



1.


The ferret’s hands were spread, pinned painfully under weighted chests of plunder. Plunder taken from his own home at least in part. His clothes have been cut away, to a larger fur this ferret would be almost indistinguishable from his feral cousins. But a feral would have been luckier. This ferret knew the depths of trouble he was in.

It was quiet. Not a sound in the cavernous tent he’d found himself. He wasn’t alone though. There were bodies, other ferrets taken when the vikings laid waste to their tiny fishing village. He shuddered at the memories. So much pain. So much blood. And the vikings.

The vikings, polar bears from the far north and bigger than anything he’d ever seen, burned everything they couldn’t use. At first the ferret thought it was a good sign they hadn’t just chucked the rodents into the flames, but now…

A shadow rose over him. His eyes widened and his badder lost control. The biggest of the giant furs had just launched himself into the air with a roaring grunt. A mountain, silhouetted against the tent’s roof, approaching faster than it took the ferret’s life to finish flashing before his eyes.

The bear’s right paw landed squarely on the ferret’s chest, heel first, several tons of force collapsing the lungs like parchment, rupturing organs like grapes and flattening bones and skull like dried wheat stalks. 

One leaping stomp and the ferret was bloody hide, his pulverized insides splashed in a ring around what was left.

***

Gunnarr Frost, son of the Jarl and heir to his clan’s territory slowly lifted his foot, the flattened ferret coming with. He snorted a laugh and shook the body off.

A cheer went up from the gathered bears who sat in a ring around the tent’s interior. His victory was obvious. He laughed and accepted the horn of mead his friend and lieutenant, Eamon passed him. 

It was a sadistic game he played with his trusted peers. The rules were simple: one stomp to see how flat they could make a ferret.

The ferrets were a weak, small species. Barely reaching halfway up a polar bear’s calf. The vikings stumbled upon their fishing village quite by accident. Nestled in the mouth of wide river and being so poor as to almost make the raid pointless, Gunnarr only ordered it to alleviate the boredom that crept in on their journey south. 

The vikings still had a few of the captives left. Most were staked to the ground where the patrols could have some fun. Gunnarr had just killed the last ferret in his command tent. A few dozen of the rodents, their torsos in various degrees of flatness would need to be tossed out soon. But for now, Gunnarr intended to celebrate his mastery of this game. 

“Such a mess it leaves,” Eamon lamented.

Gunnarr drained the last of his drink and laughed. “And how many ferrets have died on your cock this last week, my friend?”

“That is different. I don't usually fill them with enough seed to make them explode.”

“Hah, Eamon, but you do pump enough to leave them drowned and bloated.” Gunnarr began to scrape the bottom of his paw along the dirt floor, removing more ferret.

Gunnarr’s friend was shorter but heavier than himself. A testament to Eamon’s hedonistic excess when it came to the finer things in life. Namely food, sex and drink. It contrasted with Gunnarr’s lust for battle and domination, but the two polar bears had been inseparable friends since their youth. They've come to enjoy each other's company on many levels.

As the bears joked and drank the tent’s door was pulled back. Another polar bear, Gunnarr recognized him as one of his newest warriors, possibly on his first raiding expedition. Gunnarr leaned forward, his wooden throne creaking, as the warrior pushed his way through the drinking celebrants. 

“You bring word of my battering ram?” Gunnarr asked hopefully.

“No, sir,” said the breathless warrior. “You said you wanted word if the foxes were up to anything. I ran as fast as I could. There's movement along the wall and noises behind the gate.”

Eamon looked at Gunnarr. “Perhaps they mean to try and break the siege?”

Gunnarr laughed. He knew foxes to be cowards, unworthy of being met in honorable combat. Not that vulpines ever willingly committed to a fight against the vikings to begin with. Before Gunnarr could say this, a deep reverberating blast from a horn sounded above the tent’s noise.

Gunnarr grinned. This was an alert. The vikings poured out of the tent. After a week and a half of sieging the merchant city the entire horde was hungry for conquest. Gunnarr shrugged on his scale armor and hefted the warhammer he’d left just inside the tent.

Maybe the foxes really had become desperate enough to fight. He swung his hammer, loosening his arm and itching for the feel of driving the mass of iron into an enemy's skull. 

The horn sounded again. Gunnarr still remembered the goat who’d provided it. A chieftain of one of the mountain tribes. Gunnarr personally snapped off the ram’s impressive horns before taking the broken fur as a slave. He grinned, wondering if the goat was still alive, probably in the hands of one of his viking brothers back home, living an existence of constant pain and torment.

Gunnarr pushed those happy thoughts away as he crested the low hill that overlooked the city’s gates. His warriors stood in a loose line, 400 minus the team he’s sent into the forest for trees big enough to make his battering ram. When the two dozen longships made land the foxes sent the town guard, thinking they were facing smugglers, or at worst pirate wolves. The vikings pitched their spears, taking down eight foxes and sending the rest into a panicked flight for the safety of the city walls. They’ve been hiding like cowards ever since.

The gates opened. Gunnarr shouted for his warriors to hold their ground. Their urge to charge was palpable, but Gunnarr knew a disorganized assault, even on a city of merchants and foxes, could turn costly.

The gates slammed shut, leaving five figures outside.

“So much for a battle,” Eamon sulked.

Gunnarr growled. The party of foxes carried a white banner of peace, slowly making their way across the open field to the hilly treeline the vikings held. It was too hot to play these games, the bear thought. Only the desperate took hope in diplomacy. 

The foxes approached the hill Gunnarr stood atop. An obvious assumption that the biggest polar bear would be in charge. Four dressed in the light leather armour of the city’s guard, another wore a fine imported silk robe. Bright sky blue, a style fashionable amongst vulpine Nobility. Not one of them were much taller than Gunnarr’s navel.

The emissary's crimson fur shined in the sunlight, washed and brushed to a softness that rivaled his silk. It was a far cry from Gunnarr and his vikings. Their white fur was left shades of tanned yellow after months of sweat and dirt their journey had brought them.

The fox motioned for his guards to stop as he stepped closer. “My king sends me to discuss terms. Will you deal?”

Gunnarr had no intention of discussing anything with a fox… but this might provide a welcome bit of fun until his battering ram was ready.

Gunnarr took off his helmet and tossed it to Eamon. He looked down at the svelte fox, a meer wraith compared to his massive form. “I am Gunnarr Frost. Son of the Jarl and commander of this horde. Who are you, and by what authority do you dare to speak to me?”

The fox’s ears lowered at the bear’s thundering voice. “M-my name is Nero Feroxis, th-the King’s own brother. I act in his stead and anything I commit to, he shall honor.”

Several of the polar bears around Gunnarr began to chuckle, knowing their leader's brand of entertainment.

“Kneel,” Gunnarr said plainly.

“What?” 

“I said, kneel you worm. If you want me to listen to your pleas for peace, I want to see that you fully acknowledge the position you’ve put yourself in.”  

Nero’s ears flicked. He looked behind him, knowing he was in full view of the foxes watching from the wall. He sighed and dropped to his knees. 

Gunnarr’s warriors laughed, but for him it only fueled his desire to push the fox further. “Your guards too.” 

Nero turned and hissed a sharp command. The fox guards reluctantly knelt to the sound of more laughter.

“Alright. We can speak. But let’s do it in my tent. It’s hot enough without the sun beating down on us.” He turned and stopped. “Oh, and crawl. A dog like you shouldn’t stand in the presence of his betters.”

By the time they’d reached Gunnarr’s tent the fox was all the redder for embarrassment, and his blue robe was stained with grass and mud. Gunnarr sat in his chair while the fox looked horrified at the dead ferrets left after the morning’s game. The polar bear rolled his eyes and motioned for one of his vikings to remove the dead.

Eamon took his seat next to Gunnarr. A wicked grin twisted his lips. He leaned over and whispered his idea. Gunnarr roared with laughter and nodded his approval. 

“Nero,” Gunnarr said, “come. Take the seat next to me.”

The fox cautiously got to his feet. One look at his four kneeling companions and the eight towering polar bears behind them and he knew there was nothing they could do to defend him. He struggled onto the chair built for a fur much larger than himself. 

“C-can we talk of peace? My King is willing to pay tribute. A ten percent portion of all trade that comes through our-”

“In a moment,” Gunnarr raised a hand, silencing the emissary. “First, I think a little entertainment is in order.” He clapped once, his warrior’s sprung into action.

Nero watched in horror as the eight vikings who’d accompanied Gunnarr into the tent seized his guards. It took no effort on their part. Massive hands clamped over the necks and arms of the struggling foxes.

Nero gripped the armrest and looked up at Gunnarr, his mouth open.

“Eyes on them, Nero. I want you to see what fate your city has to look forward to.”

“What are you going to do?”

His question was answered as one of the polar bears threw a fox to the ground with enough force to make the others fall silent. The viking stomped down on the fallen fox’s lower leg. 

Nero winced as the the fox howled in pain until he was out of breath. The sound ofs of grinding bone made it all so much worse as the viking twisted his paw, never taking his weight off.

“Stop this! Please!” Nero shrieked.

Gunnarr growled and backhanded Nero. “One more word and you will take his place.”

Nero whimpered, clutching his bleeding nose.

The viking finally lifted his foot, showing the fox’s ruined ankle and shin. The fox sobbed in great gasps, his fingers clawing into the dirt floor. He managed to drag himself a few paces before a second bear stepped in front of him. All the fox could see were his massive paws until the polar bear unfastened his pants, letting them fall.

The fox cried. Hot, oily precum dripped onto the back of his wrist. The two bears lifted him while he screamed. Those screams stopped when the ursine cock, as big as his forearm, rammed down his throat. The second polar bear tore off the fox’s pants and shoved his throbbing member into the unprepared vulpine hole.

From deep in the fox rose a quivering moan of pain, vibrating around the thrusting cock in his mouth. The two bears spitroasted the fox until he was a mewling reck, bleeding from his throat and anus. As they came, one of the foxes being held by a viking fainted. The sight of enough cum to drown the fox sent the others into a panic.

The vikings knew what their leader wanted to see. When Gunnarr gave the nod, they set to their vile work. The fox who’d passed out was dropped to the ground, one of the warriors stepped down on his arm, shattering his elbow and waking the fox to pure agony. The polar bears wanted their victim to experience everything. 

The torture and rape continued until each of the viking came at least once. The last surviving guard lay motionless, sobbing into the dirt floor, his broken bones and ruptured skin sure to bring the sweet release of death. One of the vikings wanted to give him a parting gift before he left his mortal coil.

Laughing maniacally, the polar bear put a paw atop the fox’s head, and began to step forward. The last sounds the fox heard were that of his own skull caving in and the splurt of his brains squeezing out.  

    
***

“Nero, looks ill,” Gunnarr said with mock sincerity. “Eamon, get him that drink you were talking about.”

Eamon picked an empty drinking horn off the floor and got to his feet. He lumbered to Nero, the fox was nearly catatonic with what he’d just witnessed.

“Hold this,” Eamon said.

The horn was bigger than any of the glasses Nero was used to using. Every fiber of his being wanted to give up, to run back to the safety of his city. But lives depended on him. He took a deep breath, almost coughing on the scent of sex, sweat and death.

“Th-the tribute… If you spare our city, it will be a consistent and loyal source of income.”

“What does a fox know of loyalty? You watched your guards get raped and killed and you did nothing.”

“No,” Nero shook his head, “they belonged to you the moment you decided their fate. It would have been insulting for a humble vulpine to think otherwise.”

Gunnarr laughed. “Don’t take me for a fool. You would happily agree to anything if you thought it would mean your survival.” He waited for Nero to argue, naturally the fox remained silent. Pathetic. “Eamon, give our guest something to wet that silver tongue of his.”

“With pleasure,” the fatter polar bear snickered.

Nero watched in horror as the beast before him lowered his pants. It was like a gluttonous one-eyes snake. Thick and threatening. Nero was no stranger to the company of a male, in fact it was a common practice in vulpine society, but knowing the monsters these polar bears were robbed any sense of appreciation for the sight from him.

“Hold the cup steady,” Eamon warned. “Gunnarr will make you throw away your pretty robes if they smell.”

Nero grasped the horn like his life depended on it. Eamon let loose a torrential stream of hot yellow urine. The ammonia smell flooded the vulpine’s sensitive nostrils adding to the stomach churning disgust of feeling the horn grow heavier and warmer. He shivered, too afraid to look away, lest he spill any.

Eamon suddenly jerked his cock, sending a splash over Nero’s hands. The vikings laughed like this was the height of comedic theater. He did it again, spraying his last spurts into Nero’s horrified, hyperventilating face.

“Thank you, Eamon,” Gunnarr said cheerfully as he watched the fox intently. “It is an ancient custom of ours, that if a guest is offered a drink, he drinks it. All of it.”

“Nero’s watery eyes snapped wide. “Oh, please gods, no!” There had to be more than a wine bottle worth of Eamon’s hot piss in his shaking hands.   

“Would you dishonour our ancestors?” Gunnarr raised an eyebrow. The other vikings in the tent stared intently.

A choked sob escaped his throat, but one glance at the bodies of his guards and the menacing polar bears that surrounded him made it clear he had no choice. He looked at the frothy liquid. One more pleading look at Gunnarr and he put the rim to his lips. A deep breath and he took his first sip.

Nero gagged as the foul liquid coated his tongue. It burned! He coughed, gasping and looking again to Gunnarr.

“All of it,” the merciless polar bear commanded.

Nero shuddered and tipped the drinking horn back, opening his throat and letting it pour down. He sputtered, spilling some out the corners of his mouth. The raucous cheers brought on another sob as he threw the empty cup down.

“That wasn’t so bad now, was it?” Gunnarr grinned at the queasy looking fox.  

“C-can we talk now?”

“No. Do you know why? Because allowing you to propose any terms after a week camped out in this hellhole would be mad! Your stubbornness has left me beyond insulted. If you had surrendered to us unconditionally when we first landed, maybe some mercy would have been shown…” Gunnarr got off the creaking throne and grabbed the fox by the front of his robe. 

The fox yelped as Gunnarr cast him to the ground. The polar bear was deceptively fast, standing astride Nero and grasping at the blue silk. With a bone jarring yank, he ripped the clothes from him.

Nero scrambled back, fleeing as fast as he could until Gunnarr raised a mighty right foot and brought it down onto the fox’s stomach. Nero grunted as the air left him. He clawed uselessly at the polar bear’s pillar of a leg. There was too much pressure for him to get even enough breath to cry out.

Over Nero’s gasping wheezes and the vikings lewd cheers, Eamon cleared his throat. “Oh, Gunnarr?”

Gunnarr added a little weight, intending to draw out Nero’s suffering as long as he could. The fox’s arms flailed and his tongue lolled out. “Yes, Eamon?”

Eamon smirked at Nero, silently weeping under the foot that was slowly flattening his stomach. “Well, I was thinking… Nero was sent as a diplomat…”

“So,” Gunnarr shrugged. He could feel one of Nero’s ribs under his big toe. With a lick of his lips, he pushed down with his toe. A wet muffled snap sounded. Nero’s mouth gaped in a hissing scream that let Gunnarr know the fox could endure far more hell than he’d already given him.

“Well, I’m just saying… He wanted to be a tool of negotiation. Let’s honor that.”

Gunnarr leaned more on his right, his soles meeting the solid masses of organs he would soon crush. “How much mead have you drunk, friend?” he laughed.

Eamon chuckled. “No, Gunnarr, I mean we should take him back where those on the wall can see us. Show them what awaits. It’s the diplomatic thing to do.”

Gunnarr looked down, toeing the broken rib to bring a spasm of pain from Nero. “Good idea, Eamon.” He took his paw off the fox. Nero immediately sucked down as much air as his aching lungs could take and began to wail.

Gunnarr pointed to one of his warriors. “Bring this pathetic sack of meat to the hill.”

