BTtNR - Book 3 - Chapter 52

Chapter 52

The work began before the blood had even dried.

Osvif stood over Voldrak's corpse, his red hair matted with sweat and ash, surveying the massive body with the calculating eye of a merchant. Around him, Vikings moved with practiced efficiency, already stripping materials from the two lesser giants on the flanks.

"This is going to take a while," he muttered, then raised his voice. "I need cutting teams over here! And someone send word to the outpost—we need wagons and every dwarf they can spare!"

Einar sat on his boulder, watching the organized chaos unfold. His body still ached from the battle, but the worst of his wounds had been healed by Blessed Healing and Fotgror's runes. What remained was a bone-deep exhaustion that no magic could touch.

Thorodd appeared beside him, offering a waterskin. "You should rest. We can handle this."

"I'm fine." Einar took the water and drank deeply. "What's Osvif planning?"

"Full harvest. Fire giant materials are rare, and we've got three corpses to work with. He's already calculating what we can use for runes versus what to trade." Thorodd shook his head. "The man sees gold in everything."

"That's why I keep him around."

A commotion drew their attention to where Skardi stood over one of the lesser giants, arguing with Jepi about something. The massive Viking was gesturing emphatically at the creature's skull.

"What's that about?" Einar asked.

"Skardi wants to keep the skull as a trophy. Jepi's trying to explain that the bone is worth more if we trade it whole."

Of course he does.

"Let him have it," Einar said. "But only if he wants to give up a rune for it."

Thorodd raised an eyebrow but nodded. "I'll tell Osvif to factor it out of the calculations if the fool decides to do that."

***

The dwarves from the outpost arrived within the hour, bringing wagons and tools and wide-eyed stares at the carnage on the killing ground.

A grizzled dwarf with a braided beard approached Einar, his gaze fixed on Voldrak's corpse. "You actually did it. You killed the Scorched."

"We did."

"I lost three cousins to that monster." The dwarf's voice was rough. "Good warriors, all of them. Part of the forty."

"I'm sorry for your loss."

The dwarf shook his head. "Don't be sorry. Be proud. You avenged them." He looked at the massive corpse again. "We'll help you harvest this bastard. Consider it payment for what you've done."

More dwarves joined the effort, their expertise with materials and tools proving invaluable. They knew how to extract components without damaging them, where to cut to preserve the most valuable pieces, which parts were worthless and which were priceless.

Osvif worked closely with them, taking notes and asking endless questions. "The blood—how do we preserve it?"

"Fire giant blood needs to be stored in stone vessels," one of the dwarves explained. "Metal containers will corrode. We brought several from the outpost. Fill them quickly—once it cools completely, it loses potency."

"What's it used for?"

"Enchantments. Fire resistance, heat manipulation, weapon tempering. A single vial is worth more than most warriors make in a year."

Osvif's eyes gleamed. "And we have thirty feet of giant to drain."

The work continued through the afternoon. Teams carved away Voldrak's armor, revealing the scarred flesh beneath. The custom-forged plates were set aside carefully—dwarven smiths would want to study the craftsmanship, learn how it had been made to withstand such heat.

The volcanic glass blade drew particular attention. Even broken from the hilt during the battle, it radiated heat, its edge still glowing faintly orange.

"Careful with that," one of the dwarves warned as Ragna reached for it. "It'll take your hand off if you're not wearing protective gloves."

"Can it be reforged?" Einar asked, approaching the weapon.

"Maybe. The glass is from deep volcanic vents—we don't have the knowledge to work it ourselves. But there are smiths in the capital who might." The dwarf studied the blade with obvious respect. "This alone is worth a fortune. Properly mounted, it would make a weapon unlike anything in the realms."

Something for later. Right now, we focus on the harvest.

***

By evening, Osvif had compiled a full inventory.

He found Einar near the wagons, where the harvested materials were being loaded for transport. The red-headed Viking carried a sheaf of notes and wore an expression of barely contained excitement.

"You need to see this," he said, thrusting the notes at Einar.

Einar scanned the list. Fire giant blood: twelve stone vessels. Bones: enough for dozens of rune carvings and weapon hilts. Teeth: twenty-three, each suitable for enchantment or trade. Hide: sections of heat-resistant skin that could be worked into armor. Tendons: for bowstrings and binding. Heart: preserved whole, incredibly rare, used in the most powerful fire-based enchantments.

And that was just from Voldrak. The two lesser giants had yielded similar materials in smaller quantities.

"This is..." Einar shook his head. "This is substantial."

"It's a fortune," Osvif said flatly. "Even split with the dwarves for their help and the High King's share, we're looking at enough to fund the warband for a year. Maybe longer."

"What about rune materials?"

"I've set aside the best pieces. Fire giant bone takes enchantment better than almost anything else. We could create new runes for half the pack, upgrade existing ones for the rest." Osvif paused, his expression turning serious. "And we should. Whatever comes next, we need to be stronger."

Einar nodded slowly. The thought had been weighing on him since the battle ended. He'd used every ability he possessed against Voldrak, and it had barely been enough. If the enemies ahead were even stronger...

We need every advantage we can get.

"Make it happen," he said. "Coordinate with Thorve on who needs what. And save some materials for trading—we'll need supplies and equipment before we leave the dwarven realm."

"Already planned." Osvif tucked the notes away. "Oh, and Skardi officially claimed his skull. I've adjusted the inventory accordingly."

Einar snorted and shook his head. "He’s a fool sometimes but good for him. That’s something his father will never have to show off. He deserved something for his recent actions."

"He's already talking about mounting it on a pole and carrying it into battle." Osvif shook his head. "The man has no sense of subtlety."

"That's why we love him."

***

The resurrection ceremony was held at the rally point that night, Thorve bringing back the six fallen warriors while the rest of the pack stood witness. It was brief, solemn, and successful—all six returned, though one lost an advanced rune in the process.

The cost of victory. Never free, but always worth paying.

By dawn, the caravan was ready to move.

***

The journey back to the capital took three days, and with each mile, the reception grew.

Word had spread faster than they could travel. Dwarves appeared along the road, emerging from mines and forges and homes to watch the Viking caravan pass. At first, it was just a few curious faces studying the wagons loaded with giant materials. Then dozens. Then hundreds.

"They're staring," Skardi observed, his lesser giant skull mounted proudly on a pole that he carried like a standard.

"We killed Voldrak," Avitue said. "Of course they're staring."

"Einar killed Voldrak. I just hit things."

"And that's exactly what you're good at."

In the settlements they passed through, dwarves raised fists in salute. Some called out thanks, their voices carrying over the rumble of wagon wheels. Others simply nodded, respect clear in their eyes.

At one crossroads, a group of young dwarves—barely adults by their beards—stood waiting with tankards of ale. They offered them to the Vikings as they passed, their faces filled with something that looked like awe.

"The Scorched killed my father," one of them said as Einar accepted a tankard. "Thank you for avenging him."

Einar didn't know what to say to that. He simply nodded and drank, letting the ale wash away some of the road dust.

The weight of it settled on his shoulders, heavier than his armor.

***

The capital of the dwarven realm rose before them on the morning of the third day.

Even having seen it before, Einar felt his breath catch at the sight. The city was carved into the heart of the mountain itself, with towers, bridges, and forges all hewn from living stone. Light from crystals embedded in the cavern ceiling cast everything in a golden glow, making the architecture seem almost alive.

And today, that city was waiting for them.

Dwarves lined the main thoroughfare, packed shoulder to shoulder, their voices rising in a rumble that echoed off the stone walls. As the Viking caravan entered the city, the rumble became a roar.

"This is... unexpected," Thorodd said, his eyes wide as he took in the crowds.

"They're celebrating," Jepi said. "The trade route is open again. Voldrak terrorized them for months."

Einar walked at the head of the column, feeling hundreds of eyes on him. It was uncomfortable in a way that battle never was. Fighting, he understood. This kind of attention was something else entirely.

They made their way through the city toward the royal keep, the anvil-shaped spire that housed the throne of the High King. At the base of the keep, a delegation of dwarven officials waited to receive them.

One of them stepped forward—a dwarf Einar recognized as one of the High King's advisors. "Einar of the Vikings. The Stone Father awaits you in the throne room. Your warriors may rest in the guest quarters; refreshments have been prepared."

"We brought proof of Voldrak's death," Einar said. "And materials to present to the High King."

"The proof can be brought to the throne room. The materials will be stored and catalogued for later discussion." The advisor's expression softened slightly. "You have done a great thing today. The High King wishes to acknowledge it properly."

Einar glanced back at his pack leaders. They looked tired, battered, but proud. They'd earned this moment.

"Let's not keep him waiting."

***

The throne room was as imposing as Einar remembered.

Massive stone pillars rose to a ceiling lost in shadow. Carvings depicting dwarven history covered every surface, telling stories that stretched back millennia. And at the far end, on a throne that seemed carved from a single piece of mountain stone, sat Vetrdur Kvellhammar.

The Stone Father.

He was as Einar remembered, over ten feet tall even seated, his salt-and-pepper hair and beard perfectly groomed, his armor polished to a mirror sheen. His hammer and shield leaned against the throne within easy reach. And his eyes, sharp despite his age, watched Einar approach with an intensity that made the air feel heavy.

Einar stopped at the prescribed distance and bowed. "High King Vetrdur Kvellhammar. I have returned."

"So I see." The king's voice was deep and resonant, filling the throne room. "And you bring proof of your victory?"

Osvif stepped forward, carrying a wrapped bundle. He unwrapped it carefully, revealing a section of Voldrak's horned helm—still attached to part of the skull beneath, the bone blackened by fire but unmistakable.

The council members lining the walls murmured among themselves. Even the Stone Father leaned forward slightly on his throne, studying the trophy.

"Voldrak the Scorched," Vetrdur said quietly. "He killed many of my people. Terrorized our trade routes. Defied every force I sent against him."

"He's dead now, High King. His two giants with him. The volcanic pass is clear."

"And you killed him alone? As I required?"

"I did. My warriors handled the lesser giants while I faced Voldrak myself."

The Stone Father studied him for a long moment. "Reports reached me ahead of your arrival. They speak of lightning. Of a Viking who called down the power of the storm against fire itself."

"Thor's blessing. A gift from the gods."

"A gift." Vetrdur nodded slowly. "The gods favor you, Einar. First lightning in the arena against Captain Akrini. Now against Voldrak. They mark you for great things."

"Or for great suffering. The gods rarely give gifts without expectation."

The faintest smile crossed the king's face. "Wisdom as well as strength. Good. You will need both for what lies ahead."

He straightened on his throne, and when he spoke again, his voice carried the weight of formal proclamation.

"Einar of the Vikings. You came to my realm seeking alliance. I set three tasks before you, each greater than the last. You have completed them all."

The throne room fell silent. Every dwarf present stood motionless, listening.

"You cleared the goblin-infested mines and returned ore that our forges desperately needed. You secured our caravan routes and eliminated the Karg-kin threat. And now you have slain Voldrak the Scorched, a creature that destroyed forty of my finest warriors."

Vetrdur leaned forward, his burning gaze fixed on Einar.

"In recognition of these deeds, I declare the alliance between the dwarven realm and the Vikings of Midgard. When Ragnarok comes, when Odin sounds the call, my armies will march. We will stand beside you against whatever threatens the realms."

The council members raised their fists in salute, the sound echoing off the stone walls.

Einar felt the weight of the moment settle over him. Months of work, countless battles, warriors lost and resurrected—all of it had led to this.

"Thank you, High King. The Vikings will honor this alliance."

"See that you do." Vetrdur gestured to an attendant, who approached carrying a familiar object—the cask of rare alcohol that Einar had gifted to the king during their first meeting.

"I told you we would share this when the tasks were complete," the king said. "Tonight, we celebrate. Your warriors will feast with my people, and we will drink to an alliance that I hope will last for generations."

Einar allowed himself a small smile. "I look forward to it, High King."

"As do I." Vetrdur's expression grew more serious. "But celebration can wait until evening. First, we must discuss practical matters. The materials you harvested from Voldrak, trade agreements, and..." He paused. "What comes next for you and your Vikings?"

What comes next? The question I've been avoiding.

"We'll need to return to Midgard eventually," Einar said. "Report to our Jarl, resupply, recruit more warriors. And then..."

"And then seek other alliances," Vetrdur finished. "The elves seem to have granted you their word already. So that would leave other realms."

"If Ragnarok is truly coming, we'll need every ally we can find."

"Indeed." The king nodded. "Then let us make the most of your remaining time here. My smiths will work with your materials, my traders will offer fair prices for what you wish to sell, and my scholars will share what knowledge might aid you in your quest."

He raised a hand, and the council members began filing out, leaving Einar and Osvif alone with the king.

"You have proven yourself worthy, Viking," Vetrdur said quietly. "Not just in strength, but in character. You honored the sacrifices of Borin Ironheart and Grimna Stonehands. You avenged my warriors without arrogance or boasting. These things matter as much as victory."

"I was taught that honor is everything. Without it, strength is meaningless."

"Then you were taught well." The king settled back on his throne. "Go now. Rest, celebrate, prepare for what lies ahead. When you leave my realm, you leave as allies and friends."

Einar bowed once more and turned to leave, Osvif falling into step beside him.

As they walked through the massive doors and into the corridor beyond, Osvif let out a breath he seemed to have been holding. "We did it."

"We did."

"A dwarven alliance. An actual dwarven alliance." The red-headed Viking shook his head in disbelief. "When we started this journey, I wasn't sure we'd survive the first month. Now we've secured an army for when Ragnarok comes."

One army. One realm. How many more will we need?

But that was a concern for another day. Tonight, they would celebrate. They would honor the dead and toast the living. They would feast with their new allies and drink to a future that suddenly seemed a little less dark.

"Come on," Einar said. "Let's find the others. They've earned a celebration."

"Skardi's probably already drunk."

"Probably. But tonight, that's allowed."

They walked out of the royal keep and into the golden light of the dwarven capital, where the sounds of celebration were already beginning to rise.

One alliance forged. One step closer to being ready for what was coming.

One step closer to stopping Ragnarok.