Chapter 181 KRAGH VUUL! #180

Frostfang Island was the biggest in a chain of islands northeast of the Breton kingdom of Jehanna. On paper, it was part of High Rock, but its ownership was undecided between the Jehanna and Northpoint kingdoms—a technicality that had never been resolved because neither kingdom actually wanted it.

The petty kingdoms of Northern High Rock had been squabbling for generations, and they’d fought wars for much pettier reasons than land. A slighted marriage proposal. A disputed inheritance. A poorly worded letter that someone took as an insult.

Blood had been spilled over things that, in hindsight, seemed almost laughable. But Frostfang Island, and the smaller islands surrounding it, had zero strategic value to speak of—no deep harbors, no fertile soil, no valuable ore.

The distance between it and the mainland, and how close it was to what sailors considered the “true” beginning of the Sea of Ghosts, was yet another reason no kingdom was interested in owning it.

The island was a frozen afterthought, a place that existed on maps only because cartographers felt obligated to include it.

As their ship approached the island’s shore, Torin stood at the bow with Echo beside him. The bear’s nose twitched, her dark eyes fixed on the land ahead, her breath misting in the cold air. The sight before him was fascinating, to say the least.

A black stone beach stretched before him, caked in snow but not completely engulfed in it. The result was a unique black-and-white patch of land, the dark stone peeking through the white drifts like the hide of some great, slumbering beast.

The beach was teeming with massive horkers—even bigger than the ones you’d see in Winterhold—their bulk scattered across the shore like boulders, their tusks gleaming in the pale light.

The beach itself was surrounded by enormous black cliffs, their faces sheer and forbidding, rising from the sea like the walls of a natural fortress. There was no visible path, no gap in the rock, no sign that anything had ever set foot on this island besides the horkers and the birds that circled overhead.

It was the only way in.

Qasim moved to stand beside him, his arms crossed, his expression thoughtful. Torin instantly spoke up, his voice carrying a note of skepticism.

“Are you sure this is the place? It looks deserted”

He looked at the beach—devoid of any signs of civilization. No fire smoke in the distance. No ships docked anywhere in sight. No structures, no tents, no totems. Nothing that suggested anyone lived here, let alone a race of giants who hunted leviathans in the depths of the Sea of Ghosts.

Qasim didn’t answer immediately. He simply stared at the island, his brow furrowed, his hand resting on the hilt of his broken sword.

“She said to meet her here,” he said finally. “On the black beach, when the sun touches the western cliffs in a night of full moon.”

He paused, his gaze shifting to the horizon, where the sun was just beginning its slow descent toward the cliffs.

“There’s still time.”

…

An hour went by in the blink of an eye. The ship was anchored, its crew working efficiently to secure the vessel against the shifting tides. On the beach, tents were erected and campfires built, their flames casting flickering pools of orange light across the black stone and white snow.

The Breton sailors moved with practiced ease, their breath misting in the cold air, their eyes constantly darting toward the horizon.

Torin stood near the water’s edge, Echo beside him, his gaze fixed on the sea. The sun had begun its descent toward the western cliffs, painting the sky in shades of amber and rose. The horkers had retreated to the far end of the beach, their massive forms huddled together like a wall of blubber and tusks.

Then the cry came.

“A vessel on the horizon! Longship!”

Everyone stopped what they were doing. The sailors abandoned their tasks, the guards left their posts, and the entire camp gravitated toward the beach. Torin turned, his hand resting on Skaldrfong’s haft, his eyes narrowing against the glare of the setting sun.

The longship cut through the horizon like a blade, its prow slicing through the violent waves with an ease that defied the sea’s fury. The closer it got, the bigger it became—a vessel that seemed to grow with every passing moment, its hull dark and sleek, its sails billowing with wind that seemed to favor it alone.

By the time it stopped by the shore, it dwarfed the Breton ship anchored beside it, its shadow falling over the beach like a cloud.

A giantess jumped over the railing.

She landed in the water with a splash that sent spray flying in all directions, but the waves that would have buried a regular man barely covered above her knees.

She was massive—easily fifteen feet tall—with broad shoulders and thick limbs, her skin the color of storm clouds, etched with silver markings that spiraled across her arms and face. Her hair was white, braided back from her face in intricate patterns, and her eyes were pale blue, sharp and assessing.

She looked over at the gathered crowd and began to wade through the freezing water like it was lukewarm, her expression one of casual indifference. The Bretons nearest the shore scrambled backward, their hands going to their weapons, their faces pale with fear.

She stopped before them, her shadow swallowing the campfire’s glow. Her eyes landed on Qasim, and a flicker of recognition passed across her features.

“You again.” Her voice was deep, resonant, carrying the weight of someone who was used to being heard. “You speak for the toe-rats, after all?”

Qasim shook his head, his expression calm, his posture relaxed despite the giantess looming over him.

“I’m only a wanderer. This matter is bigger than me.”

The giantess scoffed, a sharp, dismissive sound.

“Small bloods.” She shook her head, her braids swaying. “Always passing the burden to another.”

Her eyes turned to scan the crowd, moving from face to face with a deliberation that made the Bretons shrink back. She was looking for something—someone—and she seemed in no hurry to find them.

“Who talks then?” she asked, her voice carrying a note of challenge. “Who has the balls?”

Her gaze naturally settled on Torin, who stood out the most due to his size. He was taller than any of the Bretons, broader than any of the sailors, and he met her eyes without flinching.

“If it were another tribe of Draugrath,” she said slowly, “You would talk for them.”

Torin tilted his head, a faint smile playing at his lips.

“We don’t rely on size to determine who speaks for us,” he said, his voice calm and steady. “But I do speak for Skyrim—and for the Bretons who asked for my help.”

The giantess grunted, the sound low and rumbling, like distant thunder.

“We do. Size and strength determine all.”

She pointed at Qasim, her thick finger aimed at his chest.

“If you wish to speak with us for the one with the sword, you need to be stronger than him.”

Torin tilted his head, a flicker of curiosity in his eyes.

“Oh?” He crossed his arms, his posture relaxed but alert. “And how do you intend to determine who of us is stronger? Would you have me and Qasim fight?”

The giantess scoffed, the sound sharp and dismissive.

“No. Strength doesn’t determine one’s worth within your people. You might not fight with honesty.” She shook her head, her braids swaying. “Smallbloods are cunning like that.”

Torin gave her a crooked smirk, inclining his head in acknowledgment.

“True.” He paused. “So how do you want to do this?”

The giantess pointed at Qasim again, her expression unreadable.

“He beat one of us. Became worthy.” She shifted her finger to Torin. “You beat someone stronger. Become more worthy. That is the only way.”

Torin crossed his arms, his smirk fading into something more serious.

“Fair enough.” He met her eyes. “Who will I fight?”

The giantess grinned—a wide, predatory expression that split her weathered face like a crack in stone. She turned toward the longship, cupped her massive hands around her mouth, and bellowed at the top of her lungs.

“GRAH HAHL NA!”

Her voice echoed across the island, bouncing off the black cliffs, rolling over the water like a wave. The horkers, startled from their huddle, bolted upright and scrambled into the sea, their massive bodies crashing through the surf in a panic. Even the Breton soldiers, seasoned men who had faced down pirates and sea monsters, took several steps back, their hands flying to their weapons.

In response to her exclamation, more than a few giants jumped off the ship.

They landed on the beach with heavy thuds, their massive forms casting long shadows across the black stone. They were all slightly shorter than the giantess—perhaps twelve or thirteen feet tall—and unarmed, their hands empty, their postures relaxed. All except one.

He was the same height as the rest, but in his right hand, he held an axe—a massive thing of bone and metal, its blade chipped and scarred from countless battles. In his left hand, he carried a round shield, reinforced with steel and adorned with bones that had been woven into the metal like trophies.

The giants settled a distance away from the camp, forming a loose semicircle. Only one of them approached—the one with the axe and shield. He stopped in front of the giantess and offered them to her, his head bowed in a gesture of respect.

She took them from his hands—the axe and the shield, both of which looked like they weighed as much as a small horse—and turned to face Torin. Her pale blue eyes locked onto his, sharp and assessing.

“I speak for my people. I fight for them.” She gave him a challenging look, her chin raised. “You object?”

Torin simply smiled and shook his head, the motion easy and unhurried. He’d expected something like this. The giants valued strength, valued the willingness to put one’s own body on the line. He could respect that.

The giantess’s grin widened, a flash of white teeth against grey skin. She beat the shield with the broad side of her axe—a thunderous clang that echoed across the beach—and shouted at the top of her lungs.

“KRAGH VUUL!”

The giants around her began to beat their chests with their right hands, a rhythmic thumping that sounded like war drums. They chanted in unison, their deep voices rolling across the island like the crash of waves against a cliff.

“KRAGH VUUL! KRAGH VUUL! KRAGH VUUL!”

They didn’t stop there. As the chanting continued, the giants began to move, spreading out, surrounding Torin and the giantess in a wide circle. Their massive forms cast long shadows across the black stone and white snow, and their chanting grew louder, more intense.

Echo let out a low, rumbling growl, her hackles rising, her body tensing. The Breton sailors, meanwhile, began to reach for their weapons, their faces pale with alarm. They exchanged nervous glances, their hands hovering over sword hilts and axe handles, unsure of what was happening or what they should do.

The captain of the ship—a weathered man with grey in his beard and more sense than most—quickly walked up to Torin, his voice low and urgent.

“What should we do?”

Torin didn’t respond immediately. He patted Echo on the head, calming her with a gentle touch and a few whispered words, then shrugged.

“I don’t know.” He pointed at the giants, who were still beating their chests and chanting. “Try doing what they’re doing.”

The captain looked at the giants, then back at Torin. His expression visibly darkened, his brow furrowing in confusion and no small amount of horror.

“You want us to beat our chests and shout nonsense?”

Torin sighed, the sound long and weary.

“No. Make a fucking circle.”

The captain’s expression turned blank. His mouth opened, then closed, then opened again.

“Oh,” he muttered. Then he cleared his throat, straightened his back, and nodded. “Right. We’ll do that.”

With that, he turned to his men and began to shout orders, his voice carrying across the beach with the practiced authority of a man who had commanded ships through storms and battles. The sailors scrambled to obey, forming a loose ring around the giants, their weapons still in hand but lowered, their postures uncertain but determined.

Soon enough, there was an almost perfect circle of both giants and men surrounding Torin and the giantess. The chanting continued, the chest-beating continued, and Torin found himself standing in the center of it all, facing a fifteen-foot warrior with an axe made of bone and a shield adorned with trophies.

This would be educational, if nothing else.