnar visa starhal, blodspa shicowl."
The Jotun with the sword looked over at his kinsman and translated the guttural rumblings as best he could with his seemingly primitive grasp of the Scelopyrene tongue, levelling his truly massive sword at the score of armoured men.
"He smells the magic on you, Son of King. Hrethnar looks down and at you from sky-palace. He grins."
Hrethnar. The Jotun's name for the Raven-God. Kætil grinned at that; even the giants could smell the admiration that the god of slaughter had for him, and so could anyone ever truly doubt his destiny?
"Then I will not disappoint him. You will be dead before the day is over, shadow-spawn!"
"Heh. We are not of shadow, little man. We have seen the shadows, and they are what you should truly fear. They're coming, little man. Will you be ready?"
Kætil raised his sword, not wishing to humour any more of the clearly deranged creature's ramblings, and charged forwards. The men behind him followed dutifully, one or two men hesitating a little before joining the charge but still joining nonetheless. They were good men, brave men, and it was a pity to know that many would be dead before the night came.
He'd never fought a Jotun before, but as he would later come to appreciate it seemed to be a rather simple dance. The big bastards were strong, strong enough to kill a man with a single blow, and so the important thing was to avoid being hit. They weren't slow per-se, but they were far from swift, and so whilst it was a little hard to avoid their attacks once they were in motion it was, if difficult, certainly possible to make sure that one was able to make sure one wasn't in the monster's swinging arc. Del went down first, the grey-haired huscarl being cleanly bisected by a single swipe as small rings and scales of metal flew everywhere. Char was next, crushed to a pulp by the pommel of a sword several times larger than he was. It was a damned shame, since the young man had been a fairly good drinking partner these last few weeks.
Despite the deaths of a few of his compatriots Kætil had to admit that it wasn't going as poorly as he'd feared. The giant was fierce, yes, but there were only so many people he could concentrate on at once. When one man was targeted the rest moved in from the sides and the rear to slash at the creature's legs with the hope of bringing it down. When Krai suddenly leapt forwards with greatsword in hand Kætil thought that the one-eyed warrior must have finally gone mad, but he was able to dive past the colossal hand that swiped for him and drove his sword into the knee of the great creature. An almighty fist crashed into the man, and Kætil watched him get sent flying back some twenty paces from the force of the blow before he rolled back further on the frost-covered dirt. Kætil hoped the mad bastard would live, if for no other reason than the half-blind fucker's deeds would make for the subject of much drinking when they all got back. At the moment though he couldn't spare more than the briefest of moments to think on that, for he needed to capitalise on the new opening that his friend's reckless, stupid, and fucking awesome move had just revealed to him.
As the first Jotun fell to one knee and was momentarily distracted by the pain Kætil leapt onto it's back and began to scramble to the top of the giant creature's form, no easy feat in a full battle dress, slashing at a great pawing hand as it haphazardly tried to swipe him off. When he at last reached the head he raised his sword point-down with both hands before plunging downwards with all his might, allowing his weight to fall with the blow and drive the blade as far into the creature's head as he possibly could. The jotun gave an almighty groan as the last of the air left its lungs before collapsing to the ground, dead before it hit the floor.
Kætil lay where he fell for a moment, chest heaving in exertion and armour painted with the brains of his colossal foe.
The second giant gave a guttural roar of rage before battering aside half a dozen good men to reach him when the last of the air left the dead one's lungs. Kætil's eyes widened as the creature barrelled towards him faster than anything that big should be able to move, and he was just about able to roll out of the way of the great club as it arced to land where he had just been. Something must have hit him a little however, for he felt more than slightly winded. He lay there for a moment, panting into the dirt, before one of his men turned him around and hauled him to his feet.
"We need some more of that, Jotunslayer!"
Syren smiled a wolfish smile at him and pressed his sword back into his hands. Kætil hadn't even realised he'd dropped it in his tumble from the neck of the beast, but he was glad to have it back nonetheless.
"Come on then you big fucker! Let's have you then!"
And with that he ran back into the fray.
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Six dead. That was a hell of a lot better than he'd been expecting. He'd talked a big talk when they'd been on the road, but that was all just bravado. At no point had he expected to lose less than half the men with him, but here he was with only six dead and three wounded. Syren had taken a nasty knock, but seemed fine after a once-over. Kætil trusted the man to know his limits, so he wasn't going to push the matter any further. They'd done their jobs, killed the Jotun, and saved the druid. All that was left was to get back to father's warcamp. By the time the second big bastard fell there must have been a dozen javelins in his back, not to mention a score or more of the small throwing axes. Gods, but they were tough buggers.
"Chief! Boss! Come 'ere, you'll wanna see this!"
He looked up at Syren who was waving at him from one of the ruined carriages that had been in the convoy and raised an eyebrow at him. Most of the men had taken their helmets off since then, and all had been hard at work doing one thing or another. A few were feeding the horses, a couple were tending to the wounded, and yet more had formed a small pyre for the slain to be burned on, Jotun and northman both. As for Kætil, he was content to simply clean the blood off of the weapons of his men. He wasn't going to use his position to avoid work after all.
"On my way now, Syren. What've you found?"
"There's a live one here, boss! One of them Druids we was sent out to find!"
At that he hurried to his feet and all but ran over to where his friend was stood. Sure enough, there seemed to be a young Druid within the sunken, half-collapsed wooden wheelhouse.
"Can you hear me? Are you alright?"
She did not respond or move, but something in the back of his mind told him that the Druid was just fine. How he knew that he was unsure, but he knew it all the same. Syren snapped his fingers in front of her a few times, but still she did not react. Kætil sighed.
"Right, let's get her out of here and onto one of the horses, see if we can't get her back to the warcamp. The Druids there will be able to look out for her."
Syren nodded at him and moved to hoist her up, pulling an arm over his shoulder and carrying her outside. When she'd been moved out Kætil got a good look at her, and saw exactly why she wasn't responding; he'd seen Druids in trances before with their glazed-over expression and milk-white eyes, and this definitely fit the bill.
"She'll be completely unresponsive until she comes to. Until she does I don't want anyone disturbing her, understand? Any man that tries to interfere in a communion between a Druid and the Raven-God deserves exactly what'll come to him. She'll come around soon, I know it, but until she does we leave her be."
The men around him nodded their acquiescence, none of them wishing to impede whatever conversation she was having with the voice of Krakevasil. Syren gently set her down outside, then sat down next to him.
"So, 'Jotunslayer'. How do you like that one, boss?"
Kætil grinned at his odd friend.
"Not bad. Not bad at all. A pity about Krai."
"Oh no, he'll be fine. Broke most of his ribs, but not too badly I don't reckon. A couple of the lads 'll help him ride back where he can get looked at properly, but he should live."
Kætil blinked in surprise.
"Should live? How in the name of... the man took a blow from a Jotun directly to the chest."
Syren shrugged, still smiling.
"I mean, remember how he lost his eye? I honestly thought that Nester was gonna do him in, but... well, I didn't think it was possible to bite though their beaks before, but he certainly proved me wrong on that one. I think I still have some of the shards somewhere."
Kætil shook his head while smiling, huffing in amusement.
"You're one strange motherfucker sometimes, you know that, right?"
"Oh yes boss, I'm more than aware. Wouldn't be wearing armour with half a dead horse on it if I was normal."
Kætil rolled his eyes and returned to cleaning the weapons of his men. Fuck, it had been a hell of a day, even if it hadn't really lasted that long. Still, he was certain he'd be back on the road soon. He hoped so, anyway.
Jotun weren't the only Umbra that prowled these lands after all, and the Umbra weren't the only things that wished them all dead.