The cold, damp stone of the cell bit into Dagur’s back, a familiar ache that had become as much a part of him as the air he breathed. His wrists and ankles were stretched taut, bound by thick, dark metal that gleamed faintly in the sparse light filtering from the corridor. He tested the chains with a grunt, the heavy links groaning in protest. Not just any iron. This was Gronckle iron. He knew that impossible strength, that peculiar dull sheen. He’d seen it on Fishlegs’ absurdly over-engineered sword once.
They’d made these, he guessed, after his first escape attempt. After he’d found a moment of frantic, desperate freedom and then, when they’d had him on the floor, while they were ‘persuading’ him with a heated poker… well. He’d seen an opening. Heard the snap. Touched the blood. And the hunter had screamed himself hoarse about his missing finger. Viggo learned. Viggo always learned.
But Dagur learned too. And one thing he’d learned was that a Berserker, even chained, was still a Berserker. And Berserkers were annoying.
He’d started subtly. A tuneless, off-key hum of an old Berserker war chant, just loud enough to be heard over the ship’s creaks and groans. Then it escalated to a rhythmic, maddening tap of his chained foot against the stone, a relentless cadence that burrowed into the skull.
“Is it breakfast yet?” he’d called out an hour ago, his voice echoing in the confined space. No answer. “How about dinner? Or perhaps second dinner? I hear you hunters have an affinity for… second dinner.”
He’d mimicked the heavy footfalls of the guards patrolling the corridor, a clumsy, exaggerated shuffle that made them clench their fists. He’d sighed dramatically, loud enough to sound like a dying Gronckle, every five minutes. He’d even attempted to recruit the resident rats into a ‘choir,’ offering them stale bread if they could hit a high note.
Outside the cell, the two guards pacing the corridor exchanged venomous glances. Gruk, the burly one with a scarred cheek, scrubbed a hand over his face. Joric, leaner and perpetually grim, clenched his jaw. They’d started their shift with bored indifference, but Dagur’s relentless campaign of auditory torment was working. The way they glared at him, then stubbornly tried to avoid looking in his direction, told him everything.
“Gods above, if he sings that fishwives’ dirge one more time…” Gruk muttered, his voice a low growl.
Joric grunted. “Just ignore him, Gruk. Viggo’s orders. He wants him… intact.”
“Intact? My head feels like a Gronckle just laid an egg in it! I say we just toss him. One splash, problem solved.” Gruk gestured vaguely towards the ship’s side.
Dagur, midway through a particularly jarring rendition of “Ode to the Terrible Terrors,” cut off abruptly. His ear twitched. This was new.
Joric’s voice was hushed, but clear in the sudden silence. “And face Viggo’s wrath? You know what he does to those who disobey. He’d feed us to the Scauldron, slow.”
“He wouldn’t know,” Gruk countered, a desperate edge to his tone. “A ‘storm’ could have swept him overboard. An ‘unforeseen accident’.”
“He’s too valuable,” Joric insisted, though his resolve seemed to be fraying. “Viggo wants to ‘break’ him. He thinks he can turn him.”
Gruk scoffed, a raw, bitter sound. “Break him? He’s already broken my last nerve! I’d pay good gold to watch him sink like a stone.”
A slow, predatory grin spread across Dagur’s face. He leaned back against the cold stone, the gronckle iron chains a familiar weight. The guards outside were still arguing in hushed but increasingly urgent tones, debating the finer points of insubordination and the likelihood of Viggo finding out.
“So,” Dagur’s voice cut through their desperate whispers, suddenly clear and strong, devoid of its earlier theatrical annoyance. “You’re telling me you boys are that desperate to get rid of C me? And Viggo worries about my loyalty? You lot couldn’t even follow a simple order if it meant a quiet night’s sleep!”
The guards froze, their argument dying in their throats. They turned slowly, their faces a mixture of fury and dawning horror that they’d been overheard. Dagur met their glares with a wide, triumphant smirk. He might be chained, he might be Viggo’s captive, but the Berserker inside him was far from broken. In fact, he was just getting started.
