by Matt Larkin
Erik volunteered for every raid, and, in the past two, had begun to ask about Agilaz’s tactics. Agilaz had told him hunting men was like hunting game, save men did not smell you coming. Kill a man who did not see you, and you lived longer. It was a lesson he had learned early. Yes, some warriors disdained it, they relished a fair fight. Such men tended to live shorter lives.
Erik snorted. “Shadows hold plenty worth fearing, in my experience. Ask any vӧlva, she’ll tell you.”
Agilaz nodded. Erik had a point, he supposed.
Leaving the others behind, Agilaz hurried back to the jarl’s hall. Hermod greeted him as soon as he entered, followed by the jarl’s daughter, Frigg. She was always chasing after Hermod these days. The girl claimed she’d grow up to be a shieldmaiden. She did not yet understand her parents would never allow her such a path. A jarl’s daughter was too valuable a political tool.
Agilaz swept his son up in his arms and held him close.
“Did you find mama?”
“No. Not yet.”
“A shame,” Liv said. Erik’s wife stood nearby, offering him a wan smile. She had coaxed enough of his tale out of him to know what he sought. Olrun’s true nature he did not reveal. No one would have believed him, even had he the inclination to share.
Before he could answer, Erik grabbed his wife and carried her off, laughing and sputtering.
Agilaz roughed Hermod’s hair. “Go on. Play with Frigg.”
“She’s a girl.”
“You may not always think that a bad thing. Be generous and courteous until someone gives you a reason not to, boy.”
Hermod sighed as though being put upon and rolled his eyes at the girl. This would be her second winter, and already Agilaz had no doubt she would grow up pretty. Wise too, he hoped. Until Hadding’s wife, Fjorgyn, gave him a son, Frigg was his sole heir, and the man must already be pushing thirty winters. He did not have long left to sire sons. Moreover, his brother Alci was the jarl of the Godwulfs, and, as a varulf, would live long enough to become a threat to the Hasdingi, should Hadding have no male heir.
Agilaz and Olrun had oft spoken of having another child, a sister maybe, for Hermod. The valkyrie spoke of how she would raise a girl, of the things she would teach her. Agilaz could almost see such a child in Frigg.
Agilaz had not made it far before the jarl received him with open arms. “By Frey, man, they tell me you come back victorious again. How do you do it?”
Agilaz shrugged. “Most oft, by killing men not ready for battle.”
Hadding rocked back on his heels, then shook his head. “Be that as it may …” He patted the broadsword slung over his shoulder. “Next time I will go with you myself. When will the storm break?”
They always misunderstood him. Agilaz could spot signs of the changing weather, patterns of behavior in the animals, the feel of the air. He was not some vӧlva with knowledge of the future, and he didn’t know when a storm was going to end, only when it drew nigh. “We should feast tonight, my jarl. The days have grown short enough already, and I am weary.”
Hadding laughed. “Fine. Keep your mysteries, hunter. You’re fast becoming a legend around here, after all. And what good is a legend without his secrets?”
Agilaz could only shake his head. All he wanted was to find his wife. The days were short, and the nights without her very long indeed. Olrun had a quietness to her, a peaceful air that drew all to stillness and let him sleep in comfort. Sometimes she would sing to him, sing to Hermod. If he held the ring close enough, he could still hear that song. He rubbed the ring with his thumb. Its warmth was all he had—that and Hermod.
But she was nigh, he could feel her. Every moment seemed to bring her closer. When winter abated, the Hasdingi would face war. Pitched battles must surely summon Olrun, but he did not want to wait moons more to see his wife. He did not want to wait a single night longer.
So he took no real pleasure in the drunken feasts and laughter that went on, long into the night. He did not find laughter in Erik or Liv’s jokes, nor did he care for the praise and glory Hadding heaped on him. He did, however, note that Borje still looked upon him with disdain. The warrior, too proud now to join the raids under Agilaz’s command, had grown ever more bitter. He had the look of a wolf wanting to take down a bear.
Agilaz would have to keep up his guard, draw his allies closer. A wolf would not strike alone, but even a bear was no match for an entire wolf pack.
In the night, he tossed and turned. He slept in a fur-lined alcove, in the room Hadding had provided to him. It was nice enough and held its own little brazier to keep the chill away. Still, he rarely slept well without her. If he closed his eyes and concentrated on the ring, he could feel her presence. That was all that ever let him rest.
The door creaked open. Agilaz’s eyes latched onto the figure slipping into the room, a man by his silhouette. Followed by another. Agilaz closed his fingers around a knife under his furs. Two men, and he could catch only one by surprise, if that.
It took all he had to resist the urge to leap up. Hermod slept in another alcove on the far side of the brazier. He couldn’t see his son without rising. And one of the men had drifted in that direction, one toward him. But move too soon and he would lose his only advantage. The right moment was what counted.
As one man drew nigh, the glint of firelight reflected off a blade. Agilaz surged upward, flinging himself at the stalker. His weight bore them both crashing into the brazier, his victim screaming. Agilaz planted the knife in the figure’s throat. Blood exploded into his eyes, half blinding him.
Hermod screamed.
Agilaz rolled away from the flames and rose in a fighting crouch, while rubbing his other arm over his face to clear his eyes. The other figure slammed into him as he did so, shoving them both backward.
“Hermod, run!” Agilaz shouted.
The fallen man had caught fire. Flames leapt from his body to the furs around the room.
His attacker pushed a knife forward, closer and closer to Agilaz’s face, despite Agilaz’s strain to hold him back. As the man leaned in, he knew him.
“Erik?”
He wanted to ask why, but his former friend only struggled all the harder, roaring as he tried to drive the blade downward. Agilaz twisted to the side, and the blade scraped off the wall. He shoved Erik, and the man fell over backward, pitching into the spreading flames.
Agilaz scrambled to the side, panting, coughing on the rapidly expanding smoke. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see. He fell to his knees.
“Hermod!” his voice came out as a hacking rasp. Frey, please say the boy had fled the room.
Half walking, half crawling, he stumbled forward. Heat washed over his face, singed his bare arms as he scrambled toward the doorway.
He had only just reached it when someone yanked him upward. Agilaz blinked, coughed. Tried to see.
Jarl Hadding held him up.
“H-Hermod …” Agilaz gasped.
His son screamed from inside the room.
Agilaz’s stomach lurched. No. No!
He jerked free of Hadding’s grasp and stumbled back into the room. Flames engulfed it. Smoke so thick he couldn’t see a fucking thing. “Hermod!”
Even shouting drew in a lungful of smoke.
“Papa!”
Agilaz crawled forward, trying to stay under the smoke cloud. Ash stung his eyes. His boy was kneeling over Erik’s smoldering corpse. Borje’s knife stuck in the man’s chest.
Fuck.
Agilaz lunged forward, grabbed his son, and yanked him through the flames. Hermod screamed. No other way. He shoved the boy out toward the door.
Hacking, coughing, he tried to crawl. His legs weren’t moving right.
“Papa!” From outside. Hermod had escaped, praise Frey.
Rough hands seized him even as his vision faded.
Agilaz woke in a small chamber. Barred and guarded. The man had ordered him to wait. Wait while Hadding deliberated. Agilaz had pounded on the door when th
e man had refused to speak of Hermod. The ash wood did not budge.
Finally, he had collapsed back to the floor. Breathing hurt.
Earlier that same evening, Agilaz had told Erik the key to victory was to attack like a wolf. Move silently through the shadows. Now, the man had tried to kill him in his sleep and paid for it with his life. As well he should. If aught had happened to Hermod … Hel take both those traitorous trollfuckers.
The burns on his arm stung, a constant pain and reminder of his brush with death. Where was Hermod?
They were lucky this place was built from stone. It must have contained the blaze. Must have been old work, strong. Volund knew about that kind of thing. Damn, but he hoped his brothers had had better luck finding their wives than he had his. They ought to all have passed the winter at Wolf Lake, huddled around a fire, roasting snow hares and telling stories of far-off places. Instead, he was a prisoner, his brothers gone to unknown lands.
The door creaked open, and Hadding stepped in. He did not bring in his guards, and he shut the door behind him. Good signs.
“Where is my son?”
“His arm was burned. My vӧlva is treating him.”
He lived. The mountain crushing Agilaz’s gut lightened. “The wound is bad?”
“He might have a scar. Brave boy. Five winters behind him, and he’s killed a thegn.” Hadding folded his arms.
Agilaz lurched to his feet, trying to ignore the pain. “To defend his father from a murderer!”
“Peace, Agilaz. I know why Hermod acted such. Still, I find myself in a difficult situation. My thegn’s actions were criminal, at least on the surface. But Erik’s friends claim you had designs on his wife.”
“Liv?” That was absurd. He had spoken to her, and she was oft friendly, but naught more. “I am a married man. I’d sooner cut off my own hand than betray my wife.”
Hadding frowned. “Very good. Then why do they think this?”
Agilaz rose and shook his head. Now he was to answer why aught went on in another man’s head? He spread his hands. “Borje has never liked my position here. Maybe he planted the idea in Erik’s head. We were all drunk last night.”
“Yes, I remember. I was not so drunk to not see Liv leaning on your shoulder on more than one occasion.”
That … had happened. “It was not like that.”
“You want her?”
“No!”
Hadding nodded and scratched his beard. “I’m not going to lie. It looks bad, Agilaz. If you were to lie with the woman, people would talk.”
“I have no intention of lying with her or any other woman, save my wife.”
“Good. I will keep her here, at Halfhaugr.” The jarl waved a hand at him. “And you will take Vestborg back for me. If you retake it, I will grant it to you.”
Erik’s home. They had not struck there because it was too far out. It was on the natural boundary between the Hasding lands and those of the Skalduns. Had Erik not lost the fort early in the summer, things might have gone differently.
Agilaz rubbed his brow. “That sounds like a job for an army, not a small party of raiders.”
“Not if you get in there and kill the thegn who holds it. With him gone, the others would retreat, and we could take the fort. Do that, and I’ll grant you Erik’s position, land, and title.”
Damn. Agilaz did not so much care about being a thegn, but he could not afford to lose Hadding as an ally. He still needed to be on one side or the other of this impending war if he was to find Olrun. And the chance to own a whole hunting fort, so much land … it did have a certain appeal.
“So be it. I will kill your enemy for you, jarl.”
8
Fits held Volund, tried to throttle him with memories. Part of him longed to go back there, back to Nidavellir. Why should he wish such a thing? His apprenticeship had cost him all he had. But it had made him all he was. A craftsman without peer among mankind. Even, sometimes, he thought the dvergar had begun to envy his talent. Maybe that was the origin of his true woes.
Cold iron clanked around his wrist, and he jerked awake. A half dozen men were in his forge. He lunged for the nearest, the one who had manacled his wrist as he slept. He caught the man’s throat and squeezed. That pathetic, squirming life seeped out, eyes bulging, tongue lolling. Blows rained on the side of Volund’s head, and he fell.
He tried to rise, but manacles bound his feet too. Someone kicked him in the face.
Hot water sprayed over his face. Volund coughed, rolled over. Gods, that smell. The man he’d choked stood, pissing on him, laughing, along with his men. Volund surged upward, but two of the other men grabbed his arms.
“Thought that might wake you,” the first man said as he fastened his trousers.
Volund spit in his direction. Sometimes vulgarity was called for, even from a prince. Such was the way of the world.
“You assaulted a thegn of the king. I could have your head for that.”
Volund sneered. “My king is back in Kvenland.”
The men chuckled. “Now your king is Nidud, smith. And your king wishes to meet you.”
“Believe me. He truly does not. Release me now, else you will rue this day for the rest of your miserable life.”
The thegn backhanded him. The blow left Volund dazed, only half-aware as the men dragged him from the forge.
As his vision cleared, he spied the man at the front. Wearing Volund’s sword. The temerity of it set his blood roiling afresh, and strange shadows playing at his periphery.
He might charge forward, maybe even break the grip of these two if he caught them unaware. Perhaps he might strangle the thegn with his manacles. But he could not overpower five other men, especially not unarmed and chained.
And so he walked. The dvergar had taught him naught if not patience. One struck only when the iron was hot enough.
With the right timing, the right temperature, even the strongest of metals could be beaten into submission. And men were not nigh so strong.
In truth, he ought not to have shown the cobbler such wealth. Or perhaps he simply should not have insulted the man by dropping the ring. Or he ought to have just killed him. A dead man tells his king very little.
Volund’s own ring seemed cold now, the heartbeat had grown faint. They were taking him the wrong way.
They marched him around the same town and up the long, broken path toward the castle. The closer they drew, the more certain he became. This Nidud did not occupy any fortress of the Old Kingdoms, but a place built by the dvergar themselves. A great platform extended out of a sheer cliff face, a vista from which the king must be able to see out over the mists. So high even birds seemed to fly only beneath that peak. And the mighty arch that delved into the mountain must lead to deep tunnels, mines, and all the workings of olden days.
The Old Kingdoms had, on very rare occasions, taken such places from the dvergar. Some of those kingdoms had patrons among the Vanir. Perhaps one of them had helped capture this place. And yet, such a fortress was nigh unassailable. The only approach from outside was a narrow, winding path along the mountain’s edge. No more than one man at a time could pass that way. From the battlements, a single archer with half Agilaz’s skill could hold back an army.
Most likely then, this place had fallen to the Niflungar. Their sorcery—powers drawn and learned from the cursed goddess, Hel—that alone might have given them ingress to the fortress. But like all the Old Kingdoms, the Niflungar had collapsed into a shadow of their former glory, and they, too, had abandoned many of their outposts. Left them for petty kings like Nidud to hold and think himself great, think himself worthy of a legacy he could not begin to understand.
Volund found himself shaking his head as the king’s men forced him up that path. “Men know the dvergar are famed for their metalcraft and stonework. But did you know they work with almost aught you can imagine?”
The lead thegn glanced back at him. “Shut your fucking mouth, smith.”
“I’ve seen them make da
ggers of human bone you would swear is walrus ivory.”
“I will throw you from this mountain if you do not shut your mouth.”
“No. You won’t. You did not bring me all this way to kill me. You brought me here to meet your king. Probably he wants me to craft something for him, some great work. And perhaps I will. I just want you to know, I will carve it from your bones. And your king will thank me for it, for it shall be the finest work he has ever seen.”
The thegn spat at him. Volund smiled.
The great hall rose at least fifty feet high, ending in a vaulted ceiling lost in dancing shadows. Did the others see that dance? Did the ever-encroaching darkness move before their eyes as it did before his? Volund suspected not. If they had seen what he saw, they would run from the place, screaming for vӧlvur to ward them against the night.
At the back of this hall sat a king and queen. The man was ancient, his long hair gone gray, his beard threadbare. He must have reached twice the age a man ought. What more could this king want from his life? He was rotting and withering away and would have best met his end on a battlefield. Or perhaps that was his intent. Perhaps that was why he started this war, to meet a final, glorious end.
His queen was younger, though by no means young. Perhaps forty winters, and certainly nigh unto the end of her life, as well. Streaks of gray ran through her blonde hair, and she watched Volund’s approach with wary eyes. Oh yes—she knew they had brought something dangerous into their midst. In their arrogance, they chained a cave bear and thought they could control it. But sooner or later, wild beasts always escaped their chains. Woe be upon those who dared try to master them.
“Well, Thakkrad. I see you return with your prize.”
The thegn shoved Volund forward hard enough he fell to his knees a few feet from the king’s throne. Quite likely he could leap up, strangle the king and the queen both. Of course, then Thakkrad really would throw him off the mountain. Instead, Volund raised his eyes to meet first the king’s gaze, then the queen’s.
