I.
The cave entrance stood in front of him, like the maw of a leviathan waiting to swallow him whole. Faint gusts of hot subterranean air pushed against him, carrying the stench of spoiled meat. In concert with the wheezing wind came the distant echoes of wails, moving past him and getting lost in the cold forest. Above, even the moon dared not show itself. He knew not what awaited him inside. Lesser men would quiver in fear and head back. But he was no such man. He was a Conqueror. An agent of the dark. The Keeper of Chains.
He brought his flail to his side, the spiked metal ball swaying, the fireflies inside shining a soft blue light, its chain creaking like a steady melody. His song. He walked through the threshold, leaving the cold behind. Into the mouth of the beast.
For weeks, reports had come that Khatun scouts and soldiers had disappeared in the woods at the border of the Chiffer territory. Lost in the ice and snow at the edge of the world. Never seen or heard from again. The Vikings had submitted to Guljin’s reign after some of their most renowned warriors had been thrown into her arena. But these recent disappearances proved troublesome. The Khatuns could not afford to have the Vikings turn on them. Guljin’s continued rule depended on it. Especially now, with so much dissent and revolt spreading throughout Ashfeld and the Myre. Not to mention the ongoing disputes over Wu Lin territories demanding her attention. And so, she had sent her Keeper of Chains to investigate. Her chosen emissary of peace. It was rumored that a female Jormungandr was behind these disappearances. And if these rumors were true, she would make a fine addition to the Keeper’s collection of prisoners. After many days of searching, he found a trail. One that led him here, to the Caves of Ormr.
He moved through a narrow tunnel, following the sounds of screaming. They came from deep in the cave. They sounded… broken. Primal.
Just ahead, he spotted the glow of torchlight, bouncing along the damp tunnel stone. He heard wet hacking sounds, followed by the unmistakable crunch of bones and what he could only guess was the steady drip of blood, pouring like an open flask turned upside down.
He stepped out of the tunnel into an uneven cavity. Hundreds of candles burned along the perimeter, thick chunks of wax draping at their base. Towers of skulls and totems made of human bones were scattered throughout. Red runes of all shapes and sizes were painted on every inch of the cavern walls. In the center lay a pile of human limbs, freshly torn and severed, drawing the attention of buzzing flies. Next to it was the body of a Khatun hung upside down, throat slit open. Blood steadily dripped down, collecting into a wooden bucket. And sitting cross-legged on the ground, with her back directly to him, was the unmistakable silhouette of a Shaman. She was mumbling under her breath, chanting low and remarkably fast. Raspy and wheezing. Almost in a trance.
Slowly, carefully, he took a step forward. But as soon as he made a move, the Shaman stopped her chanting abruptly. He felt the silence fall. Like the air had been sucked out of the room.
The Shaman let out a loud shriek. An unsettling cry, a nightmare creature sounding the alarm.
The Keeper felt a sudden movement coming from behind and he ducked just in time, avoiding the wide swing of a male Jormungandr’s hammer. Having missed its target, the hammer hit the wall. The Keeper didn’t waste the moment. With his shield, he held the hammer in place, leaving the Jormungandr exposed. He flipped his flail up against his attacker’s head. Then, with his shield, he brought the dazed Jormungandr’s head swiftly down, crushing it against the rocky ground.
At the same moment, the Shaman pounced like a mountain cat on his back, latching herself with both arms and legs, screaming and thrashing. He could feel her futile attempts to gnaw at his neck, his thick armor keeping her at bay. He propelled himself backwards, slamming the Shaman against the wall, knocking the wind out of her, and breaking her tight grip.
The Conqueror turned and brought the flail down across her face, tearing skin from bone. The Shaman fell to her side, blood pooling on the ground.
“Despicable,” he whispered.
He examined the two bodies, confirming that neither of these two Vikings were his intended target. Just then, the wailing sounds that had brought him into the cave kept on coming. They hadn’t originated from here, he realized, but deeper into the Caves of Ormr.
He snuffed out all the candles, plunging the cavern in darkness, and continued his descent.
II.
Droplets of water dripped steadily as he ventured deeper, engulfed by the isolating black. It reminded him of his cell. The dark hole Horkos warriors had locked him in. He had watched as they melted the key on the other side of the bars. The smoldering metal had been the last hint of light he would lay his eyes upon for nearly a year. Only when the fireflies came from a tiny crack in the stone did he see the light once more. By then, it had been months of uninterrupted darkness. He had formed a bond with the insects. They had been his first prisoners. Through them, he learned the power of containment.
Now, he carried them in his flail. They could leave him at any time. But they stayed with him, always. He held the weapon aloft, lighting the way.
“Shhh…” he whispered to the fireflies. “Be still, little Lights.”
His prison had been a cocoon, and out of it he had emerged as something else. Xaphan was the man who had been locked up. But the Keeper of Chains had risen in his stead. Guljin’s jailor. He had tamed the dark. Weaponized it.
The screams were no longer a distant echo. He was near the source, coming from the shallow pit of black that waited for him at the end of the tunnel. The screeching wails reverberated off the walls. So unnerving they were almost deafening.
He was no stranger to loud screams in the dark, for they were the sounds that accompanied him every day. After he had been freed, he had become the dungeon’s very own warden. There, he would walk the halls that once confined him, walking past cell after cell of defeated prisoners begging for release. They invigorated him, fed him like a leech. He wanted his prisoners to know he was there. He needed them to be constantly reminded of his queen. The reason they were all here. They had all resisted her. Ignored her peace, fought against her rule. Each one, he had been sent out to collect and each one, he had locked in the dungeon himself. Only there, in his home, would they learn. With time, they would see the light. Just like he had seen. Or they would die.
Keeping his footfalls quiet, he stepped into a wide cavern. The stale air suddenly felt fresh. Covering the low rock ceiling like stars on a clear summer night were hundreds of glowworms, shining green-blue against the stark blackness of the deep. It would have been a beautiful, peaceful sight—if not for the twisted ritual unfolding within.
He kept low, hiding behind large rock formations as he finally set sights on the Jormungandr he had been sent out to collect: the mad zealot, Hulda. There she was, hands resting on the head of her hammer as she oversaw a most gruesome ritual. Two Vikings were laying on the ground, writhing in agony. Another, a young man not twenty of age with bright eyes and thick golden hair, was on his knees, naked except for tattered undergarments. His entire body was covered in runes, inked in red, just like the ones in the Shaman’s cavern. A hulking male Jormungandr towered above the young Viking, pouring acid over his shoulders. The young man wailed, tears streaming down his eyes, somehow forcing himself to remain immobile despite the torture. His skin bubbled, burst and tore, blood seeping out as steam fizzled from the raw wounds.
From a leather pouch, the Jormungandr then took out a fistful of snake scales. With both palms, he firmly pressed them into the freshly melted flesh. Again, the young man wailed, even louder than before.
Finally stepping forward, Hulda raised her hammer as her male cohort held the young man’s left arm taut. She brought her hammer down, shattering the arm. Then, they repeated the process with the right. His body all out of screams, the young man collapsed, barely conscious.
The Keeper of Chains had heard tales of the Jormungandrs’ grueling indoctrination process. A ritual so very few inductees ever survived. But seeing it with his own eyes—smelling the burnt flesh, hearing the agonizing screams burrowing into his very bones—was something else entirely. It was revolting. Barbaric. This was everything wrong with Heathmoor. This was what the people resorted to when there was no control, when they had no reins.
Freedom is a sickness.
They needed to be controlled. They needed to be chained. They needed his queen’s peace. For their own good.
Before the two Jormungandrs could shatter the young Viking’s lower limbs, the Conqueror sprang through the dark.
III.
With both hands on his shield, he tackled the male Jormungandr at full speed, hitting him with such heft that the warrior smashed through a large stalagmite like it was straw. Without giving him a chance to get up, the Keeper lashed out with two strikes—both across his enemy’s face—before bringing the edge of his shield straight down. Eyes caved in as the enemy’s skull was smashed, head nearly cleaving in two.
“No!” Hulda screamed.
Under the light of the glowworms, the Keeper stood back up and turned to face Hulda, fresh blood dripping from the sharp iron point of his shield.
Leaving the young Jormungandr initiate squirming on the ground, Hulda assumed a fighting stance, cracking a smile.
“I’ll be Hel-damned” she exclaimed, “the False Shepherd sent her famous hunter after me. I’m flattered!”
“You know who I am,” the Keeper replied, his voice carrying through the metal of his helm. He grabbed one of the chains off his armor, unhooked it, and threw it at her feet. “Do yourself a favor. Bind yourself. Surrender. Come willingly.”
He knew she would refuse. They always did. But he enjoyed the invitation. It was a good measure of his enemies, to see how they would react.
Hulda could only break into laughter.
“You think yourself so grand. You’re nothing but a hound, cowering at the feet of your master. A blind follower.”
“And what are they?” the Keeper asked, pointing at the initiates.
Hulda grunted in answer, hammer ready for attack.
“You’ll never understand true dedication. Weakness is your sole virtue. You turned on your own people in favor of the False Shepherd. You chose the enemy.”
Like a serpent, she leaped forward screaming; hammer held firmly with both hands above her head. The two of them were silhouettes against the faint light. The shadows of gods about to clash.
Hulda landed right in front of him, swinging her hammer down, catching his shield. He deflected the weapon and it hit the ground with a spark, briefly illuminating Hulda’s narrow, murderous eyes. They traded blows, each hit of metal against metal and of iron against stone echoing in the vastness of the caves.
With his shield, the Conqueror swung another attack sideways, creating an opening. He flung his flail, but Hulda was far more experienced than the others. She dodged his attack, pivoted and swung her weapon in a tight arc, catching him in the ribs. Anger rising, he rushed her, using his shield as a battering ram. The Jormungandr stumbled, taking a metal-clad kick in the face. Blood spewed from her mouth as she scrambled back, narrowly avoiding the Keeper’s flail. She sprung to her feet, arcing her hammer upward as she did, and slammed it right on his helmet. The shock rattled him, and he fell to his knees.
His vision blurred. He spat blood. He shook his head, trying to regain focus, but it wouldn’t comply. He held his gloved hand on the ground, finding stability in the earth. It was something he used to do, alone in his cell. To remind himself he was still there. He focused on his fireflies, flying frantically in his flail. A streak of light here. Another there. His little Lights. He remembered Guljin opening the door to his cell. The torch in her hand had been blinding. Eyes shut tightly, he had rushed her without hesitation, without knowing who she was. But he had been malnourished. Weak. She had brought him down, held a sword to his neck. Only, she’d stayed her hand. She had found him intriguing.
“Freedom is a sickness,” she had told him. It was the final lesson. With these words, he had finally understood. She had given him purpose. She was order. She was the solution.
Hulda stepped up to him, hammer held high, ready for the killing blow.
No freedom.
Only chains.
“You are wrong,” he hissed, “about everything.”
He swung his shield low, catching the Jormungandr by surprise, knocking her off her feet. Then, before she could have the chance to recover, he wrapped a chain around Hulda’s neck and pulled her up, squeezing her throat, choking the air out of her. She dropped her weapon, kicking and flailing.
“I am dedicated,” he said. “To peace. Look at the pain you inflict. Grotesque savagery. And for what? War and death. That is all you know. I am the answer. Guljin is the answer. She is peace. She… is the end of all this. Soon, you will see.”
Her heels dragged onto the ground as he pulled her forward. She kept on struggling.
“She wants you alive,” he added. “Your people will hear of this.
They’ll see you fight in the arena. And they will know… My queen’s will is inescapable.”
He loosened the chain as she lost consciousness.
As he dragged her towards the exit, he was taken by the sounds of the three whimpering Vikings.
Before he left, he granted each of them a quick death. A mercy… and assurance. There would be no new Jormungandrs. No warriors to rise against his queen.
He moved through the dark hallway like a wraith from the underworld, the chains of his armor jangling. Rats skittered ahead of him, escaping his presence. He passed cell after cell, his footfalls clanking loudly with each step. The prisoners groaned and shrieked and hollered, quivering in the black. His fireflies lit the way as he advanced.
He barged into his study, slamming his flail down on the table. At the window, he gazed at the bottomless night. A thick, silky mist hovered above the ground. Tall, ancient trees sprouted out of it, lush with crispy leaves. The moon was but a crescent sliver, edges as sharp as knives.
He took solace in the silent sight. “I was not expecting you so soon,” he said.
He knew she was in the room the moment he had walked in. Hidden in a shadowed corner, leaning against the wall, arms crossed. His queen. Guljin. She was the only one who could slither in the dark as well as he.
“Time is of the essence,” she replied, stepping into the moonlight.
He knelt, head low. “My queen,” he revered, “what do you require of me?”
She placed a hand on his shoulder.
“You did well in the North. But now I need you in the South.
Dissidence threatens my reign. I need something. Something that will get them all to cower in fear once more.”
“What, my queen?”
“Not what,” she answered. “Who.”
