The Gift of Icey Terror

The sea was a beast that night, vast and merciless. Waves rose like mountains, crashing against the longship Stormfang with a fury that threatened to grind it into splinters. The men bent to their oars, muscles straining, faces ghost‑pale in the lightning’s glare.

“Thor’s beard, the sea itself wants us dead!” Harek bellowed, voice swallowed by the storm. His knuckles whitened, eyes wide with terror.

“Row!” Jorund roared from the prow, hair whipping like a banner of defiance. “The gods test us! Better to drown than crawl!”

Thunder split the sky, rain lashed their faces, and the ship lurched sideways. Leif, the youngest, nearly pitched into the black maw of the sea. He clung to the rail, teeth chattering.

“Chieftain!” he cried. “We’ll be dashed against the rocks!”

Jorund’s eyes blazed. “Then let the rocks remember our names!”

Hours bled away in chaos until, at last, the storm relented. Dawn crept across the horizon, pale and cold. But the sight that greeted them was no homecoming. They had been cast into a fjord none recognized. Jagged peaks and endless ice. A glacier loomed ahead, its face shimmering with pale fire. The air was colder than death, silence heavy as a shroud.

Leif whispered, “Do you see it? The ice… it glows.”

Indeed, faint light flickered beneath the frozen wall, as though something alive pulsed within.

The crew of the Stormfang made landfall, dragging the boat onto shore to avoid its damage against the jagged rocks.

Jorund stepped forward, boots crunching frost. “Cursed or blessed, we’ll see. The gods hide treasures where cowards fear to tread.”

The men exchanged uneasy glances. The fjord felt wrong. Too still. Too watchful. Yet Jorund’s voice carried command, and none dared defy him. Axes bit into ice, sparks flying. Time passed not to swiftly, sweat freezing on brows, until the glacier cracked. Some kind of artifact slid free. A disk, golden yet pale, runes writhing like living things.

Leif trembled. “It speaks… I hear words in the wind.”

Jorund seized it, holding it high. “Then listen well. The gods speak only to the worthy.”

The air grew colder. Silence deepened. Somewhere within the glacier, a rumble stirred.

Harek spat. “We’ve broken something that should have stayed untouched.”

Jorund grinned. “No. We have broken fate itself.”

The artifact pulsed brighter, answering his claim. And the ice groaned like a waking beast.

Night fell heavy. The men huddled around a feeble fire. The artifact lay wrapped at Jorund’s side, yet its light leaked through, casting shadows that danced across the snow.

Leif whispered, staring at the wrapped object. “It pulses. Like a heartbeat.”

The wind rose, carrying a resonance that rattled bone and soul. Cracks spider-webbed across the glacier, glowing faintly. From the fissures, shadows moved.

Then it emerged. A figure stepped forth. Tall, skeletal, cloaked in frost. Its body was carved from ice and bone, eyes burning like embers trapped in frozen glass. Each step cracked the earth beneath. The creature shrieked. A sound that split the night, piercing marrow. The fire guttered out, leaving only the artifact’s glow.

“You fools!” Harek staggered back. “We broke its prison!”

Jorund gripped his sword, defiance blazing. “Then we’ll forge a saga from its bones!”

The beast lunged, faster than mortal sight. Shields splintered, men hurled into snow. Its claws raked the earth, leaving trails of frost that burned like fire. Leif screamed, clutching the artifact. The runes flared, light driving the creature back for a heartbeat. But its ember‑eyes fixed on the disk, hunger burning. Leif realized then, it did not hunt them. It hunted the artifact. And the night had only just begun.

The forest groaned as the creature pressed closer, its ember‑eyes burning through the storm. Trees cracked under its weight, shadows stretched long and skeletal across the snow. Leif stumbled, clutching the artifact. Each pulse drained him, as though the disk drank his strength. His breath came ragged, legs trembling.

“Drop it!” Harek snarled. “Throw it back before it kills us all!”

Jorund’s voice cut through the blizzard, iron and unyielding. “No! This is ours. The gods sent us here. Do you think they would test us with storms and monsters only to have us crawl away empty‑handed?”

Bjorn, the oldest of them all, spat blood into the snow. “The gods test us, aye. But not all who are tested survive.”

The creature broke through the tree-line, vast and skeletal, frost clinging to its bones. Its shriek split the night, shaking the ground. The men faltered, shields trembling.

Leif cried out, “It wants the disk, not us!”

But Jorund seized him by the collar, dragging him upright. “Silence! We are Norsemen. We claim what is forbidden.”

Harek’s voice was low, bitter, almost swallowed by the wind. “And we die for it.”

The men pressed on through the frozen pines. Breath steamed like smoke from dying fires, boots sank into snow that seemed to clutch at their ankles. Behind them, the creature’s shriek tore through the night. Not merely sound, but a vibration that rattled teeth and made marrow ache. Branches shivered as if recoiling. It lunged from the shadows, claws gouging snow and ice. The men scattered, shields raised, axes flashing, but frost clung to their skin where its touch grazed them, burning like acid.

“Shield wall!” Jorund roared. “Stand, sons of the north!”

They locked shields, trembling but defiant. The beast slammed into them, splintering wood, hurling men aside like dolls. Bjorn fell, his scream strangled as frost crawled over him, sealing his eyes open in a mask of terror. Leif raised the artifact. The runes flared, casting a light so harsh it seemed to peel shadows from the trees. The creature recoiled, shrieking, ember‑eyes narrowing to slits. For a heartbeat, silence.

Then Jorund stepped forward, sword raised. “It fears the disk! With this, we can command it!”

But Leif saw the truth in its gaze. Hunger, not fear. The artifact was meat to it.

The forest twisted around them, no refuge at all. The warriors pressed deeper, but the shrieks followed, splitting the night, rattling their bones. Snow fell thicker, muffling their cries, yet the beast’s ember‑eyes burned through the storm like coals in a corpse’s skull.

It struck again. Bjorn raised his shield, but the blow shattered it like brittle bone. Frost crawled up his arm, veins blackening, flesh cracking. Within moments, he was a statue. His mouth frozen mid‑scream.

“Bjorn!” Leif cried.

“Back!” Jorund dragged him away. “He is gone!”

Axes flashed, spears thrust, but each strike splintered against flesh that was more ice than body. Harek’s axe cleaved deep, thinking he had beaten the creature, only for the weapon to be swallowed whole, frost sealing it in place. The thing bellowed, twisting furiously. Harek lost his grip on the handle and was hurled aside. Blood steamed in the snow.

Leif clutched the artifact. The runes writhed, glowing brighter as he spoke the carved words. His voice trembled, yet the air bent, heavy with a pressure that made ears bleed.

He screamed in agony, “They burn when I speak them!”

“Speak, boy!” Jorund thundered. “Speak until your tongue is ash!”

The creature faltered, a cry of rage breaking into a guttural roar. For the first time, it staggered back, clawing at the light as if its icy flesh was flayed. Hope flickered. But the disk grew heavier, its glow searing Leif’s palms, blistering skin. He screamed, dropping the artifact into the snow. The light guttered. The monster surged forward, jaws opening wider than a man’s chest, breath reeking of rot and frozen graves.

The Norsemen scattered, bloodied and broken. Bjorn was gone. Harek gasped in the snow, slow to get up. The hunger of the creature was unrelenting, and the fjord had claimed its first blood.

The survivors staggered on, breath ragged, bodies broken. Harek limped, blood soaking his furs. Leif carried the artifact though it scorched his hands with every pulse, each beat like a heart not his own.

They collapsed in a clearing, fire flickering weakly against the cold. The disk lay between Jorund and Leif, wrapped in cloth, yet its glow seeped through, painting their faces in corpse‑light.

Harek spat. “We should have left it. Bjorn’s blood stains the ground because of that cursed thing.”

Jorund’s eyes gleamed, feverish. He leaned closer to the wrapped, cursed thing, voice low, reverent. “No. Bjorn’s blood was the price of greatness. This disk is no curse, but a gift. It bends the creature. It bends the world.”

Leif shivered. “It bends you, chieftain. Your eyes burn like its runes.”

Jorund laughed, harsh and echoing through the trees. “Then let them burn! With this, I will be more than a chieftain. I will be a god.”

The men exchanged uneasy glances. Even Harek, hardened by years of raids, felt a chill deeper than the winter air.

That night, Jorund sat apart from the others, the artifact in his lap. He traced the runes with shaking fingers, whispering words none could understand. The disk pulsed brighter, its glow searing the snow, its hum swelling until it sounded like a heartbeat beneath the earth.

Leif stirred in his sleep, the whispers crawling through his dreams. They were not Jorund’s voice alone. The artifact also spoke. Its words slithered like serpents, promising power, conquest without end, immortality without mercy.

He woke with a cry, sweat freezing on his skin. “It speaks,” he gasped, jabbing a pointed finger at Jorund. “It speaks to him.”

Harek’s face was grim. “Aye. And soon, it will own him.”

From the forest came a shriek. Distant, yet piercing, the sound of hunger without rest. The men stiffened, clutching their weapons. Jorund rose, holding the artifact high. His eyes blazed with unnatural light. “Let it come. With this, I command the storm, the beast, the gods themselves!”

The disk pulsed, brighter than fire. The glacier groaned in answer. The curse had taken root.

The fjord lay in silence, broken only by the crackle of their meager fire. The men huddled close, their numbers dwindled, their spirits frayed. The artifact glowed faintly in Jorund’s lap, painting his face in ghostly pallor. His eyes burned with feverish devotion. Harek watched him from across the fire, jaw tight. Each pulse of the disk seemed to sink deeper into Jorund’s soul. The chieftain no longer spoke of kin or glory in battle. He spoke only of conquest, of bending gods to his will.

Leif whispered, and shook uncontrollably. “It’s changing him.”

Harek growled. “It has already changed him. If we do not act, it will claim us all.”

That night, while the others slept, Harek crept toward Jorund. The artifact lay beside the chieftain, glowing faintly through its cloth. Harek reached for it, breath shallow, his hand just about touching it. Jorund’s eyes snapped open.

“Traitor,” he hissed, rising with in a sudden surge. His sword flashed in the firelight.

Harek staggered back, short sword already in hand. “Better a traitor than losing my damned soul! That thing will kill us all!”

Jorund advanced, fury blazing. “Better a tyrant than a coward. You would throw away the gods’ gift? You would spit on fate?”

Steel rang against steel, sparks flying. The men woke to chaos.

Leif cried out, rushing between them. “Stop! You’ll kill each other!”

But the forest answered with an unnatural scream from the creature, drawn by the artifact’s glow. Trees splintered as it descended upon the weary Norsemen, ember‑eyes fixed on the disk.

The men scattered, terror choking their throats. The beast tore through the clearing, hurling warriors aside. Frost burned the ground where it stepped.

Jorund and Harek fought on, their duel swallowed by the creature’s fury.

Leif seized the artifact, its runes blazing in his hands. He shouted the carved words, his voice breaking, yet the air itself trembled. The creature faltered, shrieking, clawing at the light but unable to reach it.

Leif screamed, dropping the artifact into the snow once more, unable to hold onto it because of the searing heat.

Jorund lunged for it, snatching the disk up, eyes wild. “Mine!” he roared. “It is mine!”

The ice monster shrieked, hunger unrelenting. The fjord drowned in blood and betrayal.

Snow fell in blinding sheets, the wind howled like a chorus of the dead, and the glacier loomed ahead. Vast. Pale. Eternal. The men of Stormfang staggered toward it, broken in number, hollow in spirit. Behind them, the creature raged, ember‑eyes burning through the storm. Each step cracked the earth, each breath froze the air.

Jorund raised the artifact high, runes blazing. His voice thundered above the gale. “Shield wall! Norsemen! Stand! Tonight we carve our saga in ice!”

The survivors locked shields, trembling but defiant. Their axes and swords at the ready, but the beast struck with a fury none could match. Those who were left to fight were hurled into the snow, blood staining the white ground beneath them crimson.

Leif picked up the artifact from where Jorund dropped it, clutching it tightly, desperate. The runes flared, casting blinding light. The creature faltered, clawing at the glow.

“Speak the words!” Jorund roared. “The runes obey us!”

Leif shouted, voice trembling. The air bent, the glacier shook, and the thing of ice staggered back, rage escaping its icy lips.

With each use, the artifact grew heavier and heavier, its glow searing his flesh once more, his hands nothing more than cooked meat. Leif cried out, dropping it to the snowy earth.

Jorund lunged, possessing the disk once more, a crazed look in his eyes. The creature surged forward, claws raking the air, eyes fixed on the disk.

Leif realized then, the artifact was not a weapon. It was a seal. The only way to end the curse was to return it to the glacier. He seized the disk from Jorund’s grasp, ignoring the great pain emanating from his hands and his chieftain’s roar of fury. With all his strength, he hurled the cursed thing into the glacier’s heart.

The runes blazed, brighter than fire. The glacier cracked, the sound booming across the fjord. The creature cried out in agony, clawing at the air, its body dissolving into shards of ice.

The fjord shook, the storm roared, and then, silence. The beast was gone.

The men collapsed where the stood, bloodied and broken. Jorund lay in the snow, eyes seething with rage. “You stole my glory, boy. One day, I’ll take it back.”

Leif stared at the glacier, now still. “If glory means chains, I want none of it.”

The fjord lay silent once more. Yet deep beneath the ice, something stirred.

What was left of the men of Stormfang staggered across the snow, spirits hollow, blood staining their leathers and furs. The echoes of the creature’s wails haunted their ears. Leif led them, hands all but useless from the artifact’s glow. His eyes were heavy with exhaustion, yet sharpened by terror. The innocence of youth burned away.

Behind him, Jorund limped, his gaze fixed on the glacier. His voice rasped, fevered. “You stole my glory, boy. One day, I’ll take it back.” Saying it over and over again. “You stole my glory, boy. One day, I’ll take it back.” The sound of a chieftain gone mad.

Leif did not answer. He stared ahead, toward the longship waiting on the shore. The sea was calm now, mocking their suffering.

Harek stumbled beside him, coughing blood. “No treasure is worth this curse. We should have buried it again. Let the ice keep its secrets.”

Leif’s voice was low, steady. “We did. And yet… I fear it is not enough.”

They reached the ship. What little strength they had left, the small band pushed Stormfang into the water and dragged themselves aboard. The oars dipped in, carrying them away from the fjord. The glacier receded, pale and silent.

But as the wind filled their sails, the men felt it, a vibration beneath the sea, a whisper in the storm. The artifact was gone, sealed once more. Yet the curse lingered.

Leif stared back at the glacier, heart heavy. Deep beneath the ice, another shadow waited.