Prelude Part 1: Year 4989, OTT

Once the burg had been a beacon of wealth and might. It was perched atop the rugged dark rocks that made up Olafson Rock. Tattered and torn scraps of fabric flapped from rusty poles as sad reminders of long-gone glories. At one time these rags had been bright flags with black wolf heads upon vibrant Olafson red.

The mighty walls of this ancient Nilfeheim burg had been a bulwark and shield for many generations of Olafson Vikings. Not the clans of the East, not the thundering storms of the Spring year, not the horned monstrosities of the Nogoll invasion had managed to breach these walls. But now stone and Duro-Crete were crumbling, rust and decay were everywhere.

This was the last year of Shortsummer and soon Longnight would once again descend upon Nilfeheim.

Volund Olafson stood with crossed arms on the parapet above the main gate and gazed towards the south.

Volund was, like all Olafsons, a big and strong man, but his massive hands hefted neither harpoon nor ax nor sword lately.

They had been reduced to casting nets from the deck of an Elhir boat, as the Olafson clan had sold its last boat during the last Longnight because his clan needed money to heat the burg or it would freeze to death.

The winds were already cold again and tugged at the Fangsnapper cape the big man was wearing as his slate-gray eyes scanned slowly across the horizon of the endless Nilfeheim oceans.

It had not always been this way. The Olafson clan was an Old clan with a clean and uninterrupted line all the way back to the time when the first colonists from Earth landed on this planet.

Alrik Olafson was among the first, so Family Lore knew, to step onto the surface of this world in 2160.

Alrik was born in Denmark on Earth. His family, along with 12,000 others of similar origin, had been part of the Viking Movement that left their old planet to colonize this cold and harsh world.

It was Alrik’s grandsons who had stepped ashore right here on this island, claiming it for the Olafsons. With the riches obtained pirating other Earth colonies, this mighty burg was built.

Even after Nilfeheim joined the Union and the space pirate days of the Neo Vikings from Nilfeheim ended, the Olafsons remained an important clan.

They stayed influential until the last clan wars almost 400 years ago. The Olafsons had always been known to be an especially wild and violent clan, even on a world full of skull-bashing Neo Vikings. They picked even more fights than other clans and formed alliances at the spur of the moment, but sadly for them, not always with the winning sides.

The last clan wars caused the Olafsons to lose their Nubhir farms and the Fangsnapper herds near Isen because of tribute payments to the victorious alliance.

The clan never really recovered from that. It took many decades for them to slowly regain some wealth and influence, but then Byrnjolf Olafson, Volund’s grandfather, just had to pick a fight with the Trolle clan.

Of all clans at that time, it was the richest and most powerful. That loss cost the Olafson clan three hunting subs and two fishing vessels.

Oh yes, the Olafsons always fought like warrior gods and were famous for their fighting skills, but the Trolle clan had many allies. Fighting the Trolles had reduced their once sizable clan fleet to two fishing boats that were barely able to sustain them with food and left nothing for other essentials.

During the last Longnight and seven years of ice and snow, the Olafsons lost one boat to an accident and then had to sell the last one to survive. All they had left were the traditional tanneries in the undercrofts of the west wing.

Volund feared that his firstborn son, Isegrim, would be the last Olafson clan Chief, lording over a starving clan that had to hire its men and warriors to other clans and would simply fade away into oblivion.

The future held a bleak end for the once so proud and strong Olafson clan indeed.

Six months ago, however, everything changed.

Volund had been in Halstaad Fjord, the biggest town on Nilfeheim, nursing a tankard of ale in the old Bredeberg Tavern, seeking to drown his sorrows when a fight broke out—nothing unusual on Nilfeheim, of course—but this fight went from brawling with bare fists to drawn swords and axes.

He didn’t remember exactly what the argument was about, but he fought back-to-back with another man and together they cleared the room.

After the fight, he and the other man clasped underarms and declared friendship. The other Viking was Erik Gustav Ragnarsson, the clan Chief of perhaps the richest clan of all Nilfeheim, surpassing even the Trolle clan if the rumors were true.

Erik Gustav was already a member of the Circle of Elders and had been elected to be Nilfeheim’s Representative to the Assembly at the distant planet of Pluribus Unum.

It was Erik Gustav that Volund was expecting, and just then he spotted a small black dot at the horizon that was getting bigger fast.

A sleek off-world skimmer, a luxurious Volvo F70, swooped down and landed on the concrete pad before the main gate.

Neo Vikings did not like off-world technology, but skimmers, Anti-Grav fliers, and Zero-Point powered boats were simply essential on a world without continents and only a few tiny islands for dry land.

Today was a special occasion, not only would Erik Gustav drink and feast with him but he also was bringing his only daughter along.

Erik Gustav was the heir and leader to the mighty Ragnarsson clan, but his only son had died in a Tyranno Fin hunting accident only a year ago.

Erik Gustav had lost his wife to a disease before she could bear him another son which meant the Ragnarsson clan had no male heir.

Here on Nilfeheim, a clan without a male heir meant the end of the clan. Only a male was allowed to inherit and carry on the Ragnarsson name.

Volund barked a loud command down to the gate and two of his men raised the steel portcullis.

The hydrogen power plant that ran the electric motor had been broken for almost 200 years now, so instead of using electric power, the gate had to be raised by turning hand cranks.

It was an old tradition and a symbolic gesture to open the gates for an honored guest. This is why he had lowered the rusty portcullis this morning in the first place.

While the creaking sound of metal sliding over metal indicated that his men labored to get the heavy obstruction up, so their guests could enter, he hurried down the narrow stairs, almost stumbling over a broken step. He cursed the sorry state of his own castle and then placed himself in a dignified stance behind the now open gate arch.

Volund grabbed warrior Oddløg’s shoulder as he came from the crank alcove, sweating from the task of raising the heavy gate. “Quick, see that Isegrim is in his finest! Where is he? Does he not know what is at stake? Oh Oddløg, make haste!”

Oddløg was a stout warrior, not afraid to speak his mind. The scars over his body and face and the missing left eye were visible testimony of the many fights he had fought. “Aye, my Liege, I shall make haste and if I have to I will drag him up from the tanneries.”

Volund gave his man a pleading look and then raised his hand and bellowed against the ever-blowing wind. “Hail, Erik Gustav of the Ragnarsson clan. Come and enter so we may clasp arms and raise tankards in friendship.”

Erik Gustav, who had come before the gate was a grand sight indeed. This scion of the Ragnarsson clan was a tall man and had dark blonde hair, interlaced with the first silver of age, worn in thick braids as was tradition. He was dressed in fine black leather, the silver falcon of his clan upon his chest. His right fist, inside a black leather and fur gauntlet, rested on Mjördaren, the legendary broad sword of the Ragnarsson clan. Erik Gustav was known far and wide as one of the finest swordsmen, if not the best, of all Nilfeheim.

Nineteen men he had challenged and all nineteen had died.

The visitor wore knee-high boots and a billowing fur-lined cape. Besides his daughter, he was accompanied by high-ranking warriors of his clan. By the Gods! That daughter of his was a beauty, Volund could tell despite the cloak and veil she wore.

Now that the official invitation had been spoken, Erik Gustav came with a purposeful stride and approached Volund.

The Olafson chief turned his head and saw Oddløg running to the main building. There was no sight of Isegrim. He had given strict orders to his oldest son to be at his side at this oh-so-important meeting.

Volund was silently cursing his oldest son.

Oh aye, he knew why the son of the clan chief, his own flesh and blood, was drawn to the stinking bowels of the Olafson tannery like a Flicker fish to the lantern of a fisherman. Yet he had closed his ears to the rumors and prayed to Odin that it wasn’t true, rumors that his own first-born son was bedding a Nubhir hide scrubber’s daughter who worked in the clan’s tanneries.

Volund clenched his fists. As soon as this critically important business was done, he swore to Odin to descend into the crofts and tannery and put that wench to the sword and then beat sense into his oldest son.

Oh, why could Isegrim not be like Hogun, his second-born?

Big, mighty Hogun, as honorable as he was strong. But Hogun was no longer here; he was gone, driven from his home by a now regretful father and the cursed laws and customs that made the first-born alone heir to it all.

Only now could he admit to himself that it was he who had made the choice. He was the clan chief, after all, and could have declared anyone the heir.

Erik Gustav has reached him. They clasped underarms and Volund said, “Welcome to the home of the Olafsons. Aye, it has seen better days, noble visitor, but there is naught a dwelling the old Norse call home upon our cold world that has seen more glory days. No other flag has ever been raised on our rock and oh so many have tried.”

The clan chief of the Ragnarssons nodded. “Aye, many tales and much heroic lore is told about this rock. Legendary are the wrath and fighting skills of thy clan indeed, but what enemies and the battle could not, the gnawing tooth of decay seems to accomplish.”

“It is a source of shame noble visitor, yet this specter of decay that has descended upon my burg cannot be defeated with sword and ax, but with the content of a well-filled purse.”

“Let us to business then. Let us put forth our offspring, for I have a need for an heir and you need of much else it seems.” The Ragnarsson chief half turned. “I present to you my daughter Ilva Ragnarsson, my last child, and the pride of my heart. I hereby declare that she is of sound health and has not seen a man. Nor has any man laid eyes upon her since her twelfth birthday.”

The veil she wore did little, however, to hide the incredible beauty of the girl. Volund had rarely seen a more graceful figure and a more regal curtsy as she performed the traditional moves of greeting.

The Ragnarsson chief looked past Volund. “Have you not summoned thy son? Have you decided against the solution we found during our last council?”

“Nay noble friend and honored guest. No Olafson has ever broken a word given. My son is on his way. He must have forgotten the time while doing his chores. Come then, Erik Gustav, join me in the High Hall. Meager our resources might be, but none shall say we neglect to be hosts. Come then and join me at our tables. You traveled far and spent much time beyond the heavens. Wondrous as your journey might have been, what compares to honest Viking food and mead?”

Erik Gustav followed Volund, waved his entourage of daughter and warriors to follow, then put his arm on Volund’s shoulder. “You too should travel, just once, to see Pluribus and the wonders of our Union; but aye, a repast of Norse making is what I desire.”

Just as the one-eyed warrior suspected, Oddløg did find Isegrim in the arms of the Nubhir hide scrubber’s daughter.

His heavy hand fell on Isegrim’s shoulder as his head was buried between the ample breasts of the blonde, who shamelessly grinned a triumphant and almost evil smile at the older man.

“On your feet! The fate of the clan rests upon thy shoulders. A suitable bride has been brought into these crumbling walls. A creature of high birth; indeed, her dowry alone would enable us to purchase twenty new boats. I was tasked to bring you before our Lord, and by Odin, I will. You can walk or be dragged!”

Isegrim was a big, young warrior, but he also was a coward and feared Oddløg and the punishment his father would deliver. He untangled himself of the woman and got out of bed.

She cooed, “Go, my love, go and secure riches so we may live as your position demands.”

Oddløg half drew his sword, “Silence, you wench! After the pact is made the old man will descend into these crofts and cleanse the filth you represent. Your father, your family, and most of all you are doomed after he hears from me what I have seen! I will be behind him to stomp out any filth he might miss.”

The Nubhir hide scrubber’s daughter’s name was Gretel and only now did she pull the cover over her exposed breasts, and her eyes sparkled. “Isegrim you won’t let them harm me?”

Isegrim was now halfway dressed. “I’ll help him burn you on the stake or feed you to the crabs if it lessens his anger at me. I found joy in this bed, but I shall find joy in other beds. You are but a woman after all.”

Oddløg grabbed Isegrim’s boots and pushed the first-born son of Volund past the door frame and placed his own boot quite forcefully in Isegrim’s behind.

Prelude 2 »