Einar Dragonblooded

Burn it all.

Those three words summed up the majority of Einar's thoughts on most things since his tribe had been butchered over a decade ago. Even now, while he sat in the Coiled Serpent polishing off a mug of strong, dark ale, he still remembered the whole thing like it was yesterday.

Subjugating angels had come down upon his village when he had been only sixteen, barely an adult by the standards of the Varanwulf barbarians that were both kith and kin to him. Still, he had been on his feet and grabbing his axe as soon as he had been able to smell the smoke and hear the screams.

That day, he had learned many things about himself, namely how to access the mighty berserker rage that the Varanwulves were known for. After the fateful moment when he had descended into that black pit, everything else had become a blur. All he remembered was butchering as many angels as he could before being forced to flee so that he wouldn't die too.

That, having to retreat, was the worst part of the memory, and the shame of it burned in his core even now.

Varanwulves did not retreat. It was said that their tribe had been formed from those handpicked by Fenrir himself among the ones who had stood with Surtur during Ragnarok to ensure that there would always be at least one tribe that was willing to fight the tyranny of Odin, the other Aesir, and their angelic hosts, no matter what.

Fenrir did not retreat, and the Varanwulves did not either.

The only reason why Einar had was because it had been his dying father's final wish after being struck down by an angel and left to bleed on the snow and rime.

"The bloodline must continue." Those were the words he had spoken. He had tried to say more, but his life had slipped away before he could.

And so, despite the fact that Einar wanted to fight, despite the fact that Fenrir would have fought, Einar ran. He ran as far as he could as far and as fast as he could until his rage had finally given out, forcing him to collapse.

He had no idea of how long he had been unconscious for, but he did know that he had to cover up the gleaming silver scales on his wrists that had emerged during his rage and stayed there. They would only draw attention, and attention would get him killed; the angels didn't like anyone but their own kind using magic.

And so he had hunted down a wolf, one of the larger ones that stalked the frozen wastes and were said to by the Sons of Fenrir, slew it, and made its pelt into both a jerkin and bracers that he still wore under his gleaming black adamantine breastplate and vambraces, both of which he had received from his father, that were nicked and marred from dozens of battles, yet still unbroken.

Just like him.

Now, however, he worked as a jomsviking, a barbarian for hire, and he hated the fact that he had been forced into such work, but it kept a room in the tavern reserved specifically for him and hot food in his belly. He knew better than to complain about either of those things.

That, and it was honest enough work. When he died and met Fenrir, or maybe even Surtur himself, some day, and hopefully not too soon, they would understand why he had been a jomsviking.

Still...

"Brooding again, Einar?" a gruff, but warm, voice said from behind the bar.

Einar turned his gaze up from his mug and toward the source of the voice. It was Braag, owner of the Coiled Serpent. Like Einar, he was a large, stout man, though he was far older. His pale, gnarled skin bore the scars of decades of battles, such that Einar's skin was immaculate by comparison. Fiery red hair and a beard, both thick and braided with streaks of gray running through them, dominated his face. Both his jerkin and pants were crafted from leather that looked as gnarled as him, though they bore stains instead of scars, and far less of them as well.

His piercing blue eyes gazed down upon Einar.

"It is not good for you, you know," Braag said, continuing despite the fact that Einar hadn't given a response.

Einar raised his mug to his lips and finished off the remaining ale in one big gulp. If he had had a beard, a fair portion of the ale would have spilled on to it, and more than a few drops made it onto his long hair that was just as fiery as Braag's, albeit neither tamed nor braided. He slammed the mug down on the bar as he always did when he needed another drink.

And he definitely needed another drink.

"Last I checked, you are not here to give me advice on what I should or should not do," Einar said in a cutting tone. "I pay for my room and board, and that should be your only concern."

This was not the first time that Einar had had to deal with this kind of talk from Braag. He knew that the barkeeper meant well, and also that he had been through many battles himself, but still...

Braag offered a melancholy smile. "Aye. You do keep up on your tab, but I can tell that you are not happy. Look around, Einar!" He gestured around to the rest of the tavern beyond the bar. "Eat! Drink! Be merry! You always come in looking so dour."

Einar threw a glance over his shoulder and saw that everyone else was eating, drinking, and being merry. Nearly every stool in the sizable room was filled by a hulking man or woman, nearly all of them wearing leathers of some variety and holding a mug. With their other hands, they engaged in arm wrestles, games of dice, or the consumption of a chunk of mutton, cheese, or bread taken off one of the wooden plates that held what could only be described as a mountain of food. The wenches agilely navigated the whole area, their white dresses flowing past the patrons as they moved from table to table and their delicate features drawing the eyes of men and women alike.

The fire in the old, stout stone hearth crackled eagerly while a skald strummed his lute and sang a tale of valor from the days of Ragnarok, when Surtur had risen to meet the challenge of Odin's tyranny.

The Coiled Serpent was warm, but Einar still felt cold inside. He turned his gaze back on Braag and shrugged.

"I need another drink," he said tersely.

Braag sighed but said nothing as he took Einar's mug, refilled it at the giant keg behind him, and set it down in front of the jomsviking once more.

"Thank you," Einar said, this time a little less gruff. "Put it on my tab, as always."

Braag offered another melancholy smile. "This one's on the house, my friend."

Einar merely shrugged before lifting the mug to his lips and beginning to drink. He and Braag had some variation of the conversation that had just concluded every week or so, and Einar did his best to keep them short. He only came back to the tavern so that he could rest between jobs, and he only came back to this tavern in particular because it was in the city of Vortaag, which Einar preferred over the others nearby for a few reasons.

The main one was that it was a port city. That meant that it saw far more traffic than the inland cities, which made it easier for him to get contracts, mostly because it made it easier for people to get to him. Having been a jomsviking for as long as he had, he rarely had to advertise his services anymore; potential clients looked for him, sometimes by name and sometimes by "the hulking man who bellows with rage before he cleaves men in two straight down the middle with his jagged axe that look far too large for him."

Einar knew that he would have been hunted down and killed by the angels, probably the same ones that had butchered his tribe, were it not for the fact that Vortaag was also one of the few major, and heavily-armed, cities that was not under their control. Legends said that the city had served as a stronghold for the giants both before and during Ragnarok. Einar didn't particularly care about whether or not that was true; either way, the angels rarely came by, though sometimes Einar wished that they would so that he could continue to repay them for what they had done to the Varanwulves.

His face formed into a grimace as he continued to drink his ale. Right after he finished it, but before he could slam the mug down on the bar, a hooded figure slipped onto the stool to the left of him. Einar slammed his empty mug down on the bar and glanced over at the newcomer.

The outline of a wiry beard and mustache under the black hood told Einar that the newcomer was a man, though he was but a twig compared to everyone else in the tavern, especially Einar, even with the thick black cloak that he wore.

Einar also caught a glimpse of a bronze pendant that depicted a flaming sword, the symbol of Surtur, which prompted him to start reaching for his axe that was leaning against the bar. Despite the fact that the Varanwulves had stood with Surtur during Ragnarok, he and the other giants were still beings of chaos, and it was they who had broken the world into the four separate realms that it was now. As a result, Einar had made a habit of not trusting anyone who openly displayed the holy symbol of one of the most reviled beings in the history of the four realms as a result

"You need not reach for your axe, jomsviking," the man said softly. His voice was smooth compared to the others that Einar dealt with. "I mean you no harm."

"I will decide that," Einar replied gruffly, keeping his hand on the handle of his axe. "What do you want?"

Wordlessly, Braag took Einar's mug, refilled it, and set it down back where it had been.

"I want the same thing that everyone who seeks you wants, Einar," the man replied simply, still speaking softly. "I want to hire you; your legend precedes you."

Normally, Einar would have already taken a deep gulp from his newly-refilled mug. But, if this man truly did want to hire him, then he would need to have his wits about him. There would be more time to drink later.

"What's the job?" Einar asked in as neutral a tone as he could manage.

"There are frost giants coming down from the Yngvuurg Mountains in the north," the man said, "As a result, it's been more difficult for trade caravans to pass through the area, and my associates would like to see the situation remedied."

"True giants, not giant-kin?" Einar asked skeptically. True giants, namely fire and frost giants like the ones that had fought alongside Surtur during Ragnarok, still existed, albeit in rarely seen enclaves that were either deep underground or at the edges of the realm where the angels didn't dare to look. Legend said that other kinds of giants existed, especially during the time of Ragnarok, but Einar had dismissed them as just that: legends.

However, he had seen many giant-kin before, and they made him look small and weak by comparison. Their greater stature and might had not stopped him from killing them though.

The black-robed man nodded. "Yes, true giants. They were much too large to be merely giant-kin, and their skin and hair was as icy as the peaks that they inhabit. I have seen them with my own eyes."

Einar gave a patronizing smirk. "How did you manage to survive an encounter with them?"

The hooded man smirked back. "They can't kill me if they don't know I'm there."

"I suppose that's fair." Einar's smirk faded away as he gave an apathetic shrug. The fact that the man had resorted to stealth didn't surprise him.

The man's tone turned urgent. "Do you want the job or not? I will pay quite handsomely."

"I have no doubt of your ability to pay me; the fine make of your cloak and pendant took care of that. What I am wondering is why you want to hire me to take care of this. The giants have more than enough enemies between the angels and what remain of the Aesir, and they would take care of your problem for free. They wouldn't even question your pendant." Einar paused. "Unless... Unless there is something else going on that you don't want them to know about, something that would cause them to believe that you would also be better off dead."

The man merely smiled as he produced a bulging leather bag from his cloak and set it down on the bar. It gave a jingling sound that Einar was quite familiar with, though he had not been offered a payment that large in quite some time.

"Let's just say that I do not particularly wish to discuss the details," the man said. "That is only half of the payment, by the way. Do you want the job or not?"

"Only half, you say?" Einar asked, now significantly more interested in what the man had to say despite the fact that his gut told him to reject the offer and have no dealings with this man.

The man nodded. "You heard me correctly."

"Fine," Einar sighed, "I'll do it. Which part of the Yngvuurg Mountains are these frost giants lurking in?" He still felt wary about taking a job that involved killing giants since he had never even seen one, let alone killed one. But, the pay from this job meant that his tab would be paid for quite some time. Either that, or he could get his axe worked on. It was fine enough as is, but Einar felt like it could use a little something extra, maybe an enchantment of some sort...

"The Syrdryn Tarn," the man said, "near the base of Fingol's Peak."

"Frost giants that close to an active volcano?" Einar now spoke in a puzzled tone. His sense of unease continued to grow.

Again, the man nodded. "I am as surprised as you are. Frost giants would normally die before subjecting themselves to such heat, but they are there, and my clients' caravans must pass. These are strange times."

"That they are. That aside, you have told me everything that I need to know. I will begin my hunt for these giants tomorrow morning."

"Surely you can't leave tonight and catch them by surprise? I will pay you half as much again if you do."

As much as Einar liked that idea, he still shook his head. "No. I will go tomorrow."

The man gave an accepting nod. "Very well then. Meet me back here in three days' time with the head of their jarl, and you shall receive the rest of your payment."

With that, the man rose from his stool and walked out of the tavern. His departure didn't make Einar feel any better.

"There is something strange about that man..." Braag said, "But, I can't quite place it." He chewed on his lip pensively.

"I agree," Einar replied simply before taking a deep gulp from his still-full mug.

"Then why did you take the job?"

"Why do I take any job, Braag? The gold. He put enough gold on the table for me to not care about the strange air he had about him."

"The amount of gold he put on the table was part of what convinced me that there is something wrong about him."

Einar shrugged. "Oh well. I will find out when I leave tomorrow. Tonight, however, I drink." He quickly finished his mug of ale and slammed it down on the bar. "Another one if you would please, Braag. I'll have to get quite drunk tonight if I am get a good night's sleep."

Braag sighed before smiling and shaking his head. "Aye."

He refilled the mug and set it down in front of Einar. The jomsviking quickly drained it, and the cycle of drinking and refilling continued, occasionally interrupted by some mouthfuls of bread, mutton, or cheese.

After a few hours, Einar rose from his stool, picked up both his axe and his gold, and staggered over to the stairs that stretched up over the hearth, navigating through a mob of equally-drunk patrons. He made it up the stairs, found the way to his room, and opened the door, closing it behind him as he entered. The room had a sizable bed with multiple thick blankets, a simple but solid nightstand, and his leather backpack on the floor. A thick white candle slowly burned away on the nightstand, providing a dim but comforting light throughout the room.

Einar let out a yawn as he set his axe down at the foot of the bed. He staggered over to the nightstand and set his bag of gold on it. Then, he stripped off his armor and clothes, also laying them at the foot of the bed. He crawled into bed afterwards, blew out the candle, and promptly fell asleep.

He didn't wake until the first rays of the rising sun began to creep through his window. Despite all of the drinking last night, he didn't feel groggy at all, but that wasn't out of the ordinary. He got out of bed quickly, put on his clothes and armor, took up his axe, and walked down into the main room, taking his customary seat in front of the bar. The tavern was empty except from him and Braag, and the embers from last night's fire still burned.

"Good morning, Einar," Braag said as he cleaned a few mugs. "Hold all of your liquor in?"

Einar gave a quick smile. "I always do, Braag. What do you have cooking for breakfast?"

"Not much right now other than some bacon. Since you are the first one here, what do you want?"

Einar took a few moments to think.

"Did your red potatoes finally come in?" he finally asked.

Braag gave a knowing smile. "Yes, and about damn time too. I thought the angels had seized it, but, by Thor's hammer, they got here."

"Good. I could use a batch of your famous fried, spiced potatoes before I leave, along with sizeable portions of mutton, cheese, and, of course, ale."

"Ready to drink already? You haven't even left the city yet."

"Wouldn't you be wanting to drink if you had to face down Loki's kin?"

"Aye, you make a good point there." Braag turned around and began filling a mug with ale. Without even asking, he knew to fill it with the darkest, strongest liquor he had.

Once he had finished filling the mug, he turned around and set it down in front of Einar. "To the death of Loki's kin."

Einar raised his mug in salute. "To the death of Loki's kin," he repeated before taking a large gulp from the mug.

"I'll be back in a few minutes. I have to start the potatoes." Braag retreated into the kitchen behind the bar.

Einar merely nodded as he took another drink from his mug. He would probably down a few of them before he left. He wasn't a coward by any stretch; cowardice as a jomsviking was punishable by death. Still, trepidation about fighting frost giants was more than reasonable. They were called Loki's kin for a reason, and though Einar didn't know how strongly the trickster god's bloodline flowed through them, he did know that they were skilled at wielding axes that were larger than him.

Much larger.

He also knew that he would receive no mercy from them despite the fact that Fenrir, who was also one of Loki's sons, had founded the Varanwulves. Giants respected nothing but martial prowess.

Braag returned from the kitchen with a wooden plate piled high with everything that Einar had asked for, though Einar could smell it well before he saw it, especially the crisp, spice-tinged potatoes.

"Thank you," Einar said as the plate was set in front of him.

"You're welcome," Braag replied, taking Einar's now-empty mug to refill it.

Most people would have eaten the mountain of food that was now in front of Einar with a spoon or fork. However, Einar wasn't most people. He immediately began digging in with his hands, starting with the potatoes first. They were still hot, and they had a good crunch to them. It had been too long since he had had them, and they were his favorite of all the foods that were served at the Coiled Serpent.

It didn't take him long to devour everything, even while downing mugs of ale. He let out a loud belch once he had finished the last bites.

"Good food, as always, Braag," he said as he rose up from his stool and took up his axe.

Braag smiled and nodded as Einar walked toward the door. He left just as other patrons were coming down from their rooms, which was just fine by him; he didn't want to talk with them anyway. Pushing his way through the creaky wooden door, he was immediately met by the biting winter wind. It didn't bother him too much though. The leathers beneath his armor were thick enough, and he was already accustomed to harsh winters.

He began making his way through Vortaag's streets, which were mostly empty except for a few hulking armored men with axes and swords that served as the city's guards. They paid Einar no mind, however; they all knew that he wasn't going to cause any trouble.

As a result, he was able to make his way quickly through the maze of stone roads and wood buildings held within Vortaag's outer walls, soon arriving at the front portcullis, which was an iron behemoth that was already open. Again, the guards paid him no mind as he passed through.

Now having left the city, Einar paused to take in his surroundings. Gray clouds filled the morning sky, and the sun, which was little more than an orb of bleak white light, fought for its place among them. The rocky trail in front of Einar meandered off, surrounded, but not obfuscated, by new-fallen snow. Ahead, he saw a towering, majestic mountain range that was starker and grayer than the sky above and as unyielding as those who called it home: the Yngvuurg Mountains.

Einar could tell which one was Fingol's Peak by seeing which of the mountains was the largest. He knew that it wouldn't take him more than an hour or two to cross the distance, which, with all the fighting that he was anticipating, should put him back at the Coiled Serpent drinking ale by nightfall.

Hopefully.

He had decided awhile ago that it was best to not think too hard about the alternatives, and so he began walking. Neither the cold winds nor the drifting snow deterred him, and he eventually found himself standing at the base of Fingol's Peak. A quick glance up at the sun told him that only the hour or two that he had anticipated had passed, which he was glad for. The sooner he got this job done, the better off he would be.

The trail that he had been following continued to wander up Fingol's Peak, though it became significantly steeper and far less defined.

Yet, before Einar had started to walk up the trail, he heard the sound of moving rocks coming out of the large, almost maw-like cave to the left of him. He knew that it wasn't the Syrdryn Tarn because there was no steam emanating from it. Still, he dropped into a defensive stance and brandished his axe.

Part of him hoped that there wasn't a frost giant lurking in the cave, that it was only a predator common to these mountains, like a Fenrirkin wolf or one of the many varieties of giant worms or insects. Another part of him, however, hoped that it was a frost giant so that he would have a new foe to test himself against. He didn't know of any other jomsvikings who had slain a frost giant, and to be the first...

The sound continued, and Einar took a tentative step forward while looking around for any other signs of danger. When he saw none, he took another step forward.

"Come out, fell creature, if you dare," he roared, "and face the might of a jomsviking!"

He was already starting to draw upon the rage that the Varanwulves were legendary for.

The sounds of stomping now came out of the cave and straight toward Einar. His mouth twisted into a savage grin, and he tightened his grip on his axe.

A hulking form soon emerged from the cave, and Einar immediately identified it as a frost giant.

The giant was an enormous, muscled man that dwarfed Einar in every way. He wore a battered iron breastplate and a helmet that had a pair of large, curved, ram-like horns. His skin was blue like the ocean, and his hair was stark white. In one meaty fist, he held an enormous axe with an edge that was coated in ice, and he gripped a battered iron shield in the other. His mouth was formed into a savage grin that matched Einar's.

"Man-flesh," the frost giant snarled, "I will eat well this day."

Einar let out a forceful bellow as he charged the giant. The giant met the jomsviking head on, swinging both its axe and shield. The shield slammed into Einar, forcing him to stagger back, and the axe soon followed. However, the axe split into a nearby rock in two rather than hitting Einar. He flashed a grin as he lunged forward and hacked at the giant's exposed side, which wasn't protected by the breastplate. The axe bit into the giant's flesh and left a jagged wound that bled liberally. Einar let out a howl of triumph while the giant let out a howl of pain.

The giant turned on Einar brought his axe down upon the jomsviking. Einar leaped out of the way, crouched down, and cleaved at the giant's calf, which was protected only by a few scraps of hide. The axe tore through both hide and flesh, severing the giant's foot from the rest of his leg and bringing forth even more blood than the first wound that Einar had inflicted. The giant let out a scream of pain as he hopped before falling back to the ground.

Einar stalked forward until he stood over the giant's neck with his axe raised.

"To the gorges of Jotunheim with you!" he roared as he brought his weapon down upon where the giant's neck met his shoulders.

The axe tore through the flesh easily, completely decapitating the giant. Einar let out a roar of triumph as he raised his axe over his head. He didn't care who heard it; he had slain one of Loki's kin.

However, he didn't take much time to revel in his kill before he started up the meandering path again. The "base" of Fingol's Peak was quite large, especially since it was the largest of the mountains in the Yngvuurg range and an active volcano at that. As he walked, the rush of battle wore off, replaced instead by the focus of keeping to the path. He watched his surroundings intently and searched for any other sign of frost giants as well as anything that might be out of place. Though he had traversed parts of these mountains before and found no frost giants, he had found one today, which meant that there could be more lurking in the area.

The trail soon leveled off into a plateau that was surrounded by boulders. It had only one path which was narrower than the one that Einar had just finished taking up the mountain. What immediately caught his attention, however, was the cave off to his right that was even larger than the last one, and it had a miasma of steam roiling forth from it accompanied by a faint hiss:

The Syrdryn Tarn.

Already, Einar could feel his rage rising again as he walked toward the cave opening. It was only because of his years of experience as a jomsviking that he was able to keep it from fully taking control; he had learned that it was better to take the time to assess the situation first instead of flying into a rage and hoping for the best. That could get him killed.

He walked into the cave and saw the full extent of it. The tarn was easily the size of a lake, and Einar could already feel the steam assaulting him. On its rocky banks, he saw clusters of torches and tents made from animal skins, both large enough for frost giants.

And yet, he saw no frost giants.

"I have a bad feeling about this," he said as he took one hand off his axe, walked over to the nearest torch cluster, and pulled one free. He had never explored the full extent of Syrdryn's Tarn, but he had heard that it was quite large, and he didn't want to take his chances in the dark.

He walked over to one of the tents and looked inside. A look of confusion took over his face as he gazed upon the corpse of a frost giant, fully armored and covered in his own blood. An enormous axe with a half-moon blade was lying next to him, and it was also covered in blood.

Einar walked out of that tent and into another one, and he found two more frost giant corpses, both looking like they had bee slaughtered just as brutally as the first one. He had managed to slay one of them, but it had been only one. This couldn't be the work of only one man.

"What is going on here?" he growled.

As if on cue, he heard a chorus of dark laughter echo forth from behind him that sounded like multiple disembodied voices. Einar threw his torch to the ground and put both hands on his axe as he wheeled around to face his assailant.

Before him stood the same tall, too-thin man that had hired him the night before in the Coiled Serpent, except now he wore a suit of gleaming bronze plate armor that was reminiscent of that which Surtur himself had worn during Ragnarok. He wore neither the black robes nor the flaming sword pendant, instead bearing a full-sized version of the blade that had been hanging on the chain.

"You," Einar snarled, now allowing his rage to come through. "I should have known."

"Yes," the man said, "It was me all along. I know that you saw my pendant."

"I should have slain you at the tavern; Braag would have had no problem cleaning up your corpse." Einar's grip on his axe tightened.

An arrogant smirk crawled onto the man's face. "It would have done you no good, Einar of the Varanwulves, for I am Gulbrand, High Warrior-Priest of Surtur."

"Then what quarrel do you have with me? Surtur was slain by Freyr during Ragnarok, and it was my ancestors who fought alongside him as his allies against the Aesir."

"Aye, your ancestors did stand with my lord during Ragnarok, but Surtur was not slain." Gulbrand shook his head as he grinned. "No, Surtur is not dead, for Freyr was the most merciful of the Aesir and could not being himself to slay my lord, instead trapping him in the fragments of Muspelheim on a world far from this one, which is where you come in. My lord wants to come back, but his form is too shattered, too withered, from Ragnarok to survive the journey across the worlds, not without a new vessel to contain his essence. Really, Einar, you should submit to me and be grateful for this opportunity; I chose you because you are both a mighty warrior and the blood of dragons flows through you. You would well as Surtur's vessel."

"Why should I be so grateful?" Einar roared, now allowing his rage to fully take over as he began frothing at the mouth. "Where was Surtur when the minions of the Aesir came down from on high to butcher my kith and kin in the name of law with the fear of a Second Ragnarok in their hearts? Where was Surtur when I began my life as a jomsviking, little more than a whore with an axe and no purpose, just so that I could survive? I do not care about Surtur because he does not care about those who followed him; he wanted only to see the world broken, and he got what he wanted."

Gulbrand laughed. "Don't you see, Einar? Ragnarok was only the first part of Surtur's plan! Since the dawn of creation, he has rebelled against the tyranny that the Aesir and their angelic hosts have inflicted upon us in the name of all that they say is good. By breaking the world into the four realms, he made it easier for us to rise up!"

"Where was he when my mother and father were butchered by the angels, you bastard? Where were the giants that were supposed to overthrow this tyrannical order then? Where the hell were they?"

"I feel your pain, Einar, but-

Einar cut the priest off with a guttural roar as he charged forward. "I will kill you and drink the blood from your skull, you bastard! Do you hear me?" He punctuated his question with a brutal swing of his axe at Gulbrand's neck.

The warrior-priest beat back the axe with his sword, causing the sound of ringing metal to reverberate throughout the cave.

"Think of what your brutality could accomplish, Einar, if you combined it with Surtur's might!" Gulbrand said excitedly as he took a defensive stance. "You could bring about the next Ragnarok!"

"That will not bring back the dead Varanwulves," Einar snarled as he swung again. His blood sang in his veins; this was his true calling.

Gulbrand leaped out of the way but made no attempt to retaliate. "You can still avenge them! They are surely watching you even now. Do you think that they would want you to reject me generous offer?"

At that, Einar let out a bloodcurdling howl of rage that matched the tempo of the song in his veins. "You know nothing about what they would have wanted," he seethed, "and you will never know because they are dead. They are dead because your god was absent, and now I will slay you because you lied to me!"

Einar let out another roar as he hacked at Gulbrand with his axe. While his weapon whistled through the air, he felt the muscles in his back tear open to allow new flesh to come forth. Gulbrand's expression became one of horror as he parried the jomsviking's attack. Einar quickly glanced over his shoulder and saw two silver-scaled draconic wings that were crowned by curved talons, and he felt the scales around his wrists growing harder.

Gulbrand gulped as he forced himself into a defensive stance, knowing that surrendering would do him no good. Instead, he began to draw upon the power granted to him by his god by reciting the words to a spell.

Einar roared and swung his axe, striking Gulbrand's side. The axe's teeth tore through the warrior-priest's armor while the force of the blow threw him to the ground. Still, he continued casting his spell. He pointed a finger at Einar, and a blazing ray of seething fire burst forth and struck the jomsviking in the chest. Even though the fire did no damage to his armor, he could still feel the heat of it burning the flesh underneath. Unfortunately for Gulbrand, however, it was not enough for a kill.

The warrior-priest fought to get back up, but Einar was already upon him and swinging his axe. It hit Gulbrand's chest, tearing open his breastplate and rending his flesh. As Einar tore the axe free, Gulbrand let out a roar of his own and swung his sword. The blade cut into Einar's calf, leaving a short, deep wound that bled heavily. The jomsviking snarled in pain as he brought his axe down upon the sword and shattered it.

"Where is your god now?" he roared.

He raised his axe once more and brought it down upon Gulbrand. To the warrior-priest's credit, he managed to remain silent as the axe tore through his helmet, split his skull open, and rent his brains into a bloody mush. Once that last light had faded from his eyes, Einar released his rage with a howl of victory. The wings went back into his flesh, his wrist-scales went back to their normal thickness, and a feeling of heavy fatigue came over him.

Still, he forced himself to make his way out of the tarn, and even in his fatigued state, he found himself with so many unanswered questions, most of which were concerned with what had happened during his rage. He had always known that draconic blood flowed through him, but he had never seen it manifest this strongly, not even when the angels had attacked his tribe. Could it mean that he was meant for a greater purpose beyond being a lone jomsviking searching for his next kill?

He hoped that the answer was yes.

Einar smiled as he felt the chill winter wind kiss away the last of the heat of battle, calmly holding him in its embrace while the sun blessed the mountains with its white light. Yet, for all its majesty, Einar didn't wait very long before he continued walking back down to Vortaag and the Coiled Serpent.

It was a shame that he wouldn't see the other half of the payment that Gulbrand had promised him, but he still grinned at the irony of the fact that the priest had paid to get himself killed. Besides, the gold that he had already given Einar would be able to buy many hot meals and strong drinks.

And Einar needed all of them.

The End

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