THE HIGH TABLE

The pipe clattered against the concrete. Jaska's hand went to his neck, fingers closing around the empty syringe that jutted from his flesh like a poisonous dart. He pulled it out, staring at the plunger—fully depressed. Empty. The voice that followed was not a voice. It was the grinding of tectonic plates. The growl of a bear with a mouthful of broken glass. "Two of my boys. My boys. You took them from me, you frostbitten reindeer fuck." Jaska turned, his vision already beginning to shimmer at the edges. What stood in the doorway blocked out the moonlight entirely. Commander Sten "The Spiked" Järvholm. Fifty years of Swedish special forces discipline distilled into a living weapon. He was not merely large—he was Herculean. His chest strained against a leather harness studded with steel rivets. His boots rose to his knees, black leather polished to a sinister gleam, and from each heel extended a spur—not the dull nubs of a cowboy, but sharpened, curved spikes designed to disembowel. His gauntlets, reaching nearly to his elbows, were covered in gleaming pyramidal spikes, each one capable of tearing flesh to ribbons. His face was a roadmap of violence: a broken nose reset badly, a scar splitting his lip, eyes the color of dirty ice. He carried no weapon. He was the weapon. Jaska felt the chemicals hit his bloodstream. His heart, already hammering, began to scream. The viagra—God, why the viagra?—sent blood rushing everywhere, his vision sharpening to painful clarity, every nerve ending on fire. The steroids hit his muscles like lightning, flooding them with unnatural, desperate strength. His body was betraying him, turning him into a hyper-aware, hyper-charged victim. "I'm going to take you apart," Sten said, stepping forward. Each footfall echoed. The spurs clicked against the concrete. "Not quick. Not clean. I'm going to wear you." Jaska's training screamed at him to run. But his body, poisoned and supercharged, refused to obey. His legs trembled with excess energy. His fists clenched until his gloves creaked. Sten charged. It was not like Tor's charge. Tor was a boulder. Sten was an avalanche with intent. He closed the distance in three impossible strides, and before Jaska could even raise his hands, a spiked gauntlet ripped across his chest. The plate carrier saved his life—barely. The spikes caught the edge of the ceramic plate, screeching against it, but one hooked under and tore through the uniform beneath. Jaska felt fire across his ribs, looked down, saw blood welling through the shredded fabric. He swung. His enhanced strength made the punch faster than any he'd ever thrown. It connected with Sten's jaw. The big man's head snapped to the side. And then he laughed. "That it? That's what killed my boys?" Sten's head rolled back, his grin a nightmare of yellow teeth. "The drugs haven't even kicked in yet, little Finn. I'm just warming up." He kicked. The spur caught Jaska across the thigh, slicing through his tactical pants like tissue paper. Blood sprayed. Jaska screamed—actually screamed—and stumbled backward. The wound burned like acid. He looked down and saw the gash, deep, ugly, pouring red. Sten advanced slowly now, savoring it. He dragged one spur against the concrete, sending sparks showering into the darkness. He flexed his gauntlets, the spikes glinting. "You feel that?" Sten asked, his voice almost conversational. "The heat? The pounding in your chest? That's the viagra. Keeps the blood flowing. Means you won't pass out from blood loss too quick. Means you'll feel everything." Jaska backed into the rusted car. Nowhere to go. Sten kept coming. The next attack was a masterpiece of brutality. Sten lunged, both gauntlets extended like a beast's claws. Jaska dodged left—too slow. The spikes on Sten's right gauntlet raked across his shoulder, shredding the uniform, digging furrows into the flesh beneath. The left gauntlet came up and smashed into his face. Not a punch. A smash. The spikes embedded in his cheek, his brow, tore free as Sten yanked back. Jaska felt his own blood fill his mouth. Felt the flap of skin hanging over his eye. He was being butchered. But the drugs—God, the drugs—kept him conscious. Kept him feeling. Every nerve shrieked. Every muscle burned with useless, frantic energy. Sten grabbed him by the throat with one spiked hand. The points pressed into his flesh, not quite piercing, just threatening. Sten lifted. Jaska's feet left the ground. "Look at you," Sten whispered, holding him at eye level. "Little Finnish ant. Thought you could waltz into my country, kill my men, and just walk out?" Jaska grabbed Sten's wrist, trying to pry the gauntlet loose. The spikes bit into his own palms through his gloves. Blood dripped down his arms. He couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Sten squeezed. The spikes began to penetrate. Just a little. Just enough to hurt. Just enough to promise. "I'm going to cut you open," Sten said calmly, conversationally. "Pull out your intestines. Wrap them around your neck. Then I'm going to kick you to death with my spurs. And the whole time, thanks to my little cocktail, you'll be fully aware. Fully engaged." Jaska's vision was dimming. His enhanced, poisoned heart hammered uselessly. This was it. This was the end. The bear had found a bigger bear. The survivor had met something that could not be survived. Sten smiled. Then his head snapped forward as a two-by-four, swung with every ounce of desperate, dying strength Jaska could muster, connected with the back of his skull. Jaska had grabbed it from the car interior. One final, desperate act. The wood splintered on impact. Sten's grip loosened just enough. Jaska dropped, gasping, to the concrete, blood pouring from a dozen wounds. Sten turned. The wood had not even fazed him. A thin trickle of blood ran down his neck. He touched it, looked at his reddened gauntlet, and his smile widened. "Oh," he breathed. "You bled me. Wonderful. Now we can really begin." He raised one boot, spur pointed directly at Jaska's face. "I'm going to start with your eyes." The spur descended. And Jaska, broken, bleeding, pumped full of nightmare chemicals, could only watch it come. The spur stopped. One inch from Jaska's left eye. The tip actually touched his eyelash. Sten's grin was the last thing Jaska saw before— FWOOOSH. A shape. Moving faster than anything that size had a right to. It hit Sten like a freight train made of pure Arctic winter. The massive Swedish commander lifted off his feet and crashed through a stack of wooden pallets twenty feet away. Jaska blinked through the blood. Through the chemical haze. Through the pain. Standing over him, breathing hard, was a figure in black tactical gear. Not Finnish. Not Swedish either. The patch on the shoulder was unmistakable to anyone who knew. 

Published: 2026-03-30, viewed 42 times.