Archive of Our Own

Charles was shaking visibly, speaking softly into his dethphone, painfully aware of the gathering of media surrounding him and recording his every word and motion. He had to remain calm, he had to remain professional. Nothing would be solved if he came apart at the seams. Charles drew a breath of the cold winter air as he stood near a runway in Frankfurt, Germany.

“Okay Toki, one more time, slowly.”

The line crackled. “Da plane is gone down! We’s in Iceland somewheres.”

“Is everyone okay?”

“Well we is all bruise an’ sores, but Nat’an only ones really hurt. He… oh I lets Pickle explain.”

Charles waited until Pickles got on the line. “Ahfdensen?”

“Yes Pickles.”

“Yeah I think he broke some ribs, he sounded like bubble wrap when he hit. Definitely broke his leg, but he’s conscious and pissed off.”

“Well… that’s… good. I think. Where are you?”

“I have no idea. Iceland, that’s the best I can do.”

“What happened?”

“Oh you’ll love this,” said Pickles. “The little private jet we were flying in developed engine trouble, so the pilot grabbed the parachute and jumped out over an inhabited region. By the time we figured out there were no more chutes we were too low to use them anyway. Murderface somehow managed to keep us from crashing and dying, but we still hit pretty hard. I think Skwisgaar’s in shock.”

“Wait a minute,” said Charles. “He bailed out and left you?”

“Yeah he did. We sorta drifted a few hundred miles while the plane died and then we went down so… we have no idea where we are. I don’t know if he lived. Umm… Charles?”

“Yes Pickles?”

“If I die don’t give my brother anything.”

“Noted. But you’re not going to die, Pickles. Do you have food? Shelter?”

“We have shelter, I don’t know about food. We found a sorta little cave-house at the bottom of a cliff. Actually it’s more like the bottom of a split in the rock. It used to be somebody’s home at one point, there’s a fire pit and pots and stuff but I have no idea how old they are. Toki said it looks like someone showed up in the warm weather, thought this might be a good place to live, then when it got cold they abandoned it. They sure left in a hurry, whoever they were. But yeah we have shelter and water, and maybe some food, we haven’t really looked yet.”

Charles sighed. It was December, and Iceland in winter was no place for anyone to be lost, especially not his boys. The five of them didn’t have the common sense of a fruit fly.

“All right, save your cell phone and I’ll organize a rescue.”

“Okay. Hey… what day is it?”

“Day?”

“Yeah Skwisgaar is freaking out about the day, Toki too.”

Charles smiled slightly. Ah yes, Toki and Skwisgaar, the worst nihilists in the history of nihilism. They didn’t believe in anything… unless it was pre-Christian Scandinavian gods and Icelandic trolls.

Actually the boys had good reason to believe in trolls.

“It’s the tenth. Tell Skwisgaar not to worry, we’ll have all of you out by the twelfth.”

Charles could almost hear Pickles blink in surprise. “How did you know he wanted to be out of here by the twelfth?”

“Because I know what’s worrying him.”

“Oh gee thanks, I feel so much better now.”

“Just tell the man I am about to pass you to what the terrain looks like.”

“Is he hot?”

Charles glanced at the short, homely, balding man with hair sprouting out of his nose and ears.

“Yes. Yes he is.”

Charles handed the man the phone, then walked over to the milling crowd of media who had come to see Dethklok arrive in Germany. Now he had to tell them they were lost somewhere in Iceland en route to Frankfurt.

That pilot better have died on impact. Because if he hadn’t, Charles was gonna kill him.

***---***

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU CAN’TS COME GETS US?!”

Charles sighed. “Toki there is no way to get you out. It is winter, the weather is just too bad, we can’t risk it.”

“I DON’TS WANTS TO BE HERE!”

“I know you don’t. We will get you out as soon as the storm clears. The military are going to drop in some supplies for you but they can’t land. The terrain is just too rugged, they would have to find a place to land and hike in and in this weather that’s just not feasible.”

“Buts I scareds!”

Charles winced, feeling his heart break. “I know you’re scared, but it’s okay. We know where you are, as soon as the weather clears we’ll be in to get you. Okay?”

“Well… okay,” said Toki, the worry audible in his voice. “Buts is alreadys da eleventh…”

“I know,” said Charles softly. “We’re doing our best. And there is clothing for all of you in the supply crate, okay?”

“Is new?”

“Yes it’s all new.”

“Dey has to be new!”

“Toki, the clothes are new, okay? I promise.”

Toki breathed out a sigh of relief. “Okies.”

“Toki,” said Charles quietly, “everyone is doing their best to come get you. Don’t worry, okay? How are Nathan and Skwisgaar?”

“Dey’s okies.”

“Tell him we need beer,” called a deep voice.

“I’m not sending him beer,” said Charles. “He’ll freeze to death. I sent hot chocolate.”

“Oh he nots gonna likes dat,” said Toki.

“Are we getting beer?” asked Nathan.

“No we’s gettings hot chocs-lat.”

Nathan howled out his displeasure at being denied beer.

“He says we is freezings to deaths if we drinks,” said Toki.

“Bullshit! What about the St. Bernards carrying casks of brandy?” grouched Nathan.

“That’s a myth,” said Charles. “The dogs didn’t carry brandy.”

“Charlies says quits you whining,” said Toki.

“Oh he did not,” grumbled Nathan.

Charles smiled. “How are you for warmth?”

“Oh we is good, we nice and warms, Skwisgaar an’ I founds da trenches for da hots water. Is smells a bits but nots bad, we is warm.”

Charles felt a load of weight leave his shoulders. Okay good, trust the Scandinavians to find what it would never occur to the North Americans to look for in an Icelandic house; the heating vents fed by volcanic hot springs.

“In that case I’ll send some beer.”

Toki relayed this information to Nathan. “Charlie says since we is havings heat he sends beer.”

“It better not be a sissy six-pack,” Nathan grumbled.

“It will not be a six pack,” said Charles.

“Charlie says you behaves or he sends halfs a beer he founds in da men’s room.”

“Oh he did not,” grumbled Nathan.

***---***

Toki closed his dethphone, then looked around the place that likely would be their home for the holidays. The place was old, there was no denying that, but it seemed as if it had been inhabited relatively recently. It was a natural cave that someone had worked and carved into a proper home. Wide stone slabs draped in reindeer hide served as beds, and there was a small fire pit. Near the back, carved into the floor, was a wide, reasonably deep pit, easily fed by the hot water, and was likely used for washing clothes, pots and people. The door was a low entrance, surrounded by piles of flat stone, to keep out as much of the cold as possible, though the old rotting door was not much of a barrier. Toki suspected that the original makers were Vikings, and over the centuries various persons had used it as a handy point to gather eggs and hunt the birds that likely nested in the surrounding cliffs.

Nathan was lying on one of the slabs so he could keep his broken leg straight. “Okay Toki. You’ve been freaking out since we got here. What’s the problem?”

Toki shifted his gaze over to Skwisgaar, who was lying on another slab, half of his face a mass of black and purple bruises, blood matted into his long blonde hair. Skwisgaar understood. He knew about the old creatures that still walked the northern lands. He wasn’t sure Nathan, Pickles and Murderface would believe him.

“You tells dem, Toki,” said Skwisgaar. “Is best if dey knows.”

“Dood, tell us what?” said Pickles, growing impatient.

Toki sighed, running a hand through his long brown hair as if he had no idea how to begin. Finally he began to speak.

“You don’ts know! You t’ree nevers lives in lands likes dis, likes Norway, Sweden, Iceland. Old t’ings walks dese lands, broughts overs by da Vikings.”

“Like what?” snarked Murderface. “Schcurvy an’ VD?”

“Murderface shut the hell up,” growled Nathan. “Go on Toki.”

“Dey comes in winter,” said Toki. “Dey calls dem Jólasveinarnir, da Yule Lads. Da first one appears ons da twelfth, tomorrow. Dese days dey is likes Iceland Santas, and dey is bring small gifts to children. Buts is nots whats dey were in old times. Backs den, befores we is havings mass-produces t’ings, dey was to be feared. Dey is da sons of Grýla and Leppalúði, two terrible ogres. An’ dey comes to you house nots to brings gifts, buts to take. Dey takes the meat, and da milks from da animals, an’ da scraps from da kitchen, evens da candles of dripping, dey is take, an’ devours. Each comes for certain t’ing, to licks da bowl, da spoon, and da pot. Dey slams da door, creeps into da smoke-shed, rips da fleece from da sheeps. Dey is all dat is to be fears in isolated farm in middle of winter in place like dis; famine, and destruction of goods an’ livestock. An’ after dey is dones wit’ you, comes dere mother, Grýla, bringing wit’ her da Yule Cat. An’ she an’ da cat eats all da children dat nots gets new clothes for Yule.”

“Hypothermia,” said Pickles.

Toki nodded.

“Oh thisch isch bullshit!” said Murderface. “Do you honeschtly exshpect ush to believe thish? Orgresh are not real.”

“Ja an’ neither is Trolls,” said Skwisgaar pointedly.

“So fine,” said Nathan. “We keep the door locked.”

The five looked towards the battered old door which was all that lay between them and the Icelandic winter.

“We’re dead,” said Pickles.

“We’re not dead, okay?” said Nathan. “We just have to be careful. We’re safe for now, we’re warm, we’re dry, we’re gonna be okay. All we have to do is wait for the storm to let up so they can come get us. Toki, how long do these ogre-things hang around?”

“Each stays two weeks,” said Toki. “Dey arrive one ats a time, and is t’irteen ofs dem. First to come will be Stekkjastaur, da peg-leg one. He harasses da sheep, steals dere fleece, causes dem to flee into da storm an’ die of cold.”

“Well we don’t have any sheep,” said Pickles. “Maybe he’ll leave us alone.”

“Hope so,” said Toki quietly.

***---***

Toki, Murderface and Pickles stood in the freezing cold, watching the vague shape of the gigantic military helicopter as it carefully manoeuvred into a suitable place to drop the supply crate. It dared not get too low for fear of the wind dashing it into the cliffs, and they could not send down rescuers for the same reason. It was just too dangerous. Finally after much frustration and fighting the wind, the copter dropped five large crates, then vanished upwards into the white. Toki and Pickles ran forward to start hauling the crates down to their little shelter, while Murderface stared at something just out of the range of his vision. It was hiding behind the veil of snow. Then it was gone.

“Murderface!” screamed Pickles. “Get your fat ass in gear!”

“I thought I shaw shomething!”

“Well think about it later, let’s get this stuff inside!”

They hauled the crates down the long gentle slope leading to their little stone home and shoved them inside, then dove into them with the sort of enthusiasm rarely exhibited by anything other than five-year-olds at Christmas.

“Looks ats all dis food!” said Toki. “Oh all dis goods stuff! Looks we gots coffee, we gots meats, can veggies, can fruit…”

“Toilet paper!” exclaimed Pickles. “I know what I’m gonna do with this! Be right back.”

Murderface drew out something wrapped in foil and opened it. Instantly the little stone house was filled with the stench of something closely akin to old cheese wrapped in urine-soaked socks.

“Oh dat’s greats,” said Skwisgaar dryly. “Dey sents us sometings nots even da Jólasveinarnir eats.”

“What the hell is that?” said Nathan. “That’s gotta be the most brutal stink outside of a bus station bathroom in hell.”

“Is Hákarl!” said Toki happily. “Is traditional Icelandics delicacy, serves for mid-winter feast.”

“Yeah but what ish it?” asked Murderface.

“Is rotted Greenland shark, pressed an’ dried. You buries its in da sand for abouts twelve weeks to rots all da pee-pee outs of da meat, den you cuts it into strips an’ dries it. An’ if is nots properly rotted an’ you eats it, you is pukes blood.”

Toki then sliced himself off a hunk and proceeded to munch it happily while continuing to dig through the crates.

“Can we at least hang it outside?” said Nathan. “Before the smell makes me hurl? That’s worse than Murderface in a submarine.”

“C’mon, man, that’sh not nische,” said Murderface.

“Yay!” said Toki. “Dey is sendings Brännvin to goes wit’ da Hákarl!”

“And what did they rot to make that?” asked Nathan.

“Potatoes an’ caraway seeds,” said Toki. “Is Icelandic schnapps.”

“Why’s the label black?” asked Nathan.

“Oh because is nicks-names ‘black death’. See you eats da shark, den you drinks da Brännvin to cuts da taste.”

“Yeah I juscht got one question,” said Murderface. “Where did you learn all thish schtuff?”

Toki blinked huge innocent blue eyes at him. “Nowheres.”

“Uh huh,” said Nathan. “It didn’t have anything to do with the drummer of that Icelandic black metal band we crossed paths with in Holland, did it?”

Toki blushed furiously. “No!” he said defensively. Nathan and Murderface were openly laughing.

“That’s so cute! Toki had a crush!” said Nathan.

Toki looked annoyed. “Ja Toki hads five hours unders t’ree hundred pounds of Icelandic fuckings machine wit’ elevens inch cock, so grows up.”

Nathan choked. Murderface gaped. Skwisgaar howled with laughter.

“You tells dem, Toki.”

Pickles returned from his toilet-paper test drive, pausing to sniff the air as he came in, catching the distinctive reek of rotted shark.

“DOOD! That smell’s not my fault is it?”

“Yeah it is,” said Nathan.

“Ja we woulds alls be ap-pree-shing-ating you takingks you potty-breaks further from da house,” said Skwisgaar.

“Ja, Pickle, has a littles considers-ation,” said Toki.

Pickles sniffed the air again. “Dood. I think I need a doctor. I don’t think a healthy person should make a smell like that. What else is in the crates?”

Toki hauled out military-issue parkas and boots. “Oh boy, we be warms now!”

“What are those other things in the crate?” asked Nathan. “There’s something packed in there along with the boots.”

Toki hauled out the boots, crawling partly into the crate to learn what lay beneath them. He paused, then slowly drew out something. It was creamy beige on one side, and the other was covered with dense white fluff. Toki held it up to show the others.

“Sheepskins,” said Pickles quietly.

***---***

They were bedded down in their little stone house, lying on mattresses of sheepskin and covered with blankets of wool. Most of the cold was kept at bay by the hot water flowing through the place, but every now and then the wind would pick up and whistle through the door, and the five were reminded that they were not in a good place.

Pickles was currently mashed against Nathan, gripped by one powerful arm like a little Irish teddy bear. He was nearly asleep, watching the smouldering coals of the fire, half-dreaming, half-remembering something that had happened to him many years ago…

He was eight, and he was lost. His parents had left him with Seth when they went to visit the city… although exactly what city it was he couldn’t recall. New York, he thought, but it was possible he was wrong. Someone in the family had died and they had come to attend the funeral, then do some sight-seeing. At any rate, Seth had been told to watch his baby brother, and Seth had promptly taken off to leave said baby brother alone in the hotel room. And, after two and a half hours, Pickles got bored and lonely and decided that if everyone else could take off, then he could too.

Pickles left the hotel and went for a walk

Eventually he wound up in a park, and something was happening. There was a huge stage set up, and there were more people there to watch and listen than he could name. Mesmerized, the very little boy, clutching his teddy bear, wandered towards the stage unheeded, no one realizing he had roamed nine city blocks from his empty hotel room. Pickles didn’t remember how he got back stage, but he did. And he was about to wander onto the stage when someone scooped him up, and a soft English accent spoke in his ear.

“Hey now little red robin, you can’t go out there. Where’s your mum?”

Pickles shrugged. “Dunno. Dood… you talk funny.”

The Brit raised an eyebrow. “I could say the same thing about you, mate. Here, you sit with me, and we’ll wait until the break comes, then we’ll go see if anyone knows who owns you.”

So Pickles sat with the man, sharing a burger, and watching the whirling figure on stage. He had Pickles mesmerized; his long wild hair flying as he leapt about in a long coat, dressed like something that had fallen out of a well-shaken Dickens tale. His eyes were wild, and he played a flute as he sang.

"She wore a black tiara,
Rare gems upon her fingers,
and she came from distant waters
where northern lights explode
to celebrate the dawning
of the new wastes of winter,
gathering royal momentum
on the icy road.

With chill mists swirling
like petticoats in motion,
sighted on horizons
for ten thousand years.
The Lady of the Ice sounds
a deathly distant rumble
to Titanic-breaking children lost
in melting crystal tears...

And that was how Pickles learned he wanted to be a rock star, sitting on the lap of a roadie back stage at a Jethro Tull concert, eating half a cheese burger and waiting for someone to notice he was missing. But it was only now as he lay, listening to the cold death-moan of the Icelandic wind that he understood just what Ian Anderson had sung of; the deliberate, titanic march of glaciers, creeping down to turn pasture into flat wastes of death, the groaning torturous crushing of arctic ice against the hull of a ship, and the slow ceasing of a heart as at last the ice drove its unhurried merciless blades into once-living flesh. He had sung of the power of cold, and until now Pickles hadn’t realized what an awesome thing it was, and how very frightening.

“Nathan? Yoo awake?”

“Rmph,” came the reply.

Well at least Nathan was getting some rest, as were Toki and Skwisgaar. They were spooned together, snuggling contentedly, while he shivered in terror. Even Murderface was asleep, having made himself a pallet on the warm earth near one of the spring-vents. Pickles would give anything if he could just fall asleep, but some instinct wouldn’t let him, some primitive survival skill that told him something was roaming the wastes, something mad and hideous that thought only of fulfilling its nightmarish needs…

Something was pulling at his sheepskin.

Pickles sat up screaming and launched himself over Nathan to escape the thing as it fled out the door, gibbering gleefully, with the skin. Nathan screamed as his leg was jarred, and soon the other three were awake to find Pickles having nothing less than a panic attack. It was a long time before they could get him calm enough to speak.

“Something took the sheepskin I was sleeping on,” he managed to get out between deep puffs on his inhaler. “I was lying there, and something pulled it.”

Skwisgaar looked around, then sighed as he spied something over by the door. “Is right dere, Pickle. You just havings da nightsmare.”

“I was naht having a nightmare!”

Toki got up to go get the fleece, scooping it up, then paused as he examined it. Slowly he turned, and showed them the fleece. It was slashed to rags, and chunks of fur were missing.

“I want to go home,” said Pickles, shaking. “I want to go home now. I don’t care if I have to walk.”

“You don’t want to walk home,” said Nathan. “Because then you have to go outside, and that’s where it is.”

Pickles fell silent, trembling violently, his breath a strangled wheeze. Nathan reached out and took his hand.

“Pickles… it’s okay. Lie down between me and the wall. You’ll be safe.”

Pickles burrowed under the covers, cringing against Nathan’s side as Toki tossed the ruined scraps of sheepskin outside in the hopes the monster would leave them alone.

~*~*~*~*~*~

“Dat’s it,” said Skwisgaar. “I takings a bath.”

“Where are you gonna take a bath?” asked Nathan, watching as Skwisgaar sat up on his bed.

“Sames place everys-bodys else who livesd here did.” Skwisgaar indicated the deep, wide basin carved into the floor near the back of the stone house.

“I thought that was for laundry,” said Pickles.

“Is fors whatsever you needings it for,” said Skwisgaar, removing his shirt and tossing it onto the bed. Nathan winced at the violent bruises covering Skwisgaar’s face, neck and shoulder. He was damned lucky nothing had shattered.

“Be careful,” said Nathan gently as Skwisgaar rose to his feet. The tall Swede nodded as he reached for his belt buckle.

“NO NAKED SCHCANDINAVIANS!” said Murderface hotly.

Skwisgaar sniffed disdainfully. “Is my faults you nots pretties likes me?” He dropped his pants.

“What’s the big deal?” said Pickles. “Dood, it’s naht like we’ve never been naked in front of each other. Besides he’s had that blood in his hair for days.”

“Ja and he is gettings a littles stinky,” said Toki.

Skwisgaar looked down his nose at Toki. “You ams ones to talks, eatings da rotteds sharks.”

“So I takes a bat’s wit’ you.”

“Ja first you is tellings me if is snowings.”

Toki walked to the door and opened it a crack, peeking out. “Ja snowings whole mountains.”

“Good. I likes it colds.”

Skwisgaar slipped into the basin of water, washing his hair. Toki undressed and got in with him, and the two proceeded to scrub off their days of dirt, pouring pots of hot water over each other and splashing. Then, soaking wet and steaming in a pool of hot water, their long hair lank and dripping, the pair grinned at each other.

“Readies Skwisgaar?”

“Rights behinds you.”

To the complete and absolute horror of their three bandmates, the pair shot out of the water, out of the house and into the falling snow. Nathan sat bolt upright, and regretted it instantly as his broken ribs and broken leg screamed in protest. Pickles ran to the door and watched in jaw-hanging shock as Toki and Skwisgaar dove naked into the snow, frolicking like weasels.

“GIT YER DUMB ASSES BACK IN HERE!!”

Toki’s head popped up, his wet hair frozen. “Comes play, Pickle!”

“Are you outta your mind?! It’s freezing! And yer naked! GIT IN HERE!”

Nathan pulled out his dethphone and called a number. “Hi, Charles? Yeah. The Scandies have flipped their longboat.”

Charles uttered a brief, quiet little laugh. “What are they doing?”

“Well first they took a bath together, and now they’re charging around in the snow. Naked.”

“I see. Well… what makes you think they’ve lost their minds?”

“I just told you!”

“Nathan there’s nothing odd about that, many Scandinavians do it. They believe it’s good for the circulation.”

Nathan watched as the pair charged back inside and dove into the bath, clearly having the time of their life.

“Just so you know I’m totally putting this on YouTube.”

“Whatever. Well apart from Toki and Skwisgaar forcing you to watch bizarre Scandinavian bathing habits, how are you boys doing?”

“Fine. We uh… had something really weird happen last night. Something uh… crept in and stole one of the sheep skins from under Pickles and ripped it to bits. Scared the hell out of Pickles.”

“I should imagine it would. How is Pickles now?”

“He’s fine, he’s busy being freaked out by Toki and Skwisgaar chasing each other around in the snow. But… uh… I’m starting to think there’s something to this thirteen trolls thing. I wish we could leave.”

“I know. We’re doing our best. How’s your leg?” asked Charles.

“Broken. It’s not that bad a break but yeah it’s… definitely broken. I set it as well as I could but I think it will need to be rebroken and set or I’m gonna have a limp. Hey. You uh… worried about us?”

“Of course I’m worried about you,” said Charles.

“Because you’ll be out of a job if we die, or… because you love us?”

“Both.”

Nathan grinned. “You love us?”

“Of course I love you. Would a sane man put up with this shit for any other reason?”

Nathan laughed. “Hey guys! Charles loves us!”

“Of coursche he doesh, we pay him to,” said Murderface.

“Would you love us if we didn’t pay you?” Nathan asked, grinning.

Charles sighed quietly. “Believe it or not, yes, I would.”

Nathan melted visibly. “Awwww….”

“In that cashe there’sh no need to pay him,” said Murderface.

Nathan glared at him. “Murderface why don’t you go chase a naked Viking?”

“I’m not doing that, that’sh gay.” He squawked as he was nearly run over by Toki and Skwisgaar heading into the snow again, this time followed by Pickles. “THERE’SH TOO MANY NAKED PEOPLE IN THISH CAVE!”

“So is Skwisgaar okay?” asked Charles. “He hit his head, didn’t he?”

“Yeah. He’s got a huge bruise on the side of his face but he seems to be okay. No dizziness or nausea or any of that. No headaches. He seems just fine.”

“Good, I was worried about him.”

“Were you worried about me?”

“Of course,” said Charles quietly.

Nathan grinned. “So…uh…. what are you wearing?”

Murderface stood up. “I’m gonna go hang outshide with the naked guys playing in the schnow, where it’sh lesh gay.”

Nathan laughed quietly. “I gotta hang up. I don’t want the batteries to die.”

“You be careful,” said Charles softly.

“We will. I can’t wait to see you again. I… I love you.”

“I love you too.”

Nathan reluctantly ended the phone call, then picked up his video recorder, taping the four men out in the snow, three of whom were naked.

“Day four of being stuck in Iceland. Toki and Skwisgaar have totally lost their marbles, and they have taken Pickles with them. Here they come now.”

Pickles charged in first. “MOTHERDOUCHEBAG THAT’S COLD!” He got into the bath, shivering, his teeth chattering. “I ain’t doing that again!”

Toki followed him in. “Hey Pickle you does pretties good for you first time!”

“First and last. I can’t find my wiener.”

“Really? Stands up.”

“NO! Not until it grows back!”

Skwisgaar strolled in, the frozen Norse god, icicles in his blonde hair. Nathan motioned him over.

“Hey Skwisgaar, c’mere. Show the people back home your bruise.”

Skwisgaar drew back his long hair, revealing the swollen eye and the blackened flesh, and the split skin.

“Wow. That’s cool.”

“Ja was thinkings of havings it framed.”

He strolled over to the bath, getting into the hot water. Murderface came in last, closing the door and going over to the fire pit to see if there was any coffee left in the pot. It was empty, so he began melting snow to make some more. Nathan continued to film the trio in the bath. It was getting late in the day, and at this latitude in winter the days were very short, and the nights long and dark and cold. There would be no more naked romping in the snow.

“So who is coming tonight?” asked Nathan.

“Giljagaur,” said Toki, “da gully oaf. He drinks da cream off da fresh milk.”

“So why is that bad?” asked Nathan. “Other than it’s… like… a shitty thing to do.”

“Da cream has da most fat, da most food value,” said Toki. “To stays warm an’ alives in dis weather, fat an’ cream very importsant. He drinks da cream, den sours what’s left.”

“Well did they give us any cream?” asked Nathan.

“Dey gaves us some milk,” said Toki. “Buts is whole milk, so dere is cream in it.”

“So we leave it outside,” said Nathan.

“Well what good will that do?” asked Pickles.

“It will keep him from coming in here,” said Nathan. “The last one stole the skin right out from under you. If it’s going to take the milk anyway why not leave it outside?”

“Dood we can’t just leave our supplies outside for these things to take,” said Pickles. “We could be here for weeks. We can’t give them all our food.”

“Well hey,” said Murderface. “Why not leave juscht a schmall amount? Like a cupful outside. Maybe that’ll work.”

Nathan, Pickles, Toki and Skwisgaar exchanged glances.

“Murderface has good idea,” said Toki.

“Yeah I’m frightened too,” said Nathan.

***---***

It was late. The wind moaned around the cracks and crevices of the cliff protecting the stone house, producing a mournful howling noise like the ghost of a wolf that had died alone on the ice. The wind crept under the door to worry at the coals in the fire pit, stirring up bits of ash. Toki awoke briefly to stuff a towel under the door, stopping most of the cold air, then returned to his place beside Skwisgaar, spooning against him, holding him close. Skwisgaar raised his head and looked over his shoulder at Toki, sleepy and confused.

“Whut’s you doings?”

“I’s cold an’ scared!”

Skwisgaar sighed. “Toki…”

“Is warmers dis way!”

Skwisgaar grumbled quietly, then rolled onto his back.

“Come on, is okay.” He sighed. “If I makes you move you just freezes to death an’ den we is havings to finds new rhythm guitarist.”

Toki rolled his eyes. “Oh an’ dats be so hards on you.”

“Well where we goings to finds one I don’t alreadies has to train to stays outs of my way?”

Toki put his head on Skwisgaar’s chest, slipping an arm around his thin frame. The stone ledge was hard, and the sheepskins and reindeer hides did little to keep out the cold of the rock. The blankets were good quality, and the volcanically heated water kept much of the cold at bay, but at night with the wind howling and the temperatures plummeting, and the old door barely holding together, it wasn’t quite enough.

Toki closed his eyes, feeling the slight body against his own, gently squeezing him. He waited for Skwisgaar to object to the hug, and was surprised when he turned towards him, slipping his arms around Toki. They gazed at each other, saying nothing, blue eyes meeting blue. Toki reached up to touch the long golden hair, stroking it briefly, then drew him close, holding him tightly, pressing his face against the taller man’s throat.

“I want you,” he whispered.

Skwisgaar shook his head. “Wouldn’ts work, little Tokis.”

“How do you know? How do you know if we nots try?”

Skwisgaar shook his head again. “Is betters for you if we nots try.”

“Skwisgaar…”

“You don’t want me. You don’t want a…”

Toki kissed him firmly on those full, beautiful lips, holding Skwisgaar tightly in his arms. He felt Skwisgaar push back, but without any real force, as if he was confused, uncertain what he wanted to do. Toki deepened the kiss, parting his lips to push his tongue into Skwisgaar’s mouth, then pulled back when he felt Skwisgaar stiffen in a manner that told Toki he was going too far. Toki had seen Skwisgaar react to guys who wouldn’t take “no” for an answer. He didn’t want the object of his desire making straight for his face with his teeth. Toki broke off the kiss.

“I sorry. Buts I do want you.”

Skwisgaar snorted disdainfully. “You don’ts know whats you is wantings.”

“I wants to try.”

“Toki…”

“Stop protecting me! You don’ts need to protects me! I’s all grown ups, I knows whats I want!”

“Stupids kid. You don’ts knows not’ing.”

“I know I loves you.”

Skwisgaar flinched, then rolled onto his back, looking away. Toki touched his face.

“I love you.”

Skwisgaar rolled over, turning his back to Toki. “You’s dildos.”

Toki looked down at the long body. “Ja maybes, buts a little hards to takes you seriously when you nakies an’ I’s spooning you.”

He reached down and grabbed a handful of butt, taking care to slip his fingers into the warm crack. Skwisgaar jumped, then turned to Toki, leaping like a panther. Both fell off the bed and the fight was on.

“Oh for crying out loud,” groaned Nathan. “What is with you two?”

Skwisgaar responded with a lot of furious Swedish.

“That’s great,” said Nathan. “Very informative. Shut the hell up, you’re bothering Pickles.”

Pickles was a tiny bundle rolled tightly against Nathan for warmth and protection. If he heard the chaos he gave no indication. Murderface spluttered and thrashed as Toki and Skwisgaar landed on him.

“DOESHN’T ANYBODY WEAR PANTSH IN HERE ANYMORE?!”

Toki pinned Skwisgaar to the floor, which was not the usual way their fights ended. He could only assume Skwisgaar let him win. And then he realized Skwisgaar had not let him win – he’d simply been distracted. Toki looked in the direction Skwisgaar was staring, and felt himself go cold. Still seated on Skwisgaar, Toki reached out and picked up the bottle that had once been full of milk, and was now almost empty, save for some rancid remains and thick, viscous slime. He showed it to Skwisgaar.

Skwisgaar gave him a gentle push. Toki moved off of him, and began looking through the crate at the other bottles of milk. They were all in similar shape – mostly empty save for some curdled dregs and a lot of slime. The only untainted milk was in the bottles they had opened already and partly consumed.

“Giljagaur,” said Toki quietly.

“Son of a bitch,” growled Nathan.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Toki ran his hand over the long red dreads, kneeling before Pickles as he sat on the edge of the bed.

“Calm down, Pickle,” he said softly.

Pickles couldn’t calm down. His breathing was a series of rusty little squeaks followed by a heavy, racking cough as his lungs fought to clear themselves and function.

“Jeez what a mesh,” said Murderface.

“We has to gets him calm,” said Skwisgaar.

“Well how are we going to do that?” said Murderface. “We’re up to our buttsch in trollsh!”

Pickles squeaked, then coughed. Nathan meanwhile was on the phone with Charles.

“Yeah his inhaler is dead, he’s used it all up. What else can we do? Steam. Okay. We’ll try steam. But if you find that fucking pilot you tell him I am gonna do to him what the Icelanders do to those fucking sharks – pound his ass flat and leave him under a ton of gravel for twelve weeks, then cut him up into small pieces and hang him on a hook. Wassat? Yeah, I love you too babe. I’ll call you when we know anything.”

“That’ll be never,” mumbled Murderface.

Nathan closed the phone. “Charles says short of getting him calm there’s not much we can do. His asthma is triggered by stress. He’s stressed, he’s wheezing. Supposedly black coffee can help a bit too.”

“Well maybes we can sedate him,” said Toki, drawing Pickles close, trying to comfort him. “Dey gaves us some medicals supplies.”

Skwisgaar dove into a crate, searching through it and pulling out a large case marked ‘First Aid’. He opened it, wondering if it was too much to ask that someone had thought to put in a spare inhaler. It was.

“I don’ts sees any sedatives. Just pains pills, t’ings for broken bones, stuffs likes dat.”

“Probably wouldn’t work anyway, he has such a high tolerance for everything,” said Nathan. “Let’s load him in the bath and see if that helps. Skwisgaar pour him some black coffee.”

They filled the bath, and then put Pickles into the pool of hot water with his coffee. Then they stared at him. Pickles stared back, squeaking and coughing.

“How hard ish it to replasche a drummer?” asked Murderface.

Pickles splashed him. Toki waded into the water and sat down beside Pickles, holding him close.

“Is okies, Pickle, we nots replacing you.”

“Well… if he dies we might,” said Nathan.

“Stops talkings abouts dying! Pickle just needs to relax, dat’s all!”

“Who comes tonight?” asked Nathan.

“Stúfur,” said Skwisgaar, “da short one. He licks da scraps froms da pans.”

“Well there, he should be easy to avoid,” said Nathan. “We just have to make sure the pots are all clean. We can wash a pile of dishes. If the dishes are clean he won’t have any reason to come in here and bother us.”

Toki stroked Pickles’ long dreads. “There, see Pickle? Dis ogre won’ts be around tonight! If da pans all clean he gots no reason to comes by! Just calms down and breathes, okies? Is all rights…”

Toki held Pickles close, stroking his hair, speaking softly to him, trying to calm him. Nathan glanced over at Skwisgaar, and grinned as he saw the tall beautiful Swede breathing hate and jealousy at Pickles for getting Toki-cuddles. Nathan picked up his camera, focusing on the little scene; Toki comforting Pickles, who was clearly struggling to breathe, and Skwisgaar glaring hot steaming jealousy.

He was getting a pretty awesome little documentary together…

Murderface’s cold green eyes suddenly appeared in the viewer.

“Why are you videotaping everything?”

“I’m making a movie. You know… like Blair Witch Project.”

“Juscht don’t videotape me, all right?”

“Sure. No problem.”

Murderface grabbed up the toilet paper and went outside to what had a one point in time been a sort of an out house, and was currently being used as such again.

“Hey Skwisgaar. Take the camera and go film Murderface taking a dump.”

“No ways. Nobody is needings to records dat for posterior.”

“I think you mean posterity.”

“Eithers ways I nots filmings it.”

“Aw why not? It would be great, he’d be totally pissed off.”

“Because den I would havings to looks at his butt. I sees dat butt enoughs on tours, I nots recordings it.”

Pickles coughed. Nathan and Skwisgaar looked over at him. There was no denying he was in a great deal of distress, and there was a chance he could die if they couldn’t get the situation under control. The problem was there was nothing they could do to help him. Nathan sighed, wishing he wasn’t nailed to his bed by a broken leg and ribs. He watched as Toki held Pickles against his chest, trying to get him calm.

“Heh. They’d make a pretty cute couple.”

The sheer volume of rage that exploded from Skwisgaar felt like a silent hot shockwave, steeped in caustic jealousy. He stared at Nathan as if he would like to chew through his skull, then looked towards Toki, his hackles erect.

“Toki don’t you t’inks Pickle hads enoughs of beings cuddled likes a cat?”

Toki gave Skwisgaar a look that implied he was not much in the mood for one of his jealous tantrums.

“Makes up you mind,” Toki grumbled quietly.

“I mades up my mind! You a stupids kid nots know what’s goods for him!”

Toki stared at him coldly. “Then it nots matter if I sits in da tub with Pickle, does it?” he said softly.

Skwisgaar turned and stormed out of the room. Toki sighed quietly, shaking his head.

“Idiots. I loves him.”

“He loves you too,” said Nathan.

“I know. Is just alls complis-dated by past bullshits dat should nots matter.” He closed his eyes, holding Pickles close, trying to calm him down. “It’s okies, Pickle. Da ogres nots be by tonight. Dere no more milk, dere no more sheeps skins, dere no dirty pots to lick. We all sleeps tonight, ja? Pickle too.”

Pickles nodded, holding Toki close, his face buried against Toki’s throat. After a few minutes, the squeak in his breathing became less pronounced, and the racking coughs stopped. Nathan relaxed and closed his eyes. Well that was one catastrophe averted for now.

***---***

They awoke to an icy mess. Every single pan was covered in thick caustic slime, some of which was still sizzling, eating wide streaks through the metal before their eyes. Even the very old pans covered in dust and unused for years were licked and slimed, and were lying scattered as if they had been tossed by some untidy animal. What was worse was the door was hanging, broken, swaying sadly, and the main channel for the volcanically heated water was blocked.

“It’s fucking cold!” said Nathan.

Toki sat up, shivering, leaving Skwisgaar the warm blanket, his breath fogging the air and causing frozen crystals to form in his whiskers. He dressed in his parka and boots, and went out into the vague pre-dawn light to find the cause of the blockage. He shivered, hating the memories this brought up; memories of being cold, hungry, bruised, and frightened. His mind drifted back to being a very small boy, hauling wood, feeling his eight-year-old knees threaten to break under the load of wood, or crated frozen fish, or whatever load his dear father had seen fit to saddle him with.

Toki paused in his trek, closing his eyes and drawing a deep breath of frozen air, forcing his rising rage to settle. Getting angry would solve nothing, especially with Nathan, Pickles and Murderface depending on him. At least he liked to think they were. Skwisgaar too. Toki was, after all, the only one of the group that had experience living in remote frozen regions. Skwisgaar had been a small-town kid; not unaccustomed to unpleasant chores but still not used to the sort of things Toki had to do. Toki alone knew how truly cold the nights were when the fires went out, the winds howled, the candles burned low, and his parents were away, offering comfort to another family.

Toki felt the rage creep back up, and he shoved it down once more. Getting angry was of no use. His father was dead. The past was gone. And he had other matters to tend to. He eventually found the source of the blockage, and cleaned away the rocks and gravel that had slid down to clog the centuries-old geothermal heating system.

“Is nots bads enough you scares us and robs us,” growled Toki, “buts you is havings to freeze us too. Cowards. Filthy cowards. You t’inks because you is Vetter you t’ink you is can be means to us. Maybes we is findings way to gets you back.”

He repaired the little channel as best as he was able, watching as the hot water from the vent began to flow. There. They would be warm again. While he was at it he may as well pull some boards from the crates and repair the door. The day was clear, may as well use it to his advantage. They would all feel better with a stronger door in place.

He was walking back to the little stone house when he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. As he turned his head to look, he realized it was an arctic fox – the only four footed mammal indigenous to the area. It was standing on a heap of white, tugging at it, and Toki walked over to see what the little beast had.

He was sorry he did.

The fox was tugging at a sheep, but was too small to get through the wool of the hairy Icelandic breed. It moved off a little ways to get out of reach of Toki, but lingered nearby hopefully, shivering. Toki looked down at the sheep, noticing the bones were broken. The legs, the neck, the skull, the ribs… as if some huge, powerful and mindlessly stupid thing had beaten it to death.

Toki had a feeling he knew just what mindlessly stupid thing was responsible.

He pulled a knife out of his boot and began to skin the sheep. They could use the meat, and once it was cleaned Toki could tell them it wandered away and fell down the cliff. There was no need to tell the others the truth, especially not Pickles. He was already having a hard enough time breathing without knowing the Yule Lads were dropping dead farm animals only meters from their door.

He would skin it, clean it, and say it fell.

He glanced up at the fox, thinking it odd the tiny animal was shivering. For winter in Iceland it wasn’t actually that cold today. Then he noticed the little animal’s right front paw was withered and dead, probably due to frostbite. It must have been very hungry and unhappy to hang around so close to a human. Toki felt his naturally gentle nature take over. It was a big sheep, they could spare some. He cut the animal open. The inside was cold, but not yet frozen, and Toki began hauling out the liver, heart, and kidneys.

“Her, vær så god, så får du litt mat,” said Toki softly to the fox. “Der får du. God jul.”

He tossed them to the sad little fox, smiling as the gift was readily accepted. He then turned his attention back to dressing the sheep while the fox feasted. When at last the carcass was prepared, Toki rose to his feet and slung the meat onto his shoulder, carrying it back to the carved stone house. He stepped in through the broken door, closing it as best he could.

“Where did you find that?” asked Nathan.

“Oh dis?” said Toki, carrying the meat over to a stone shelf. “Is sheep. Must haves gots lost from da flock an’ falls down da cliff.”

“Not that,” said Nathan. “That!”

He pointed to something behind Toki, who turned to look. Standing behind him, having crept under the broken door, was a little three-legged fox, still licking blood off her muzzle.

“Oh,” said Toki, smiling. “Is Frostskadet.”

“What the fuck is it?”

“Icelandic kitty.”

“Oh. It’s kinda cute. I like the withered leg. It’s like… cute but it’s brutal. Okay the kitty can come in.”

Toki smiled, especially when he noticed Skwisgaar rolling his eyes. Yeah, the sheep fell and the white thing is a kitty. Why not.

“I goings to fix da door. Pickle maybes you can spits da sheep. We has barbecue for dinner!”

Pickles coughed. It seemed he wheezed constantly now.

“Yeah I can do that,” said Pickles, his voice a dry near-whisper. “C’mon, Murderface, you help.”

“Yeah juscht let me finish throwing out these pans.”

“I helps Pickle,” said Skwisgaar.

Pickles and Skwisgaar spitted the sheep, while Murderface gathered up what was left of the pans and piled them outside. Toki began taking apart the crates to start repairing the door, while Nathan lay on his back and stared at the ceiling.

“Guys. I’m fucking bored. And I stink.”

“Who can tell over the rotted shark meat?” said Pickles.

“I thoughts it was Murderface,” said Skwisgaar.

“HEY!”

“A bath wouldn’t kill you, you know,” said Nathan.

“I’M NOT GETTING NAKED IN FRONT OF YOU GUYSH!”

“Yeah and we appreciate that, there, Murderface,” said Pickles.

“Well we makes Stinkyface usefuls, den,” said Toki.

“How do we do that?” asked Nathan.

Toki gathered up the old wooden spoons on the shelves. “Tonight’s troll is Þvörusleikir – the spoon-licker.” He handed the spoons to Murderface. “Has funs.”

Murderface grinned. “Aweshome, I alwaysh wanted a carved wooden butt-hole shcratcher.”

***---***

"Her, vær så god, så får du litt mat." = "Here, you're welcome, you can have some food."

“Der får du. God jul." = “Here you have some. Good Yule.”

Frostskadet = frostbitten.

~*~*~*~*~*~

“Dood!” said Pickles in an awe-filled whisper.

“Wow-wee!” said Toki. Standing beside him, Murderface just stared.

“What is it?” asked Nathan. “Guys I can’t see!”

Skwisgaar was stepping delicately around the gigantic corpse. Its skin was stone grey, and its features bulbous and grotesque. It smelled fetid, and in its massive paw was clutched a bunch of long handled-wooden spoons… none other than the ones Murderface had been given to sully. The troll’s hideous face was contorted into an even more hideous expression of utter horror, the tongue lolling as if it had tasted something so profoundly vile it had immediately lost the will to live. Skwisgaar carefully poked the ugly thing with his foot.

“Ja… is a deads troll all rights.”

“DOOD!” said Pickles. “Murderface’s butt killed a troll!”

“Brutal,” said Nathan. “Okay, Murderface? In the bath. Now.”

“No!” said Pickles. “He’s our only weapon!”

“And I am NOT getting naked IN FRONT OF YOU GUYSH!”

“Look we gots to moves dis troll,” said Toki. “Is going to stink.”

“Yeah it’ll draw bears an’ shit,” said Pickles.

“No bears in Iceland, Pickle,” said Skwisgaar.

“No bears? Well what kinds of predators do they have?”

Frostskadet came limping out to sniff the carcass. Toki pointed at her.

“Dey gots kitties.”

“Dood… that little white kitty is the biggest predator around?”

“Dere not’ings to eats buts birds. Da sheeps an’ reindeer an’ horsies all broughts overs by da Vikings,” said Toki. “C’mon, let’s moves dis t’ing.”

“Hey Toki,” said Pickles, grabbing a gigantic troll-foot. “Is it true Leif the Lucky and Darren the Red are ancestors of yours?”

“Ja. I don’t really likes to talks abouts it.”

“Dude, why not?” said Murderface. “That’sh awesome. I’d love to have a great explorer for an ancestor.” He bent down and grabbed a second foot.

“He nots dat great. He gots kicksed out of Norway because of some murders, so he sails to Iceland, and gets kicks outs of dere because he beats his neighbour to deat’ for nots givings backs a shovel.”

“Dood! That’s... a bit extreme.”

“Ja,” said Toki. “Everyone says he great explorer, buts da trut’ is he just a jerk an’ nobody really wantings him around.”

He bent down and grabbed an enormous hand, Skwisgaar taking the remaining limb. Then the four of them began dragging the troll up the shallow incline away from the little stone house.

“You nots helpings,” said Toki as the little white fox hopped up to sit on the dead troll’s chest. He wondered if she had been a pet. Or perhaps she was just desperate. Iceland was no place to be a three-legged fox, and wild creatures tamed quite easily after being alone and starving.

“Wish we knew where we were,” said Pickles.

“Iceland,” said Skwisgaar.

“I know we’re in Iceland! What I meant is there could be a town five miles from here and we would never know! Where did that sheep Toki found come from?”

“Is no goods looking,” said Toki. “Too cold, an’ too little daylight. We safer in da stone house.”

“Even with the trolls?” said Pickles.

“Toki right,” said Skwisgaar. “Besides, we know is knowings now whats kill dem.”

They dragged the troll to a suitable place, out of site of their house. Then Toki climbed onto the ghastly thing and began to rummage in its pockets.

“Toki git off the troll!” said Pickles.

“In a moments. You nevers knowing whats you find in troll-pockets. Mights be somet’ing useful.”

“Juscht how many troll-pocketsh have you been in?” asked Murderface.

Skwisgaar made a disdainful sound. “Stupids question.”

Pickles and Murderface exchanged glances. “Notische they didn’t answer,” said Murderface. Pickles grinned.

Toki let out a cry of victory and pulled out a coin purse. He opened it.

“’ere!” squeaked the purse in a Cockney accent. “Oo are you?”

Toki tossed the thing to Pickles, then went for another pocket. Pickles held the coin purse warily.

“Hey I founds a ring,” said Toki.

“It’s not plain gold, is it?” said Pickles, still eyeing the purse.

“No, is silver, wit’s a raven on it.” He dug in another pocket. “Don’ts seem to be anyt’ing else. OH! Looks at DIS!!”

Toki pounced on something and drew it out of the troll’s belt. It was a large knife, with a long handle crafted of some sort of red wood, topped with a pommel of brass, and a long silver blade. There were serpents engraved on the blade, and it was clear the thing was of great age.

“Now we gots somet’ing!” said Toki. “Seax!” He passed the thing to Skwisgaar, who slipped it into his belt.

“Hey how come he gets the cool old knife and I get the creepy coin purse?” said Pickles.

“He is knowings how to use it,” said Toki. “Okies, we done. Lets gets outs of da cold.”

The four made their way back to the house, followed by the three legged fox. Toki shut the door and bolted it.

“Dood!” said Pickles to Nathan. “We robbed a troll!”

“AWESOME! What did you get?”

“A cool old knife, a ring, and this thing.”

Pickles tossed Nathan the purse. He caught the strange leathery thing, and opened it.

“Yew got a bloody lot of nerve!” screeched the purse.

“YEAGH!” Nathan tossed it back. “PICKLES! Keep your creepy things to yourself.”

“Sahry. Hey you know I just thought of something. Are the other trolls gonna be burned at us for killing their brother?”

“Hey, you creep into someone’s house to lick their spoons, you take your chances,” grumbled Nathan.

Toki noticed Skwisgaar heading back outside to look up at the sky. He poured himself a cup of coffee, then followed after him. He came to stand at Skwisgaar’s side, and looked up.

“What’s you lookings at?” asked Toki.

“Is so clear. Dey say dey can’ts gets us because ofs da storm, but storm over now. Why dey nots coming?”

“Maybe dey is forgettings abouts us,” said Toki quietly.

“No. Dey nots forget. Charlie nots forget. Somet’ing odds going on.”

Skwisgaar gazed up at the sky, watching it fade to black, and the stars come out. A cold wind ruffled his long blonde hair, and Toki reached out to smooth it into place. Skwisgaar gave him a brief sidelong look.

“Stupids kid.”

“I nots a kid. Why you nots gives me a chance? An’ if you nots want me why you care whats I do?”

“Because stupids littles kid should nots be playings games dey is too youngs for.”

“Or maybes you just nots want me to catch whatsevers disease you is havings.”

Toki expected Skwisgaar to rant, rave, punch him, spit, call him a name, something. Instead he just walked away, heading up the gentle slope to stand where he could look out over the desolate but powerfully beautiful landscape. Toki chased after him, coming to stand by his side, gazing at him with huge blue eyes.

“Skwisgaar…?” he said softly.

“I gots a notice from brother ofs one ofs da ladies I used to see,” said Skwisgaar. “He goingks t’rough her address books, lettings all da guys in dere she was seeing know… dats she die.”

Toki’s jaw dropped, and for a long time, all he could do was stare. Then he threw his arms around him and held him tightly against his chest.

“I nots lets you be sick.”

“Is nots up to you.”

“Well has you been checks yet?!”

“No nots yet. I nots sure I wants to know.”

“Buts you has to knows! Skwisgaar… if you sick we needs takings care of you!”

“If I sick,” said Skwisgaar quietly, “I blowings my brain out.”

Toki released him, stepping back in shock. “Skwisgaar, you can’ts…”

“I been readings. Is ugly disease. Lesions, dementia, loss of bowel control, dat just a few of da symptoms. Skwisgaar Skwigelf nots go outs sittings in his own shit an’ talkings to invisible animals.”

“Buts even if you is sick, dey gots good medicines now! You is coulds live for years! You is could still has career an’… an’ me. I loves you Skwisgaar. I loves you even ifs you sittings in you own shit an’ talkings to invisible animals.”

Skwisgaar rolled his eyes. “Ja dat’s just great Toki.”

“Well is nots likes we never seen Murderface do dat. An’ he nots got no disease.”

“Toki…”

“I love you. Is all dere is to it.” Toki took his hand and drew him close. “I nots you first lover, an’ I probablies nots da best, buts I da one stays wit’ you always.” He held up the silver ring he stole from the dead troll, then slipped it over one of Skwisgaar’s long fingers. “Is my promise to you. To stay by you always. Evens if… we nots works outs as boyfriends. Toki always be here for his Skwisgaar.”

Skwisgaar smiled faintly. “You dildos in da head.”

“Ja. Probablies.”

Toki touched his face, then moved in for a kiss, gasping quietly when he felt their lips meet. It was a perfect moment, standing in the frozen isolation, all around nothing but snow and stillness, and just the two of them, holding each other, kissing. Overhead there was the strange green and golden glow of the northern lights. It was the wrong time of the year to see such things, but the silent flickering radiance did not care, reacting simply as it had always done to their own impulses, flashing and licking across the sky.

The kiss finally ended, and Toki reluctantly drew back. “I love you,” he said softly.

Skwisgaar gently nipped his nose. “Dildos. I loves you too.”

“You wants to just stands out here for a while? Watch da sky? Is been so long since I sees da lights.”

“Ja. We stay an’ watch da lights a while.”

Toki smiled at him, then leaned in for another kiss.

Meanwhile, down in the stone house, Nathan was asking the same question Skwisgaar had of Charles.

“The skies are clear. Why’s no one coming in to get us?”

“We can’t. There is an enormous storm front coming in. Everything is grounded. Nothing is going over Iceland or Greenland, not even the military. Everything with wings is moving out, even the birds. Birds that don’t normally migrate have been found in areas where they don’t belong. No one has ever seen anything like it. Something’s on the move, Nathan. Something devastating.”

A cold wind started, and the northern lights suddenly changed from green and gold to a violent blood red and black.

“Charlie…?” said Nathan in a worried voice.

Far away, Charles clutched the phone, his eyes squeezed shut. His boys needed him, and there was nothing he could do.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Charles stared at the satellite weather images over Iceland. Everywhere else was clear, but over Iceland were storms of a like rarely seen; storms so violent and angry that there were reports of herds of reindeer attempting to swim to Greenland, and losing their lives in the freezing ocean water.

“It makes no sense,” he whispered.

“It doesn’t,” agreed the German colonel standing beside Charles, examining the map with him. “It is as if the storm is behaving contrary to the laws of nature. This storm simply should not be forming. There is nothing to cause it.”

Charles glanced at the older man. “Is there nothing we can do?”

“I am sorry, Mr. Offdensen. I simply cannot risk troops under these conditions. I doubt you will find anyone foolish enough to do so. If your boys are smart they will survive.”

Clearly Colonel Kappel was not a Dethklok fan. Charles ran one hand through his hair, then pinched the bridge of his nose. There had to be a way to get his boys to safety, there just had to be!

“Submarine?” he suggested weakly.

Colonel Kappel gave Charles a look that implied he thought Charles was an idiot, but was far too polite to say so.

“I think not. Mr. Offdensen, the whole world is on standby, waiting to help, but if anyone has the equipment to safely breech this storm and rescue your band, I would be deeply surprised. My suggestion is that you go to your hotel room and rest. If anything changes we will let you know.”

Charles went back to his hotel room, wading through the veritable sea of gifts, cards, flowers, and other gestures of love and concern sent by a worried host of fans, and over to his bed. He shoved aside a mountain of teddy bears, gin bottles, bags of chips, and other assorted offerings in order to have room enough to lie down. Reaching out, he grabbed up one of the bottles and opened it, and had a long drink.

It was very good gin.

Outside, a winter wind banged against the window, and Charles felt his stomach contract into a knot. Kappel had said it would be a gigantic storm, and it could last for days.

He picked up his cell phone and tried to call the boys, but the call would not go through. Charles closed the phone and set it aside, then had another pull at the bottle, spilling a little as he set it down. He swallowed the burning liquid, then whispered to the still darkness.

“Please Nathan, just come home. All of you, just come home.”

***---***

“Okay so who’s due tonight?” asked Nathan, as outside the storm raged.

“Pottaskefill,” said Toki, hammering nails into place as he attached new strong boards to the older, weaker ones. He would make a proper door after he secured the old one. “The pot-scraper.”

“Wasn’t he here the other night?” asked Pickles, slowly turning the sheep on the spit, the “kitty” on his lap.

“No dat was Stúfur – da pan thief.”

“Well his brother destroyed all the pans,” said Nathan.

“Buts he lefts a few pots,” said Toki. “Pottaskefill steals da pots to eats da leftovers.”

“Well hell, let’s make him some leftovers!” said Nathan. “Hey Murderface, feel like soaking your feet?”

So Murderface sat and happily soaked his rancid feet in their two remaining pots, bits of bone and onion floating in the water to give it a soup-like look. Toki repaired the door as best as he was able, using boards and nails from the crates, then went to sit on the bed beside Skwisgaar, reaching out to run his hand comfortingly over his back.

“Charlie says there’s a really wicked storm coming,” said Nathan.

“Ja I believes it,” said Skwisgaar. “Is goings to be bads out dere.”

“Wish we were home,” said Pickles.

“Yeah don’t we all,” said Nathan. “Cut me a hunk of that sheep.”

Pickles cut Nathan a sizeable slab of roast mutton, then took some for himself. He coughed quietly, an odd little rusty sound that broke the heart of everyone who heard it; an audible reminder of how vulnerable they were.

“Wish I hads my guitar,” said Skwisgaar. “Is in little bits alls over da countryside.”

“Just be glads you not in little bits,” said Toki.

“Wish I had a certain little lawyer,” said Nathan.

“I wish we had a bigger hot tub,” said Pickles. “I’m gonna soak after I finish eating. Toki is there any of that Black Death stuff left?”

“Ja a little.”

“Pass it.” He glanced over at Murderface and grinned. “Hope the troll likes his dinner.”

***---***

Pickles perched on the gigantic carcass and stared down at it. Pottaskefill was quite dead, eyes bulging, cheeks puffed out, lying in a pool of his own frozen vomit just up the slope from the stone house. Frostskadet sniffed the dead monster as Toki rifled its pockets.

“What’sh the haul thish time?” asked Murderface.

“Anothers seax,” said Toki, handing the blade to Murderface. He rummaged in another pocket. “Oh dis pretty!” He drew out a small hammer of Thor, hung on a string of leather, cast of silver. Toki hung it around Pickles’ neck, then resumed looking. “Dat’s all. We puts him overs by da ot’er one now.”

They hauled the carcass over to his brother, then bolted back for their house. The storm was becoming increasingly violent, and as they had laid the second troll by the first, the wind seemed suddenly seemed to rage with shocking violence, so much so they were nearly blinded by flying ice crystals. The small fox darted inside after them, and Toki closed the door, bolting it.

“Is bads out dere. Any troll out in dat is nuts.”

Frostskadet hopped onto Nathan and curled up on his belly, putting the tip of his furry tail over his nose. Nathan patted the little animal, thinking about their lack of cookware, and firewood. They were in trouble, especially if the trolls kept taking their food. There was hardly enough for them; there certainly wasn’t enough to be stolen by a pack of ravenous trolls.

“Will they be back tonight?” ask Pickles. “I mean listen to it out there.”

“It won’ts bother dem,” said Skwisgaar. “Dey is trolls an’ ogres, nots people. Dis storm means not’ings to dem.”

“I’d still like to know if there is gonna be some kinda payback for us killing two of them,” said Pickles.

“They’re stealing our shit and scaring the crap out of us!” said Nathan. “We’re defending ourselves!”

“Dey might nots sees it dat way,” said Skwisgaar.

“Fuck them! I’m not rolling over for a bunch of trolls. Right, kitty-thing?”

The fox yawned. Nathan rubbed her tiny head. “Yeah, you’re not scared of no stupid troll.”

“Bowl-licker comes tonight,” said Toki grimly, attaching scraps of sheepskin to the edges of the new door he was making to keep out the wind. “Dids we saves any foot-soup?”

“Nah we gave it all to the last one,” said Pickles.

Murderface sighed. It was just so hard being a hero – people had no idea. Well he didn’t want to get naked. But he was getting stinkier than even he cared for, and his clothes were none too clean, either.

“Only one thing to do then,” said Murderface, standing up. “And that’sh have a bath and wash my shocks, then sherve what’sh left to the next troll. Think they’ll write a Viking ballad about me?”

“Stinkyface Trollslayer,” said Toki, and laughed. “Skwisgaar an’ I writes it. When we is gets home, we breaks outs da mead an’ sings da lay of Stinkyface.”

“Okay but shay it in Norwegian or something, I don’t wanna be called Schtinkyfasche.”

Toki grinned, continuing to work on the new door. When it was done, he picked it up and wedged it over top of the old, then used his shoulder to jam it into place. He stepped back, and the five people in the cave-house listened. For once, they could neither hear nor feel the relentless icy wind, and the temperature climbed.

“We sleep tonights,” said Skwisgaar.

“Ja,” agreed Toki. “Tonights we be warm, an’ sleeps.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

Askasleikir, bowl-licker, soup-stealer, scourge of the Icelandic people, was dead. He had drunk something so rancid, so vile, so shockingly horrible that even his stone stomach could not tolerate it, and he had turned green and died. His body was added to the pile, and Toki claimed his war hammer; a beautifully made thing with a haft of some sort of incredibly strong hardwood, and a head shaped into a likeness of Fenrir. The troll’s great bracers, made from black leather and stone, were given to Nathan. Then Askasleikir was left to turn to ice and stone in the violent storm that seemed to have driven all those who dwelled in this beautiful northern land underground. Boats were hauled on shore and covered, animals brought inside, shops locked, the streets emptied, and the people peered out their windows and muttered to themselves about what could be causing such an unprecedented storm.

Far away, in a cave long ago hidden away using special secret magicks, an old woman bent over her great cauldron as it hung over the fire, slowly stirring it. Behind her were some old wooden shelves attached to the wall, filled with jars and pots of strange things, and a sleeping black cat, its long tail hanging down, the end slowly twitching. Nearby, a great hideous form clad in reindeer hides waited patiently.

“These ones are not like the others,” the old woman said quietly, as if to herself. Her voice was soft and trembling, as if she was of great age.

“What are they, mama?”

“I do not know. None I have asked seem to know anything about them. But they have killed my brother, Musta Krakish, and they have killed three of my sons, and for that they will pay. Hurðaskellir, tonight I wish for you to bring with you the north wind. Slam their doors, rattle their walls, knock the pots off the walls and freeze the flesh from their bones! Make them regret ever coming here. Ah would that Grendel still lived! There was a troll of greatness. He would have slaughtered the five of them like foxes in a den.”

“I will kill them for you, mother,” said Hurðaskellir.

“Such a good boy you are, Hurðaskellir. Take the wind, and the *bearded axe, and bring me their heads. We shall eat soup from their skulls tonight.”

“Yes mother, I will.”

Ever the dutiful son, Hurðaskellir took his axe from the wall, and a great sack that held the north wind, then turned to his mother.

“I shall slam their doors so hard their bones will turn to crumbs!”

“That is my good boy.”

Hurðaskellir went into the night, making his way across the frozen wastes to the little stone house at the bottom of the cliff.

***---***

Meanwhile, tucked into their cave-house, Toki was checking on the food supplies.

“We nots doing too badly. We mights make it. Tonight comes Hurðaskellir, the door-slammer. He scary buts he nots steal. Tomorrow is Skyrgámur, buts we got no skyr so he mights not come by.”

“Skyr?” asked Nathan.

“Sorta likes yogurt but not really. Boy I coulds really goes for some, too, wit’s some flat bread an’ bláberjum.”

“Bláberjum?” said Nathan. He tried to translate. “Yummy blubber?”

“BLEH! No! Blueberries,” said Toki.

“I’m totally calling blueberries ‘blubber-yum’ now,” said Nathan.

“I thought you northern types ate blubber,” said Murderface.

“Nots if you nots havings to,” grumbled Toki.

“Musta been some hungry Viking who first ate those sharks,” said Pickles.

“I’m not sure I would ever be that hungry,” said Nathan. “I kinda have this… aversion to like…. eating things soaked in piss. Damn. Listen to that wind.”

The five did. The storm, already violent, was whipping itself into a mad frenzy. The door shuddered, and tiny drafts of air managed to force themselves under the door, stirring the coals in the fire made from the remains of the packing crates.

“Door-Slammer, huh?” said Nathan. “Bet he was a lot of fun in the middle of the night in a tiny house miles from anything.”

“Yeah they’ve all been a load of laughs,” said Pickles. “Stealing milk, ruining our cookware, ripping sheepskins out from under sleeping asthmatics…”

“What time is it, Pickle?” asked Toki.

Pickles checked his watch. “Six. It’s officially evening though how the hell anyone can tell the difference with like twenty minutes of daylight a day…”

The door made a strange thumping noise as the wind battered it. “Sound like Door-Slammer heres now,” said Skwisgaar.

Pickles’ eyes grew large, and his breath took on a familiar squeak.

“Pickles knock it off or we’re gonna start calling you Squeakles,” said Nathan.

Pickles gasped and panted. “I can’t… squeak! help it! squeak!”

Pickles coughed, and squeaked. Toki reached out and drew him close, trying to soothe him. Nathan couldn’t help but notice Skwisgaar no longer seemed bothered by the gesture, and that he was wearing Toki’s troll-ring. It seemed the pair had reached some sort of agreement.

“Wish I could call Charles,” said Nathan.

“Charlie safer than we are,” said Toki, casting a glance at the door.

“I just miss him. He’s so cute when he sleeps. He makes the cutest little noises when you…”

“GAWD! Can we tone down the gay in here, pleashe?” said Murderface.

“Oh Murderface get over yourself, you’re gayer than anyone,” growled Nathan. “You’re gayer than the time Pickles dressed up in his S‘n’B gear and had it off on the pool table with those two guys from that glam band.”

Pickles squeaked. Partly from asthma, partly because he wasn’t aware anyone knew about that. Toki petted him.

“Poor Pickle. It be okay.”

The door shuddered once more. The five within the house glanced at it, falling into a worried silence.

“It’s just the wind,” said Nathan, as Pickles squeaked faster. “Right Toki? Just the wind.”

“Ja is just wind,” said Toki. He pulled Pickles closer, willing him to breathe, and be all right. “Just wind. Is nobody dere…”

There were three very deliberate hits that could not have possibly been caused by the wind. Pickles buried himself against Toki, gasping and coughing, the squeak rising to a strangled ‘whoop’.

“Maybe is rescue,” said Skwisgaar quietly.

“Maybe,” said Toki, though it was entirely possible it was a pissed-off troll.

He and Skwisgaar exchanged glances, then Toki handed Pickles off to Murderface. He and Skwisgaar rose to their feet, Skwisgaar drawing his seax, and Toki picking up the war hammer. Pickles, Nathan, and Murderface watched in silence, exchanging glances, as Toki approached the door.

“Who is dere?” he called, but there was no answer, only three more knocks.

“You answer me!” said Toki. “Or dis door stay closed! You go away, troll! Go frighten babies, is all you good for!”

Pickles’ asthma took a dire turn as there came a low, growling voice, like sepulchres dragged over stone. Murderface held him tightly as he gasped, while Nathan watched Toki and Skwisgaar, asking himself if they were really intending to take on an Icelandic troll with a hammer and a knife.

Apparently yes, they were.

Skwisgaar yanked the door open, revealing the ghastly hideous visage of the snarling troll. It screamed at them, its breath like ice and death. Toki stopped the cry short by slamming his war hammer into the monster’s face. The troll yelped, and turned to flee, shrieking as Skwisgaar deftly thrust his seax into its back. Screaming, the troll ran up the incline, and much to the utter amazement of the trio left in the house, Toki and Skwisgaar tore after the monster as if they had been warriors all their lives. Nathan stared, jaw hanging, eyes large. Then he pulled out his tape recorder and turned it off.

“Uh… personal note. Never, never, EVER fuck with Toki and Skwisgaar again. Yeah.”

Outside in the storm, Hurðaskellir fled from the pair, his face broken and bleeding, his back burning like fire. Only troll-weapons could have hurt him so – were these warriors killing his brothers and using their weapons against him?

Hurðaskellir turned to face his assailants, swinging the great bearded axe. He missed, and bellowed his anger to the storm. Toki and Skwisgaar wolf-packed the monster, striking and darting, keeping the great brute off-balance and unsure of where to aim his blows. Hurðaskellir swung his axe again, and screamed when Skwisgaar found an opening and thrust the blade of his knife into the troll’s side. Unused to such displays from his victims, Hurðaskellir fled, Toki and Skwisgaar hot on his heels. They drove Hurðaskellir over to the pile where his brothers lay, and there he met his fate, throat cut, skull smashed, face down in the ice. As a last insult he was pissed on.

Hurðaskellir the door-slammer had slammed his last door.

Toki dug through the troll’s pockets, but found only a ward to keep away illness hung on a strip of leather. Toki held it up and showed it to Skwisgaar.

“For you.”

Skwisgaar shook his head. “Nej, for Pickle. He is worse shapes. We still nots know if I even sick. Da axe we takes, t’ough. Is betters for troll heads dan da seax.”

Toki hopped down from the troll, walking over to Skwisgaar, grinning. Both were slathered in troll-blood, their senses aroused from the fight, and before either knew what he was about to do, they were suddenly mating like rabbits in the still-warm entrails of their dispatched foe, screaming their passion to the violent frozen wind.

In Valhalla, Thor, Odin and Týr watched the display through their fingers, shaking their heads. Freyja meanwhile had borrowed opera glasses from a French Muse so that she may better view the uh… er… victory celebration. Baldur was succinct on the matter.

“Eyew.”

In the house, Nathan and Murderface waited in trepidation, trying their best to comfort Pickles, wondering what could possibly be taking the pair so long. They were just about to go in search of them, when Toki and Skwisgaar came stumbling in, half-frozen, ice in their hair, blood and ichor frosting their clothing. Toki sealed the doors while Skwisgaar went over to the bath to open the drain that let in the hot water, and slowly removed his clothes.

“Well?” asked Nathan.

“Well whats?” asked Toki, looking oddly relaxed and happy for a man who had just been outside in a violent storm fighting a monster. He tossed an old cloth bag and an axe onto a shelf, then walked over to Pickles. He knelt beside him and carefully put the ward around his neck. Whether it would do any good or not, they had yet to see.

“Did you kill the troll?” asked Nathan.

“Oh! Ja we kills him good. He real deads. I smash in his head, den Skwisgaar cuts his t’roat, we is pee-peed on him, den we is hauls outs da guts outs for victory sex. Boy I hungry. Is any sheeps left?”

“Victory sex?” Murderface inquired warily.

Toki sighed blissfully. “Oh ja. Was good. I needs a cigarette. And I nots even smoke.”

“Victory sex,” said Nathan. “In… the guts.”

“Well troll-guts is real hot, otherwise woulds have been way too cold.”

Toki drifted over to the bath, seating himself fully clothed in the blood-tainted water, and kissed Skwisgaar slowly and thoroughly.

“Holy shit,” said Murderface.

“Metal,” said Nathan.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Skyrgámur did not appear. There was simply no reason to, as the five in the stone house had nothing resembling skyr. They did not know if the bacon they had would be enough to draw Bjúgnakrækir the sausage-swiper, or if bacon was indeed anything he was interested in, but that was a worry for tomorrow night. Skyrgámur was not coming, and a night of peace was most welcome. They washed their clothes, and Nathan managed to limp over to the bath and wash himself. He was badly bruised, and the drugs that were in the first aid kit were not really enough to cut the pain of his ribs and leg, but he managed. Finally clean and back on his bed, he drifted into a welcome sleep, the little white fox curled up on his belly. After a while Pickles joined him, snuggling into his place between Nathan and the wall, breathing quietly for the first time in days. Murderface went to his warm spot on the floor near the vent, leaving Toki and Skwisgaar alone by the fire.

“When we gets home we has you checked,” said Toki softly.

“What’s if I sick?”

Toki shook his head. “Don’ts know. Is for da doctors to say. Buts you can has years, Skwisgaar. Is no reason to lose hope.”

“Will you love me?”

Toki looked at him, blue eyes large with surprise. “I waits for years for you! You really t’ink dis stops me? I just fucks you in a pile of troll guts, if dats not love I don’ts know whats is!”

Skwisgaar smiled, narrowing his eyes. “Is dats why you is havings da condoms in you pocket?”

“Ja… dat or lookings for more Icelandic drummers.” Toki drew him close, holding him, kissing his temple. “Toki makes it all okies. I promise.”

Skwisgaar smiled faintly, then nuzzled him, burying his face against the side of Toki’s neck. “Funny t’ing is... I believes you.”

They settled together, kissing, caressing, holding each other close, casting shadows on the wall behind them as the light of the fire turned their bodies to gold.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Bjúgnakrækir had clearly come in the night. Every bit of smoked and cured meat they had was gone, reducing their food supplies substantially. In fact the only meat they now had was a few ragged scraps on the sheep bones; hardly enough to feed the fox. Still, she did not turn her nose up when given a bone to pick. Gnawing happily, growling in a tiny little voice, she cleaned the bone of every scrap.

“The storm better let up soon or we’re gonna have to eat Pickles,” said Nathan.

“DOOD!”

“I could go for some Picklesh right now,” said Murderface.

“DOOD!”

“We nots eating Pickle,” said Skwisgaar. “We woulds has to pounds him flat to gets all da alcohols outs first to makes it safe anyways.”

“DOOD!”

Nathan grinned and put an arm around Pickles, hauling him close and giving him a noogie. Pickles growled and muttered, but fortunately for Nathan he did not retaliate.

“Well we could eat Skwisgaar,” said Murderface.

“Yeah that’s great thinking there Murderface,” said Nathan. “Eat the skinny guy with no meat on his bones.”

“Seems to me we woulds has to be eatings Nat’an,” said Toki. “Boy dats keeps us alives for weeks!”

“Watch it, Wartooth, I know where you sleep.”

“Look, jokes aside,” said Pickles, “we have no idea when that storm is letting up, and we have to find something soon or we’re gonna be in real trouble.”

“No one eats the kitty,” said Nathan.

“We’re not gonna eat the kitty,” said Pickles. “But we better find something.”

Outside the wind screamed and pounded, throwing small stones at their door. Going outside into the freezing temperatures and the blinding snow to scavenge would be suicide; they would quickly lose their way and die of the cold.

“Look we’re okay for now,” said Nathan. “We’ll just have to be careful. Toki are any more of these trolls gonna steal food?”

Toki shook his head. “I don’ts know. Tonight is Gluggagægir, da window-peeper. He steal anyt’ing he can find buts we gots no windows. I nots sure if he come.”

“Dood this guy could clean us out,” said Pickles.

“Ja da others all has one t’ing dey is focused on, but Gluggagægir take anyt’ing,” said Toki.

“This is bullshit!” said Pickles. “It’s not bad enough we’re stuck out here, but we have these fucking monsters bothering us!”

“Well somebody has to be awake tonight,” said Nathan.

“No problem,” said Pickles. “I’ll be sitting here with my coffee trying to breathe.”

“You don’t sound as bad as you have,” said Nathan.

“Yeah I feel a bit better,” said Pickles. “But when another troll comes through the door I might stop breathing altogether. Hey I should list that in my notebook under asthma triggers – trolls.”

“Yeah that’s just great Pickles,” growled Nathan. “What I want to know is when Toki and Skwisgaar became like… fucking Viking warriors.”

“You can takes a course ats da university of Stockholm,” said Skwisgaar. “I gots a PhD in pillaging an’ a Masters in rowings da longboat whiles drunk. Troll-slaying was my minors.”

Toki giggled. Nathan reached out and gave Skwisgaar a light cuff across the head.

“Don’t be a smartass.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

It was dark, and it was silent, and the five men in the little stone house were still as something large crept in with spectral silence, its freakishly huge eyes glowing in the darkness as it peered around for anything it could pilfer. It walked over to the shelves and began taking the cans, unsure of what to do with them, but Mother would know…

For a split second it occurred to the troll that something was very wrong. Then his head landed in the fire pit and he ceased worrying about it.

“WOW-WEE! SKWISGAAR DAT WAS GREAT!”

Skwisgaar set down the bearded axe and glowered at the dead troll. “Teachings you to comes in here an’ robs us, hah?”

Pickles lit a couple of paraffin candles and stared at the dead troll. “Wow, Skwisgaar smoked him in one hit. He’s deader than dirt.”

“Toki and I takes him outside,” said Skwisgaar. “Here, Pickle, you see what is beings in his sack.”

Toki and Skwisgaar hauled the troll outside and dumped both pieces on the pile, then darted back to the warmth of their cave and wedged the door tightly closed against the bitter cold.

“Anyt’ings in da bag?” asked Toki.

“GUYS!” Pickles called to them. “We’re fucking saved! Look at this! He must have stuff from half the country! Look! Cured meat, clothing, boots, vegetables… CIGARETTES!! AND GIN!!”

Skwisgaar gasped. “IS A GUITAR!”

“Yeah there was this in there as well! It’s not a great guitar but it’s got six strings and a straight neck!”

Skwisgaar pounced on the old guitar as if it was made of pure gold, clearly delighted to have his fix. Toki began digging through the sack excitedly.

“Oh boy, roast ptarmigan! Is likes Christmas! Boy I hope Charlies having as good a time as we is!”

“Look at thish!” said Murderface, pulling out some leather clothing. “Real Viking clothes! AWESHOME!”

“Hey I just thought of something,” said Pickles. “The other troll had a sack, too. I wonder what’s in it?”

“Oh let’s see!” said Toki.

Toki leapt up to get the other sack, pouncing on it excitedly and yanking it open. There was a sudden brutal gust of ice, snow and wind. The temperature dropped violently, and ice began to form on the walls. Toki yanked the ties on the sack tight, closing it, and just stood, looking utterly astounded, his hair frozen into a veritable Medusa’s wig.

“DOOD!” said Pickles. “What the fuck was that?”

“I don’ts know buts I nots openings dis bags again,” said Toki, setting it aside.

He heard an odd little sound, and looked around the room, trying to determine what it was, and where it could be coming from. After a few moments, he noticed the little fox, curled up on Nathan’s belly, the tip of her tail over her nose. He would have sworn she was giggling.

***---***

Grýla screamed her rage to the skies, causing the very fire to cower in the hearth, and frightening the black cat off the shelf.

“Monsters! Vermin! Cowards! How dare they attack my children and steal from my family! They shall pay for this, they shall pay dearly! Gáttaþefur! Come to me!”

A troll with a freakishly large nose appeared. “Yes mama, I am here.”

“Tonight is your night to go into the world of mortals, but this night you will not sniff for laufabrauð! You will go to the house of these murderers and learn what you can of them! Sniff the flesh right off their bones if you must, and tell me all! They must be clever and strong, but they are not more clever and strong than we!”

“But they have the north wind,” said Gáttaþefur.

“Then take it back! And bring the weapons too! I’ll not have troll-made weapons in the hands of murderers. Sniff out any weakness they have!”

Giljagaur approached his mother then. “There is one among them who is weak. The one with hair of fire-snakes. His breath catches when he is afraid. It is all he can do at times to draw one single gulp of air. And Stekkjastaur claims the large one with the black hair is injured. His leg is broken, as are his ribs. They would not fight back, if we can get past the warriors.”

“Then take Stúfur, and go tonight with Gáttaþefur. One of you lure out the warriors, then the other two go in and kill the weak ones. Two can play this game. Let us see how they like to have their family preyed upon! Bring me the heads!”

Dutifully the trio of trolls left their mother’s cave and began making their way through the brutal storm to the little stone house.

~*~*~*~*~*~

“I schtill shay these aren’t real Viking helmsh,” said Murderface, studying one of the devices which he held in his hands. “There’sh no hornsh on them!”

“Dood real Viking helms don’t have horns,” said Pickles.

Nathan said nothing as Pickles and Murderface talked; he was too busy staring at Toki and Skwisgaar. They had their arms around each other, and they were dressed in Viking garb that some Viking had lost centuries ago. They were drinking mead, helms slipped down to odd angles, yowling some tune in Norwegian that would have those in Odin’s hall falling over themselves in laughter. Unfortunately nobody but Toki and Skwisgaar had the first idea what they were singing. Nathan pulled out his tape recorder.

“Idea for a song – insane Vikings stuck in a stone house getting drunk. And that happens forever. Oh. Personal note. The Scandies have definitely flipped their longboat. But they’re sharing the booze so that’s cool.”

Pickles picked up Nathan’s camcorder and aimed it at the pair. “It’s great, it’s like looking at the past. Okay well maybe except for that. I’m not sure you could do that in the mead hall,” he said as Toki set aside his bottle to pull Skwisgaar into his arms and kiss him. The pair fell over into a drunken, furry heap, kissing and caressing each other.

“Yeah that’s the sort of thing that probably got you voted out of the longboat,” said Nathan, grinning. “You know I hate to say it but… this has been kinda fun in a sick twisted going-to-your-uncle’s-funeral sorta way.”

“Yeah it’s had its moments,” said Pickles. “It’s been scary but… it’s also been… sorta nice. Just the five of us, looking after ourselves like we used to, before we were multi-billionaires and we didn’t have to think anymore because we hired Charlie to do it for us.”

Murderface raised his own bottle of mead drunkenly. “To Charlie Offden-hic!-shen, the keeper of the brainsh.”

They drank a toast, then Nathan grinned. “Hey Pickles, put on the gown we found in there. You can be a damsel in distress.”

“No way! You put it on!”

“You didn’t mind dressing like a lady in the eighties!”

“Dood it was the eighties! All the guys looked like girls. I was hip.”

“You were fucking hot,” said Nathan.

“I’m telling the robot you shaid that,” said Murderface.

“Hey I can think Pickles is hot. I’m married, not dead. I’m just not allowed to pin him against the wall and hump him.”

“Nathan I’m not getting under you for anything. For one you’d crush me, for another Charles would reach down my throat, grab my nuts and turn me inside out.”

“No he wouldn’t. He’d reach down my throat.”

“Call him and ashk him what he would do if you fucked Pickles,” said Murderface. “That should be good for a little hysteria.”

“I’m not freaking out my husband for your amusement,” said Nathan. “I love him. We’re gonna have babies. Little death metal ninja accountants.”

“How are you gonna do that?” asked Pickles.

“It’s really cool, see you take an egg from a lady…”

Murderface shoved his fingers into his ears. “I AM NOT LISHTENING TO THISH!”

“An’ the doctor strips out the DNA…”

“SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP!”

“And then they can take DNA from me an’ Charles and like… make a baby.”

“So who carries it?” asked Pickles.

“Well I’m not, it would cut into my drinking.”

“Well wait a minute,” said Murderface. “When did you and Charles get married?”

“Well… we’re not… officially. But… I like to... y’know… call him that.”

“That’sh… pathetic.”

“No it’s not, it’s sweet,” said Pickles.

“Romansche ish not brutal,” declared Murderface.

“I dunno, it seems to make you scream pretty…” Nathan paused, listening. “Hey do you guys like… hear anything?”

The five paused, listening, Toki raising his head from Skwisgaar’s throat.

“Soundings like giant nose,” said Toki.

“Must be Gáttaþefur,” said Skwisgaar. “I know how to is dealings wit’ him.”

Skwisgaar gently pushed Toki off himself, then rose to his feet, weaving drunkenly. He staggered over to the door, which was the old, repaired one. The new one had not yet been fit into place for the night, and there were cracks between the boards; just space enough for Skwisgaar to see there was something outside.

“What’s you wantings, troll? We nots scareds of you!”

“Come out,” it whispered in a voice like millstones grinding.

Pickles squeaked and gasped, but Skwisgaar was undaunted. He was also loaded. He picked up a sword, weaving slightly as he stood.

“Oh ja? You is wantings us to comes outs, hmm? Okays we is play riddles. If you is can guessing what I is has in my hands, we is alls coming out.”

“A hint! I need a hint!”

“Well puts you nose against da door an’ smells, den! What’s you smell, troll?”

There was a loud snuffling noise. With a sudden, powerful thrust, throwing his full bodyweight behind the blade, Skwisgaar rammed his sword through the old door and deep into the skull of Gáttaþefur, shoving the mighty blade straight up his nose. There was a horrible squealing cry, then silence. Leaving the sword in the door, Skwisgaar snatched up the axe, then yanked the door open, pulling the sword free from its gruesome sheath. Stepping onto Gáttaþefur’s dead body, he waved the axe.

“ANYBODYS ELSE WANTINGKS TO PLAY?!”

Stúfur and Stekkjastaur bolted off into the darkness, making grunting, squealing sounds, like tortured pigs. Skwisgaar slammed the door closed, then yanked the sword free before he wedged the new door over top of the old. He then turned to Toki, pulled him close, and kissed him slowly and passionately. Reluctantly, after a minute, he broke off the kiss.

“Hey Tokis, you is havings anys of dose condoms left?”

“NO SEX IN THE CAVE!” said Nathan. “Do you two hear me? I said… aw fuck it.”

“Well thish is awkward,” said Murderface, as the two fur-clad bodies dropped onto the bed of stone and hides.

Nathan sighed. “Just hand me some more roast bird and we’ll try to ignore them.”

So Pickles, Nathan and Murderface drank mead and ate roast ptarmigan, while Toki and Skwisgaar kissed and groped on the bed. Outside the night grew darker and colder, and the wind sounded almost like an old woman screaming in rage.

~*~*~*~*~

Ketkrókur, they had named him – meat hook. He carried a large hook, and with it he would stab handy chunks of meat and drag them away to his mother’s cave, where they would feast on the stolen bounty. Strong, smart, and fast, Ketkrókur was used to dealing with hungry Vikings on their guard against thieves. Their modern descendants were little bothered by him in this day of shops and freezers and mass production, so it would be a real treat to once more test his skills against the wary.

His mother had been most specific about what meat she wished to taste….

Ketkrókur bided his time, waiting for the long cold night to grow late, and for his quarry to settle down to sleep. Then, when all was silent, he stole into the little stone house and looked around, peering at the sleeping faces until he found the weakest one; the little one, with hair of fire-snakes, and weak lungs. The little man was huddled beside a much larger one, as if he could protect him. Ketkrókur raised his hook over his head.

Pickles screamed in agony, and the other four sat up abruptly, just in time to see the door fly open and to hear Pickles’ screams vanishing in the distance, a thin trail of blood following after. Nathan instinctively tried to get up, but was forced back down by stabbing pains.

“The son of a bitch has Pickles!” Nathan yelled.

Toki and Skwisgaar were up in seconds, dressed in their furs, snatching up the axe and war hammer.

“Murderface you stay here and guards Nat’an,” said Toki. Then he and Skwisgaar were gone, tearing out of the house and into the storm, following a barely-discernable trail in the wind, snow, and darkness. If they lost it, they would die. There would be no finding their way back in this mess. Far ahead they could hear Pickles screaming, and then a sudden yelp of pain from the troll. Toki and Skwisgaar pushed themselves as hard as they could, and the noise seemed to grow closer.

The trolls should have taken into consideration that the Irish were no wilting flowers, either.

Pickles had somehow managed to grab onto his attacker and sink his teeth into the flesh at the back of the leg; an exceedingly painful move. And now that he had a grip he was not releasing it. Ketkrókur was screaming, trying to pull free and striking Pickles with his free hand. He was raising his hook to put an end to this irritant when Skwisgaar manifested out of the storm. Swinging his axe, he removed the hand that held the hook, sending it spinning off into the darkness. Moments later Toki appeared, and slammed the head of the war hammer into the troll’s gut. The troll dropped Pickles, then turned on Toki, swinging its gigantic fist. Toki darted out of reach, then struck again. Assailed on both sides, Ketkrókur seemed doomed… until Stúfur lumbered out of the snow and dealt Toki a blow with a short-handled war hammer that sent him rolling. Toki landed in a heap, blue eyes wide and staring, his chest burning, unable to move.

Snatching up his meat hook with his remaining hand, Ketkrókur raised it, intending to continue dragging Pickles away to the cave. Then suddenly the upper half of his head was gone. He dropped into the snow, and Stúfur stood in terror as he watched the tall Viking with the blonde hair scream his rage to Odin above, eyes burning like blood on fire. For a brief second Stúfur thought he saw an image of gigantic hawk’s wings as the warrior raised his axe, and he knew that whatever these creatures were, Stúfur had no business doing battle with them.

Screaming, Stúfur turned and ran, feeling the terror rise within him as he heard the sound of running feet rapidly gaining on him. He prayed he would die fast, but he was not to be given that grace. He had brutally injured the warrior’s lover, and Skwisgaar was truly out for blood, and images of Toki rolling to a stop, streaking the ice with his blood, were filling Skwisgaar’s mind.

Stúfur stopped running when his right leg was removed. Hours later, when his remaining brothers came seeking him, they would find his frozen torso, his legs, arms and head shoved inside his ponderous belly, and Ketkrókur’s meat hook up his ass. Stúfur had messed with the wrong rhythm guitarist.

Toki was lying on the snow in agony when Skwisgaar came to his side.

“Toki! Speaks to me!”

Toki gasped, but he couldn’t get a word out. Skwisgaar looked at Pickles, who was rapidly freezing to death. Dammit! Pickles had no boots, and he couldn’t carry them both….

“Pickle! Can you walk?”

Shivering, Pickles nodded. “I think so.”

Skwisgaar pulled off Toki’s boots and gave them to Pickles, then shed his own heavy fur coat. “Here! Takes dese! I carries Toki, you brings da axe an’ hammers.”

“Which way is home?” asked Pickles. He pulled on the boots and coat, then slowly stood up, using the hammer as a sort of crutch.

“You follows me. I gets us dere. Somehow.”

Skwisgaar carefully picked up Toki, hearing him gasp and choke in pain, wincing at the fine spray of blood.

“Aw fuck, Toki! Don’ts be doings dat! I da one dats dying, nots you!”

Pickles gave Skwisgaar an odd look, but said nothing. He fell into step beside Skwisgaar, limping along as best as he could, but it was a long slow trek back. The trail was erased by the roaring wind, and it was only pure blind luck they found their way to the house. They stumbled in out of the storm, frozen and battered. As Murderface wedged the doors closed, Skwisgaar put Toki down on the bed, then looked down at his own blistered and reddened hands.

He could only hope the frostbite was not too deep, and he wouldn’t lose his fingers.

Skwisgaar looked over at Pickles. “Pickle? How you doing?”

“Leg hurts like a bitch but I think I’m okay. Murderface look in the first aid kit, see if they gave us any antibiotics.”

Murderface did, and found a sterile needle as well as a small bottle of antibiotics. Pickles cleaned his wound as best he could, then injected himself. With luck, he would heal, which was probably more than could be said of Toki.

“I don’t know what’s wrong wit’ him,” said Skwisgaar. “He gots hit wit’ a war hammer. He coulds be smasheds up all bads insides.”

“Let me look,” said Nathan.

Slowly, painfully, Nathan got off his own bed and limped over to where Toki was lying, sitting beside him, his broken leg sticking out awkwardly. He opened the fur-lined tunic and peered at the injury he saw beneath it.

“Well his clavicle is busted, and that hurts like a son of a bitch. His shoulder is, too. There’s not much we can do for him but sling it and feed him pain pills. He needs way more help than we can give him. He could even have a busted sternum.”

“He was coughings bloods,” said Skwisgaar.

“Yeah something may have damaged his lungs. We have to get him to a hospital. How are your hands?”

“Dey’s fine, don’ts worry abouts me.”

“Skwisgaar if that frostbite is too deep…” Pickles began to say, but was silenced when Skwisgaar snapped at him.

“Is fine!”

“I’m sorry.”

“For whats?”

“For making you chase me out into the snow.”

“No one makings me do anyt’ing! We family. We only family we is reallys gots. Who else chase us intos da storm? My mother? You father? No one else gives a shit. Just… sits dere. And stops worrying.”

Pickles fell silent. Together he, Skwisgaar and Murderface watched as Nathan bound up Toki’s shoulder as best as he was able.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Charles stared out the window and watched the snow fall over Frankfurt. It was a beautiful city, alive with history, and he had been looking forward to exploring it with Nathan before the concert that was scheduled for December 26th. Instead he was standing in his hotel room on Christmas eve, drinking beer, and watching the snow. Somehow it was worse knowing where Nathan and the boys were – so close yet so far. They knew where they were. It would be a matter of hours to fly to Iceland, pick them up, and take them home. But Iceland was buried under the worse ice storm in centuries, and there was no getting in, or out.

Charles drew out his cell phone and tried to call Nathan, but only got static, and a curt message informing him the customer he was trying to reach was unavailable. He closed the phone and put it away, looking down at the gathering of Dethklok fans waiting before the hotel, each clutching a lit candle, shivering in the cold as they stood. Charles couldn’t help but wonder how long their loyalty would hold if they knew what a childish, insolent, self-centered lot of immature, moronic, pointer-stealing, drug-snorting, booze-swilling yahoos they were.

God he missed those boys.

There was a tap at the door. Charles set aside him beer and went to the door, opening it, but saw no one. He looked up and down the hallway, and heard the soft click of the door leading to the stairway closing. On the floor was a little box, wrapped in black cloth, tied with a scarlet ribbon. Charles picked it up and took it into the room, closing the door. He opened the little box, and smiled at the five tiny figures he found within. They were finely detailed, and no more than an inch high, each representing a member of Dethklok. The instructions were simple; set them near a window with a lit candle, and they will guide the real thing home. Utterly stupid, of course. Fans came up with the loopiest ideas.

Still… why take a chance?

Charles called downstairs to see if somebody had a candle they would part with.

***---***

Kertasníkir, candle thief, stared at the sign on the door of the little stone house.

“Come on in. We fucking dare you.”

Kertasníkir decided that his life was not worth a few candles that were not even made of *dripping, and therefore inedible. These warriors were angry and dangerous, and there were other houses to rob. Silently, Kertasníkir vanished into the night, and left the five in the house in peace.

Inside the house, Dethklok were morosely acknowledging Christmas eve. Not because they were feeling especially festive, but because… well… they didn’t really have an excuse. They were just bored and depressed.

“How you feeling, Toki?” Nathan asked quietly.

Toki blinked sleepily, staring up at the ceiling. He was drugged on painkillers, and barely coherent. Skwisgaar was sitting beside him on the bed, rubbing antibiotic cream into the blusters on his frost-bitten hands.

“So is it over?” asked Pickles, poking at the potatoes in the fire to see if they were done.

“Nej,” said Skwisgaar. “Tomorrow comes Grýla herself, bringings da Yule Cat. I has feeling she goings to be wantings a word wit’ us.”

“She’s gonna kill us, isn’t she?” said Nathan.

“I t’inks she going to try. She nots going to be happy.”

“So what do we do?”

“What do you mean, what do we do?” asked Pickles. “We’re not just going to let her kick our asses.”

“Well how tough IS this old lady?” asked Nathan.

Skwisgaar shook his head. “In da old tales, she is monstrous troll-woman, wit’ fifteen tails. Tied to each tail is one hundred sacks. In each sack, she is puttings da bad children, twenty in each bag, to takes home an’ eat. Da t’irteen Yule Lads only somes of her kids, as many as seventy-two been named. An’ she nots come alone. She brings da cat, and nots little kitty likes Frostskadet. Giant black cat. Would be hards fight if we all healthy an’ knew whats we was doing. Outs here, alone, wit’ you, Toki and Pickle hurt… I don’ts know how we is manage.”

“So she could show up here with an army of descendants,” said Pickles. “That’s just great. Well we’re naht gonna just roll over and die!”

“What are you suggesting?” asked Nathan.

“I dunno,” said Pickles. “But there has to be something we can do. At least we have to stand up for ourselves. There’s a ton of shit in that bag, there must be something we can use.”

Skwisgaar nodded. “Ja we do dats, all right. We nots go down wit’out a fight. She starts it, we ends it. Maybes we die, buts she nevers forgettings us.”

They ate their dinner in silence, washing it down with mead, then one by one fell asleep.

~*~*~*~*~*~

"She wore a black tiara,
Rare gems upon her fingers,
and she came from distant waters
where northern lights explode
to celebrate the dawning
of the new wastes of winter,
gathering royal momentum
on the icy road.

With chill mists swirling
like petticoats in motion,
sighted on horizons
for ten thousand years.
The Lady of the Ice sounds
a deathly distant rumble
to Titanic-breaking children lost
in melting crystal tears.

Oh, sunshine --- take me now away from here,
I'm a needle on a spiral in a groove.
And the turntable spins,
as the last waltz begins,
and the weather-man says
something's on the move.

Capturing black pieces
in a glass-fronted museum,
the White Queen rolls
on the chessboard of the dawn.
Squeezing through the valleys,
pausing briefly in the corries,
the Ice-Mother mates
and a new age is born.

Oh, sunshine --- take me now away from here,
I'm a needle on a spiral in a groove.
And the turntable spins,
as the last waltz begins,
And the weather-man says
something's on the move.

Driving all before her
unstoppable, unstraining,
her cold creaking mass
follows reindeer down.
Thin spreading fingers seek
to embrace the still-warm bundles
that huddle on the doorsteps
of a white London Town.

Oh, sunshine --- take me now away from here,
I’m a needle on a spiral in a groove.
And the turntable spins,
as the last waltz begins,
And the weather-man says
something’s on the move…

In 1746 a public decree was passed, prohibiting her name from being used to frighten children, and Grýla had basked in her notoriety, chortling as she dined on the flesh of hapless offspring. Oh to be sure the centuries had seen her power to terrify diminish, but to those who still lived in the rural regions she remained a figure of fear and destruction. Now as the night of December twenty-fifth arrived, she donned her cloak of black and set out across the slick ice, leaning on her walking stick, a hideous old woman of monstrous size, waking in a maelstrom of screams from victims long ago slain to feed her gruesome appetites. Beside her prowled an enormous black cat, larger than the local ponies, its coat rough and wild, stretched thin over its ribs. Its eyes burned eerily in the darkness, and it licked its lips in anticipation of the night’s feast. There was but one small matter to tend to, and then they would feed, seeking unwary children in their beds.

Grýla had not anticipated the tall warrior at the door, holding a seax that she recognized as belonging to one of her sons. His long golden hair blew in the wind, and his eyes were as cold as the polar ice. He stood protectively before the closed door, and did not flinch when he saw her hideous form, her long furry tails writhing like serpents. She was hardly daunted.

“Move aside. You are no match for me.”

Skwisgaar made a sound of utter disdain. “All I see is olds lady who beats ups littles kids. What is to be afraids of?”

“And all I see is a coward who attacks my children and piles their bodies like garbage.”

“If is smellings likes garbage, is where it is supposed to be.”

Grýla hissed. This man was no warrior! He was scrawny as a weed, and held the seax as if it were a candle! Were her sons as lazy and useless as their father, Leppalúði? They had to be weak miserable mice indeed to fall prey to this scrawny pole! He would die beneath her claws and stave, and she would wear his hide as a shawl. His bones would made good spoons. Her own were always going missing.

She lunged at him, her cloak falling free, revealing the full magnitude of her hideousness. Skwisgaar held his ground, but that may have had more to do with there simply being no place to go than any real bravery. He watched her come towards him, hair flying, blackened teeth bared, claws ready to tear and rend. She smelled of death, and he was certain he could hear the screams of terrified toddlers surrounding her. Then, just as she drew near, Skwisgaar thrust the seax into her belly as the door behind him suddenly flew open. Murderface ran out armed with a spear and thrust it at her, as behind him Pickles and Nathan fired bows. Blindsided by actual battle tactics when she had been so certain she was facing nothing more than fools and weaklings, she fled up the incline, calling to her cat. Murderface lunged as if he meant to chase after her, but Skwisgaar stopped him.

“No we nots chasings her. She will leads us outs into da open and den we is havings to face bot’ of dem. Is too colds, an’ we nots dat smart. And woulds leave Toki alone.”

“So what do we do?” asked Nathan. “She’s not gonna be dumb enough to walk up to the door again.”

The four paused, listening as they heard the rapid drumming of paws, quickly approaching. They looked up the incline, and saw Grýla mounted on a gigantic cat, charging towards them. Skwisgaar quickly sheathed the seax and grabbed up Murderface’s spear. Kneeling, he braced the great weapon in the ground, aiming it at the massive cat. Murderface picked up the strange bag that seemed to hold nothing but wind, and they held their ground. Then, at the last moment, Pickles and Nathan fired while Murderface opened the bag. There was a violent and terrifying blast of icy wind, and the cat abruptly stopped, bracing its paws against the icy ground in a desperate attempt to not slide into the spear, but carried was carried forward by its own momentum. Fortunately, for the cat at least, its thrown rider was flung onto the point of the lethally sharp weapon rather than itself. With its mistress shrieking in agony, the cat did the only thing any cat would and fled. Bleeding and cursing, Grýla pulled her monstrous bulk free of the spear and retreated after her cat, leaving a trail of fetid blood that turned to tiny pebbles as it struck the ground.

Skwisgaar waited, watching the incline for any sign of her return. Gradually the brutal storm that had been tormenting Iceland for days slowly died away; the snow turning to a soft, silent curtain of falling fluff. The wind ceased to blow, and far away the seas stopped their relentless vomiting of ice onto the shores as the dead trolls turned to nothing more than rocks and boulders.

The game had ended for this year, resetting itself in anticipation of the next Yule.

“Is overs,” said Skwisgaar quietly. “We beats her.”

Nathan hobbled over to his bed and sat down, then took out his cell phone and called a number. Far away in Frankfurt, a sleepy voice answered.

“Nathan?”

“Yeah babe it’s me. Looks like the storm is letting up. You can come get us now.”

***---***

It was very early morning when the huge military helicopter landed near their tiny house. The five dressed in their usual clothes, putting the other things back inside the sack to take with them. All was in order, save for one thing – they couldn’t find their kitty.

“Dood, I don’t understand this,” said Pickles. “She’s stuck to us like glue. Now we can’t find her anywhere. We can’t just leave her, she’s only got three legs!”

They searched, looking all through the house, but she was not there. Finally they could not wait any longer; Toki, Nathan and Pickles had been moved onto the helicopter, leaving Skwisgaar and Murderface to trudge up the incline away from their little stone house. They reached the top of the slope, and there they spied a tiny furry form with three legs, seated on a snow-covered rock.

“Oh there’sh the kitty,” said Murderface. “Come on, kitty.”

The little fox gazed at him, then slowly seemed to grow brighter in the vague light of an Icelandic winter morning. She began to shimmer with an almost opalescent radiance, until she began flashing like the northern lights. Then there was a great blast of light, and suddenly the little fox was no longer a fox. It was a tall, statuesque woman with flowing pale golden hair, mounted on a great white horse. Both her mount and the white armor she wore glinted and shimmered like the Aurora Borealis, and in her left hand she held a tall spear. Her other arm was gone from the elbow down, lost in battle centuries ago. As Skwisgaar and Murderface stared, open-mouthed, she just smiled. Then, without word or command, her horse turned and galloped away, moving with complete silence over the snowy ground, trailing light the colour of mother-of-pearl.

“Guessh she wash juscht here to pick up whoever didn’t make it,” said Murderface.

***---***

“I should go missing more often,” Nathan remarked.

He was lying on his back, his leg in a cast, bandages around his ribs. Straddling his lap was Charles. He was naked, his flesh gleaming with sweat in the candle light. His short hair was at all angles, his hands braced on Nathan’s middle as he expressed his appreciation of having his husband back for the third time.

“If you ever put me through that again, I’ll quit,” said Charles breathily.

Nathan grinned, running his hands over Charles’ strong body. “If you quit who will give you what you want as often as you want it? Never met a guy who liked to go four and five rounds a night. Okay other than Skwisgaar.”

Charles’ attention was suddenly fixed dead on Nathan. “When the hell did you do Skwisgaar?”

“A year and a half before I met you.”

“Oh. Well that’s okay I suppose.”

He let his head fall back once more, and resumed enjoying himself. Nathan just grinned, caressing his body. Oh yeah, it was good to be home, back in his own house, in his own bed, in his own husband. Down the hall, Murderface was happily curled up in his own bed; Knubbler spooned against his back, practically melded to him. Across the hall, Pickles was splayed contentedly across the mattress, covers askew, one foot dangling over the edge, his thigh bandaged. And, down in the hospital wing, Toki was just waking up from the surgery needed to fix his sternum, clavicle and shoulder. The blood he had coughed up had in fact come from a cut in his tongue. Toki Wartooth had been very lucky.

He opened his eyes and blinked sleepily at the tall, beautiful man seated beside his bed. He grinned weakly.

“I hates trolls.”

“You goings to be fine. Dey is patchings you up good. You be ups and slowly unlearnings hows to play da guitar in no time.”

“And whats about you?” Toki reached out his hand to take hold of Skwisgaar’s, which was bandaged. Fortunately the frost had not bitten deeply enough to kill delicate blood vessels. “You tolds me you woulds get checked.”

Skwisgaar kissed him. “You nots needings to worry abouts me. Doctor says I just fine. He says I gots minor lung infection froms da cold and da damp air in da cave-house, buts I fine. I nots goings to die anytime soon, at least nots from… you know.”

Toki breathed a sigh of relief, and closed his eyes. “Good. Is all I needings to hear.”

Skwisgaar kissed him, then rose to his feet to cross the room and pull another hospital bed closer. He pushed it against Toki’s, then climbed onto it and lay down, falling asleep beside him. They were all very tired.

Downstairs, Gear #3, aka Badger, the oldest of all Dethklok’s roadies and the only one not obligated to wear a hood, was tidying up after the homecoming, finding bits and pieces and setting them in their respective places. He was in the great hall, which had been lovingly decorated in anticipation of Dethklok’s homecoming. Jean-Pierre had made a gigantic black chocolate cake with red and black icing, and little sugar skulls. Over head were great banners, and all around were decorations, tables, and food.

And… resting on the couch… was a strange old bag made of reindeer hide that Badger didn’t recall ever seeing before. Curious, he picked it up and opened it. Fifteen seconds later he managed to get it closed again, but not before the Great Hall of Mordhaus was turned into a huge frozen disaster area, complete with fireplace ash blowing around mixed with snow, cake on the ceiling, cutlery embedded into the walls, and shredded bits of banner fluttering slowly and gracefully to the floor.

Sighing heavily, Badger trudged dejectedly out of the room in search of a dust pan. It was going to be a long night.