by Matt Larkin
“The king raised a levy last moon, took a great number of men. Some say they raided east, but talk is more that they went to challenge one of those barbarian tribes in the south.”
“The Aesir?”
The cobbler spat in apparent agreement. He would spit less if Volund smashed his jaw. Drool through broken teeth, perhaps.
Volund forced his hands to his side. “Which tribe?”
“How the fuck would I know that?” A shattered nose would improve his face.
Volund shook his head slowly and dropped the ring in the snow before the man’s shop. Let the useless, vulgar man dig it out.
He turned away. It was a start, in any event. If a Sviarland king raided or warred with an Aesir tribe, surely glorious battles would ensue. Battles and honorable deaths. Those deaths would draw valkyries, maybe many of them. And if Nidud had spread his schemes over several locations, it might explain why the three valkyries had flown in different directions. But what did this little king hope to gain by provoking the Aesir? To the Sviarlanders, they were naught but barbarians, feared for their mystique, their savagery, and the berserkir and varulfur often found within the tribes.
If the king could claim their land, he might grow rich. But more likely, he would find himself raided by one tribe after another. The Aesir tribes shared no love between them, but Volund doubted they wanted their land taken by foreigners. Of course, those barbarians themselves had swept in and stolen that same land some few generations back. They claimed Aujum as their own, enslaving most of the natives—those who were not killed or driven out as refugees.
The truth was, it didn’t much matter to Volund if the Sviarlanders and the Aesir all killed one another. In fact, it might make it easier to find Altvir.
Volund made his way back toward the bridge. He would return to the ruin. If he hurried, he could make it before dark. Then at sunrise he could head south, try to find the battlefields. He ought not to travel at night. Yet somehow, he wasn’t certain why it should frighten him. With a torch, a man could move at night. But all wisdom urged one not to. The vaettir were most active then.
No, he would go with first light.
The forge’s fire held blessed warmth. Volund slumped down with his back against it, letting the heat seep into his chilled flesh. He always slept in here these days. He’d cut the bear’s hide and made a fine bed from it. Besides, the forge comforted him. The smell of thick smoke lingered long after he’d last worked iron, and the tools themselves seemed wont to sing him to sleep.
Sleep came easy. Easy, but rarely restful. In his dreams, he saw the deep places of Nidavellir, dancing in his memories like the play of shadows cast from torchlight in halls beneath the mountains. A world of rock and iron and gemstones, glimpsed ever in half-light. The dvergar themselves could see as well in shadows as any cat, and after two years in such a habitat, even Volund had become accustomed to it. So much so that, back then, the sun used to sting his eyes on the rare occasions he saw it.
That world called him back, welcomed him into the darkness and whispered to him secrets no mortal man could know. For there were worlds beyond Midgard, worlds from which the vaettir came. And those worlds knew more, knew deeper truths. The dvergar were like that too, alien to this world, privy to lore that might make a vӧlva piss herself in horror. They had bored up through the ground and, having no form in this world, taken human hosts. Twisted their shapes to their liking, into gnarled, swarthy old men and women. Their spines would bend and twist and shrink until a dvergar stood no taller than a man’s shoulder.
And before even the Old Kingdoms, they had begun to build, to craft, and to dominate the deep places. They took slaves as workers, messengers, and sometimes, as hosts for more dvergar souls. Volund supposed he was lucky that had not been his fate.
6
Eleven Years Ago
At twelve winters, Volund was at last a man, and his father was taking him to learn a trade. So Slagfid had teased him, that he—a prince of Kvenland—should be apprenticed to a smith instead of fostered with a great noble. Those teasings were hollow, though, and Volund had to smile. After all, he would serve under no mortal smith at all, but in the court of Nidavellir.
The mountainous land of the dvergar—dwarves, as men sometimes called them—lay far to the west of his homeland. Father had taken a dogsled, intent on escorting him personally. And for days they had raced forward, trailed behind by guards Volund’s grandfather, the king, had sent to watch over his bastard son and grandsons. Only Volund’s brother Slagfid was with them, for Agilaz had remained behind to continue his own apprenticeship as a woodsman.
Volund was glad to have one of his brothers along, though he might have preferred Agilaz’s quiet support to Slagfid’s ribbing.
The woods of Kvenland had given way to the hills and then the great mountains of Nidavellir.
Never had Volund seen or imagined such towering behemoths. The peaks stretched up, above the mists, scraping the sky. Though beautiful, the frozen range had also slowed their progress, as Father navigated narrow passes on the sleds. And this morning, they’d been forced to leave even the dogs behind, in the care of the hound-master, until his father would return.
Without Volund.
He had not understood the finality of that, not in truth. Not until they’d come upon the slave camp here and Father had asked for those final directions. As Father and the guards traded for provisions, Volund watched from the edge of the small camp. A stone fence ringed three stone buildings, each so covered in ice and snow one could easily miss them.
Volund’s heart pounded against his ribcage. Gods, he felt he had to piss three times an hour. And here, in these icy passes, fumbling with his trousers was a painful, drawn-out process. Slagfid chuckled at his nervousness—perhaps to cover his own. Atop this slope they were supposed to find the entrance, if the slaves were to be believed.
No matter how good-natured his brother intended the jests, Volund did not need them now. Not when he was about to meet his new master, a being not even human.
The dvergar did not like to come out into the open air, especially in daylight. Some legends claimed sunlight would turn them to stone, but Volund found that hard to credit. But then, who knew? Dvergar were somewhat Otherworldly, after all. They guarded their secrets closely. Around the campfires, sometimes the men called them immortal, called them spirits—the term was vaettir in this land. An old wizard had come to the court two winters back, a wanderer who fascinated and terrified in equal measure. He had spoken of the wonders wrought in the deep forges of Nidavellir, of treasures from the bowels of the land and of crafts unmatched.
No doubt that was when Father had first gotten the idea his son ought to become a smith. And no apprenticeship with any mere armorer would do for the son of a prince of Kvenland. No, Father had set his heart that his son would learn the secret arts of Nidavellir. And the king had indulged Father, sent emissaries. And to everyone’s surprise, the dvergar had granted the request.
A slave girl approached Volund, bearing a skin. She was bundled tight in mammoth hide, several layers of it, including a hood that shaded her face.
“Water?” he asked.
“Ale. They give it to us to keep us warm out here.”
Volund took the skin and had a long swig. It did warm him, pleasantly. After wiping his mouth, he returned the skin. “You’ve seen them?”
The girl nodded.
Shame he couldn’t get a good look at her face. One could tell what someone really thought from their eyes. The girl said naught else though, just stood there.
Finally Volund glanced back at his father, who was still deep in conversation with the slaves. The slave girl still stared at him. “Was there something else?”
“I … I’m to make you a man now.”
Volund stood there, mouth hanging open. The dashing prince of Kvenland, not able to form a response to a dvergar slave. Why would she … Who would send her for that? Gods, he needed to piss again. And he thought his heart
was pounding before. “I, uh …”
The girl took his hand and began leading him toward one of the buildings.
This was really happening. Frey’s flaming sword, it was happening now. “I need … um, give me a moment. I’ll meet you inside.”
She cocked her head strangely, but ducked into the snow-crusted house without further comment. Volund shuddered and glanced back at Slagfid. His brother offered him an encouraging wave. Well, he probably meant it to be encouraging. Gods, high and low!
Volund stepped around back and relieved himself. Then he took a deep breath. Then a few more.
When he entered the house, the girl had shed her furs and was lying on them, stripped down to her woolen chemise. Now he could see her face, and she was young. Maybe as young as he was.
“I’ve had my bleeds,” she said, as if he had asked such a thing.
“Why are you doing this?” he asked instead.
The girl looked at him like he was an imbecile. “Because they tell us to. They want … they said you should have your needs seen to before you arrive.”
She pulled off her chemise, exposing tiny breasts. She had done this before, she must have. The dvergar must have … It was so hard to think with her lying there, waiting for him.
Volund knelt beside her, reached for her. His hand was shaking. His hand didn’t shake when he held a sword or bow or aught else. His hands never shook. The girl pulled his hand slowly down onto her chest, and then his face to hers. He had kissed a girl once or twice.
But not like this.
Later, after they had left the slave camp far behind, he had realized: he had never even asked her name. She had suffered his awkward fumbling, his confusion. He’d wanted to ask Father about her, but the sly stares and chuckles of the other men had stilled his tongue.
And Slagfid’s questions he ignored as best he was able. His brother had known a girl or three, or claimed so.
“You did not embarrass yourself too much, I hope?”
Volund grunted. Agilaz would not have asked and would not have expected an answer had he done so. Slagfid was mist-mad if he expected one.
So he climbed so deep into his own thoughts that finding himself approaching the gates of Nidavellir had caught him unaware. A plateau opened up above the path, as though a primeval frost jotunn had scooped out a chunk of the peak and tossed it aside. Worked stone covered that plateau, including twin towers, upon which human archers watched their approach. Beyond those towers, at the back of the ice-coated platform, rose double doors five times the height of a man, each carved with elegant designs and intricate runes.
Atop the path, their whole group paused, staring. Some few of the guards had made this trek before, and thus knew the way. They had come with the offer of apprenticeship in the first place and, before that, had even made the tribute. Once every decade, Kvenland sent a tribute of gold, silver, food, slaves. Aught they could spare. Yes, Nidavellir was far. But none wanted to arouse the ire of the dvergar by seeming to slight them in their due.
The dvergar were still vaettir, beings from realms beyond Midgard. That they deigned to have peaceful dealings with humanity was a blessing.
Father waved back at the pair of guards carrying a heavy chest. He had bought an apprenticeship for his son by offering Volund’s weight in gold. The men trudged forward, hiding any weariness they felt. Perhaps fear had buried it. They deposited the chest before the great gates and then scrambled backward.
Father cleared his throat. “I am Wade, Prince of Kvenland. As promised, I deliver this gold to you.”
No answer was forthcoming. Volund glanced around. The men had begun to do the same, murmuring to themselves, or staring up at the archers in the towers. Great braziers lit the tops of the towers, making it hard to see the men standing before them. Eventually, one pointed at the sun which had just begun to dip below the horizon.
The stories spoke truth, then. The dvergar would not venture out in daylight. Draugar, trolls—so many beings from beyond the Mortal Realm seemed to shun the light. He’d heard a story, once, that sunlight even burned the svartalfar. The liosalfar walked in sunlight, but then they did not come to Midgard often.
Volund folded his arms, watching the setting sun. Up here, above the mist, it cast the world in brilliant shades. But it was setting behind the mountains, and from this side he could not revel in its true glory. Instead he looked east. Back where his home lay. What madness had possessed Father to make such a deal with Nidavellir? And why had Volund so readily agreed, felt so honored? The thought of becoming the greatest craftsman in the North Realms had seemed too good to be true. He’d imagined himself returning home in glory. Men would trek for days and weeks to trade for the goods he made. Or so he’d allowed himself to believe, half-drunk on a wandering wizard’s tale.
Standing on a freezing mountain, waiting for beings who shunned the sunlight … the prospect seemed different now. It seemed a fancy born of mist-madness and hubris.
As the sun vanished behind the mountains, ice crunched and stone creaked. The great doors seemed to open of their own accord, drawn inward. The hall they revealed was dimly lit by sconces on the walls, spaced too far apart for Volund’s liking. And yet, somehow, the deep shadows lurking behind the massive columns seemed to welcome him, to call him inward. And the longer he stared, the more his fear melted away. Why had he feared such a place of grandeur? No work of man could compare to these vaulted ceilings, these columns so wide no two men could stretch their arms around them.
A pair of hooded men emerged from the long hall. All stood silently, watching, as those men approached. Without a word they exited the gates, took up the chest, and began to plod back inside.
And should Volund follow them? “Father?”
“I don’t …”
It was all right. Volund knew what he had to do. They had come here for but one reason. He embraced his father.
Slagfid clapped him on the shoulder, seeming lost for words. For once.
Volund nodded at his brother. And then he walked into the shadows of Nidavellir.
His footsteps echoed on the stone floor as he trod after the chest-bearers.
They walked a long time, but with each step, Volund’s heart grew a little lighter. His eyes were quickly adapting to the darkness. Still, when the sound of the closing doors rang through the hall, he could not help but cringe. They shut with a resounding clang that heralded a true finality one could not deny, like the revelation of fate.
Volund blew out a breath and hurried after the chest-bearers.
Those men paused before a stocky figure not even Volund’s height. The man had a thick beard, a bulbous nose, and a swarthy face covered in pock-marks. He waved his hand, and the bearers dropped the chest and then opened it, revealing the golden offerings. Goblets, coins, and jewelry lay in a pile in the chest. Volund shifted from foot to foot as the dverg bent to examine the offerings.
The creature picked up a few pieces and tasted them, before tossing them back in the chest. With another motion of his hand he directed the human servants to carry it on down the hall. They did so, and the dverg next waddled over to Volund, looking him up and down.
With a rough, calloused hand, he grabbed Volund’s chin and squeezed his jaw. The pressure opened his mouth, and the dverg looked inside, seeming to inspect his teeth. Volund tried to pull away, but the dverg’s grip was like an iron vise. When the creature released him, he fell backward, landing on his arse. There was pretty much no way to make that look dignified, so he rose slowly, trying to make no show of the pain it had caused him.
“You are suited to it.” His voice was deep, rumbly like an avalanche. “I am Dvalin, son of King Modsognir. You will call me Master. Address any of my kind without proper respect and an iron spike shall be pounded through your tongue. Am I understood?”
No one had ever addressed him like that, but objecting seemed the epitome of foolhardiness, so Volund bowed. “Yes, Master. I am Volund, son of Wade, son of ...”
D
valin held up a hand. “Mortal lineages are as interesting to me as the lineages of rats are to you. Follow me.” The dverg began to shamble down the hall, leaving Volund to chase after him. Because his master took such short, awkward strides, Volund had to pause repeatedly to let Dvalin stay ahead of him. “Like any lump of ore, you will be useless until heated, tested, and tempered. First, we shall have you beaten to see how much you can take and remain conscious.”
“But—”
“Silence. When you are to speak, I will tell you.”
Volund snapped his mouth shut. Had his father known what the apprenticeship would entail? Unlikely. No man had ever received such an … honor.
“After the beatings, you will be burned. Later lashed, raped, and drowned. If none of that breaks you, then, student, your real training begins.”
Volund faltered, staring back down the long hall. The doors were shut. It was far too late to run.
7
They returned from the last raid mere hours before the storm hit. Agilaz had known the storm was coming and pushed his little party hard to reach Halfhaugr. Nineteen men had set out with him this time, and seventeen would return. All in all, two deaths on their side had bought nigh a dozen Skaldun corpses. More importantly, they returned laden with bags of turnips, kale, chard. It would help see Halfhaugr through the winter. Spirits were high among the men as the gates were thrown wide.
“Four raids and four victories,” Erik said. “Frey’s sword, man. You move like a ghost.”
Agilaz clapped him on the shoulder. “You don’t have to be any such thing. Think to move as a wolf moves, at home in the woods. Unafraid of shadows.”
