Ellwethir.


    I see it — jagged isle tearing at the northern seas. Stone halls once roared with steel and song. Now? Rot. Stink of salt and decay.


    Richard II, the Forsaken, ruled this cursed rock — young king, bold, mad. Eyes burned with something unholy. Spat in the gods’ faces, they say.


    Did a sin so vile my tongue freezes — forbidden lust, blood and kin twisted wrong.


    Air soured. Gods struck fast. Their wrath split the sky, rained ruin.


    I watched his kingdom fall. Fields charred black. Waves spat poison.


    His folk — not us, not my kin — warped. Flesh melted like wax, twisting into claws and jagged spurs.


    Minds broke. Shrieking madness. Beasts now — jaws gnashing, hunger wild. Fog swallowed their wails.


    Me? Sigrid? Tryggvi? The rest of our crew? Untouched. Whole.


    Why them, not us? Gnaws at me deep. No answer.


    I am no child of this cursed rock, but a warrior — sworn to Hjarvard, konung of the North.


    A blade in his hird.


    Ragnar. That’s the name my father, Ingvar the Fearless, gave me.


    Red Bear — that’s what the others call me. For the hair. The rage. The blood I’ve spilled.


    It is said our line runs from the first men, suckled by Ulfmóeir — Mother Wolf.


    She tore our northern lands from the gods’ jaws with her teeth.


    Dragged them to the world’s edge — coldest, snow-choked corner. Vargheim. Home.


    I stand in the hird of Hjarvard — konung of the North.


    Finest warriors our land bore. Blades of frost and blood. All sworn to our chieftain.


    Seven days back, we sailed here. Ten souls. Best of us.


    Hjarvard’s bid — trade, words, bury old wars. His father, Thorbjorn, left ash and bones here.


    The new konung sought peace.


    Ellwethir’s king didn’t care. Saw it in his pale face.


    Quartered us in his keep. No audience. “Sickness,” his men muttered. Lies.


    Change crept in. Slow. Sickening.


    Plague, I thought first.


    Palace folk twisted. Eyes fused — wet, glistening messes. Flesh bubbled, meaty tumors.


    Limbs bent wrong. Worse each day.


    Skin sagged. Mouths stretched wide. Teeth sharpened — blades now.


    No attacks yet. Silent rot. Festering.


    Sigrid — sturdy, powerful, cunning — hissed of curses.


    Knew Ellwethir’s tongue, its ways. Meant to weave Hjarvard’s words fine for this court.


    Our konung’s temper flared hot, even cooled.


    Tryggvi spat. Axe in hand. I thought we’d outlast it.


    Wrong. Truth cut uglier.


    Days dragged. Left our chambers less. Guarded Hjarvard’s honor against shadows I couldn’t name.


    Fifth dawn — wet steps echoed.


    Sixth — moans raised my neck hairs.


    Sigrid broke at dawn of the seventh.


    “Finding that wretched king,” she growled.


    Braid snapped as she spun.


    Tryggvi followed, grim.


    Oden — spearman, ice gaze — and Svan — swordsman, death’s jester — watched ’em go.


    I stayed.


    We waited. Time crawled. Minutes stretched thin.


    Then — shrieks tore the air. Sharp. Wild. Sounds of struggle. Metal clashed. Flesh ripped.


    Then silence fell. Heavy.


    Unnatural steps thudded beyond our door — too slow, too massive, too inhuman.


    My gut twisted.


    No more rotting here.


    “We carve out. Find Sigrid and Tryggvi first — then leave this foul rock,” I snarled at Oden and Svan.


    Hjarvard growled low, pissed. But he got it.


    Staying meant trouble. Or worse.


    Fists clenched. Hatchets gripped.


    I yanked the door open. Stepped out first.


    Heard it — fast, heavy stomps tearing down the hall. Too quick.


    Couldn’t move.


    Something huge crashed into me. Brutal.


    Sent me flying back through the room.


    Smashed the gallery door off its hinges. Wood cracked.


    Hit the railing. Splinters flew.


    Fell.


    Dropped down hard.


    Landed on the dirt.


    Skull throbbed.


    Darkness took me.


    ***


    I wake.


    Blackness. Thick as tar. Damp. Choking. Reeks of decay.


    Head throbs — axe still in it, feels like.


    Body’s ruin. Muscles scream, bones grind, as if a herd of beasts stomped me dead.


    Stone bites my flesh — cold, slick. Tomb.


    Iron bars loom. Rusted teeth. Caged. Trapped.


    Got to break free.


    Scratches claw the silence. Talons. Or worse. Stalking.


    Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    Rise, beast. Smash or bleed. No prey.


    I grab the bars.


    Cold bites hard.


    Too sturdy. Too thick.


    My strength’s gone — weak now, broken.


    Lock’s heavy. Rusted. Mocks me. No chance.


    Squint into the dark.


    Right — cell gapes open. Door loose.


    Luck?


    Run.


    Find Hjarvard. Sigrid. Tryggvi. Oden. Svan.


    These walls — old. Brittle, maybe.


    I slam the wall. Hunt a crack. Dust spills.


    Stone shakes.


    Harder, cur. Rot or break.


    Slab — loose, trembling.


    Ram it. Shoulders burn. Rage boils.


    Crumbles. Stones crash — roar splits the dark.


    Echoes like a death knell.


    I scramble through.


    Next cell. Boots crunch grit.


    Corridor ahead. Black maw. Torch flickers — weak, far.


    Thoughts race.


    Wild. Where? Down that pit? Hide?


    Nowhere.


    Dark presses. Alive. No mercy.


    No running. Fight it.


    Fists clench. Breath rips out.


    Thuds pound. Fast. Stone shakes.


    It looms. Hulking. Flesh stitched wrong — too tall, near my height.


    I tower over most — broad as a bear, dread in Vargheim’s halls.


    This thing matches me. Sways.


    Face twisted inward — meat and bone, a slaughterhouse.


    Rags soaked red. Stump swings low — thick, pulsing, oozing rot.


    Stinks worse than death.


    Sickle gleams. Red drips.


    A guttural snarl erupts — wet, broken. No words.


    Just a beast’s roar tearing from its ruined throat.


    Spit flies — black and thick.


    It swings.


    Sickle arcs fast — aims for my throat.


    I stagger forward. Legs weak. Body screaming.


    Fury’s all I’ve got left.


    Lunge.


    Fist flies, heavy with rage. Smash its skull as the blade nears.


    Bone cracks — sick, wet snap.


    Shivers race my spine.


    It reels.


    Howls — deep, not human, guts ripping free in the sound.


    Thick blood gushes — black, rancid, splatters stone.


    Stinks sharp.


    It stumbles. Sickle wild. Swings again.


    Grazes my arm. Cold iron bites shallow.


    Blood trickles — hot.


    I growl. Rage burns brighter.


    Strike hard. Sway on my feet. Pour all I have.


    Flesh rips — soft, rotten. Sprays hot blood.


    It lurches.


    Sickle swings blind — misses, clangs stone.


    I hit again. Skull splits wide — bone shards crumble like ash.


    It drops to its knees. Wheezes — ragged, unnatural.


    Stump pulses fast. Twists like a living thing.


    Foul mockery of flesh.


    Finish it. No man left.


    I sway. Legs buckle. Last strength fades.


    Stomp down — boot crushes its head into stone.


    Skull breaks full — wet crunch echoes.


    Wheeze cuts off. Stump stills.


    Meat and filth lie ruined.


    I drop. One knee hits the floor.


    Chest heaves — breaths tear out, ragged, shallow.


    Thirst claws my throat. Hunger gnaws my gut.


    Darkness creeps at my eyes — ready to swallow me.


    Up, beast. No rest. Hunt or die.


    I grit my teeth. Force air in.


    Won’t fall. Not yet.


    Hands drip crimson.


    Arm stings — sickle’s mark burns.


    Stench chokes me — thick, nauseating.


    Grind it down.


    I look.


    Corridor presses in. Dark. Heavy.


    Torch gutters by iron doors.


    Eyes strain. Nothing there.


    Blackness devours all — no shapes, no hope.


    Prisoners once? Gone. Flesh stripped.


    Silence crushes — no cries, no breath.


    Pit sinks into my bones.


    Move. Hunt or be hunted.


    I rise.


    Slow.


    Step on. Into the jaws beyond.


    Legs tremble.


    Blood warm on my skin — mine and that thing’s.


    Step slow toward the doors. Iron-bound. Heavy.


    Cold bites my hands as I grip ’em. Pull.


    Hinges groan, fight me.


    Open grudgingly.


    Torch gutters nearby — flame weak, dying.


    I snatch it.


    Arm stings where the sickle grazed.


    Blood trickles still.


    Raise the torch.


    Press it to the wound.


    Fire sears flesh — pain stabs deep, sharp as a blade through bone.


    No scream.


    Just a growl — low, choked.


    Better this burn than rot in my veins.


    Stench rises. Thick.


    That black, rancid blood from the Maimed Guard pools across the dungeon floor.


    Fouler now — gut-turning, near unbearable.


    I stumble out.


    Feet drag on stone steps. Upward.


    Each move aches — body’s a wreck.


    What horrors wait ahead?


    Alone.


    I’m a bear — broad and fierce.


    But even a bear falls to a pack of rabid wolves.


    Must find Hjarvard. My konung.


    My brothers — Sigrid, Tryggvi, Oden, Svan.


    Four stayed at the boat, guarding it in the harbor.


    Live they still? Doubt gnaws.


    Head pounds.


    Red braids stick to my face — wet with sweat.


    Climb drags on. Steps end.


    Room opens — crypt of stores.


    Food, water once. Now — ravaged.


    Sacks torn. Barrels smashed.


    I lurch forward.


    Hands shake. Search.


    Need something — anything.


    Thirst claws my throat raw.


    Hunger twists my guts.


    Find a waterskin.


    Half-empty. Leather cracked.


    Sniff it. No rot. Good enough.


    Gulp it down — one breath.


    Cold on my tongue.


    Dig deeper.


    Basket. Rotten stench hits.


    Salted meat — half-gnawed, slimed with decay.


    Bite off a chunk.


    Chew. Tart. Tough.


    Collapse on a bench.


    Breath rattles out — heavy, broken.


    Outside, howls rise.


    Deep. Guttural.


    Barking follows — wild, beastly.


    Echoes claw the air.


    Horror begins now. Brace yourself. Death lies ahead.


    Eyes blur.


    Body begs rest.


    Won’t yield.


    Not yet.


    I tear another chunk of salted meat.


    Foul. Bitter rot on my tongue.


    Chew hard — need something. Anything.


    Thirst’s gone.


    But hunger gnaws still.


    Head clears.


    Slow.


    Plan.


    Need one.


    Gear first — my hatchets. Two of them.


    Gifts from my father.


    Day I became a man. Fourteen winters.


    Spilled my first blood — cave bear. Terror of our village.


    Took its skull with me.


    Ought to find them.


    More chance to live.


    Armor too — anything.


    Our chambers.


    Might be something left.


    Someone?


    Doubt it.


    Worth a look.


    Then what?


    Search.


    Hjarvard. My konung.


    Sigrid. Svan. Tryggvi. Oden.


    Mother Wolf, let them breathe still.


    If not — grant them death with steel in hand.


    Worthy.


    I toss the meat — half-rotted scrap hits the floor.


    Stand.


    Time.


    Door to the outside.


    Push it.


    Heavy wood creaks.


    Opens to a stable yard.


    Castle gate’s there — shut tight.


    Iron bars mock me.


    Later.


    Figure that later.


    Stench slams my nose — thick. Rotten. Cursed.


    Sky glows bloody red.


    Sun? Rising? Setting?


    Or dead still.


    No telling.


    Eyes catch the stalls.


    Horses once. No more.


    Heads bloated — flesh overgrown, thick and raw, twisted.


    Mouths gape wide — crooked black teeth jut out.


    Legs buckle. Can’t stand. Rise. Fall.


    Joints bent wrong — sick knots of bone.


    They scream.


    Ragged whinnies turn to howls — pain rips through them.


    I stare.


    Can’t believe it.


    Whatever sin that godless king of theirs wrought —


    This ain’t just.


    Gods shouldn’t break the innocent.


    No time to mourn.


    I move.


    Fast. Across the yard.


    Guest house. Second floor — our chambers.


    Gallery door — smashed.


    Legs ache.


    Body fights me.


    Hatchets call.


    I go.