by Matt Larkin
“Sit, Agilaz, sit,” Hadding commanded. “Someone get the man some mead. Frey! I will not have it said I am a poor host.”
Agilaz did sink down onto the bench and lose himself in drink. It gave him time to mull over this development. Maybe Nidud wanted the Hasdingi to win a war so he’d have favorable trade partners in Aujum. Or maybe he wanted an Aesir tribe in his debt. If he armed them with finer weapons and armor than their foes—as aught made by Volund would be—then surely the Hasdingi would win the war.
But what of Volund? He had once claimed that working those forges was his greatest love and his greatest fear, both. That it brought something out of him, something dark he did not wish to face. If there was a chance Nidud was forcing him to it, Agilaz had to find out. He owed his brother that much.
After the feasting had slowed, and warriors had begun to drift away from Hadding’s mead bench, Agilaz stood up. He had not wanted to be the first to leave. He nodded to Otwin and the jarl and left.
He found Hermod outside Frigg’s room. He motioned with his head down the hall. Hermod left Frigg’s game and followed his father.
“You need to prepare for another journey,” Agilaz said.
Hermod opened his mouth as if to protest, but closed it quickly. “Where are we going?” he asked after a moment.
“North. We are going to your Uncle Volund.”
17
Volund tossed the helm onto the pile of other workings for the moon. A mail shirt, arrowheads, a golden brooch. The knife, that too. The keenest of edges on that one. Once a moon, the king’s men would come, claim his works. Oh, and praise him as the greatest smith in Midgard. Nidud honored his word in that.
And they brought him any material he desired. He had but to ask and they delivered ivory, gems, obsidian. Aught he could use in his designs.
With a sigh, Volund limped over to the table where he worked on a ring from time to time. From memory he’d tried to craft another duplicate of Altvir’s ring. They had taken all those he had once made. In truth, he cared little about the gold and silver stolen. One more crime, and one for which he needed to add but a small measure more to his planned vengeance. But the orichalcum ring of the valkyrie, that he needed. He no longer saw her. No, even in dreams she was far off, out of his reach. Ever fleeing into darkness. Or fleeing from the darkness that had so enveloped him.
That thought made him chuckle. He lurked down here in the forge like a wraith haunting some ancient barrow.
Grunting, he leaned on the table and held the ring up to his face. Useless. Why could he not remember the exact look, the proportions? Maybe it was a vain hope that Altvir’s ring could still save him. Even had the bitch queen not given it to her daughter—a girl Volund had never even seen—there was no telling if it could save him. He would never walk again, not as a man. As his dvergar masters hobbled around in pain, so too had he become a twisted shell.
His right leg had become useless. In truth, he had almost died under the ministrations of Nidud’s half-competent vӧlva. He wanted to call it luck that he had not bled to death. But somehow, Volund doubted luck had much to do with it. Perhaps it was his cursed urd, placed upon him by a cackling Norn. Or perhaps it was whatever the dvergar had done to him in the deeps of Nidavellir.
For they had done something.
He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the still lake. His skin had become ashen, as if so many moons in the shadows had sapped the color from him, save for his hair. That had, when he tried washing it in the lake, shone like onyx.
Either way, had he bled to death, it might have been a mercy compared to this wretched existence. The forge itself was his sole solace, at least as long as he tried to forget he crafted these treasures for the very man who maimed him.
Sapphire shrooms grew around the forge, and the oblivion they offered had eased him through the agonies of his injury. He no longer needed them, but still, sometimes he imbibed them. The shadows danced for him when he did.
Volund sighed. There was no point to finishing the ring. Let Nidud take it and trade it to pay for his wars. Perhaps it did not duplicate Altvir’s treasure—still it was finer than aught most men would ever lay eyes on.
He is coming.
Volund jerked his head up. They came once a day, as best he could tell, to bring him food. Only a few hours had passed since the last visit. And it didn’t seem time for anyone to claim the treasures. So then who?
No. He didn’t care. He no longer went out to meet them when they came. Thakkrad had ordered the bridge extended just enough a man could leap from it to the island. A man with both legs at least. It was his little torture, dangling freedom so close but ever out of reach. Volund had crafted a cane, hobbled out to meet them many times. But it did not take long to tire of their mockery. So instead, he remained in the forge, let them leave his food and go.
Here, between flame and shadow, he worked, ate, and slept. And he dreamed, ever chasing Altvir through the dark. Perhaps it was him she fled.
He is here.
Volund grumbled, then grabbed his cane before hobbling over to the forge entrance. One of Nidud’s sons stood there. Perhaps nineteen, twenty winters. Not so very many less than Volund himself. The man wore mail—armor Volund himself had crafted a few moons back—but no guards accompanied him. The strange smith who had once frightened an entire court was now a mockery, feared by none in his lameness. More fools them.
The young man looked around the forge, working his jaw in obvious unease. Perhaps that ought to be a small comfort to Volund. If the whelp didn’t fear him, at least he seemed uncomfortable.
“What do you want here, boy?”
Instead of answering, he knelt to inspect the pile of goods Volund was working on.
“Like what you see, boy?”
“My name is Ulf Nidudson, and I am no boy.” He rose, turning on Volund with all the false bravado Amelias had once shown.
Volund watched him, unmoving.
“How did you make Mimung?” Ulf asked after a moment.
So that was what this boy intended. Interesting. Volund had explained to both Thakkrad and Nidud directly that he could forge no more runeblades. There was no more orichalcum, a fact that the king, at least, had finally been persuaded to believe. Nidud had given Mimung to his eldest son, Otwin, the one fighting battles with the Aesir. That made Ulf, the middle brother, left behind. Inheriting naught but second place and maybe a chance to serve as his brother’s shadow. Not unlike the fate Agilaz might have found beneath Slagfid, had any of them ever returned to Kvenland.
Strange, he had not thought of his half-brothers in some time.
Oh, well. Here he was, face to face with one of the sons of Nidud. And the king must not know he was here. Because Nidud already knew Volund had used the last of the orichalcum to forge Mimung.
Volund nodded at him. “Eager to step out of your brother’s shadow, are you? Maybe with such a sword you could go off to war, too. Find glory.” Volund flicked some soot off his nails. “And if dear Otwin were to fall in battle, well …”
The boy glowered and stalked closer. “My brother is not the only one who stands in the way.”
Oh. Oh, that was rich. “You will use a sword I make to kill your father?”
Ulf shook his head. “You know what kind of king he is. He’s lived too long and now he’s like to ruin our whole kingdom with his wars. We have the wealth to prosper, but he will not be content until he owns everything between here and the Midgard Wall.”
A well-practiced speech. And probably at least half-true. Nidud’s ambition would lead to his downfall, maybe sooner than even Ulf seemed to realize.
“And if I made such a work for you, in secret … what reward might I expect?”
Ulf shrugged. “Your freedom.”
At that, Volund did laugh. “You would let me go? Where? How? Should I walk down the mountain? Men had to carry me down those steps leading up to the hall. I would not make it on my own, not even to that town. Your father has ruined me.”
&nb
sp; “Then take revenge.”
Oh, he would. Nidud had once promised him suffering even skalds would hesitate to speak of. That was what Volund intended to deliver to him. One day.
Until then …
“How old is your sister?”
Ulf spread his hands. “Bodvild? Uh, sixteen winters.”
“Married?”
“No. Father’s been saving her for a worthy bride price, or so he says. She’s mother’s favorite, and the queen will not be parted from her.”
How perfect. “And pretty?”
“I don’t fancy my own sister.”
Volund smirked at that. The boy wasn’t half so bad as his father. “Your father had me maimed and imprisoned without knowing who I was. He never stopped to ask. My father was a prince of Kvenland. A bastard prince, but a prince nonetheless. I stand to inherit no throne, but I am an eligible man, one of a worthy line.”
Ulf grinned. “And you want to marry my sister. Well, that’s perfect, of course. You can’t make it on your own … but instead of being a prisoner here, you could be the most honored man in the court. The royal armorer, husband to the princess.”
The boy was clever. After a fashion. Volund didn’t much care whether Bodvild was pretty, and he was already married. But the princess had Altvir’s ring, and if she was the queen’s favorite, maybe he would kill her just to punish the mother.
“So start forging the blade.”
“I will see the girl first.”
“I cannot give you her hand while my father lives.”
“Then arrange a meeting, and I …”
Someone watches. Someone listens. Someone learns.
Volund tried to keep his expression the same. Had Ulf brought a guard? No, someone had come after the prince.
He hobbled over to the treasure pile. Once there, he almost fell as he knelt down to examine it. He steadied himself on the helmet, while grabbing the knife.
“Arrange a meeting with the girl. For now, you can take this helm. It’s stronger than most and will keep you safe, should you join your brother in war.”
Ulf took the helm and tried it on. Volund hobbled around the forge, cane thumping with every step.
Now that he knew, he could hardly see how he’d missed the other boy, hiding in the shadows. He could feel the child and his beating heart, disrupting the darkness. And from the corner of his eye, he could see him. Nidud’s younger son. Short blond hair like his older brother, a leather jerkin. Hand clutching a sword, thinking himself unseen. Fifteen winters, maybe.
“Ulf?” Volund said.
The man, now helmed, approached.
“I take it your father does not know you’ve come here?
“Of course he doesn’t fucking know. You take me for a fool?”
“And did you invite your brother to join us?”
“What?”
Volund pointed his cane at the boy lurking in the shadows.
Ulf took a few steps in that direction, then started. “Snorre!”
That complicated things. If they had been working together it would be bad enough—two tongues that might wag. But to have the one spying on the other … What a family.
The younger stepped from the shadows, shaking his head as if unable to fathom how Volund knew of his presence. “Father will have you strung from the platform for this one, Ulf. I hear if you hang there long enough, your balls literally freeze off.”
Volund approached behind Ulf. “He’s going to ruin your plan.”
“Snorre, you will say naught of this to Father or anyone else.”
The urge to roll his eyes was almost overwhelming. “Yes, that will work. Threaten him, too, perhaps. No one knows he came here. Just kill him.”
Ulf spun on him. “Kill my brother?”
“You were willing to kill your other brother.” And his father.
Snorre spat. “He wouldn’t dare try! I’ll cut your legs as bad as that smith’s!”
Ulf hesitated, hand on his sword hilt but not drawing it. Useless. The man lacked the conviction to see things through. Nor was his plan sure to result in Nidud receiving his full measure of suffering.
Shame, though. It had been tempting.
Volund slipped his knife between Ulf’s ribs. The blade pierced the mail and the man’s heart. Ulf slumped forward, trying to turn, as if to ask why. Snorre stood there, mouth agape. Volund flung his cane end-over-end into the younger boy’s face. It landed with a sick crack, and the boy fell into a heap, gasping.
Now the hard part. Volund jerked his knife free and limped slowly to Snorre. He knelt beside the boy—who, to his credit, tried to grab that sword. With a swift jerk Volund cut his throat.
Hot blood exploded outward and washed over Volund’s face. No different than slaughtering a deer, after all.
Volund groaned as he rose. Well, perhaps he was going to get a measure of vengeance today. The king would wonder where his sons had gone, of course. Whatever lived in the lake would take care of the bodies. But before that, well, Durin had shown him how to make a stunning goblet from a man’s skull. Perhaps that would impress Nidud, at least while he thought it walrus ivory or some such.
And then he ought to make something for the queen. Teeth could be shaved into some exquisite ivory brooches.
Yes, the royal couple would be so happy today.
18
Nine Years Ago
Agilaz had been the one to point out the dvergar would expect Volund to return east to Kvenland. That had left them only one remaining choice—to travel south, into the kingdoms of Sviarland. And still, they could not risk any of the nearer lands reporting on their passage. Thus, the brothers had stuck to the woods, the wilds, hunting, foraging. Two moons had come and gone before the first time they allowed themselves to trade in a town, and even then, Agilaz went alone.
But now the days grew shorter, summer waning. Soon, the winter storms would begin, and they could not hope to weather six moons as they were, in the wilds, without proper shelter. They had discussed hunting for caves, but Agilaz insisted they might spend far too long seeking one suitable.
The mist was thick down here, in the valleys. Thick enough the light didn’t bother his eyes as it had when he first emerged from Nidavellir.
Volund pitched another stone into the river, watching the splash. It would freeze soon. Just like them. “You two ought to return to Kvenland.” It was not the first time he had suggested it. The dvergar would hunt him for the rest of his days, but, with any luck, they didn’t know his brothers had even been there. Why, then, should Agilaz and Slagfid give up everything and suffer?
Sometimes, he imagined the sunlight had touched Durin, had truly turned the dverg to stone as in legends. It was an idle fancy, and would only make Dvalin’s vengeance upon him more dire.
Slagfid scoffed. “Who do you imagine will wish to ferry us across the Gandvik this time of year? Most captains find the sudden storms a bit inconvenient, what with the capsizing and horrible deaths at sea.” His eldest brother was whittling down an arrow for Agilaz, something to hunt for the night meal. Volund did not chide his brother, though he could have done better himself. His heart was not in the crafting, and Slagfid did not push him much. “Or maybe you meant we should travel back north through Nidavellir the way we just came?”
Agilaz frowned as if Slagfid’s suggestion was in earnest. “Too dangerous. Besides, even if we returned to Kvenland, grandfather would not risk arousing the ire of Nidavellir to shelter the sons of his bastard.”
Volund flung another stone into the river. Because of his actions, his brothers had lost their home as well. He could have stayed, given himself over to service to the dvergar.
No. He would not be owned, not by them, not by anyone.
Agilaz grabbed his arm. “Be still. Do not disturb any vaettir slumbering in the river.”
Volund scowled, not denying the reprimand. Yes, he should have known better. Wild rivers were oft home to nixies or other spirits apt to drag a man to his death. Part of h
im almost welcomed such a challenge, a chance to vent his ever-growing frustration, his anger, on aught, whether deserving or not.
His middle brother pointed to the south. “This river runs to the heart of the valley, feeds a lake there. The townsfolk do not go there.”
“Why not?” Volund asked. Sviarland was covered in lakes, many of which proved ideal locations for towns, trade stops, or small farms.
In answer, Agilaz moved along the riverbank and knelt beside it. What was he on about now? Volund stalked closer to inspect whatever had drawn his brother’s attention. A wolf’s paw print, deep in the mud around the river. Very deep and very large. “Dire wolves. They hunt this whole valley.”
Slagfid snorted. “Then maybe you ought not to have led us here, little brother. I for one think there might be easier game than any wolf, much less dire wolves.”
Volund found he had to agree. Such animals roamed the wilds in Kvenland, and while they were not much larger than gray wolves, they were heavier and had much stronger teeth. More importantly, they would prey on humans, while a gray wolf would only do so if starving or cornered. “What are you thinking, brother?”
“I’m thinking Agilaz is drunk,” Slagfid said.
“I was not talking to you.”
Agilaz scowled at Slagfid. “No one will come looking for us in this valley. Men avoid it, which means though some king might claim the land in practice, none will stop us from taking it for ourselves.”
“Right,” Slagfid save. “Except maybe the fucking dire wolves.”
Agilaz shrugged. “We have bows. You risked your life against the dvergar, but you will run from animals? This may prove our best chance.”
Volund rose. “I say we find the lake.” The wolf print was deep, yes. And wolves of any sort were territorial. If the brothers wanted to claim a place here, they’d probably have to fight for it. But Agilaz was right—it was better than risking word getting back to Nidavellir. Here, they might have peace.
Slagfid held up his hand. “I am the oldest, it ought to be my decision.”
