Nifleheim (Humanity Ascendant Book 7), page 1
Nifleheim
Published by A.G. Claymore
Edited by B.H. MacFadyen
Copyright 2024 A.G. Claymore
This is a work of fiction. Names, Characters, Places, Incidents and Brands are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of any products referenced in this work of fiction which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with or sponsored by the trademark owners.
From: Meleke Corporation,
Personnel Resources Div.
To: (Group Redacted)
Msg constitutes mandated notification of the loss of the MSV Gray Star with all hands while on a specimen-collection mission. As a certified next of kin you will receive one half of your relative’s accumulated pay in installments over the next fifteen cycles, minus processing fees.
We remind you that the non-disclosure agreement remains in force and that any breach will result in the detonation of your cranial implant as well as legal action against your surviving family members.
Thoughts and supplications to the gods…
Prak Vennels, VP
Meleke PR
Msg ends…
Homeward Bound
Prologue: The Prize
Isle of Sheppey 854 AD
She knows I’m looking at her, Lorenzo berated himself.
He forced his attention back to the rocks at his feet, bending over to grab a large stone. The Two Brothers was riding low at the stern, and it fell to the youngest member of the crew to remedy it.
His father had sold most of the iron they’d brought over from Frisia and he’d filled their hold with fleeces. He’d been griping about the trim of their small vessel all the way down the Temes River, grumbling in the dark. She was sitting too low in the stern and a following sea would put them on the bottom for sure.
They’d put in at Sheerness so Lorenzo could pick rocks. That was what father had said anyway. He’d gone to a tavern with Lorenzo’s uncle, a tavern they both knew well. The youth knew they wouldn’t be sailing on any time today. I wonder if I have any half-siblings here. He dropped the large stone on the pile he was making and risked another look.
She was feeding her fire with driftwood, keeping pitch melted for her brothers who were caulking their fishing boat. The beginnings of an offshore breeze pressed at her linen shift, making it conform to some rather compelling curvature.
His mind reeled with lurid thoughts. It occurred to him that she might well be a relative but it wasn’t enough to bring him to his senses.
Her scream, on the other hand, worked better than a bucket of cold water. Lorenzo nearly jumped out of his own skin. He dropped the rock that he didn’t even recall picking up and covered his groin, making a shrewd guess at what had caused her reaction.
But she was looking out to sea, frozen in horror. Her brothers took a break from glaring at the lecherous foreigner to see what had scared their sister.
“Scitan!” the elder lad yelped. He cuffed the side of his brother’s head and shoved him toward the town. He was grabbing the girl’s hand when Lorenzo turned to see what had scared them so badly.
Every limb grew tense. His throat felt like he’d just swallowed hot coals.
Looming out of the shredding fog was a longship. It wasn’t here for trade. A fierce-looking dragon’s head was affixed to the prow as an affront to the local spirits. These Northmen had come to kill.
Lorenzo turned to run but tripped over the pile of rocks he’d been making. He crab-walked backwards, too afraid to think of getting back on his feet. His killers’ ship was running aground with a soft, almost gentle hiss of wood on wet sand, the sound a sword makes slicing into hot flesh.
He was going to die on this beach with an obviously swollen groin. He couldn’t imagine a more ludicrous way to end it all. His bladder, trying to be helpful, offered its own suggestion.
He lay there, humiliated as the damp warmth spread through his leggings. A discarded mussel shell sliced open his thumb, distracting him from his imminent death just long enough to realize that it hadn’t happened yet.
He put the edge of his thumb in his mouth, still looking up at the carved beast-head. He frowned. There were no Sword-Danes leaping over the gunwales. No axes raised to split his skull while the others laughed and pointed at his embarrassment.
No sound came from the grounded longship at all.
Getting his breathing under control with a monumental effort, Lorenzo finally got to his feet and tottered slowly over to the ship on adrenaline-addled legs. He approached in a wobbly crouch, both hands held out in front of himself, as if that would make any difference if there really were a shipload of murderous Danes aboard. He knew he should run like the others had but some instinct drew him on.
He passed the wooden beast-head and waded out into the water to where the gunwales were lower. He gasped when a wave slapped his abdomen with cold water but he was grateful that now his clothes were entirely wet, rather than just one localized area.
Still no sign of life aboard. He reached up and grabbed the gunwale, lifting himself high enough to poke a hand into a leather oar-thole. He pushed the wooden plug, wincing as it thumped gently down the inside of the hull planking.
Still no Northmen looked over the edge to investigate. I should get back to the shore right now, he told himself, finally coming to his senses. I should run to the town and find father.
Instead, he peeked through the open thole. There was nobody in sight but the leather gasket obstructed his view of much of the interior. It seemed absurd that curiosity could drive him to an almost certain death like this and, yet, here he hung from the side of a raiders’ longship.
He took a series of deep breaths and then pulled himself up to peek over the gunwale. He dropped back to hang again. Empty. He timed his next move, waiting till a large wave passed, and then pulled himself up, swinging his feet landward and up to hook a foot over the gunwale. It was a maneuver of long practice for the young sailor.
He scrambled over the top and dropped down on a rowing bench. He got to his feet and moved to the centerline, instinctively putting his back to the mast, but there was nobody there. He edged his way around the mast, breathing hoarsely.
There were bundles of personal belongings everywhere, lying with swords, axes and shirts of mail. He stared at one of those last items. The Northmen would have put on those mail shirts as they approached the shore. At sea, only a fool would have an extra fifty pounds of iron to drag him down if he fell overboard.
He looked out over the stern. Where did the crew go? It had to have happened out in the North Sea somewhere, well before they sighted land.
The steorboard idly thumped the hull with every wave, drawing his eye to the platform at the stern. A chest was wedged in between the strakes and the platform support. He was walking toward it before he even realized.
He heard his father’s shouts coming from the low rise above the beach but he ignored him. Kneeling, he grasped the leather handle on the end of the large chest and hauled it out into the watery sunlight.
He pulled out his knife and sliced through the seal-hide rope that held it shut and tipped up the lid. The sun finally burned through the clouds as feet splashed into the waves near the boat.
The knife fell from nerveless fingers.
It was mostly dull and grey but it was treasure, nonetheless. No shiny gold there but a lot of silver. The chest was filled with arm-rings, torques, platters depicting religious scenes and random chunks of hacksilver.
“Lorenzo!” his father shouted, hoarse and winded.
Lorenzo turned as his father reached him at the stern. He hadn’t even heard him climb aboard. His uncle was rolling over the gunwale, legs dripping.
His father put a hand on his shoulder, relieved to find him safe after the fear of seeing a dragon ship, but the scare was over now. He dropped the hand, shaking his head as he looked around. “That was brave of you, lad. Boarding her instead of running away.”
Lorenzo shrugged. Sometimes bravery was nothing more than an absence of good sense. The only difference between that and folly lay in the outcome.
“Why would a crew abandon a perfectly good ship like this?” His father asked, thumping a foot against the keel. “Good Frisian work this, not one of those slow tubs of mierda the Saxons build!”
“Left everything behind,” Lorenzo’s uncle added, bending to grab a wineskin on his way to the stern. He took a drink and held it out to his brother. “Dios mio!” He stepped past his brother and leaned down to pick up an arm-ring.
“Silver!” He looked up at his nephew. “You were the only one to board her? There was no one else, no fishermen?”
Lorenzo nodded. “We’re the only ones to set foot on her so far, Uncle.” He let out a startled laugh as his father danced a few clumsy steps, tripping backwards over the steering platform and landing on his ass.
“She’s ours!” his father whooped, still laying on his back. “At long last, our Heavenly Father has stopped dumping turds in our soup!” He sat up, jubilant. “The price of the ship alone will be enough to change our fortunes but that silver on top of it all…”
His brother had picked up a plate showing what looked to be John the Baptist. “We’d best take this chest to that blacksmith we traded with on our last voyage.” He nodded over his shoulder toward the town. “The sooner this stops lookin g like we stole it from a monastery the better…”
Lorenzo took the offered wineskin from his father.
“But where did the Northmen go?” his uncle wondered out loud, looking out to sea. “Did they all go mad and jump into the sea?”
Lorenzo lowered the wineskin from his lips, gave it a suspicious look and dropped it.
“Wherever they are,” his father said, sitting up, “they’re not our problem and their ship now belongs to the Morales boys!”
The Dragon
Nifleheim
Lo there did he see, earth erupting,
talons dripping, scales shining.
The Nithoggr took flight.
And at Ragnarok’s end, the dragon flew,
down to Nifleheim, where he feasted.
On the doomed he fed, bone-cages breaking,
until he drained the last milk of creation…
The Shipwreck Edda, 482 New Era – author unknown.
Halfdan stood at the edge of the High Road. A five-hundred-foot drop at his feet led to the headwaters of one of the thousands of finger-fjords that gave this sea its name. An endless array of narrow, deep fjords caught the last glittering rays of Nifleheim’s sun as it sank beneath the Finger Sea. The orange light lit his fair hair like a halo, warming his face.
The reflection receded down the fjord, drifting across the sea. He had to squint as the angle threw the light directly into his eyes, forcing him to look up to the sky.
With a sigh of relief, he shook before buttoning up his breeches.
“Deep thoughts, friend?”
Halfdan hadn’t heard his employer approach. Thorstein was surprisingly light on his feet for such a heavy man. He nodded politely as the merchant came to stand next to him. “Just… enjoying the sunset.”
“And here I thought you were contemplating the dragon that forced us down on this world,” Thorstein said mildly.
Halfdan knew him well enough not to bite. Thor was an adherent of the Aesir-Tao, a variation on the old faith heavily influenced by a small group of people at the beginning of their people’s time here on Nifleheim - a people with interesting ideas. They’d taken some fanciful liberties with the Norse pantheon.
The Svartalves’ ship had crashed here and all the Human prisoners had escaped from the captivity of its hold. A small handful of people from somewhere they described as the Tang Kingdom had been among the prisoners.
They’d been small in numbers but they’d brought along knowledge of the secret flame, a magical powder they called huo yao that could create impressive explosions. It had been the reason the High Road could be driven through the endless rock walls of the finger fjords, saving the need to bridge across the summits where the air was thin and filled with hostile spirits.
The Aesir-Tao didn’t care why Humans had ended up on Nifleheim. They were grateful for any opportunity to amuse the gods. Why look a gift calamity in the mouth? Where are the Purists getting this notion of a dragon anyway?
“I do wonder,” Halfdan said, sidestepping the gentle goad, “whether any people still live on Jorth or has Ragnarok finally happened?” He looked back up at the sky, now darkening quickly as the sun’s disc dipped into the sea.
“The All Father hasn’t seen fit to tell us,” Thorstein said. “Just do your best to amuse the Aesir and they’ll enlighten you when you die. It has nothing to do with having a sword in your hand,” he insisted. “It only matters whether you’ve lived a worthy life, provided amusement…”
“But have you never wondered, Thor?” Halfdan cut him off. “Is Jorth nothing but ghosts, waiting for the final battle?” He waved a hand at the sky. “What if…”
He broke off in shock as the wolf-light of dusk turned to bright day. It was as if the sunset had changed its mind. A searingly bright object came up over the horizon and streaked its way overhead but it was far faster than the sun. In a few heartbeats, it had passed out of sight to the south.
“The dragon has come back,” Halfdan breathed, still looking in the direction the fireball had gone, bright spots dazzling in his vision.
“The Aesir have sent a sign,” Thorstein said with the quiet certainty of an Aesir-Taoist making things up on the fly.
Despite his annoyance, Halfdan almost envied the absolute certainty that the newer faith provided. “What did it tell you?”
“I’m going to part ways with the caravan at Klibo and make my way into the Draugr lands.”
Whatever envy Halfdan had felt, it evaporated. “You’re going to risk your life for a spirit pole?” He shook his head. “If you want to amuse the Aesir, go home to Ravndal and put on an orgy or sponsor a judicial execution or even a forced poetry recital.” He shivered.
“The gods have spoken,” the merchant calmly insisted. “If I transition from life to death, then I transition. The gods spare no leaf, no matter how pleasing, when the fall comes.”
A deep boom sounded from the south.
“You see?” Thorstein gestured south. “Thor confirms it. Isn’t that what you purists would say?”
Fool! “How do you know that wasn’t their way of telling us that the rainy season is coming soon? You know what the Draugr will do if they wake to find you stealing a pole!”
Thorstein was unshakeable, like any fool of an Aesir-Tao. He just pulled out his purse and counted out Halfdan’s fee. “We’re unlikely to encounter any bandits after Klibo, so you can take your formidable self home to Toftir from there.
“My path is set. I’m for the frontier,” he said as much to the sky as to Halfdan.
Halfdan took his fee for guarding the trade caravan with a frown on his face. The things we do for the gods…
Escape Act
100 km above Nifleheim
"What the hell was that?” Noah Morales shrieked manfully. He grabbed the loose ends of his restraint harness and tugged on them to make sure they were tight – for the fifth time since entering the atmosphere.
“That was a sonic boom, Noah Morales,” the escape-pod’s system replied, sounding for all the world like a tour-guide pointing out the sights.
“Tell me something I don’t know,” Noah snapped, “I got that from implanted memory as soon as I asked the question.”
“Alright,” the pod responded brightly. “The same anomaly that knocked our ship out of path and set off her reactor containment also disabled my thrusters.”
“What?”
“That’s something you don’t know, Noah Morales.”
“No… What does that mean? To our descent profile, I mean…”
“Our descent will be problematic. Without thrusters, your survival will depend entirely on the integrity of this pod’s structure and on its inertial dampeners. Fear not, Noah Morales, your probability of survival is good, close to forty percent!”
“Asshole!” Noah snarled. Close to forty definitely meant somewhere in the thirties. “Time to the surface?”
“Impact in eleven seconds.”
Impact? “Holy shit!” Noah gave his harness another tug.
There was probably something else he should be doing right now. Just that acknowledgement was bringing a flood of suggestions from the memories he’d been implanted with while visiting his niece on Ragnarok. All he could think of, though, was his family. Shannon and Avery were waiting for him to get back to San Diego but here he was, crashing onto some alien world.
His breathing was shallow and rapid, eyes wide and staring at one of the empty seats across from him. He nearly jumped out of his skin when his suit’s helmet deployed.
That last-second action by his EVA armor probably saved his life, for a few seconds at least. Barely a second after the helmet closed up, his head was snapped forward brutally, his arms pulled nearly out of their sockets as the pod made its first contact with the surface. If not for the sympathetic nanite musculature of the suit, his neck would have been snapped.
Several times.
His head was suddenly pressed back against the headrest. A bag of nachos slapped onto his visor as his arms were pinned to his sides by the acceleration. Zesty cheese…
Forward again, then to the side, then back, his arms splayed out above himself against the curvature of the pod. “Y… M… C… A….,” he grunted along with his contortions, determined to get something out of what might well be his last moments in this Universe.
