PROLOGUE
1045 A.D.
Norway
Winter had come early to the fjords. Some claimed it was the clash between dvergen and kashmari magic that had upset the natural order. Others argued that perhaps it was just a cold year. Some prayed to the gods, while others squirreled away more food. Either way, the morning was silent, frozen, and dark.
A sleek vessel hovered silently over the water, its polished silver nose pointed at the side of a mountain. Of dvergen design, the fuselage was long and tapered at each end and flattened like the shell of a mussel. The mouths of two Mammoth engine nacelles affixed to the rear sides glowed a soft blue and set the air shivering around them.
The icy mountainside before the vessel shimmered where a rift marked the boundary between this realm, Midgard, and the one on the other side, Muspelheim.
Everyone on the bridge held their collective breath. They all knew that once they entered that rift, there would be no return. The life they would lead in that hellscape, should they survive, would be bereft of magic and technology. Lacking even basic necessities, they would be trapped with the same demons whom they sought to imprison.
General Baldur stood with hands clasped at the small of his back. His uniform was immaculate, his dark hair cut exactly to regulation, his demeanor as rigid as any officer could hope for. He stared out the forward viewport of the Muspell’s Sons at the rippling tear in reality in front of his ship.
At his side stood his wife, a tiny woman of pure dvergen blood. Baldur, the son of a kashmari lord and a dverger scientist, was not a tall man; yet his wife barely reached his shoulder. She slipped her small hand into his, melting his stern countenance as they watched the hologram of their son in front of them. The young man was the spitting image of Baldur, but with his mother’s soft blue eyes. He snapped a quick salute.
“General, those of us who remain in Midgard salute you for the sacrifice of the crew of the Muspell’s Sons. The exile you are about to embark upon will forever be remembered.”
The young man glanced around, then sagged a little.
“You will be missed, Father,” he said softly. “May we meet again in Valhalla.”
“Until that day, son,” Baldur replied, “go with honor.”
His wife put a hand over her mouth and stifled a sob.
After taking a moment to compose herself, she said, “Are you sure this is the only way?”
Baldur nodded, brow creased. He drew her hand up to his lips and kissed her fingers gently. He closed his eyes and savored the soft scent of rose petals on her wrist. Heart heavy, he sighed. “Every other way has failed.”
“We are leaving them in darkness, set back thousands of years. All they will have are stories that will fade into myth and be forgotten, as we will be.”
Baldur placed a hand around her shoulders.
“Yes. But they will be alive. And they will be free.”
“So long as this works.”
“It will work. I promise.”
He brushed her long, white-blonde hair aside and kissed her on the forehead, then straightened and began barking commands.
“Shields up.”
The skin of the ship began to shimmer a faint blue.
“Forward gun battery: Stand by.”
“Standing by, sir.”
“Countermeasures?”
“Ready, sir.”
“Bombardier?”
A husky voice crackled over the intercom. “Triple-checked and ready to go, sir.”
Baldur glanced back at the row of hulking men and women standing at attention behind him. Unlike his dvergen crew, these soldiers were massive, muscled, and covered in intricate tattoos that glowed faintly.
“Captain Sanders?” Baldur said.
One of the largest stepped forward. His flowing blond hair had been plaited along the top and shaved along the sides, and his beard had beads twisted into the braids. Behind him, his fiercely beautiful sister stood with arms crossed.
“Are your jotuns ready?” Baldur asked the giant.
Sanders looked out the viewport at the pulsing rift and didn’t speak. He looked as though he was about to be sick. Baldur felt a stab of pity for the man. The dvergen thrived off the trace amounts of magic in their bodies and relished the exploration of its secrets; but not so these ancient people. For them, magic was their lifeblood. No one knew what would happen when it was ripped from their veins.
Baldur had fought Sanders and begged the ancient warrior to stay behind and keep his people safe on Asgard or Alfheim. But the stubborn creature had adamantly refused, saying that if he accompanied the Muspell’s Sons, then perhaps the dvergen might have a slim chance at survival.
Now, though, the ancient captain seemed to waver.
Baldur was about to pull the man aside and offer to drop him off somewhere quiet when the general’s wife stepped over to the hulking man and laid a tiny hand on his forearm. They looked so incongruent, the massive warrior and the tiny dverger. She spoke so softly that Sanders had to lean down to hear her.
Behind them, the line of ancient warriors began stamping their feet and calling out some sort of war cry in their guttural language. Baldur did not understand the words, but the hairs on the back of his neck rose as the power they drew upon charged the air around him. As their voices rose, the glowing lines of magic traced upon their skin glowed brighter and brighter until even their eyes burned with the brilliance of the sun.
Bathed in that light, Sanders seemed to relax and draw strength from his people. He smiled gently at Baldur’s wife, patted her hand, murmured something to her, then turned to Baldur. The chanting ceased.
“General. We are ready.”
At those words, the entire bridge crew paused. Baldur could see the apprehension in their eyes at what they were about to do. But then the moment passed. Fear gave way to resolution and a renewed flurry of preparation. The sounds of the ship readying for battle echoed around the bridge, drowning out Baldur’s sorrow.
Baldur exhaled and turned to his pilot. “Take us in.”
* * * *
The Muspell’s Sons lifted smoothly off the ground and slid forward into the rift. The sleek nose of the craft disappeared first into the rippling event horizon. Then, as though pulled by some unseen beast from the other realm, the Muspell’s Sons sped up, drawn deeper and deeper into the rift.
And then they were gone, swallowed up by the rift’s swirling maw.
Several long minutes crawled by on the snowy mountainside. A mountain goat picked its way over icy stones close to the rift. Something snarled from a crevice in the rock, sending the goat scampering back down the mountain. The smell of snow carried on a blast of alpine air heralded the thick, dark clouds roiling over the summit.
Suddenly, the rift bulged outward and glowed red as though a volcanic eruption was straining to escape from the other realm. Steam erupted around the edges. With the sound of a million crystals exploding at once, the rift shattered into a hailstorm of glittering energies that became sparkling shards held aloft in the chilly air by some unknown power.
The stiff wind swirled among the shards. They vibrated, hummed, and filled the air with a haunting song. And then, one by one, they fell. The mountainside soaked them up like rainwater being sucked into sand.
Within seconds, there was no sign that there ever had been a rift between worlds on that frigid mountainside, and no sign that the Muspell’s Sons had ever existed.
A Note from Jillian: I decided to upload Muspell’s Sons in its entirety to my website to test whether an author can be successful without charging for their ebooks. This is a completely free fantasy ebook available to read online and I do not use ads to support this website since I personally despise ads. I make no money off of this free fantasy ebook. If you like the book, please consider leaving a review for me on Goodreads. That will greatly help more people find my stories. Thanks!
