by Matt Larkin
Agilaz lined up a shot at the farthest man. He had no idea who their leader was, but that was the one most likely to escape. He loosed. Even before it struck, he was already pulling another arrow.
His target pitched forward into the snow.
“What in Hel’s—”
His second arrow took the speaker in the face.
“Take cover!” someone shouted.
Agilaz loosed at a man’s chest, but he moved quickly, and it just grazed his arm. Dammit.
“There!”
And they had found him. It was a dozen feet down but …
An arrow slammed into the trunk a foot from his face, quivering there.
Fuck it all. Agilaz leapt away from the tree, landing in a pile of snow. He rolled with it. Still, his legs felt numb from the impact. Grunting, he surged to his feet and dashed behind the tree. Another arrow struck it a heartbeat later.
He nocked again, stepped around, and loosed at the first target he saw. His shot caught an archer in the shoulder. The man dropped his bow, screaming, clutching the wound.
Two men left—one fresh, one wounded.
As he nocked another arrow, he peeked his head around. An arrow grazed his cheek and scraped the tree, flinging shards of bark in his eyes. Agilaz jerked backward. Yes, they were trying to flank him.
If they caught him between them—or if either of them got close enough to use those swords on their belts—the battle would not end in his favor.
He peeked again, but not with intention of seeing aught. The moment he heard a twang he took off running to the opposite side, then skidded behind another tree. He couldn’t move fast enough in the snow. Blood was running down his cheek, pooling about his neck.
One of the men shouted a war cry. Snow crunched under his heels as he charged forward. His first and last mistake.
Agilaz dropped to one knee and spun on the charging man, an arrow flying even as he did so. It took the warrior in the gut. The man pulled up short, sword falling from his hand as he stared at his wound. It was the man he’d wounded before.
That left only a single healthy foe, and possibly the one with an arrow in his shoulder.
Spinning, he turned his eyes to the opposite side. His last healthy foe was indeed slipping between trees, trying to close in for a clear shot. Agilaz scrambled to keep the nearest tree between himself and the other archer.
The man did the same, slipping behind cover and loosing a single arrow. No shot from here.
The one with the gut wound was trying to rise. Tough bastard. Agilaz planted another shot in his chest, and he fell.
“Let’s settle this like men,” the last one shouted.
“So be it.”
His foe tossed the bow aside and pulled a sword off his shoulder. Holding it before him, he advanced out into the open.
Agilaz stepped out too. Then he launched an arrow at his attacker. The man reeled, falling backward. He tried to rise, to charge, but Agilaz put another arrow in his chest. He collapsed in the snow.
One last man, and he might already be unconscious from blood loss. Still, he had to be found.
“You cheated …” the man he’d just shot said.
Agilaz cast a glance over his shoulder. “Men can use bows.”
He wiped the blood from his cheek. One more man to kill, and one of these had to be the thegn. If Hadding was right, it meant Vestborg would fall, the Skalduns retreating without their leader. And returning the border fort to Hasding hands.
11
By the time they pulled Volund up, his legs had gone so numb he could do naught but collapse on the platform. Nidud’s men had to drag him back into the great hall by his shoulders. His head throbbed from the blood that had rushed to it. He’d have expected his thoughts would blur from deathchill, but instead they had sharpened into the clarity of a dream. A dream which, immersed within, might strike one as truth even as one knew it for illusion.
In his dream, Volund was not a man at all. He was a whisper, stalking the night as though one of the vaettir, lurking in darkness. The cold had seeped into him so deeply he no longer felt it—he became it. And the freezing wind had ceased to bother him, for he knew with certainty revenge would be his.
The feeble torchlight within the great hall failed to banish the shadows. This place, this dvergar hall, had not been built with the intention of welcoming the light that mankind—in their self-delusion—thought would protect them. Light was a temporary disturbance in the natural state of things. All fires would one day burn out, the last flames flicker to nothingness. Darkness was the truth.
And so, though his lips must have been cracked and blue, he smiled at Nidud as they dropped him at the king’s feet. The king raised an eyebrow while the queen shifted in her throne, her eyes looking anywhere but at him. Beside them stood a thick-armed man, his face soot-smudged and scowling.
Nidud cleared his throat, the sound of it thick with phlegm. “Now, smith, you will show us the extent of your craft.”
Volund wanted to laugh, but his voice might well break and leave him looking pathetic. Instead, he kept his smile. It must infuriate the king.
“My finest smith has crafted a suit of mail from dvergar steel.” The king nodded at the heavy man beside him. “He claims such armor will make my sons impervious in battle. If it does, he shall have his weight in silver.”
The other smith nodded.
Volund ignored him, keeping his eyes locked on the king.
“You will make a sword to match, one capable of scoring even such mail as Amelias has forged.”
“Why would I do that?” His voice had become a raspy, violent sound. He might have hated it, if it had not left everyone in the hall squirming.
“Because if you do not, you have no use to me and will spend the rest of your days hanging from that platform. Ravens will feast on your eyes and pick clean your bones. And no man shall ever again speak your name. The sum of your life will mean less than that of a dog’s.” The king spoke flatly, as though discussing what he’d prefer to eat for the night meal.
Volund had to admit Nidud gave a remarkable display of calm authority. The threat, spoken so plainly, gained more credence. And if Nidud did kill him here, he might never again find Altvir. And find her he must. She was his … light. Did he still need the light? Darkness had begun to feel comfortable. But she had given him the only peace, the only love in his life.
“I will forge your sword.”
The smith, Amelias, accompanied Volund as they descended deeper and deeper into the mountain. Were it not for the half dozen guards, Volund might have slain the man. They had, after all, removed his chains so that he might work the forge. And how could he not welcome the chance to once more craft in a deep forge of the dvergar? There, the true extent of his talent could be manifest and give birth to wonders the likes of which men would not imagine. Oh, this fool smith beside him did not know, could not know the secrets. Could not even fathom the depths of his own ignorance.
Long stone steps took them into the heart of the mountain. Eventually, these steps opened into a cavern. In the hidden recesses above, bats laired among the stalactites. Volund could feel them, lurking in the shadows. If they were here, they had some egress from the cavern, some way to hunt. Pity such an escape must lie so high above him. Unlike Altvir, Volund could not take the form of a swan and simply fly away.
The stairs leveled into a great bridge spanning an underground lake. The bridge ran several hundred feet to a rocky island. Halfway across, a guard-post stood, great iron gears attaching to chains on the bridge. The dvergar had built an extending bridge here. They had such defenses in Nidavellir, too. They spoke little of what foes might warrant their fear, but he suspected that in addition to Niflungar and the Vanir, they feared the other vaettir. The dvergar despised the radiant liosalfar and rightfully mistrusted the shadowy svartalfar. No spirit was wont to trust one of another world, after all. In this world, they competed for human hosts and for footholds to secure passage between the re
alms.
Humanity, of course, had no idea how perilous Midgard’s position truly was. Perhaps the Vanir alone kept the horrors at bay. But then, they rarely ventured forth from their islands anymore, or such was the talk among the dvergar, at least. The Vanir had lost their interest in the dealings of men, so threats from beyond once again had begun to stir. Even the dvergar spoke of spreading their kingdom, of overmastering the whole of the North Realms.
The bridge was already extended, leading all the way to the island, upon which rose a great rocky pillar. Faint firelight shone from a massive doorway in this pillar, one three times the height of a man. A deep forge.
Volund could not keep the hurry from his step. The forge called to him, whispered that he might work his craft here. And in those whispers there was something more, some hint of a secret he had not quite grasped. But he would.
Amelias and the guards paused at the edge of the island. Those soldiers even leveled spears at Volund as he glanced back at them.
“The king gives you a fortnight to forge your sword.” Yes, his voice was thick with disdain, haughty and proud. And underneath that, a hint of worry. He knew he would lose his place as Nidud’s prized smith. When Volund succeeded—and if this forge was stocked with dvergar steel, he would surely make a blade capable of scoring Amelias’s armor—the king would know the man as a pretender.
“It will take nine days,” Volund said. “In nine days, the king shall have a blade worthy of a great name. And in nine days you, smith, shall fall at my feet and beg me to share my arts.”
Amelias spat into the lake and turned. Despite his eagerness to explore the forge, Volund watched them go. They returned to the guardhouse. Within, they must have activated the levers, for the great stone bridge began to recede away from the island, the grinding of stone on stone echoing throughout the cavern.
He might well swim out there. The lake waters were undoubtedly cold, but he had survived the punishing winds up on the mountain. Still, if they trusted the lake to contain him, he had to believe the dvergar had some defenses there as well. Serpents bred for the purpose, most likely.
No, he would not swim from here. Regardless, he could no longer resist the call of the deep forge. He half-dashed the long path to the entryway. Once there, he fell to stillness. The forge within was bigger than the halls of many kings, lined with numerous fire pits. At its heart lay a furnace that could rage with primeval heat.
Slowly, he walked the place. Stores of iron, silver, even gold and—yes, dvergar steel—lined the walls in bins. Small wonder that Nidud had lived so long then. The wealth of this place must have bought him as many mercenaries as he could ever want. If he needed more, he’d simply come down for a few more nuggets of gold.
Some of the bins were empty, long plundered of their precious ores. That the dvergar had left any was a testament to how suddenly they must have …
Volund paused over one of the bins. Impossible. That red-gold, just lying there. Orichalcum? Only a few nuggets remained now, but the men here had left it. By the fathomless dark of Svartalfheim, the fools must have mistaken it for copper. He ought not to be surprised. Probably they had never seen, maybe never even heard of a metal so precious. And next to iron and gold and dvergar steel, who would care about a few lumps of copper? Volund gingerly lifted a hunk of it out and drew it up to his face. Imbeciles had no idea they sat upon the greatest treasure imaginable. He licked the ore. Yes, that bittersweet taste was unmistakable.
A rough shudder overtook him.
Forge it.
The whispers had grown clearer. If the shadows spoke to him, then in truth the darkness the dvergar had planted in him had encompassed his mind. And if so, perhaps there was no longer any escape from it.
Forge it.
Volund grasped another chunk of orichalcum. Did he even still seek escape? This ignorant, petty king thought to imprison him, but unknowingly, had gifted Volund with a chance to make something that had become mere legend even among the dvergar.
You know the workings.
Yes. He had seen the records among his mentor’s things, the ancient art all but lost. Long had he wondered why Dvalin might have let him glimpse such forbidden and nigh forgotten lore. Now he knew. The ancient dverg must have had some foreboding of this moment, some premonition that one day, his human apprentice might do as he himself had done long ago.
In the darkness of a deep forge, Dvalin and his brothers had wrought nine runeblades of orichalcum. Nine swords with the power to change a man’s destiny, to strike any foe, to fell even the most monstrous of beasts.
Nine blades, most lost.
And now, Volund would forge a tenth.
12
Ten Years Ago
The dvergar liked their drink, especially ale and mead. They consumed vast draughts of both and mocked Volund for never being able to match them.
He thought that perhaps it was good-natured enough. For he had been scourged some few hours ago, endured it without screaming. Durin had brought him sapphire shrooms then. The hallucinogenic mushrooms dulled pain and enticed visions. Volund oft saw things he might rather have not. At least at first. Figures moving in the darkness, speaking in whispers. Tongues that seemed older than the stars. The ancient dvergar tongue was derived from the older-still Supernal speech of vaettir who had existed long before the time of men and would no doubt linger when humanity had finally faded back to dust.
The dvergar cultivated sapphire shrooms throughout Nidavellir and named them for the streaks of blue that ran through the fungus. Too much was toxic, especially to humans. He had found that out after eating several raw. He spent the next three days heaving and squirting shits until he thought his insides would burst out.
Today though, they had given him a distilled draught. And when his head had begun to clear, Dvalin and Durin had invited him to drink with them. The princes of Nidavellir had a private hall. The king—whom Volund had rarely seen—had sired a great many sons on a great many women. Some of those sons, like Dvalin, had won great renown in their own right.
Durin belched again and slammed his mug on the table. “Tell me, boy. If you could make aught in the world, any craft, what would you forge?”
“Another runeblade.” Volund spoke without thinking, without even realizing he had wanted such a thing. Orichalcum was so rare that no one had forged another runeblade in centuries.
Durin chuckled.
Dvalin, however, fixed him with a level gaze. “Do you know why we made them?”
Volund shook his head. “No, Master.” The obvious answer seemed to be “because you could.” That answer might have gotten him whipped or beaten.
“My brothers and I, the three of us, forged one blade for each of the nine kingdoms of men in the North Realms, those you now call the Old Kingdoms. One blade to grace the hand of a champion. Within these blades, we bound a fell curse that all men should desire them, should kill for them and with them. And should they ever fail to honor us, the blades would twist their fates and bring ruination to all they loved.”
Durin drummed his fingers on the table. “And for working this Art, we lay in a stupor, weakened for a moon, it seemed. We forged the souls of nine sacrifices into each blade. And the blades themselves—we used nigh all the orichalcum we had.”
Eighty-one people slain for this, their very souls beaten into the metal. Volund frowned. “Why? Why create such works for mortal men?”
Dvalin looked at his brother, before spitting. “The princes of the Old Kingdoms were descended from the sons of Halfdan the Old. And he was not exactly a mortal man.”
What did that mean? Perhaps it was the ale, or the lingering effects of the sapphire shrooms, but none of this made sense to him. “How could he be aught else?”
“He was a half-alf, boy. And so his lineage carried with it ancient power from beyond the Mortal Realm.”
Volund’s mouth hung open a moment before he could form a question. He had not known such a thing was possible. “Liosalf or svartalf?�
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Dvalin tugged on his beard. “No one was quite certain. In either case, we were willing to risk a great deal to control such a power.”
“They are more powerful than dvergar?”
“They are older.”
Durin rose, swaying, and toppled back down into his seat. “We forged the runeblades for a purpose, boy. We could not make more even were we willing to.”
Most of those runeblades had been lost during the fall of the Old Kingdoms. They became things of legend. Durin had once claimed Frey’s flaming sword was one of their number, was his own work. But there was not enough orichalcum for such a craft now, and had there been, the dvergar would not have granted it to Volund.
He would never make such glorious works.
13
Volund blew flecks off the sword, the last of the runes etched into the blade. The shards of metal flew about the forge, carried on an unseen and unfelt wind as the shadows seemed to laugh in victory. Perhaps the shadows had been drawing him to this place his entire life. Vӧlvur called that urd—the fate of a man. Once, drunken and fey, Dvalin had spoken of the Norns. Beings he claimed were neither quite mortal nor vaettir, who wove the fates of both. Perhaps the Norns were the shadows speaking to Volund now.
The blade, as it was, was stronger and sharper than any ever forged by a man; of that Volund had no doubt. And though he did not consider himself a sorcerer in name, he knew enough of the Art to carve the runes of power. All dvergar smiths were, in effect, dabblers in the Art. The spirit he had bound to the blade was hungry and, without a soul to sate it, might break free, unbind the enchantments, and wreak unfathomable havoc upon the men of this hold.
The thought brought a bitter satisfaction with it. But he, the one who dared evoke the angered vaettr, would no doubt fall victim first. And what was his vengeance on Nidud were he not there to see despair overcome the wicked king? No, Volund’s revenge needed time to temper.
