The Frozen Cliffs were aptly named, covered in ice all year round. The sheer rock face of the Great Northern Pass stood out for miles on end as a tribute to the wintery lands beyond. For centuries no southern army had crossed its borders, let alone climbed its massive cliffs. For the Berserkers of the North, this was not only a point of pride but also a way of life. The southern people were thin-skinned and weak, unable to cope with the harsh winds and relentless snows. The foraging for berries and meat was not something any southern man could do. These were the real warrior lands.
Njal clung to the face of the cliffs, his iron-pointed shoes dug into the ice while he set his pick just above him for balance. Far below him, the snow-covered pines dotted the landscape. A fall from this distance and all the world would know him as would be but a stain on the forest floor. The thought propelled him upwards to his destination as the winds howled around him. His gray and white, thick fur clothes rippled and tugged at him. His wild black beard was white from frost, but his body had long ago accustomed itself to the cold. These were his lands. These were his winds and snows.
He was almost to the cliff edge, where his pack of Berserkers had already reached their camp. He could see tendrils of smoke, from campfires, reaching into the skies like ribbons in the wind. The skies were a dark gray that he knew were the inevitable signs of a hard snow and even harder freeze. He had a leather bag slung across his chest and hanging from his back, filled with eggs of the Cliff Divers. Giant birds that built nests on the side of the cliffs. He adjusted the bag as he dug his feet into another hold, slowly making his way to the top. It seemed quieter than it should be above him, but the fires were still being stoked. The wind ripped across him in a violent torrent and he hugged closer to the ice.
"Keep the fires roaring boys, it's cold like a witch's titty!" Njal yelled.
He squinted his eyes through the almost blinding snow, trying to see if anyone peaked their head over the cliff to acknowledge him. He didn't see anyone, but he could barely see at all. He set his feet again and brought his pick down, a chunk of ice gave way and for a moment he was dangling above a certain death. His breath caught in his chest as he quickly regrouped and stuck the pick closer to him. He watched the ice fall through the air, tumbling and rolling as it fell and crashed into the dots of pines below him. He took a deep breath and made himself relax. You couldn't be afraid or hesitant on the cliffs. That would be a sure way to have everything end and your soul sent to beyond.
The wind died down and he could hear men above him, muffled sounds through the falling snow. That was the beauty of snowfall, it captured the sounds around it and made the world quiet. Another gust of wind and snow tore at him, was that a scream he heard or a yell? It was impossible to tell as all he could hear now was the howling of winter's unending embrace. He peered up and thought he saw a head look over the cliff, but the snow quickly washed his vision. He was only three to four body lengths from the top and from a good meal and fire.
His pack was always sent to the cliffs to gather the eggs every two days, as they were the most proficient at maneuvering the ice-covered rock face. He imagined his men laughing and wrestling while a fire roared in the center of camp, a great pig being roasted on the flames. His mouth watered at the thought and he could almost smell the sweet traces of roasted meat. He set his feet and pick again and was within a handhold of setting his feet on solid ground again. Another violent burst of snow and wind assaulted him and he could hear his men again. Muffled but certainly there.
He squinted through the driving snow to pick his next handhold and finally be back on less precarious grounds. There was an ear-piercing squeal from above that startled him and caused him to nearly miss his grip. By Asher, what could that have been? He thought. His hand gripped the frozen grass of flat land, crunching under the weight of his palm as he started to lift himself over the edge. He scanned the immediate area. Low-hanging brush, covered in the day's snow and ice followed by the pitched heavy linen tents of his men. The fire was blazing in the middle of the hasty camp but something was off. His feet were dug into the ice and he mostly held himself over the edge by his arms. He scanned slower, there were bloody footprints in the snow. Not the leather hide shoe prints that he knew for his people, but oddly elongated footprints. There were blood spatters around them, and as he continued to look, there were blood spatters everywhere.
He lifted himself over the edge and sat in a crouch, as he reached out and traced the odd-shaped foot imprints. His fingers dipped into the blood as he rubbed them together he said, "Fresh...Havod, Sven! Where are you?!"
There was a rustling in one of the bushes to his left, snow falling to the ground. He stared, waiting for something to come of the disturbance. In the snow at the base of the bush thicket, a hand reached out. Mangled fingers, bloody and broken, reached out for purchase. He was frozen, watching in curiosity and terror. The hand wasn't attached to a forearm, it ended at the wrist and it wasn't grasping for anything so much as extending its fingers out and in. The final moments of the appendage's life, so to speak. It stopped moving and Njal continued to look around. The snow was bigger now, flakes the size of his palm were falling and the wind had died to barely a breeze. All around him, the flakes were falling heavy, yet still graceful.
Still in a crouch, he reached for the grip of his pick. The daylight was beginning to fade as the firelight danced shadows on all the surroundings. He drew his breath in even patterns, in through his nose in a steady draw, out through his mouth and he listened. The woods were silent, only an occasional pop from the burning logs in the fire. Nothing moved, nothing made a sound in the beautiful yet wrong landscape in front of him. His grip tightened on the handle. What had happened here and where was everyone? Why was there so much blood? He wondered as he continued to listen and watch for any movement. He glanced down and noticed that in the footprint next to him, there were a handful of yellowish-white objects. The snow was beginning to cover them and as he stared, wondering what they were, he recognized them. Teeth, broken about halfway down and discarded into the snow. His hair began to stand on end.
To his right and just in front of him, maybe twenty paces from where he sat crouched, a small twig cracked. He held his breath and stared unblinking into the shadows of a thicket behind one of the linen tents. He jumped to his feet as movement burst from the brush. A small white rabbit jumped into view and then paused to sniff the air. Njal relaxed, dropping his pick to his side as he smiled. Something was definitely wrong here, but he had to laugh at himself for being startled by a rabbit. He took a step forward into a small clearing beside the severed hand, he kicked at it with the iron spike of his climbing shoes as it rolled over. It was too mangled to know whose hand it could have been. More of the elongated footprints were in the clearing and from what he could count, there seemed to be more than fifteen different prints.
To his left a squeal broke the silence as a pink figure darted from inside of a tent, the flaps bursting open from impact. By pure instinct, Njal swung the pick as it thunked deep into the cheekbone and out of the top of the head of the thing. Another squeal pierced his ears from his right and he tried to spin and swing the pick but it was still embedded into the skull of whatever had attacked him. He was knocked off of his feet and sent sprawling onto his back in the snow. He scrambled to regain his footing, but the figure was gone again. The crumpled pink body lay just in front of him and he quickly grabbed his pick handle and used his foot to hold the head and wrench it free. With an audible pop followed by a sucking sound, it broke free. Where had the other one gone? He set his feet wide as he scanned the area again. He stole a glance at the body by his feet. Pink skin, almost emaciated body with bones pushing out against the skin, no clothes. What the hell was this thing?
He took his iron-spiked shoes and rolled it over, revealing a face that was barely human. Two tusks protruded from the corners of its mouth and two pointed ears flopped down at the tips. "Fucking pig men?"
He had only heard tales, told by the firelight of an evening dinner. Stories spun by the elders of his tribe to scare the youngest from going off on their own. Terrible stories of hordes of Pig Men roaming the woods and eating the flesh and bones of anyone who crossed their path. Half men, half pig, and all evil. There was no way there had been any truth to those tall tales, yet here he was. Staring the truth of them down with his own eyes. By Asher, he had even killed one. He crossed one foot over the other, walking sideways and trying to make as little sound as possible. He held his pick in both hands now, ready for an attack from whichever direction. A glint from beside the fire in the middle of the camp caught his eye. It was his axe, he recognized the ivory inlays in the handle and double-bladed head. Slowly he walked to it, holding his breath with each step.
The woods had grown utterly silent around him as the snow fell in slow-moving sheets. Two paces away his axe lay propped up on a sitting log. How had his men not even been able to grab it to defend themselves? He took another step and reached out for it, as he grabbed the handle he looked directly into the fire. He cried out in surprise as he saw the severed head of Sven staring back at him. He tripped over the sitting log and landed with a jarring impact on his butt. It wasn't a clean cut that took Sven's head from his body, but rather a savage rip. Tendons and flesh hung in ragged strips, there was a crunch of twigs behind Njal. He spun to his knees and swung his axe low, it cleaved through the shins of a rushing Pigman. It fell into the fire and flopped like a fish as it ignited, a scream so loud that it made Njal's ears ring.
Suddenly, four more burst from the shadows echoing that same blood-curdling squeal. He had to think fast, he could rush them and risk being overwhelmed. He couldn't take off for the woods on either side, he had no idea where the rest were. He slipped his axe into his leather waist strap and took off in a full sprint for the only escape he had, the cliffs. One dove for him and knocked him off balance and sprawling into the snow face first, he twisted his body around and kicked out. His iron spike caught a Pigman in the torso as it was diving and ripped it open. Black blood sprayed from the wound and covered Njal in the gory warmth. He scrambled back to his feet as the other three began to encircle him, and from the brush more emerged. In the firelight, he could see they were covered in his men's blood. One was tearing the flesh from a forearm and chewing, its nasty teeth stained red. He took another step back and was on the edge of the cliff, the wind licking at his face in a stinging embrace.
The pack rushed as one, their terrible sounds echoing all around. Njal took another step back and gripped his pick handle tight, they were almost on him. Their faces twisted in a gory rage, their fingers curled and covered in blood. This would not be where his story ended, he took another step back and fell. The dying light of day above him quickly turning to the frozen battering night. The sound of wind enveloped his ears as he swung his pick and embraced for the hard jerk. His pick caught and his body violently slammed into the ice as he set his feet's climbing irons into the frozen face of the cliff. Just above him two Pigmen ran into the open nothingness and fell. Their arms and legs flailed as they fell in the black below him. He looked up as he clung to the wall, more than twenty heads peered down at him. They were squealing and grunting in a bone-chilling cacophony. Only two body lengths away, but far enough from their reach, he was alive and safe for now.