Berserker: Harbingers of Ragnarok, #1

By Dragyn Jane

Our blood runs as one, in life and death…

Malik should be dead. He would be. If Fen hadn't come along.

In return for bringing Malik back from Hel's gates, Malik must help Fen achieve his goal: to tear down the corrupt government of Midgard.

Plunged into a world of blood, sweat, and rage, Malik finds new bonds within the Berserker's brotherhood, throwing everything he thought he wanted into question.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Serenade Publishing
• Release date: Apr 21, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224035380

Book preview

Chapter One

For a city that survived the Firestorm, it sure was cold in Midgard. A thick fog hung over the city, bolstered by the smoke that billowed from the soot covered smokestacks of the industrial district. Grey wisps danced and twisted across the cracked stone roads, rising from iron exhaust vents and swirling around my ankles. The elders of Midgard often said that when the firestorm destroyed the old world, it sapped the last of the warmth from its heart, and I was inclined to believe it.

I ran my hand absentmindedly along the fine edge of the envelope in my jacket pocket, my jaw clenching as I considered its contents: my weekly pay and a notice of dismissal. I had tried to find other work among the factories of the industrial district, but now, with no other option, a brightly lit storefront across the street held my attention.

The military registry shone like a star among the gloom and squalor of the various smoky street food vendors and shabby storefronts. The military would take anyone, anyone stupid enough to fight against the Jotun, but because of my age, I would need my mother’s consent before joining.

My heart sank a little further as I rested my head on the wall behind me, looking up at the sky with a heavy sigh. My mother had been furious when I dropped out of school to find work, and the last time I suggested joining the military, well, I thought she’d never stop screaming. The army is no kind of life for my son! Her voice still echoed in my mind, making my shoulders tense, You want to join the Military then they better have a house, a bed, and a mother too, because you won’t be welcome here! A soft smile curled my lips. Even through the threats, I knew it was just because she cared for me. We had no one else, after all.

My eyes narrowed on the registry doorway. That’s it, I thought, taking a steadying breath and straightening my shoulders. Mother, forgive me, but it’s the only way.

The doors slid open with a chirpy ding as I entered. The shop was clean, not unusual for a council building, but a jarring parallel to any other civilian-owned shops in the market district. Concrete floors and steel furniture made it feel more like a warehouse than a registry. A shoddy television screen on the wall purveyed messages of the day. I couldn’t imagine the spectacle the old world must have been from these meagre remnants. Old Stories told of cities of light, where this sort of technology was so commonplace, one could have been found in every family home. But now, after the firestorm, only the government and its affiliates had access to the old world’s technological relics.

Have you signed up for Lord General Raul’s Army yet? an overly chipper announcer’s voice said through the speakers that crackled with static.

My lip curled in disgust. Sigmund Raul was our current Lord-General, the appointed voice of the council and head of Midgard’s military. A leader of great military tact, though his lack of concern for the rest of the city caused him to have few followers among the common and working folk.

An older lady sat at the desk across the room, obviously tired as she tapped away at a keyboard, her frizzy hair tied in a messy bun, her vibrant makeup in stark contrast to her grim expression.

I approached the desk and smiled sheepishly. Registration for infantry? I asked, trying to sound confident, though my voice shook.

The lady sighed and pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose as she looked at me. ID please, she said in a nasal voice, looking up at me with framed eyes that almost screamed, "kill me."

I shook my head. I don’t have any, I replied sadly. I had hoped she would have overlooked my age, even though I was only sixteen, but I knew what came next.

She rolled her eyes and turned back to her keyboard. After a few keystrokes, the printer next to her produced two forms, one blue and one white.

This one is your registration form, she said, handing me the blue one. The white one followed. This one is your guardian’s consent form. Please have both filled out, signed, and then come back for registration.

I felt my heart sink as I took the white form—I knew Mum wouldn’t sign. The lady pushed her glasses up her nose again and looked at me glumly, obviously uninterested in my personal problems.

As I turned to leave, a glinting bronze plaque on the wall caught my attention, it displayed the profile image of a proud man with short, swept back hair and a neatly trimmed beard, below the image were carved the words, In honour of Lord General Garth Hakon, Saviour of Midgard. My chest swelled: if there ever was a leader I would be proud to follow, it would have been Hakon, our first Lord-General, elected by the council of elders after the fateful day he stood to defend Midgard against the first Jotun raids.

I heaved a sigh, looking down at the forms in my hand as I walked out into the cold air, already going over what I was going to say to Mum—how I was going to convince her to let me do this. Lines such as we need the money, or it’s the only way, seemed common in my mind.

In my preoccupied rush out the door, I turned onto the street and collided with a passer-by. Stumbling wildly, I fell to the ground, my forms landing on the pavement before me. The man I’d run into was all but unaffected by our collision, gently dusting off his coat. He reached down and picked up my forms.

An aspiring soldier should be more mindful of where he’s going, the stranger said as he offered me a hand, or he may end up somewhere he didn’t plan to be.

Ignoring the man’s offered hand, I got to my feet and dusted myself off before looking up at him. He was tall and lean with a trimmed grey beard, he wore a long coat over a shabby grey suit and a fedora pulled low over his face.

I smiled sheepishly and rubbed my head. Happens even when I have my eyes wide open.

The man grinned and handed me my papers. Perhaps you just need the right guidance, he said, adjusting his hat slightly. I took my papers and stepped away warily. The city was not without its creeps, and I was not about to get snatched.

Noting my obvious suspicion, the man raised his hands, palms outward, in a peaceful display. Forgive me, kid, the man said calmly. I didn’t mean me. He sidestepped to clear my path before straightening his collar. Still, you know what they say about the gods closing a door. He tipped his hat again, flashing a silver-blue eye at me. I watched the stranger disappear into the night before continuing home. The man’s words lingered in my mind, but I had more important things to deal with.

I continued to recite lines under my breath as I walked home. The square stone buildings and shopfronts giving way to the quaint wooden huts, shacks, and towering living complexes of the residential district. Though I recited lines under my breath as I walked home, doubt wracked my mind, still shaken by my run-in with that stranger earlier. What options did I have? There was no window for me—it was the military or nothing.

The warm, sweet smell of baked goods wafted past my nose as I reached the corner onto my street, sparking an idea in my mind as I turned to gaze towards the bakery. A tray of Skolebrød — simple pastry buns filled with custard and flavoured with cardamom—sat in the window. They were my mother’s favourite; she always said they reminded her of when she was little and put her in a good mood.

My last paycheck wasn’t much, but it was more than enough for a box of eight, and if they worked, it wouldn’t matter. Tucking the box under my arm, I continued home, trying to focus on the task at hand. My lines repeated over and over in my head, subtle tweaks applied each time. Tone, wording. It all had to be perfect if this was going to work.

In the dim streetlights outside our doorstep, my mother stood fumbling with her keys, her hands full of shopping bags. Somehow, I still couldn’t quite believe that my mother and I were related, as her sharp features, green eyes, and blonde hair contrasted with my deep brown hair and eyes. I had never met my father, but I could only imagine I must look like him.

The thought made my skin crawl; my father was a businessman from the inner circle. I don’t know how he and my mother met or anything else about him—mum didn’t like to talk about him. All I knew was the moment he learned mum was pregnant, he fled to the sanctuary of the inner circle.

Here we go, I thought, adjusting my shirt and steeling myself for the argument to come.

Something in the background caught my attention as I approached. A shadow emerged from the darkness behind my mother, a coat concealing his body, a hood concealing his face. She didn’t seem to notice him approach, and my heart threatened to stop when I saw the glint of metal on his pistol.

A blinding flash and horrendous bang, blood burst from my mother’s chest, groceries scattered across the concrete as she fell to the ground, dormant and lifeless. A cold numbness washed over me, the box of pastries falling from my trembling hand as I stared in horror and disbelief.

Something left me at that moment, leaving a cold, empty space in my chest—a space that was quickly replaced with a burning anger that consumed me like wildfire, boiling my blood and forcing a gurgling scream from my lungs. I charged forward, only one goal in my furious mind: to tear him limb from limb.

The assassin then turned to face me, the gun still in his hand. He dodged my first strike with astonishing speed, my momentum carrying me past him until I stopped myself and prepared to strike again. Dodging again, the assassin struck me with a blow over the head with the butt of his sidearm. I kept coming back, again and again, determined to claim my kill. Each time I lashed out, I was repelled and knocked back, only to attack again.

In one final, desperate strike, I charged and leapt towards his head, an attack fuelled by fury and hate, but the assassin ducked and grabbed my wrist. He had finished playing with me. His fist slammed into my solar plexus, a loud crack sending searing pain through my sternum as he lifted me and slammed me into the concrete.

The air was driven from my lungs as I grimaced at the impact, the metallic tang of blood creeping over my tongue. I opened my eyes and saw my mother’s face, red streaks running across her cheeks and forehead, her eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. Tears welled in my eyes as I reached for her hand, my fury subsiding under the weight of my grief. I had nothing left—no hope, no energy, no will to continue.

The night was still and silent, save for the sound of my wheezing breath and the falling rain. I craned my neck to look at the street, at the dark and still houses. Through my hazed vision, I saw one curtain move, opening a crack for an unseen watcher and quickly closing again—a witness heard and ignored us.

Why? I sobbed through clenched teeth, turning back to face the hooded assassin. What could you possibly gain from this? The man aimed the muzzle of his pistol at my chest. Though most of his face was in shadow, his mouth and jaw were stern and solemn.

For the sake of the father, the child must die, he said. The line sounded rehearsed.

Father?

Darkness engulfed my vision as the assassin pulled the trigger. I didn’t hear the gunshot or see the muzzle flash; my world just went black. All was still and quiet as I lay in the dark, tears running down my clenched jaw.

I’m sorry, mother, I whispered to the darkness, I should have been here sooner, I should have...

You couldn’t have saved her, a voice spoke suddenly. My eyes shot open in shock, unsure if my mind was playing tricks on me.

Darkness spanned out as far as I could see. No... Not darkness: blackness, nothingness. Looking down, my body was as visible as in daylight, but looking beyond it, there was nothing.

But I can save you, the voice spoke again from behind me. I spun around to see a boy not much older than myself standing a few paces away. His hazel eyes peered at me sharply, framed by sharp cheekbones and arched eyebrows. He had tied back his hair, a mess of dreadlocks, in a ponytail. He wore a shabby singlet and jeans, his feet bare.

Who are you? I asked. I was expecting my voice to echo in the hollow darkness, but it didn’t.

The boy smiled warmly. A friend. Another soul lost and forgotten by his own. You can call me Fen.

I looked around, trying to figure out where he came from. How did you get here?

Fen looked down at his hands, his shoulders slumping a little as he answered. I ran here, away from the anger and hate, trying to find a place I could be free, but all I discovered is that nowhere is safe.

He looked a little older than me, but I needed to be wary. My mother had told me stories of beings from the other realms, and something about him told me he was older than he appeared.

I can help you, Malik, Fen said, together, we can help each other.

Can you bring my mother back? I asked, my voice trembling with desperate hope.

Fen shook his head. I’m sorry, but I can help you bring the ones who killed her to justice.

My nostrils flared. The memory of the man who killed me—who killed my mother—the hooded assassin, and his words seared into my brain.

"For the sake of the father..." My father ordered our deaths—commanded the death of his own child. The passionate fury burning in my chest turned to something dark and cold. Hatred.

Him! I growled through gritted teeth.

Fen looked into my eyes, peering sharply as if he was seeing everything I was feeling, all the pain, all the anger. I can show you the way, he said, holding out his hand, if you’d just walk with me until the time is right.

I took his hand without hesitation. There was nothing left of me but rage and hate; it burned in my veins. Fen smiled and reached his other hand towards my forehead. What are you doing? I exclaimed, pulling away from him a little.

Fen recoiled for a moment, startled by my query. A warm smile curled his lips, showing pearly white teeth. Opening a window. He gripped my head and, with a flash of light, I woke with a gasp in the pouring rain.

Chapter Two

My hand shot to my chest as I sat bolt upright, gasping for breath as thunder rumbled overhead. I had died, killed in cold blood and passed on, hadn’t I? I found the hole in my shirt where the bullet had passed through, lifting it to see the bruised scar in my chest. I rested my hand over the scar and, after a moment, was relieved to feel the beating of my heart.

I remained in the street where I had fallen. My heart froze when I saw my mother’s body still lying next to me, her eyes staring blankly at the sky. With a trembling hand, I brushed the hair from her face, her skin pale and cold to the touch, blood running with the stormwater across her skin to the pavement.

I will make them pay, I hissed. I promise. Hopeless anger took hold as I looked around at the street, silent and dark. No sirens, no calls, nothing. I glared in disgust at the dormant houses. Cowards, all of them, even after the danger was gone.

I took my mother’s body in my arms. I couldn’t leave her in the street; she deserved a proper burial, and I wanted to send a message to our neighbours. Things would change—I would change them. I laid my mother in her bed, her arms folded across her stomach as one would lie on a funeral pyre. A peaceful picture, but I dared not look at it for long.

I ran to the kitchen, to the gas lines for the oven, unhooking each one at the inlet to fill the house with fumes. Matches in hand, I took one last look at the house. For years this had been my home—my sanctuary—now it was the most alienating place on earth. Best to be rid of it.

The smell of gas told me my time was up. I hurried to the door, and striking the match, tossed it into the kitchen. In an instant, the explosion of flame that erupted, blowing out the windows and sending me hurtling out the door, threw me back. Slamming into the wall, the back of my head hit the brick with a crack as I slumped to the ground.

As I watched the flames grow dazed and overcome by fumes, my vision blurred. I thought I saw something in the fire, two beasts, a wolf and a bear. They were fighting, but as quickly as they came, they disappeared.

Urgency took hold as I returned to my immediate situation. The fire would attract attention and I didn’t want to be here if the military showed up. The military would arrest me on sight. Besides, there was no reason for me to stay here any longer.

I could feel myself swaying as I walked through the city streets, still delirious from the knock I’d taken, my vision blurring from left to right. People who passed me gave me a wide berth and gripped their valuables tightly. I couldn’t blame them; I probably looked like a drunken riffraff.

It began as an echo, a soothing voice calling softly from afar. As I strained to focus, it became clearer and clearer. Hey, hey, mister!

I turned to my right to see a young girl’s blurred face. It seemed like she was only ten or eleven years old. She clutched a patchwork teddy bear and had a pink bow tying her brown hair back. She looked up at me with wide green eyes.

Are you ok, mister? she asked timidly. I think you’re hurt. I lifted my hand to feel the back of my head. As I lowered my hand, I noticed that blood covered my fingertips.

The girl smiled and hugged her teddy bear tight. Mummy says if Mr Tibbles ever gets an owie, she’ll fix him for me, so he feels better, she said, visibly cheered up. Maybe she can fix you too.

I wanted to object, but I was too weak to talk. The girl took my bloodied hand and led me into the slums.

She was practically carrying me by the time we arrived at a small shack, my vision a blur of blotched shapes and lights fading every so often into darkness. My strength was failing, my neck barely keeping my head up, my feet dragging as I did my best not to crush this poor girl. We had been walking for some time when I heard a door as it swung open with a bang.

Eira! a woman shouted, a panic in her voice. What are you doing?! I assumed this was her mother from her reaction. Having your daughter bring home stray pets was an annoyance. Having her bring home bleeding, house burning, street walking zombies was a complete story of its own.

He is hurt and lost, she called, the optimism in her voice clearly showing she had misread the situation. Can you fix him? Someone suddenly pulled Eira from under me, causing me to fall to my hands and knees. I couldn’t see any more, but I could hear Eira and her parents bickering.

Eira, you cannot just bring home strangers, sweetheart. The mother scolded.

But he’s bleeding, Eira pleaded in a cracking voice. She was almost in tears.

Her father cut in with a stern voice. Listen to your mother, he said, we cannot draw attention to ourselves.

Eira stuttered an objection, but I cut her off. This was going nowhere and just upsetting everyone.

It’s... it’s ok, I mumbled, rising shakily to my feet. I don’t want to cause trouble. I’ll leave.

My legs gave out as I took my first step.

The smell of smoke woke me, flashing memories, what I had seen, what I had done. My eyes snapped open as I sat bolt upright. A thin blanket cushioned the hard floor beneath me, feebly shielding me from the cold wooden floorboards. Thankfully, the room wasn’t that cold because of the fire which burned in the hearth in the next room.

My head was pounding like a drum, sending shocks of pain through my neck and shoulders and a sickly feeling to my stomach. Clenching my eyes shut, I gripped my head and took a deep breath to stop the spinning.

To my surprise, I discovered that someone had tended to my wounds while I was asleep. Thick, rough bandages were wrapped tightly around my hair and the spot where I had struck the wall. I could feel the hard spot on the back of my head where the blood and soaked through.

The room in which I lay was small but comfortably furnished with shabby mismatched chairs and shelves. Many of the cushions had stitching and patches of different faded colours.

Framed by the doorway across the room, Eira slept soundly on a couch, her head resting in an older woman’s lap. The woman, who I assumed was Eira’s mother, was reading a book and hadn’t noticed me wake. She was a fair woman with pale skin, dark eyes, and brown hair tied in a bun. She sat with her legs folded under her, stroking Eira’s hair as the girl slept, both wrapped in a blanket.

A lump formed in my throat. What would usually be a wholesome, heart-warming sight now filled me with grief. I swallowed and looked away, blinking away tears.

My shirt and jumper lay folded on the floor next to where I lay, along with my shoes and a small bowl of water. My eyes widened as I reached for the vessel. The cool liquid was a blissful relief as I drank it heartily.

My body was sore and stiff as I gingerly got to my feet—it wasn’t the first time I’d slept on the floor, but it wasn’t one of many. I stretched and rubbed my neck before pulling on my shirt and jumper and shuffling to the front door, hoping some fresh air would calm the thumping pain in my skull.

The rain had stopped, but water still dripped from the edge of the porch. The night was dark and still, only a few sparse streetlights still working.

You shouldn’t be up, a voice rumbled from my right. I turned to see an older man sitting in a wooden chair, a blanket across his legs. As he shifted his hands, I noticed the handle of an axe under the blanket. He was a large man with rough, swarthy skin and grey flecks through his short, dark hair and scruffy beard. His eyes were the same piercing green as Eira’s.

You shouldn’t be helping me, I retorted. I wasn’t ungrateful. This family had saved my life, but this man was scared, and if my suspicion was right, I knew the reason. You’re Nithing, aren’t you?

There were colonies outside of Midgard, villages and shantytowns where people lived. Midgard did not grant citizenship to those born outside, and considered those who came to live here as Nithing. This meant they had no rights within the city—the law didn’t even apply around them. If a Nithing turned up murdered in the street, there would be no investigation. They would dispose of the body and forget about it.

The man flinched a little, his head turning to glare at me. And what if we are? he asked, his tone stern and defensive.

I took a step back and bowed my head, scolding myself for my disrespectful tone. I’m sorry, sir, I said respectfully. I meant nothing by it.

The man sighed and turned his gaze back to the street. The black marks under his eyelids told me he hadn’t slept in some time, though it seemed he was used to it. Why were you out in the street like that? The question sounded more accusatory than curious.

I looked down at my hands. I was in an accident, I answered. I made it out somehow. My mother didn’t.

The man’s face darkened in remorse. I’m sorry, he said gruffly, did you report it?

What’s the point? I snarled, looking up at the tower of Midgard with contempt. What would they have done?

The porch fell silent as I glared at the tower with grim intent. It sparkled in the night, every light glowing, every panel polished, almost mocking the dank, steaming undergrowth it loomed over.

Get some sleep, the man grumbled. I’ll wake you in the morning before we go.

I looked back in confusion. Where are we going?

The man looked up at me again with a smirk. Somewhere safe, he replied before settling back down into his chair, his vigilant gaze turning to scan the street once more.

Anxiety turned my stomach as I returned to bed as ordered. Where was he taking me tomorrow? Should I trust him? I didn’t really have another choice, and it would be rude to doubt them now, after all they had done.

Your soul is torn, a soft voice spoke as I passed the doorway to the living room. I turned to see Eira lying with her head in her mother’s lap, her eyes wide open and fixed on me. Her mother was fast asleep, the book still in her hand.

What? I asked, not sure if this was really happening. Her tone was icy and monotone, her cadence was flat and dry as she continued.

"A bear and wolf in constant struggle. If the bear should fall, the wolf will be free, and the beast we all should fear will be whole