LotS/The Story/The Saga of Drunken Ragnar

The Saga of Drunken Ragnar

<tabber>

"Zone Intro"=
Zone Intro

---
From: Svana Spunbracher
To: Rektor Hrolfsson
Subject: Resignation

Karl, I've decided to resign my position. Please consider this message my formal notice. I'll finish up the month, to give you time to find a replacement, but after that I'm gone.
---
---
From: Rektor Hrolfsson
To: Svana Spunbracher
Subject: Re: Resignation

Svana, this has come as quite a surprise. I know things were a little difficult for you today, but you shouldn't make hasty decisions while you're upset. Just between you and me, you're the best literature teacher we've ever had. We need you here at Siegfried.

Have you been offered a better post somewhere else? If so, I'll hack the head off your shoulders and mount it in the hallway as a warning to others who might betray Siegfried School with their treachery and set loyalty at naught.

Sorry -- you know the school charter forces me to say that. But really, I hope you'll reconsider.
---
---
From: Svana Spunbracher
To: Rektor Hrolfsson
Subject: Re: Re: Resignation

I'm sorry, Karl. My mind's made up. But you don't need to threaten me with decapitation (I still can't believe they voted that clause into our contracts -- I suppose that's what we get for having so many ex-berserkers on the school board). I'm not heading to another school. I'm quitting teaching.

It's not just today's incident. That was just the final nail in the coffin. Things have been bad for a while now.
---
---
From: Rektor Hrolfsson
To: Svana Spunbracher
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Resignation

We've had a few problems over the past months, sure. But what school doesn't? We both know we have more than our fair share of troubled kids here. That's all the more reason why we need teachers like you, who can reach them and inspire them.

And I can't believe you're quitting teaching! I mean, it's great that I won't have to chop your head off. I wasn't looking forward to that at all. And your father's people would have broken me in half when they found out. But you love teaching! I remember your first day here. You were so excited about stepping into that classroom.
---
---
From: Svana Spunbracher
To: Rektor Hrolfsson
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Resignation

I don't think "a few problems" really covers it. When you turn around to write on the holo-board, you expect the kids to mess around a little. But you don't expect them to chuck a throwing axe at your head.

That was bad enough. But remember what his father said when we brought him in? He told the boy off -- for having such bad aim. How are we expected to do this job when the parents won't pull their weight?

Anyway, teaching was never my real passion. Literature is. I just thought it would be great to help kids discover that same love. But my time here at Siegfried has made me realize that the job just isn't for me. It's about time I tried doing something I'll feel good about. That's why I'm going to become a writer. I've always wanted to write a great Niflung saga, like the ones that inspired me as a girl. I bet I'll reach more children that way than standing in a classroom and having axes thrown at my head.
---
---
From: Rektor Hrolfsson
To: Svana Spunbracher
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Resignation

Well, I'm still sorry to see you go. But I can see your mind's made up, so I wish you the best of luck.

Don't worry about seeing the month out. I can bring in a substitute teacher to cover until we find a full-time replacement. As of the receipt of this message, you're officially no longer a teacher at Siegfried.

Hey, now that you don't work here anymore, the policy on intra-faculty relationships no longer applies. Would you like to go out for a drink, or maybe some dinner? The Butchered Beast is doing its 'beer and boar' feast tonight.
---
---
From: Svana Spunbracher
To: Rektor Hrolfsson
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Resignation

Sure. A little beer and boar should help get the literary juices flowing.

I'll meet you there at seven.
---

---

---
From: Midgard Publishing
To: Svana Spunbracher
Subject: Re: Submission

Dear Miss Spunbracher,

Thank you for your submission entitled The Saga of Bloody Erik. However, I'm afraid that it doesn't suit our present needs. By which I mean that we at Midgard Publishing pride ourselves on publishing high quality fiction and creative non-fiction, whereas your work was, to put it simply, crap.

That said, my gratitude is genuine. Just last week I was telling my colleagues that women aren't cut out to write sagas. So, I'm extremely grateful for the evidence your submission provided.

Yours sincerely,

Olaf Runnson
Editor
Midgard Publishing
---
---
From: Midgard Publishing
To: Svana Spunbracher
Subject: Apologies

Dear Miss Spunbracher,

Please except my sincere apologies for the message you received from one of our editors. Naturally if Mr. Runnson had known who your father was, he certainly wouldn't have addressed you so inappropriately.

I hope you'll remember that our editors often have to deal with many hundreds of submissions each day, and that their judgment might therefore sometimes be impaired by tiredness and frustration. Upon reading The Saga of Bloody Erik for a second time, Mr. Runnson realized that his previous assessment of the work was unfair and inaccurate.

We'd be honored to publish your saga. Please review the attached contract, which I believe you'll find very much to your liking. We've doubled our usual advance for first-time authors, as a token of our esteem and a gesture of apology.

If you'd be so good as to inform your father of our offer, and prevent him from slaughtering us all, we'd be very grateful.

Yours sincerely,

Kveldulf Gulbrandensen
Chief Editor
Midgard Publishing
---
---
From: Svana Spunbracher
To: Midgard Publishing
Subject: Re: Apologies

Dear Mr. Gulbrandensen,

You don't have to worry. I didn't tell him about your editor's rude rejection slip.

As for your offer to publish my saga, I'm afraid that I can't accept it. I'd like my writing to be published on its own merits, not because your background check found out about my father. If I wanted to benefit from nepotism, I wouldn't have changed my name to Spunbracher.

If you really want to show you're sorry, perhaps you could give me some advice on how to write a better saga?

Yours sincerely,

Svana Spunbracher
---
---
From: Midgard Publishing
To: Svana Spunbracher
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Apologies

Dear Miss Spunbracher,

I must say I admire your attitude, and I'm not just saying that because I don't want to be hacked limb from limb.

I've written a number of sagas over the years, and have published many more. So I feel qualified to give you a little advice, as you requested.

The Saga of Bloody Erik wasn't a bad attempt. However, the market for sagas set on Earth during the Viking Age is limited at the moment. These days readers (and editors!) prefer stories with a contemporary setting. Although we respect our glorious Norse heritage, the events of that period can seem rather unimaginative by modern standards. Family feuds, medieval lawsuits, and honorable duels are all well and good for historical fiction -- but a modern Niflung saga should try to move beyond them. An unusual plot will help you grab an editor's attention.

Similarly, don't feel shackled to old literary devices. A few kennings are a nice touch, but they should be used sparingly. As for throwing in stanzas of alliterative verse and intricate skaldic poetry, that's a little excessive. Remember that you're trying to appeal to a broad, present-day readership. Give us the flavor of a Norse saga without going over the top and making it a struggle to read.

If I might offer a suggestion, why don't you write a saga about your father? I'm sure he's done plenty of things people would love to hear about.

Yours sincerely,

Kveldulf Gulbrandensen
Chief Editor
Midgard Publishing

PS. Please feel free to submit your next saga to us. If you're worried about nepotism, just put a different name on the submission message.
---
---
From: Svana Spunbracher
To: Midgard Publishing
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Apologies

Dear Mr. Gulbrandensen,

Thank you very much for your kind advice and offer. I'll most certainly consider the former and take advantage of the latter.

I don't think it would be appropriate to write a saga about my father. Most of his adventures probably aren't suitable for a daughter's ears. But you've given me an idea. I think he could put me in touch with another contemporary Niflung warrior whose exploits would be worth writing about.

Thank you once again.

Yours sincerely,

Svana Spunbracher

PS. Please tell Mr. Runnson to stop sending me boxes of chocolates, barrels of ale, and honey-glazed hams with groveling apology notes. I've run out of places to put them, and have had to donate the last six barrels and twelve hams to the local orphanage.
---

---

---
From: Valkyrie Bloodsword
To: Midgard Publishing
Subject: Submission

Dear Sir,

Please find attached a work entitled The Saga of Drunken Ragnar, which I hope will interest you.

Yours faithfully,

Valkyrie Bloodsword
--- |-|

"Brainteaser"=
Brainteaser

The weaver of tales stepped from the void-voyager's belly, into the summer sun. A cool wind blew across her face. Her braids danced to its caress like ears of golden corn. She closed her eyes and breathed deep of the air. Her lungs swelled with the greatness of the story which would soon be born on that world.

Beneath her arm, nestled there like a bard's songful harp, was the tool of her craft -- the word-axe that cleaved chronicles of mighty deeds into being. The weaver stroked its smooth surface. She felt purpose crackle along her fingertips, and knew that its edge would soon bite deep into the flesh and blood of fantastic happenings.

"Out of the way, bitch! The rest of us want to get off this ship today!"

The man pushed her from behind, and the weaver's brow grew dark. She grasped her word-axe tight in a warrior's grasp. Within her thoughts she screamed a cry that tore the heavens near in two. A single blow shattered the wretched fool's nose. Another smashed his chin. A third tore the face from his skull and left bloody ruin as an eternal mark of his folly...

But in the flesh she said, "Sorry!" instead. Then she walked down the metal steps.

There was a man she'd come to see. His name was Ragnar, son of Ragnar, grandson of Ragnar, great-grandson of Ragnar (and of a mother, grandmother, and great-grandmother whose names were not Ragnar). He was known on a hundred worlds. And if the dead can be said to possess knowledge, he was known among them too -- for his doom-scribbler and foe-hewer had sent thousands into hell to bolster their number. Ragnar was a fearsome warrior, a great champion, an omnicidal ravager, a bastion to his friends and a terror to their enemies. He was many things. But he was not there.

Other people had gathered to meet the passengers who poured from the void-voyager's belly like gore from a wounded beast. To the left a little girl ran to her father, wrapped her arms around his leg, and squealed in delight. To the right a young man was arguing with a woman, a bouquet of forlorn flowers drooping from his hand. There was lipstick smeared across his cheek, and its shade wasn't hers. Nearby two men in blood-red suits seized the passenger who'd pushed the weaver, and threw him to the ground. They pummeled him with fists and boots, screaming about the money he owed. These and other meetings and reunions took place, chronicling the ever-moving cycle of life, but of the great warrior there was no sign.

"My father said Ragnar would be here," Svana thought. "Maybe he was waylaid by another great adventure."

This seemed possible. Perhaps he would soon arrive, clad in the hides of the monsters he'd slain, laden with weapons plundered from foes who'd chosen to try their strength against his and been destroyed for their reckless ambition. Valkyries might flank his steps and sing with beautiful voices of the carnage he'd wrought. Maybe he would hurl a fierce beast's corpse at her feet and recount the ferocious battle that had made him late...

Or perhaps he'd forgotten about her. So Svana called him, using her word-axe -- which was also a voice-hurler.

The word-axe rang, and threw her call into the heavens to find bold Ragnar. Again it rang, like the battering rams of warrior hordes beating at a feast-hall's doors -- demanding entrance with their thews. On the third ring the weaver gazed around, for she heard its echoes near at hand. But then its cry fell silent and gave way to the hero's voice.

"This is Ragnar. I'm not here. Or if I am here, I can't answer. Probably because I'm killing something. Leave a message. If you're a friend, or you have a bounty for me to go collect, I'll get back to you. If you're about to make a telemarketing call, ask yourself if you want my axe in your head."

Svana left no message. Instead she called again, and this time listened hard. Great piles of crates stood across the landing pad. These were fodder for void-voyagers, to be carried away and torn from their guts on distant worlds. The ringing was surely within their midst.

The weaver moved among the crates. And there she found Ragnar Ragnarsson, the mighty warrior, terror of his enemies, slaughterer of hundreds, breaker of bones, shatterer of skulls -- the one whose great story she had come to hack into the sneering face of literature. He was lying on the ground, asleep. His huge chest trembled with the strength of his snoring. Drool trickled from his maw.

"Hey! Wake up!"

But the warrior slept unheeding. So Svana poked his flank with the toe of her boot. Still he did not stir. Thus she kicked him hard. And screamed in pain.

"Damn it! What the hell are you made of? Metal?"

She shrieked and hopped. Then she shrieked again. The pain refused to leave her throbbing toes. It was deaf to her screams of outrage and agony. But though the pain was deaf, Ragnar was not. His foe-finders opened. He gave a mournful groan.

"Urgh. Can't a man sleep in peace? If you're dying, die quietly!"

But great was the pain in the weaver's toes. She screamed till the spaceport trembled beneath sinful profanities and parents fled with their children -- lest young minds fall prey to adult words and be plunged into depravity. The son of Ragnar (who was also Ragnar) growled as he stood. He glared at the teller of tales and bellower of blasphemies from foe-finders shot red with blood. His powerful body tottered. It swayed one way, then the other. It seemed that it would surely crash to the ground like a majestic fastness ruined by bomb and blast. But he placed his hand on the crates and steadied his hulking frame.

The weaver lowered her wounded foot and glared.

"You're drunk! I know you warriors love your ale... I'm pretty sure that's why I was born... But can't you damn well stay sober when you're meant to meet someone?"

Ragnar snarled.

"Don't be stupid! I could drink a sea of scotch! A valley of vodka! A river of rum! A mountain of mead! And after all that, I'd want something stronger to chase it! I-"

The warrior's words ceased to flow. His mouth clamped shut. His great muscles shuddered like a mountain peak racked by avalanches. His cheeks filled and bulged.

"Oh, knock it off! Save your bragging for when you're picking up girls! You're just like those little bastards I had to teach. Full of big talk... Then they had a couple of ales in morning break and-"

Ragnar's mouth opened wide, like the maw of a fearsome beast that roars its challenge and its fury at those it will soon devour. But neither challenge nor fury poured forth. Or if in truth they did, they were lost amidst the vomit. A torrent flew from the warrior's mighty innards. It was as though a million men had drunk their fill and in turn filled a river with their sick, and that river had broken its banks to flood the homes of the poor souls who dwelled nearby. Such was the vomit of Ragnar, son of Ragnar.

The weaver screamed anew. Vomit gushed across her face and hid its prettiness. Vomit spilled into her hair and became entangled amid the golden braids. Vomit splashed over her chest and flowed down her top. Vomit splattered across her word-axe and gave unwelcome metaphor. Vomit flowed over the toes of her favorite boots.

For a moment there was silence. The universe -- all its gods and monsters, its denizens from the lowliest thrall to the mightiest thane -- watched while Svana lived, moved, and had her being in vomit. Then the woman screamed, and it was the cry of a billion banshees.

"Bastard! You bastard! You stupid drunken bastard! Rivers of rum? Mountains of mead? Seas of goddamn scotch!?! What kind of Niflung warrior can't handle his drink? Screw you! If I wanted to be vomited on, I'd have taught kindergarten! I'm going home! If you can't hold your ale, you don't deserve to be in my saga!"

Ragnar's foe-finders flashed with the fury of a thousand berserkers -- the same dread stare that had watched myriad deaths wrought by the murderous hero's hand. His thews trembled with all the violence of a galaxy. But Svana wasn't cowed. From her youngest days she'd seen Niflung warrior wrath written on the face of her father, himself a mighty man of war and weapons. So she gave Ragnar one last look of scorn and began to turn away.

The rage drained from his face. His bulging muscles slumped. For the weaver's jibes had cut him deep, piercing flesh that would have withstood blade or bullet. He was clothed in shame as though it were a shirt of the thickest space mail. A great sigh shuddered through his body.

"Wait! Please..."

Roars and thunder, a tirade of profanity or murderous threats, wouldn't have stopped Svana. But the urging in Ragnar's voice did. She paused and stood there, vomit dripping from her skin, hair, clothes, and word-axe.

"Something's wrong!" the warrior said. "I've got more gear inside me than a warship. My guts are cybernetic. I can get drunk, but not like this!"

The weaver nodded her head.

"That explains why I nearly broke my foot when I kicked you. Maybe your systems are malfunctioning?"

"Then I'll find those tech-nerds and surgeons who put them in, and rip their damn heads off! They said my cybernetics would last a lifetime. So if I'm alive they should be working!"

The warrior stopped. He lowered his gaze. The woman rolled her eyes.

"My breasts are covered with beer-basted vomit, and you're still leering at them?"

"Bah! I'll leer later. Look down."

Amidst the vomit that smothered her chest, yellow-pink liquid and slithering chunks, something glinted. She plucked it from her bosom with finger and thumb, and held it up to her eyes.

"It's a little metal spider!" Svana exclaimed.

Its legs were unmoving now, but she could see the tiny joints and actuators which must once have given it life, along with other inert mechanisms.

The weaver ran her hands through vomit-streaked hair and over vomit-smeared garb. More miniature machines soon lay in her palm.

"What did you eat last night? A robot?"

A prodigious frown overtook the warrior's broad brow.

"I don't know... Damn cybernetics! I've never blacked out before! It shouldn't be possible!"

"What's the last thing you recall?"

His foe-finders narrowed in contemplation. A look of barbaric pondering shadowed his face.

"I collected a bounty. And after I got my credits, I went out for a drink..."

"Where?"

"I don't remember!"

Ragnar growled and smote a crate. Its thick metal buckled and groaned, and was left stamped with the shape of his head-smasher. Another punch launched a crate through the air. It span end over end, before crashing against a void-voyager like a mighty war god's hammer and leaving a long wound upon its paint. Still the son of Ragnar's wrath was not satisfied, so he raised his leg to wreak yet more carnage on the crates which had the audacity to be stacked in his warlike presence.

The weaver gasped.

"Ragnar -- there's something on your boot!"

The warrior's leg froze in the air.

"Can't people clean up after their damn pets?" he roared.

"I don't think it's dog crap..."

Perhaps the Niflung heard the horror in her voice or saw it on her pretty, vomit-covered visage. For he forestalled the kick that would have scattered the crates. Then he pulled the boot from his foot so that he might gaze upon its sole.

"It looks like..." Svana began.

"Blood and brains," Ragnar said -- for such things were not new to the omnicidal Niflung.

He placed his other hand to the side of his head. Then the back. Then the forehead. Then the other side. Then the crown.

"They aren't mine," he said. "My brains are still where they belong. I must have stomped them out of someone!"

"And you don't remember who? Ragnar, what if it was an innocent person!"

He snorted. His mouth opened to spew mockery over her as it had spewed vomit only a moment before. But this time neither mockery nor vomit spewed forth. His foe-finders held a faraway look. Ragnar had slain more men than he could count. Perhaps more than even a mathematician could count. If his tally had been set down upon a page, the numbers would have been festooned with strange Hellenic symbols designed to encapsulate their true magnitude. And yet he was troubled. He liked to know whom he killed...

Svana understood the hero's troubled gaze. And she knew too that she had found the beginnings of a saga. What triumph or tragedy lay in the story of the brains caked onto Ragnar's boot? She would find out -- and her word-axe would cleave it into eternity!

"We need to find out where you were last night," she said. "Maybe there are more clues in your vomit..."

And like two soothsayers parsing the bowels of a beast, trying to divine the future in the slaughtered creature's entrails, they pored over the vomit to see what it held.

"These pieces of meat!" Ragnar, son of Ragnar, pointed to brown scraps that lay like islands amid the stinking liquid. The indiscernible cooked flesh, still glistening with thick grease despite its time in the warrior's stomach, could only have meant one thing... "I ate a donner kebab! Maybe it was a trap, and had those machines in it..."

"Let me see those..."

Svana's word-axe, which also a voice-hurler, was other things besides. For the salesman had been handsome and charming... Thus she had allowed optional upgrades to rain down upon her like a volley of arrows thick enough to darken the skies above an ancient battle, and her bill to expand like the stomach of a voracious monster feasting upon its prey. Time and again she had chided herself for the moment of weakness, but now she was pleased.

The handsome trickster, who hadn't asked her out even though she'd bought all the optional upgrades and giggled at every one of his terrible jokes, had told her that a beautiful woman should watch what she ate. And so her word-axe had such powers. Slender beams of green light shot from its sensor and danced across the piece of meat. Svana read the screen.

"It's mostly giraffe," she said. "With a bit of walrus. And vomit. But I think that bit was added later..."

"Giraffe and walrus? There can't be many places that serve that..."

The weaver pressed buttons upon the word-axe's screen.

"Just one in this city. Kebab Chaos. Huh... And there are three places which serve human vomit..."

"I'll go to Kebab Chaos. And if I find out they stuck those metal spiders in my kebab..."

His foe-finders blazed. He reached to his belt. Then he froze. The warrior gazed at the ground, as though reading his vomit anew. He turned his head this way and that. His hulking frame span on the spot.

"My axe!" he roared. "Where's my axe?" |-|

"Fast Food Fight"=
Fast Food Fight

Crates flew this way and that. Dozens already lay strewn across the landing pad like corpses in the wake of a savage army's passage, victims of their bloody massacre. Some had broken open and disgorged their innards. Stuffed toys, cheap clothing, weapons, armor, candy bars... All these things and many others poured from within. Such was the fury of Ragnar, son of Ragnar. Svana lay on the ground and waited for the storm to pass.

"Sir! Put the crate down! I'll-"

The hulking Niflung turned to the man, who was clad in a security guard's armor. A pistol trembled in the guard's hand -- for he was no Niflung, but one of softer blood. Ragnar held a huge crate above his head as though he were Thor himself, ready to hurl it forth and crush an enemy's skull in the distant days when god fought giant. There was darkness in the warrior's foe-finders. There was darkness too around the guard's crotch. Perhaps the man saw himself smashed beneath the crate's weight, his blood smeared across the ground. He holstered his weapon, turned, and ran for all his legs were worth. Ragnar threw the crate, and let it smash in his wake.

"Ragnar!" the weaver cried. "Stop it!"

"Where's my axe?"

"I don't know! But you're not going to find it in these crates!"

He snorted. Yet there was wisdom in her words.

"You might have left it someplace last night. If we retrace your steps, maybe we could find it..."

"Fine! I'm going to Kebab Chaos."

Ragnar stomped away. Svana rose and pursued him, her word-axe clutched to her vomit-smeared chest.

"I'm coming with you!" She hurried alongside the hero, trying to match his great stride.

"I told your father I'd look after you. I can't do that while I'm smashing kebab shops."

"I don't need looking after! And I can help. If it wasn't for me, you wouldn't have this lead at all!"

Ragnar snorted. Yet no retort passed his lips.

"I need to get cleaned up first though. I can't go around like this! Is your ship here?"

"I landed on the other side of the city. But I know somewhere on the way to Kebab Chaos. You can get a shower and some new clothes there. But only if you're quick. If you take forever washing your hair, I'll go without you."

---

"You look beautiful, dear!" The plump woman clapped her hands.

Ragnar grunted his approval and stared at the weaver's breasts -- true to his former words. This time they were not covered in vomit. Instead a mail bodice held them in its grasp.

Svana gazed down at her new outfit and sighed.

"I'm grateful. Really. But it's not exactly me..."

"I think you make a lovely valkyrie" the woman said. "But if you'd like to see the Arabian princess outfit again... Or maybe the panda suit?"

"We don't have time for this!" Ragnar said. He spoke the first words to Svana's chest, and the rest to her eyes. "We should be at Kebab Chaos!"

"Ragnar!" the woman exclaimed. "A nice girl like this deserves a better date than that..."

"It's not a date, Liz. If they did what I think they did, it'll be a bloodbath!"

"Oh. Then her outfit's perfect! That's real Niflung mail, you know. Some of the girls' clients are very picky about things being real. Well, not everything... But the outfits, anyway..."

"Great... So if anyone shoots or stabs me in the breasts, I'll be fine..." Svana sighed once more. "How much do I owe you?"

"On the house, love. Anything for a friend of Ragnar's!"

Svana gave her thanks. Then she and Ragnar ventured from the brothel, into the great happenings that awaited beyond.

"So..." the weaver said. Her fingers were poised above the word-axe as she spoke, ready to inscribe the hero's words into its electric memory so she might later weave it into his saga. "...how do you know Liz?"

"She had a pimp. Years ago. He used to hit her. Until I threw him off a building."

The weaver recorded the deed, that future generations would know of the doings of Ragnar, son of Ragnar. As her word-axe cleaved, her bosom chafed -- unused to the mail which adorned it. But she bore that discomfort with the strength and courage of a fashioner of sagas, willing to endure such things in the name of her tale.

Her mighty companion walked in silence. He stared at each man, woman, and child they passed -- as though believing that any of them might have stolen his foe-hewer. Svana feared he might grasp them and try to shake the truth from their heads, or else splatter their brains beneath his boot to join those still caked in its treads. But he did not, and the weaver was glad.

Yet violence was only delayed, not averted. For as they passed down streets and alleyways, the sounds of combat drew their ears -- the cries of warriors yelling in pain or exultation. Weaker men would have turned back from such things. But Ragnar only quickened his stride, until the weaver was forced to run to remain by his side. The noise grew louder as they neared their destination, and they found both kebabs and carnage in the same place. Such is the fate of warlike men.

Before them, on the other side of the road, was Kebab Chaos -- its name emblazed across a black sign in glowing red letters that consumed the entire width of the building's upper floor. It was a banner that had beckoned drunks by the dozen, and perhaps the son of Ragnar was among those whose drunken guts had been host to the sustenance it offered -- before it gushed forth in foul-smelling torrents on Svana. But now the sign did not look upon hungry drunks, nor upon people seeking a morning meal to carry them through the day. Instead it bore witness to bloody battle.

Two groups of uniformed warriors clashed, each comprised of both men and women, humans and aliens. One band wore the same red and black as the sign. The backs of their shirts bore the image of a hunk of cartoon donner meat with four slender limbs and big hands, feet, and bulging eyes. The other's members were clad in yellow-brown shalwar kameezes and turbans. These too bore a symbol on their backs, proclaiming their allegiance. Theirs showed a man of equally cartoonish proportions and palette to the anthropomorphic donner meat. He wore the same turban as they, though his was adorned with a huge diamond. He held a broad-bladed scimitar in each three-fingered hand, and his mouth was opened in a golden-toothed war cry which bespoke his readiness to use them.

No blasters flashed. Nor did slug-shooters bark. Instead the warriors fought with knives -- stabbing and slashing. It was as though some grim ritual combat took place before the weaver's eyes. As she looked on, a Snuuth's black shirt and fat gut were opened by a cruel cut. His intestines poured into the street as he tried in vain to pull them back. Nearby one of that Snuuth's fellows, a Vlarg, gained revenge by opening a shalwar-wearing Piscarian's throat.

Within the store, big windows revealed further blood and steel. More warriors struggled among the cheap plastic tables and chairs. A swarthy man stood behind the long counter and jabbed with a metal pole -- keeping his foes at bay like the defender of a greasy castle wall.

Other men and women besides Ragnar and Svana bore witness to this all. They stood around the melee, falling back like shifting tides when it seemed that the slaughter would stray in their direction. The weaver turned to one of these women.

"What's happening?" Svana asked.

"It's a franchise fight," the woman said. "The Curry Caliphate wants to turn this place into another Mega Masala."

Ragnar roared.

"These Kebab Chaos people can't answer my questions if they're dead!"

The hero's hand went to his belt once more. But again he could only growl when his grasp was denied its familiar grip on his foe-hewer's handle. So he charged empty-handed, his rage redoubled.

"Your friend should stay out of this!" the woman said. "Around here the fast-food workers are trained killers! They-"

Her voice gave way to openmouthed silence when the son of Ragnar grasped two of the Curry Caliphate's agents by their right hands, and drove each one's weapon into the other's body. Then he tossed them aside, and struck a shalwar-clad woman with a backhand from his head-smasher. The kenning was made reality, to the cost of her skull.

The remainder of the Caliphate's warriors in the street retreated from his path, scurrying away like rats before a fearsome hound. But in their cowardly haste, their terrified eyes saw only the dread hero. Their enemies' knives were forgotten, until they struck and drew both blood and life.

Those within Kebab Chaos still fought, not yet knowing that Niflung doom approached. But they knew soon.

Ragnar's foe-finders flashed this way and that. His head-smashers flailed where his gaze fell, scattering his enemies. Yet his pace never slowed, for all the violence he wrought. He crossed the restaurant, bashing his path through the melee, and sprang over the counter -- storming the bastion like a raider of old come to loot and pillage. The man who guarded the fastness fell aside and trembled. But the hero wasn't there to destroy him. He was there to seize a weapon.

A great hunk of meat, like an elephant's leg in shape, rotated upon an upright spit -- displaying sides from which long strips had been shaved. It glistened with grease, dripped with fat. It offered filled belly and ruined health, sated hunger and woeful illness. Such was the power of the donner kebab.

The Niflung hero grasped the thick metal pole and tore both spit and meat from their berth. With that great bludgeon in his hands, he leapt back over the counter -- and rained death upon his foes.

A Rylattu screamed. Then the heavy chunk of meat flattened his turban and broke his skull. A man screamed his battle cry -- "The Caliphate is great!" -- and leapt at the son and grandson of Ragnar. But the meat glistened. The pole flashed. The man fell to the floor and groaned, his stomach greasy and bruised from the great blow that had struck him. The meat rose and fell in the hero's hands. Blow after blow thudded against his head, until his brains flowed.

Like a raging inferno set by thoughtless hands and now consuming all in its path, Ragnar and his donner meat slew warrior after warrior.

"Donner meat is hard..." a woman gasped. Then she died, for her lungs had been crushed.

"Kebabs are dangerous..." a Vlarg said. Then he saw that his brains were beside his head, and he too died.

"Madras smash!" a burly Snuuth yelled. But his war cry died along with him, and he lay still -- grease and blood smeared into the ruins of his fat face.

Only when no warrior wearing a shalwar kameez drew breath did Ragnar toss the weapon aside and grunt. One of the men in red and black lifted the spit from the ground. Its great hunk of cooked flesh was smeared with blood, slathered with brains, and streaked with grime. He rubbed it against his apron before he passed it over the counter, where it was set back in place.

"You want donner?" the man behind the counter asked, when the weaver entered. He raised a whirring blade, and motioned towards the meat, miming the shaving of strips.

"No," Svana said.

Ragnar's foe-finders went from face to face -- for all the survivors in red and black were gathered there now, and they stared with awe carved deep into their countenances.

"I ate here last night!" the hero boomed. His voice was like the rumbling of thunder, or the trembling of earthquake. "Who served me?"

"Me!" A female Snuuth waved her hand in the air. "I remember you! No salad, triple meat, extra chili sauce. I had to wrap it in two naans to fit it all in!"

"No refunds!" the man behind the counter said. "You no like? No refund. You sick? No refund. You die? No refund. Is policy."

"He saved our lives!"

"Fine... Store credit. Make you new donner. You want donner?" Once more he motioned towards the spit.

"Did he kill anyone while he was here?" Svana asked.

"No." The Snuuth shook her head with great conviction. "That's the kind of thing I would have remembered."

"Did you put metal spiders in my kebab?" Ragnar asked.

"Metal spiders? I could see you were wasted, but I didn't know you were on chems! If you saw metal spiders, they weren't real."

"And what about my axe? Did I have it when I came in?"

"I didn't see one."

"Damn it!" he roared.

The employees backed away. The man behind the counter ducked from sight.

"If you've lost your axe," the Snuuth squeaked, "maybe you left it at Binary Beer."

"Binary Beer?" Eagerness overtook wrath on his face.

"That's where you were drinking, wasn't it? That's what you said last night..." |-|

"Barroom Brawl II"=
Barroom Brawl II

There were two pint glasses upon the holographic sign. One bore golden liquid, the color so glorious that it might have been formed when molten metal ran from precious bars. The other carried dark redness, rich and strong as the blood of ancient heroes. Each was topped with a thin layer of frothy whiteness, enough to delight a warrior's eyes without drawing blows from his head-smashers. Both beer-bearing vessels orbited each other in spinning ellipses.

"It's closed," Svana said.

Thus the word beneath that image blared, crushing the dreams of those who wished to begin the day drunk.

But that edict had no hold over Ragnar, son of Ragnar. The hero approached the door, seized its long metal handle, and pulled. Hinges broke with a whine of metal as it was torn from its berth -- for it had been a push door, till the hero's mighty hand had brought it to another way of thinking.

They stepped inside, where a big unwindowed chamber was lit by glowing strips of garish light. There was a man behind the bar, with a bottle of blue liquid in one hand and a mug in the other. He wore a black vest -- the two pint glasses from the sign revolved upon its breast.

"We're closed, you moron! And you're paying for..." His eyes grew wide. Both mug and bottle fell from his hands. The bottle smashed on the bar and scattered glass and blueness across its surface. He pointed at Ragnar. "Murderer! Murderer!"

"You know me?" Ragnar growled. "Then you'll answer my questions!"

His mighty frame began to move, ready to storm the barman's bastion as he had stormed that of Kebab Chaos. But then a voice spoke, and something hard pressed against the back of Svana's skull.

"Don't move, stink-beast! Or this female's puny brains will be blown through the front of her pathetic skull."

The weaver raised her hands. One was empty. The other clutched the word-axe by its edge.

A Rylattu woman had dozed in a booth near the door, hidden from the Niflungs' sight. Her name was Bel Wunk Plon, and she was Binary Beer's bouncer. Her gun was at Svana's head. This troubled the weaver -- for she knew that if it fired, her saga would be spilled across the floor, and never be hacked into being by her word-axe. Also, upon pondering such things, she realized that she was too young to die. Thus great was her vexation.

The hero's foe-finders stared brutal death at the Rylattu. And his body turned to bring that gruesome fate about.

"Don't try it, wretched ape-like creature! My powerful finger is faster than your lumbering carcass!"

The son of Ragnar halted, for he knew that she was right.

"Keep them there, Bel!" the barman said. "I'll teach that bastard to murder people in my bar!"

He ducked, and disappeared from Svana's gaze.

"Foolish employer! This sniveling human already knows how to murder people in your bar! He did it last night!"

"It's an expression!" he shouted from underneath the bar. There was a hissing, clicking sound, as of machinery coming to life. "And I've told you before -- I'm your boss! None of that 'puny humans' talk when you're addressing me!"

"Yes, sir..." Then she muttered: "...you insignificant bag of ragebeast excrement!"

"Look, we're not here to cause trouble," Svana said. "We just want to find out what happened last night!"

"And I want my axe!"

"And he wants his axe," she agreed.

"I'll tell you what happened," the barman said, "your friend there murdered a woman! A good-looking one too. It's bad for business when pretty women can't come to your bar without getting killed!"

He stood up. He moved slowly, for there was a huge cannon resting on his shoulder.

"That's why I'm going to blast him in half!"

Ragnar glared. He took a step forward.

"Another step and the puny female dies!" Bel shouted.

And once more Ragnar froze, as the barman aimed his weapon at the hero's mighty chest. The weaver gasped. Her omnicidal companion, the slaughter of multitudes, butcher and destroyer, faced death. Yet he stood unwavering, rather than let her perish. Truly he was worthy of her saga. And that worthiness, his heroic soul, was about to bring his doom to pass...

The barman pulled the trigger.

Nothing happened. No great blast flew from the weapon's barrel and smote the Niflung warrior.

"Bel! This piece of crap isn't working! This is the last time I buy Rylattu weapons!"

"The weapon is a magnificent work of superior Rylattu engineering! Your feeble human mind is-"

"It's not working!" He pulled the trigger again. And again. But still the weapon was silent.

"Foolish stink-beast! Did you read the manual?"

"It didn't come with a manual!"

"You need to release the safety switches before destroying your worthless enemies!"

"Oh..."

The barman fiddled with the weapon. And the weaver acted. For she was a Niflung woman, and her father's daughter.

Svana spun round. Her word-axe struck Bel's hand, and knocked the pistol from her grasp. For in her arrogance the Rylattu had forgotten that action was swifter than reaction. And thus no shot pierced Svana's brain. Instead the Rylattu howled.

Ragnar ran towards the bar. The barman threw the final switch.

Bel Wunk Plon lunged for her fallen gun. But Svana Spunbracher's pretty face burned with fury, and her muscles surged with the might of her people. The word-axe struck again, and the Rylattu fell. She groaned on the floor, as blood tricked from her head. Svana seized the pistol, and saw that it was broken. Her word-axe had cleaved with all the force of its literary might, and damaged the gun -- a mere tool of violence instead of the saga-weaver's illustrious craft -- beyond use. She grinned in pride. But then she threw herself down, landing atop Bel. For a chunk of the wall exploded, and daylight poured in.

The barman's weapon had fired. But the great hero had hurled himself from its path and rolled across the floor. Thus its mighty barrel had blasted a hole in the wall instead of the Niflung.

The barman turned to aim once more. But like Svana, Ragnar was swifter. A round table flew from his hands, its long metal legs following in its wake as though it were a squid. But it was not a squid. For squids were soft, and the table was hard...

"Aaaaarrrrgggghhh!

Such was the cry of the barman, when the table knocked the weapon from his shoulder and smashed many of his bones. He fell back against shelves that were laden with colored bottles in strange shapes and sizes. And great was the crash thereof. Glass and alcohol cascaded and tinkled.

Then the son of Ragnar grasped him by his vest, pulled him into the air, and slammed him onto the bar.

"Yeah, kill me!" the barman wailed. "Kill me like you killed her!" |-|

"The Tale of the Tape"=
The Tale of the Tape

"Tell me what happened!" the hero roared. He shook the man, and each time the man's head bumped against the bar. "Tell me!"

"Wait!" Svana said. She grasped Ragnar's arm. His muscles were like metal boulders in her grasp. "Let him talk, before you end up cracking his skull open!"

Ragnar grunted, but he stopped shaking the barman.

"Tell me about this woman! Who did I kill?"

"You don't remember?" he gasped.

"No! I don't remember anything about last night! Someone poisoned me... or something... With metal spiders."

"Oh... You mean the Cybersmash Surprise!"

"What?"

"It's a homebrew! I named it after my favorite Twisted Steel-"

"You did it? You're the one who put those spiders in my body?" Ragnar shook him again.

"You asked for it! You asked for it!" the man cried, as his head bumped upon the bar.

"Ragnar!"

Svana tugged at his arm once more. Again it didn't move, for the weaver wasn't equal to the might of his muscles or his cybernetics. But her voice and her touch did what her thews could not, and again the barman's skull was spared.

"You're the one who wanted it!"

"What? I asked for robot spiders in my drink?"

"It was a bet! I told you I could get anyone wasted, and you didn't believe me. So I gave you a pint of Cybersmash Surprise. And you wanted another one. And another. And another... I lost count of how many you drank. I tried to cut you off, but you said you'd chop my head off if I didn't keep them coming!"

"Those spiders..." Svana said.

"They were invented for cyborg soldiers. The army they worked for had special systems put into them, so they couldn't get drunk on the job. But some black market techs came up with those little machines, so the cyborgs could still get hammered. One or two pints normally puts anyone down. And your friend here..."

"Bah... It'd been a long time since I'd drunk without my implants. Maybe I didn't know my limit..." Shame burned on the warrior's face.

"The woman he killed..." the weaver said.

"You can see it for yourself. There's a security console behind the bar."

Svana picked her way over the shattered glass with careful steps. She found the console. Soon a holographic projection opened in the space before the shelves of smashed bottles. It showed the room from a high angle. And there was the son of Ragnar, his great bulk sat at the bar. There were many empty glasses before him. And something else as well...

"My axe!"

The foe-hewer, the terrible weapon that had struck heads from necks and cleaved men in half, lay on the bar beside the empty glasses.

"Stupid... Stupid stink-beast..."

Svana turned as the Rylattu came behind the bar. Her hands tightened on the word-axe. But Bel hadn't come to renew the ferocious contest. One blue hand was pressed to her injured head. The other groped along the shelf and grabbed an unbroken bottle. She untwisted its cap with her mouth, then glugged the purple booze within.

"Sorry about your head," the weaver said.

Bel shrugged.

"Sorry I didn't blast the worthless brains from yours." She took another drink. Then she pointed at the screen. "That's me!"

Within the image, that holographic chronicle of Ragnar's mysterious adventure, the bouncer stood beside one of the booths. She was leaning towards its occupant, a beautiful woman whose fair face was framed by curly black tresses like silken curtains. The bouncer listened as the human whispered to her. Then she leaned away, went to the bar, and whispered to Ragnar in turn. After several moments the hero's past self nodded his head.

"What did you say to me?" the Ragnar of the present demanded.

"That female stink-beast gave me credits. In exchange, I told her about every paid killer who came into the bar. She wanted to hire the best of them. I'd introduced her to two others already -- another puny human and a hideous, disgusting creature. Even more disgusting than you stink-beasts. But she wanted to hire more. And I told the wretched woman that you'd collected a big bounty."

"What was the job?"

"The sniveling female didn't tell me."

The hero, the weaver, the barman, and the bouncer all looked on as the holographic Niflung staggered off the bar stool. He tottered away, his heavy frame stumbling under the weight of drunkenness that has pressed many men beneath it, leaving his foe-hewer on the bar -- beside the glass corpses whose innards he had drained.

He fell into the booth, opposite the woman. She leaned in close to him -- showing her breasts, stroking the hair back from the left side of her face. Her smile was alluring, her lips the curved red of seduction. Svana frowned, and murmured the word 'slut'. But the holographic woman ignored the unheard jibe. She whispered words that the weaver couldn't hear.

Then the holographic son of Ragnar roared. He stood, and grabbed the woman by her arm. Terror filled her beautiful face. Her lips weren't alluring now. They moved quickly, as though begging, pleading. But the Niflung was unmoved. He threw her onto the ground, where she sprawled on her chest. The hero raised his boot. It crashed down on her head. Twice. Thrice. After that she lay still. Her skull was a crushed, splattered ruin. Her brains were on his sole.

"Ragnar!" Svana groaned.

Her pretty face was pale. Her bright eyes were wide. She had seen her share of death. Ragnar himself has shown her much that day, when he waged war against the Curry Caliphate and smashed both bodies and turbans with his ferocious might. But this... The weaver felt vomit seething in her stomach, threatening to gush forth and douse the world as Ragnar's had before.

On the screen, the warrior stormed towards the exit. No one tried to bar his path. Behind him the woman's body lay upon the floor, and his foe-hewer on the bar.

"What happened to my axe?" he asked. This time there was no growl, no roar. His voice was quiet.

"Forward the vid," the barman said.

Svana did so, welcoming the distraction for her hands and mind. The image quickened. The denizens of the image milled around the corpse, gawping and chattering with supernatural speed.

"There!" the barman said.

The weaver let the vid return to its true speed -- the sometimes slow, sometimes swift pace at which lives are lived and deaths inflicted. A man entered the image, coming from the doors. He was a slim human with tall, spiky hair and goggles wrapped around his head.

"Metro Mash," Bel said. "A local hitman. The human she'd hired before you smashed her inferior stink-beast brains."

Metro Mash joined the crowd, stared at the corpse, and yelled soundless words at those around him. In the midst of the babbled answers, a woman pointed towards the bar at which Ragnar had sat not long before, that still bore his empty glasses and foe-hewer. Mash picked up the foe-hewer and ran to the door. He disappeared from the image, along with his prize. |-|

"Shuborunth"=
Shuborunth

Shuborunth

"That bastard stole my axe! Tell me where to find him, and I'll tear his-"

"Turn around, mate. That's where you'll find him."

Four gazes fell upon the man who'd come through the doorway. Ragnar's foe-finders blazed. Metro Mash stood there in the flesh now, the spikes of his hair even higher and bluer than they'd seemed on the holo-vid. The goggles on his eyes flashed with the screen's reflection. In his hand was the hero's foe-hewer.

"I've been looking for you, mate."

"Give me my axe!"

"Oh, I'll give it you... Right through your sodding head. You know how many bloody credits you cost us when you killed that rich bint? She was hot too! Might have been able to give her one when it was all over and done with, and we'd been paid... Why'd you bash her brains out anyway? Price not good enough for you? She wouldn't open her legs? What?"

"I don't know!"

"You what, mate?"

"I told you -- I don't know why I killed her!"

Metro cackled like a hyena.

"Oh, that's bloody priceless, that is. You cost us a sodding fortune, and you don't even know why! Too pissed, were you? Wanker!" Metro Mash made a shaking motion with his free fist. "You could have killed Moto anytime... You know, like after we were done! But oh, no, you had to go and-"

"Wait... What did you call her?" Ragnar asked.

"Moto, mate. Moto Zair."

The Niflung bellowed with laughter. His great frame shook. The others gazed at him in wonder.

"Something funny, mate?"

"And what... what was the... the job?" the hero managed, from amidst laughter that was like the roar of merry thunder.

"She wanted us to kill this kid... a prince, or something."

"Ha!" The son of Ragnar turned to the weaver. "That's why I killed her! Because the bitch deserved it! Moto Zair's the one who tried to kill Tel! And the stupid bitch thought she'd hire me to finish the job! She got what she had coming!"

"I'm sure there's a great backstory there and all, but you still cost me a sodding big pile of creds. And I'm-"

"I'm in a good mood," Ragnar said. "Give me my axe, and I won't even rip your spine out."

"Come and get it, mate!" He placed both hands on the mighty weapon's shaft and took up a fighting stance.

"Stupid stink-beast! This hulking human will destroy you! Give him his axe, or we'll have to clean your guts off the floor!"

"She's right," Svana added. "You can't take Ragnar. Not even with that axe."

"Good thing I brought a mate along then, isn't it?" He turned to the doorway. "Hey, Shuborunth -- get your arse in here!"

A slimy, slithering, dragging noise filled the air. Then something just as slimy, slithering, and dragging filled the entrance. It bulged through the gap like a huge mass of rancid meat, before coming inside with a pop and standing... sitting... festering there in all its hideousness. It was a blob of bright white flesh, its amorphous shape broken only by two eyes and a huge, gaping, toothless maw.

"What the hell's that?" Svana asked.

"The other killer the pathetic brain-splattered female hired," Bel replied.

"Shuborunth!" the blob... blobbed. Its very voice sounded like wobbling balls of flab undulating in the air. "Shuborunth!" Shuborunth!"

"Huh?" the weaver asked.

"He's a Blob Beast," Ragnar replied. "They use their own names as war cries."

"Blob Beast is slur!" he blobbed. "Human is racist! Shuborunth is Wulblunralxanachi!"

"How do you spell that?" Svana's fingers danced upon the word-axe's screen, lest the galaxy never learn of this strange encounter.

"Human will look it up! Shuborunth is killer, not dictionary!"

"One last chance, you spiky-haired pile of crap!" the hero roared. "The axe! Now!"

"Not a chance, mate. Shuborunth -- kill him!"

"Shuborunth! Shuborunth! Shuborunth!"

---

Ragnar roared and charged. His mighty body hurtled at Metro Mash. It was as though a fearsome avalanche crashed down from the mountains, thundering in an unstoppable wave that would surely smash the man foolish enough to stand in its path.

"Shuborunth!"

The blob... leapt. Svana gasped. Disbelief flooded her body from head to toe. It filled her valkyrie boots, bulged in her mail bodice, danced across her blonde locks. The massive lump of flesh launched itself into the air -- turning its body into a torpedo of flab. Its great mouth opened wide... And descended on Ragnar.

Shuborunth splatted in a big mound. Then it rose up, and gave a burp that made its lips shudder.

"Shuborunth wins! Shuborunth is best killer! Shuborunth is... Ugh!"

The blob groaned. Something bulged outwards from its gut. The flesh fell back into place. Then there was another bulge. Then another.

"Ugh! Human is alive! Shuborunth's gasses should have killed human! Human is hitting Shuborunth! Hitting inside! Ugh! Help! Ugh! Help Shuborunth!"

He flopped this way and that. His huge bulbous body swayed.

"Shuborunth! Shuborunth! Shuborunnnnnnth!"

The cry became a blobby screech as eight fingers burst from the middle of his body, each hand's digits pressed back to back. All those present stared in wonder and marveled at the might of Ragnar... For they all knew what must happen next.

"Shubor..."

The hero's powerful thews, the arms which had brought slaughter to his foes and salvation to his friends, that had wielded foe-hewer and doom-scribbler in myriad battles, pulled.

Thick, slimy flesh tore with a heavy wet rip. A stench as of rotten eggs filled the room and made Svana's nose wrinkle. The little hole, from whence the son of Ragnar's fingers had emerged, lengthened and widened. It ripped down Shuborunth's length. Then across his width, as the Niflung warrior opened him as though he were a pair of vile drapes.

And there Ragnar stood, amid the alien's exposed innards.

Metro Mash ran. But he'd gawped at the sight for a moment too long, and Svana was fast. The word-axe, that potent weapon of war and tale, the tool of her craft which would cleave the story into being, first clove Metro's skull. He crashed to the floor. And then came Ragnar...

"This is mine." The hero brandished his foe-hewer. "But you can have a taste..."

His raised his weapon. Doom seethed across its blade. Then weapon and doom fell as one, and Metro Mash was sent to tell the tale to the dead whilst Svana told it to the living.

---

"Svana?"

"Hi, Karl."

"What're you doing here?"

"Just visiting. How's my replacement getting on?"

"She's doing... Well she's doing as well as can be expected. But you... I mean, really you shouldn't be here... And who... Who are these people?"

"This is Ragnar Ragnarsson. A friend of mine."

Svana Spunbracher and the Niflung warrior strode down the corridor. Karl Hrolfsson, Rektor of Siegfried School, had to jog to keep up.

"And the other one?" He gestured at the man slung across Ragnar's brawny shoulder.

"A wanted criminal," the warrior replied. "With a nice bounty on his head."

"I demand a lawyer!" the man wailed.

"There'll be plenty of lawyers where you're going."

"Prison?"

"Not quite. Now keep your mouth shut, or I'll tear your jaw off."

The criminal fell silent. He liked his jaw where it was.

"This school isn't an appropriate place for dangerous criminals!" Rektor Hrolfsson said. "Apart from the parents, I mean."

"Don't worry, Karl. He won't be here for long. Trust me."

"Svana..."

She turned to him, not slowing her pace, pulled his head to hers with one fair hand, and planted a kiss on his lips.

"Trust me, Karl."

"Oh... Okay."

He stopped in the corridor and fell away behind them. In a few moments they were at the door of the classroom where Svana had once taught.

Through the square window that dominated its upper half, the writer and warrior saw a young teacher -- perhaps fresh from university -- half-crouched behind her desk. In front of her, at their own desks, a horde of teenagers screamed and threw things. Most of them hurled e-readers or styluses. But an axe spun end over end and embedded itself in the wall. Two more were stuck nearby.

"Damn kids," Ragnar grunted.

"Exactly," Svana replied. "Time to scare them straight..."

Ragnar kicked the door open and stormed inside.

"The fun's over, you little bastards!" he roared.

The children stared at the muscular warrior, their mouths agape, unhurled missiles falling from their hands. His crimson glare found each of them in turn, and they trembled.

"Excuse me..." the teacher murmured. "Can I... Can I help you?"

"No," Svana said. She stepped into the room. "But we can help you."

She turned to the pupils.

"You lot remember me?"

Some of them nodded. Others just stared at Ragnar and the prisoner he carried.

"Good. This is Mr. Ragnarsson. A friend of mine. He's here to show you something..."

Ragnar shrugged the man off his shoulder. He hit the ground with a thud and a cry.

"Hey!"

"Watch this!" Ragnar growled.

He grabbed the man's leg.

"Hey! What are you doing? What're- Aaaaarrrrgggghhh!"

The Niflung warrior stomped down with his boot and pulled with his arms in the same moment. His muscles were strong. So were his cybernetics. Far stronger than the man's leg...

Some of the pupils screamed when it tore free. Especially the ones whose faces were sprayed with its blood. Others still just stared, noiseless, pale, aghast.

"Aaaaarrrrgggghhh! My leg! My leg! Aaaaarrrrgggghhh!

Ragnar grunted, raised the limb above his head, and brought it down as a bludgeon. The man screamed at first. But the blows that showered down on his thrashing body beat silence into him. Then the brains out of him.

The warrior tossed the leg aside, grunted once more, and turned to the children again.

"You kids keep causing trouble, and I'll be back to do this to you. Understand?"

Teenage heads nodded with frantic, neck-spraining speed. The children took their seats.

The teacher got up from her half-crouch, sat in her chair, and beamed her gratitude at Ragnar and Svana.

"Now where were we?" she asked, scanning her e-reader. "Ah, yes..."

Ragnar and Svana left the classroom and closed the door behind them. </tabber>