Fire 'n Ice

[lum]

A sequel to The Last Ice Hunter

Out here the ice didn’t behave like the ice at home.

It communicated in a different way.

Leif lay flat against a ridge of wind-carved snow. He breathed in a measured way, and with his bow steady his eyes fixated on the white nothing below.

Beyond the horizon stretched the Endless Ice Sea, at this distance nothing but a vague pale skin pulled tight over dark water that never truly slept.

Out here there was nothing.

No birds, no seals, not one sound save the wind scraping itself against rock.

“This is a place of lies,” Svend muttered next to him.

Leif didn’t answer. He already knew that.

A beast the size like it had been described… the tracks should have been there. Not even a magical beast could pull this off. Broken ice grass, or even crushed snow.

Instead, there was absence.

They got up and resumed their way with Leif every now and then kneeling to investigate. He brushed the ground, gave up on feeling for prints and instead examined it for wrongness.

“There. You see it?” He stopped and motioned Svend to come over.

It were a few spots resembling a subtle melt and where sun could never have touched. The frost was bent inward, not away. As if something big had passed, yet without weight.

But then the wind changed, which made them look up.

For a single heartbeat their world seemed literally frozen. A shape moved far out across the ice. Not charging, not running away from them. Simply… existing. A broad back, horns curved like a frozen moon, steam rising from its flanks. And then it vanished from sight as if swallowed by the air itself.

The ice buffalo.

Leif and Svend glanced at each other. Surprised.

It hadn’t made a single sound. No grunts or gargles, no thundering hooves, no creaking ice.

Svend swore softly. “That thing will never be where we think it is.”

Leif remained still long after the cold had begun to creep into his bones. “It was. And then it wasn’t. Let’s head back.

***

It took the two men a few hours to return to the settlement where Harrvid lived. This first exploration came with mixed feelings. At least their return felt earned.

They had made it past the first row of longhouses when the tension of the hunt finally loosened.

The settlement lay tucked between black stone ridges and a semi-frozen inlet, smoke rising low and steady from chimneys cut into turf and timber. Voices started carrying over the wind, and the scent of boiled fish reached their noses.

Svend rolled his shoulders. “I’ll accept heat over glory, my friend. And food over legends.”

Leif smiled. “Only it wasn’t a legend and we spotted it on our first da…”

Suddenly he stopped and turned his head at a sound.

A horn.

It had been a single, short note.

Not too loud, so likely not a call to arms.

A rider was coming in rather fast from the eastern path, his shape and his mount lathered in snow. The man didn’t slow until he reached the edge of the square, nearly sliding from the saddle as he dismounted.

Leif and Svend headed over, curious who this was.

The rider’s eyes went straight for Harrvid before he dropped to one knee. The scene quieted the space around them like falling snow.

“Urgent word from the west,” the man said, voice raw.

Harrvid’s expression didn’t change. “Stand. Breathe. Then speak.”

The man obeyed, chest rising hard before he continued. “A Northman hold. One of our allies. Something about a broken oath on adamantine trading. A group from Tuern came down, demanding an explanation. They burned some of the clan. Left bones on the rocks. Few prisoners.”

Murmurs around them stirred.

“They ask for you,” the messenger finished. “For your berserkers. And your Rashemen berserker allies. For revenge.”

Harrvid nodded once, slowly. This wasn’t the first incident, and it most certainly wouldn’t be the last either. Revenge had a long memory in the North.

“First, eat. Rest. Then I want every detail.” Harrvid’s gaze briefly shifted to Leif. “And then we will prepare.”

Harrvid hadn’t asked or said anything to him, but that look just felt it like a weight placed carefully, deliberately, on Leif's shoulders.

“Tuern,” Svend, reading this interaction the same way, muttered next to Leif. “Fire beneath ice. Dragons above men. Giants… probably somewhere in the middle of all that. What could possibly go wrong.”

[lum]

The sea around the island was black and restless. But not frozen.

There was a chilly mist crawling low across the water, clinging to volcanic rocks and hulls alike, beading on cold metal and warrior braids before turning into thin, brittle ice.

The waves were short and sudden, driven by crosscurrents that pulled at any body approaching the island. Like it was resisting any visitors by itself.

And yet, five prows bearing no bright paint and no carved figureheads cut through. Hulls made of iron-shod wood and adorned with old scars from winter and war were headed for the shore.

The longships’ oars rose and fell in brutal rhythm. Dozens of arms moved as one, their muscles burning beneath furs and bare skin alike. Jaws clenched and breath steamed. Teeth were showing in anticipation.

Ahead, the island Tuern rose from the sea like a wound that looked as if it would never close.

Black sand stretched along the shoreline the ships aimed for, coarse and volcanic, and soaking what little light the overcast sky offered. Behind that, the land climbed sharply with jagged rocks and hardened lava flows where currently snow clung in streaks and craters, only interrupted by places where heat still breathed from the interior. Faint threads of steam curled up from many cracks, calm and patient.

Fire beneath ice.


On the decks, men standing seven to eight feet tall worked themselves into readiness. They struck their shields in slow, deliberate cadence, growling ancient battle chants into the wind. Some of the words had been stripped of meaning due to repetition over the centuries. But they were heavy with memory. A few held raw meat from which they drained any remaining blood, and smeared it over their naked muscled torsos. Cylindrical forearms rose, axes lifting as they neared the shore.

No one laughed.

Harrvid himself stood near the prow of the lead ship, unmoved, one hand resting on the haft of his axe. As they sped up the wind pulled at his cloak, snapping it sharp against his back.

Behind him stood Leif.

As Harrvid’s gaze never left the shore, Leif watched the currents instead.

Beneath, Tuern’s waters twisted unpredictably around submerged stone and volcanic shelves. It tugged at the hulls and forced a constant correction. The oarsmen grunted with effort to keep the ships at speed.

It would be an arrival based on sheer will and muscle power.

And every stroke was time stolen from the defenders.

Svend rolled his shoulders nearby, breath slow, eyes narrowed. “They’ll hear us soon enough.”

Then he muttered. “If they already didn’t and pretend they didn’t.”

“They already know,” Ingritt replied quietly from the other side of the deck. Her posture was calm and in contrast to the building frenzy around her.

There was indeed faint movement visible, silhouettes gathering where black sand met snow.

Defenders.

Horn calls now drifted faintly across the water towards them, thin and sharp, before quickly being swallowed by wind.

And that was the alarm.

Leif observed where they gathered. And where they didn’t. He tried to determine paths cut through the rock, and gaps in the terrain where men might disappear into once the fighting began.

Their ships closed the distance fast now with prows cutting through churning water as oars dug deep and fast. Shields were lifted and breaths quickened.

And the berserkers found their voices.

It didn’t start as a roar.

It was a sound which began low and deep in the chest, exhaled air forced through clenched teeth until it vibrated in their bones. A moment later rumbles like thunder and howls like wolves were carried over the wind. They sounded closer to animals than men. But it wasn’t meant to be understood. It was meant to be felt.

Telling those waiting on the shore that what came for them did not fear death, cold, or fire…

Harrvid glanced over his shoulder. “You know what to do. Find their leaders.”

[lum]

“Those aren’t raiders!” One of the defenders yelled.

Unnecessary, since that was the first thing the watchers on the ridge understood.

Reinforced wood and blunt prows to break ice, scarred muscle to break everything else.

“Berserkers…” someone breathed. “What are they doing high up here…”

That word had moved faster than the alarm.

Horns answered, with sharp, somewhat panicked notes blowing from the watch posts and the beach alike. More men started to spill from longhouses, many half-armored, fastening their belts, and dragging shields through black sand that sucked at their boots. Orders were shouted, contradicted, then shouted again.

Meanwhile, on the water those ships didn’t slow down.

Their destiny seemingly inevitable, the defenders watched how oars rose and fell in savage rhythm, overcoming currents that would normally slow down any enthusiastic landing. At some point the ships were close enough to see how steam rolled from bare shoulders. How shields were lifted. How axes rose…

And that was all before the sound came.

A sound creating a vibration that crawled up through the sand and into the chest. It grew worse. Layered voices and howls thrown in the wind, fists pounding wood. It wasn’t a chant meant to be understood.

It was a promise.

Few of the defenders already backed up the moment the first longship grounded itself onto the black sand with a bone-jarring crack. Then a second. A third…

Hulking silhouettes leapt from the hulls before the planks were fully down.

They were like a storm.

Not that the defenders were kittens. Many of them had fought raiders and even fire-born creatures in the ash fields, some even giants. They knew how battle sounded.

Still. This was a little different.

The berserkers had zero hesitation in them. No need to test. They seemed just forward motion while dealing as much violence as possible in a short time, applying their talent with terrifying certainty. Most shields shattered under single blows, and spears were easily caught and wrenched aside.


Bjorn, Watch Captain on duty swallowed when a man to his left went down screaming, his helmet split cleanly.

He rallied whoever he could, shouted himself hoarse as he struck, blocked, then struck again. He thought he killed one, burying his sword deep until feeling resistance, but the berserker barely seemed to notice dying. And then he even just got up again, looking around until his eyes found Bjorn once more.

“What the…”

The warrior he faced was enormous, his bare skin streaked with blood and ash. When Bjorn met that gaze he shivered involuntary. The eyes were open wide, unfocused, alight with something that felt not entirely human.

Once more that dark axe rose. It swung as if its weight meant nothing.

They traded more blows. And again.

Suddenly Bjorn’s boot slipped in the sand. Just a little, but also just enough…

He went down, the world around him tilting. Black sand filled his mouth.

And when he turned his head, all he could see was how that double-edged axe rose.

High. Determined.

And then…

Steel flashed. A clang.

The impact rang sharp and nearby. The berserker’s blow had been stopped mid-fall.

Bjorn scrambled backwards, stunned at his savior, another young defender.

He strained visibly as he held the wounded berserker’s axe at bay. “Move…” the young man said through clenched teeth.

Bjorn did.

The berserker roared and pressed, muscles corded, but Bjorn’s savior did not yield. Instead he forced the heavy stroke aside simply by shifting to a new position.

With the metal all free now, they exchanged two or three more blows. Fast and dangerous.

Then a horn sounded. It was a long and insistent sound.

And it was coming from the ships.

The bleeding berserker froze mid-motion, his head snapping toward the sound. Around them, others were already pulling back, snarling, dragging wounded, retreating with the same sudden unity with which they had attacked.

The berserker spat into the sand, gave the young man one last burning look, and withdrew.

“Animal…,” was the latter’s reaction.

And within moments, the beach was theirs again.

“We won!” Someone yelled, and cheers quickly followed.

Bjorn sat heavily, heart hammering, staring at the young defender who had just saved his life.

“Thank you,” he managed. “Wh… what’s your name?”

The young man shrugged slightly, breath still steadying. “Mikkelsen,” he said,” Good thing me and my friend arrived here the other night.” He offered Bjorn a wink as he helped him up.

“Your friend?” Bjorn asked as he looked around.

“Yeah, he was at the inn too and… ah. There he finally is.”

As if summoned by the words, another man jogged toward them across the sand. He was broad-shouldered, and arrived with his hair wild and armor hastily fastened.

“Apologies,” he called, rubbing at his eyes. “I may have misjudged how hard the ale was working against me.”

Mikkelsen rolled his eyes. “This is Lindgren. Lindrgren-who-missed-all-the-fun.”

The three of them turned over to watch how the sea swallowed the last sign of the ships.

Bjorn scratched his head. “What the hell was that all about…”

[lum]

The watch fires on the beach burned long after the longships had vanished.

Not for warmth, but to show the berserkers they were alert.

Hours passed since the clash, yet most refused to think this was over. Bjorn had set up multiple extra watch posts along the ridges of black rock. Torches were planted where snow met lava stone. Men stood still and silent until fingers holding spears were numb, their eyes fixed on a dark horizon.

The attackers didn’t return, but somehow their absence now felt even worse than their presence had been.

Bjorn walked the beach one last time before leaving his men to the night watch. They had cleaned up the broken shields which sat halfburied in the black sand. The way how iron was bent left an impression. He paused where he had fallen earlier and then stared out at the water.

Finally he turned back toward the settlement.


Mikkelsen and Lindgren walked slowly through a narrow path up towards the longhouses, their boots crunching on frost and ash.

The adrenaline of the battle had faded and made way for exhaustion. That quiet it was at the settlement.

They had nearly reached the center when a voice called out behind them.

“Mikkelsen.”

They stopped and turned over.

Bjorn was just behind them, his helm under his arm. As he approached, firelight caught a fresh scar along his cheek.

“Where you headed?” The captain inquired.

“Oh, we thought to have a nap at the inn before we move on in the morning.”

Bjorn shook his head. “That ain’t happening. You are coming with me. And your friend is welcome too.”

Lindgren raised an eyebrow.

Bjorn stepped closer toward Mikkelsen. “I owe you my life, which is something we never forget around here. Food and a roof are the very least I can offer. Besides, if those berserkers return, I rather have you near than at the inn.”

Mikkelsen held his gaze for a moment, then offered a nod.

Lindgren however sighed theatrically. “I guess destiny has robbed me of ale again.”

Mikkelsen slapped his friend’s belly with the back of his fist.

“Ouch!”


Bjorn’s home was modest for a captain. It was built partly into the rock above the settlement, the stone sheltering the place from wind as warmth clung stubbornly to the air. A fire crackled low, with the smell of smoked meat and salt wafting over as they entered.

“My wife’s doing. She’s probably asleep.”

They barely sat and had started to eat when a knock struck the front door.

Bjorn stood immediately and with his axe ready he opened the door for what appeared a messenger.

“Captain. Word from the High King.”

The room stilled.

“Yes?” Bjorn nodded once. “Speak.”

The messenger swallowed. “High King Ironfist is not pleased that berserkers managed to land on Tuern soil without warning. He wonders where the sea patrols were.”

Bjorn’s jaw tightened.

“He is also sending men, chosen warriors from his personal retinue. If the wind favors them they’ll arrive within a day. They’ll require arrangements,” the messenger continued.

The captain nodded silent, seemingly thoughtful.

Eventually he exhaled. “So the High King comes sniffing.”

The messenger shrugged slightly. “Probably to investigate, and to make sure Tuern doesn’t look weak."

Bjorn nodded once more and dismissed the messenger with a gesture.

When he closed the door, the fire seemed quieter.

Lindgren muttered as he glanced at his friend who stared into the flames. “Can’t say I ever met any of the king’s guard.”

No one reacted.

Somewhere outside, ravens crossed the sky.

[lum]

The next morning brought sails instead of comfort.

To the lookout they appeared first as pale scars against a dark grey horizon. Unlike the berserker ships these were cleaner, their hulls dark as well but well-kept. Colorful shields hung in neat rows along the side, painted with the mark of the High King.

The men aboard were men of order and discipline, not frenzy.

In a way almost reassuring.

Almost…

Bjorn shifted as he waited on the ridge above the beach when they arrived, his cloak pulled tight against the wind. Around him, his men watched in silence. Mikkelsen and Lindgren who had agreed to stay for a bit longer, waited nearby.

“They sure as hell came fast,” one of the other soldiers muttered soft.

“Like magic ya mean?” another reacted.

Bjorn turned his head and barked. “Keep it shut or you’ll be prosecuted for slander and defamation. You know all too well magic is forbidden here, and if you on top start to accuse the High King’s men… you’ll be send to a place where I can’t protect you. Assuming I cared.”


The High King’s ships grounded with controlled precision. Planks were lowered, not thrown, and men disembarked onto the black sand in disciplined lines. Their armor was polished, and their cloaks clasped with silver.

Then -he- stepped forward.

Their captain was tall and broad-shouldered, his armor as if layered with some red enamel. The head of a wolf was carved into his helmet, its jaws opened in a silent threat. The man’s eyes moved over the settlement and the welcoming party like they merely inspected property.

He didn’t bow when Bjorn approached him.

“I’m Bjorn, Captain of the Watch,” he said evenly. “You have arrived fast. We are grateful.”

The other captain smiled without warmth.

“High Captain Rontgar,” he replied. His voice was calm yet carried easily over the wind. “And I’m afraid we’ve just encountered our first misunderstanding.”

Bjorn’s gaze hardened a little. “We do?”

Rontgar stepped closer, bridging the space that separated them.

“You’re a captain of huts and fishermen. I serve the High King directly. That makes you inferior... to me.”

Bjorn held his ground and said nothing.

“You were attacked by berserkers,” Rontgar continued as he slowly turned his head to study the beach. “And you allowed them to land, to fight, -and- to leave.”

“We stopped them,” Bjorn simply replied.

“Yes,” Rontgar replied. “But not fast enough to avoid embarrassment. The message spoke of five dead and seven severely injured.”

That stung.

But Rontgar simply turned his gaze back to the settlement. “I need a proper place to conduct my investigation,” he said. “Your house will do.”

Bjorn didn’t move. “My house?”

Rontgar nodded as if the matter was settled already. “You will provide a proper briefing, after that you are free to return to your duties.”

Bjorn glanced at his house above the rock and back. “But my wife-”

“I assume your wife will remain,” Rontgar cut him off saying lightly. “Someone must ensure we are properly served.”

For a moment it was as even the wind stopped.

Bjorn’s hand tightened around the pommel of the sword that hung from his belt.

Then he stepped forward, closing that final gap between him and Rontgar. “My wife… is not a servant. And I am a captain just as much as you are and-”

Rontgar tilted his head, studying Bjorn like one studies a stubborn animal. “Details are discussed inside.”

It wasn’t a request.


The moment the High King’s men had stepped into Bjorn’s home it did not feel like his anymore.

Captain Rontgar sat where Bjorn normally sat. Not asked. Not invited.

Hair braided tightly ran along his temples, just below his ear a scar cut skin all the way to his jaw. Two of his men stood nearby, silent, their arms crossed.

Bjorn remained standing.

“So,” Rontgar started. “Explain exactly how those ships were able to reach my coasts unnoticed.”

Bjorn’s voice was controlled. “I don’t think they used the usual routes, as in the safer currents.”

Rontgar interrupted him immediately. “I don’t care about the currents. I care about your failure.”

That word landed deliberately.

Bjorn’s jaw tightened. “They were very fast, with their five ships, landing before we could fully mobilize. Still, we pushed them back.”

Rontgar leaned back slightly in Bjorn’s chair. “Pushed them back,” he repeated, as if tasting those words. “Yet they remain alive, with all their ships intact. Ready for another around should they desire so.”

Bjorn didn’t answer right away.


Just outside Bjorn’s home the wind carried large fragments of the conversation through the walls.

Mikkelsen stood near the rock face beside the house, his arms crossed, listening.

Lindgren leaned against a post, pretending to inspect the settlement below. “This guy is enjoying this…” he murmured.

Mikkelsen didn’t reply.

Inside, they heard Rontgar’s voice sharpening. “Do you know what the High King sees when he hears your report?”

A pause.

“He sees weakness.”

Silence stretched.

Now Bjorn spoke. “We held the beach. No homes were burned. No women taken. I refuse to say that is weakness.”

Mikkelsen imagined Rontgar’s smile.

“That’s survival,” Rontgar countered. “Certaily not victory.”

Metal plates whispered in the wind as men inside the house moved.

“It seems you live in a fragile place,” Rontgar continued. “And fragile places require stronger hands than yours. Who will protect your home, and those who need protection?”

A woman in the back of the house shrieked.

Mikkelsen heard how a heavy figure got up from a chair.

“Your duty is to provide answers. My duty is to ensure Tuern never looks like prey again.”

Outside, Lindgren exhaled quietly next to Mikkelsen, mumbling soft. “He talks like he owns this place.”

“Your wife will remain available, to me, and to all of my men.” A pause. “Until I’m satisfied.”

Mikkelsen could picture what happened next within those walls.

“Don’t even think about it. Draw that weapon,” Rontgar said almost gently,” …and you’ll never see your wife again. Not here, not in the next world.”

Mikkelsen and Lindgren felt the moment even without seeing it.

The fire inside cracked once.

And the house went very quiet.