by J. N. Cameron
I cannot sleep because of the noise. Forays of sleet howl down the mountains and crash into the vale. Wattle walls shake, and the red clay cracks. Detritus snows from the ceiling, as wind whistles through the aperture high in the apex of our langhús.
“BLAHAHAHA…BLAHAHA!” the goats shriek and cause the chickens to squawk and the horses to stomp and whinny in the byre.
I sit up on the bench and scoot nearer to the firepit. Even with my layers of wool and fur, I am cold. Fear slips its tendrils into the back of my mind. A night like this, when you cannot see more than ten feet in the blizzard, would be perfect for an invading party of Svealanders.
Hroi the One-Eyed has been gone for a month raiding the puny Saxons of the south. He refused to bring me along. By now, news will have reached our enemy that Hroi left defense of his house to the weakest of his children. To me, Ulve the Small.
I kiss the hammer-shaped charm that hangs from a tether around my neck and whisper a prayer to Thórr, god of the common folk. The thunder booms in answer. Thórr tells me to be brave.
I take up my helm, spear, axe, and targe to relieve the night watch early.
Dag the Fat is thankful when I climb the watchtower. He is younger than me, but he wears a hauberk forged of two chain mails in order to cover his girth. He is the son of my uncle, Ubbe of Götaland.
“Something is out there,” he says before climbing down. “I can sense it. It feels like I’m being watched!”
“Then do me a favor,” I reply.
“What?”
“Wake everyone. Also speak to Hrothbodd and Egil, they are on the south palisades. We should be on alert.”
The storm intensifies. The sleet morphs into thick, unrelenting snowfall. Soon, drifts are building against the walls, and the icy mud is blanketed in white. I pull the visor half-down on my helm to protect my eyes against sudden flurries.
A torch is lit in the guard stand, and the long eaves above keep out some of the storm. Still, the flames are blown low, and the ember of the torch tip glows orange. I set my spear in the corner and pick up the elm bow Dag left. I knock an arrow and aim out into the darkness at an imaginary foe.
At that moment, the clouds break and the storm subsides enough to reveal the shadow of the woods across the valley and the slant of the rising mountains on each side. To the west is Fjällvescri, and to the east is Fjällauscri. Between their peaks are the stars.
A blackness even darker than the night rises from the horizon beyond the woods. It almost looks like a hill comes to life and stands like a man.
It can’t be.
I squint, but cannot make out the details of the form. Now the clouds close again and blot out the heavens. The frozen downfall fills the night, and whatever it was is gone. I dismiss it as storm clouds, billowing and taking a mad shape in their approach.
The Earth shakes.
It starts as a soft tremble. I keep track and there is close to a 30 count between each occurrence. The entire clan runs out from the langhús into the blizzard. They cover their heads with shawls and wide hats and search the sky.
Even Tregul, the skogkatt, sticks her head out of a round opening high above the front hall doors. Her fur is striped amber and black. It is the only way I can tell the difference between her and her brother, Elof, who is all grey like the clouds of morning mist. Tregul’s ears stand like pointed horns on either side of her head, and she hisses in the direction of the woods.
The earthquakes intensify. I grab the rails of the guard stand to steady myself. Some of the children shriek, and the older ones are mumbling.
The clouds part a second time, and a wide shaft of blue light bands down over the valley. The silhouette above the woods is clear. It’s the outline of a hulking giant that looks to be a hundred feet tall. His fire-red beard and hair hang below his waist and cover him like a tunic. Otherwise, he wears nothing, and his skin glistens silvery in the moonlight.
Each massive step he takes shakes the world below. There is only one thing that it can be, and Dag shouts out what I am thinking.
“Jötunn! A Jötunn walks the valley!”
The others gather around the firepit and wait for me to speak. The animals are agitated, and the babies won’t stop crying. Hrothbodd and Egil are outside. The colossus stomps toward us still, and our house shakes as if all of Svartalfheim below is in rebellion.
Hedborg is the tallest of my cousins, with a mop of blond hair sprouting out from his helm. His sister Grepi is not as tall as him. Grepi is a true shieldmaiden, or she will be someday. She carries the targe of a grown man, lined in brass knobs and painted in the blue and yellow checkers of her Lord, my father. They watch my face. They wait.
Run. That is what they expect me to say. How else could Ulve the Small protect his clan?
True, we could flee. We have enough horses to put the children on. We could scatter in every direction. But what about our home? Who will protect it?
How could we defeat an ice giant?
I hold my hammer pendant up between two fingers, and it glints against the firelight. A memory comes to me of a story my amma told me when I was a babe. She spoke of a great warrior who was driven to madness by an ant that had crawled into his ear. It burrowed so deep, the warrior died.
The plan comes to me.
I tell my kin, and they agree. We spring into action.
A crew goes to work preparing wood and tar to build a bonfire. I gather a squad, and we ready our mountain-climbing gear and horses. After a quick round of hot broth, we mount and ride toward the Fjällauscri slopes, due east.
A great bonfire has been lit at the bottom of the cliff, and we look over from the top. The fires in our langhús have been extinguished, so the bonfire is the only source of light in the valley. The snow has stopped and the clouds have rolled away, and the Jötunn is in clear view. He sees the flames and stomps toward us now instead of our home.
Next to me are my cousins Gamli, Haki, Hrothbodd, and Egil. They are all a few years older than me, taller and stronger than me, but they look to me as their leader. We have thrown off our chainmail and any heavy armor parts. Our only weapons are short swords or axes strapped to our backs, and we all grip climbing picks in each hand.
The titan stomps nearer and nearer. The earth around us starts to crack, and dirt and snow fall over the cliff. We retreat fifteen feet back to give us a running start.
The giant has fixated on the fire, and the light flickers in his eyes. As he nears, I can see that his waist reaches the top of the cliff. He looks down but doesn’t see us lying in the snow. Jötunn are said to be sensitive to light, and the fire has all of his attention.
Now he is at the cliff’s edge and is stomping to put out the fire. Dag is down there, with Hedborg and Grepi. They dodge the lethargic stomps and stab at his foot with their spears. This keeps the monster busy as we make our attack.
On my signal, we all sprint forward and leap from the cliff. The Jötunn’s side is to us, and I aim for his hip area. I stretch out into a dive, picks held forward. I soar out ten feet before arcing downward. In my periphery, a great hand swings by and swats Egil as if he were a fly.
Thórr guides me, and I smash into a forest of coarse red hair. It’s dark, and I cannot see the others. All I can do is climb. My picks hold steadfast in the frosty rime as the Jötunn makes wild movements. Sometimes my legs swing out, but my grip is strong.
It seems like I climb forever. Finally, I exit the beard. I pull myself onto the Jötunn’s collarbone and then onto his shoulder.
I look down.
The bonfire has been stomped out, and someone has been flattened into the ground beside it. I cannot see who it is. Two others still run around, waiving torches and successfully distracting the giant.
Hrothbodd cries out. He clings to the Jötunn’s upper right arm. Both of his picks are dug in, but he has no footing. I watch in horror as a great hand reaches over and slaps at him. Amazingly, it misses. But the slap is so powerful, Hrothbodd loses his grip and falls screaming.
There is no sign of anyone else on the Jötunn, but then Haki climbs out of the beard. He sees me and points at the giant’s nose. Haki sheaths his picks and jumps and grabs ahold of one side of the red mustache.
He pulls up, hand over hand, until he is under one of the nostrils. It is more than wide enough for him to grip handfuls of white nose hair and climb inside. I know what Haki must be thinking. If he can make it into the nose, he might be able to take his axe out and hack into the creature’s head.
Haki goes up the nostril, and only his feet hang out.
The Jötunn laughs, and the sonorous giggle nearly shakes me off. Whatever Haki is doing is tickling him. The giant puts a finger on the opposite nostril and blows. Haki shoots out covered in glistening green slime. He flies straight toward the cliffside and splatters into it. His body sticks in place.
That’s when I hear the meowing. Tregul climbs out of the beard and jumps up. I can’t believe it, but the skogkatt actually followed me.
I think for a few seconds before springing into action. I fasten the picks to my belt and then jump and grab hairs growing out of the giant earlobe. I pull myself into the ear, and Tregul jumps after me. Brown crust and dark wax covers the earhole, but I kick some of the crust away to reveal an aperture large enough to climb into.
It stinks of decay and filth, and I have to bite down to keep from gagging. I descend, feet first, kicking and stomping any clumps of wax or crust that block my way. The tunnel leads a good ten feet down before it ends in a taut surface of skin.
Tregul has followed me, and she looks at me as if asking, what next?
There is only one thing to do.
I reach behind and pull out my axe. I raise it above my head and bring it down with full force onto the drum of skin.
Again, and again, I strike until the skin splits. A thick, hot pool of blood begins to well up around my feet, and the world around me shakes as the Jötunn roars in pain. I grab chunks of crust on each side of the opening and lower my feet into the hole. I kick downward and lower myself to chest level. I repeatedly kick at something mushy and membranous, and the giant emits strange, high-pitched shrieks.
A massive finger enters the earhole above, pushing inward, but it is too large to reach us. Crust and chunks of wax rain down.
“Down there, Tregul! Jump inside and scratch him to mush!”
The skogkatt does as I command. She leaps down to my feet and with fury, begins clawing into the bloody flesh.
The Jötunn’s screams are wilder and louder, and in a flash, the world gives away. We fall.
BOOM!
I’m slammed to one side, but gelatinous material cushions the impact. All is quiet, and the shaking has stopped. Tregul is still tearing into the inner ear.
I climb out of the hole toward the starlight above. I pull myself out of the ear. I am upright and stand on the side of the Jötunn’s head.
I walk around the side of the giant face and peer over. The cliff top is around us. We drove the monster insane, and he must have slipped and broke his neck on the cliff.
Thórr’s protection was over me.
Eventually, the skogkatt climbs out of the ear canal. She’s covered in slime and blood and black wax, but her blue eyes gleam in the darkness.
She purrs against my leg, and I pick her up and hold her tight.
“The skalds will sing of your bravery for generations to come,” I promise. “For tonight, we brought down a mountain.”
©February 2020, J.N. Cameron
J.N. Cameron has published stories in Weirdbook and in anthologies from HellBound Books. This is his first appearance in Swords & Sorcery.