Darkness Forged

by Matt Larkin

  And it did.

  It took some time before they heard of it, though. An entire town swept away in a night of blood and torment, the dead left to rot upon spears stuck in the ground. The lucky ones. Some few warriors had risen as draugar, now plaguing the night, preying on those who dared chance the wilds.

  Terror kept men from farming or fishing. Everywhere, the mist spread and shadows deepened. Men spoke now of compliance, of pledging eternal fealty, even. They spoke of all Reidgotaland serving the Niflungar, of the return of the Old Kingdoms.

  Both of Frothi’s jarls now lay murdered in their own homes. The assassin had slipped past their men and gutted them, then vanished into the night. Perhaps Frothi would have bent his knee, had Kelda not demanded otherwise.

  Now Slagfid’s party pushed on to the mountain peaks overlooking the town, though it had meant a night in the wilds. Nine men and women in their party, and not one had slept. All had gathered in a ring, close around the fire as they could. Slagfid had insisted they set up a ring of torches surrounding the camp. Morning, long in coming, had arrived and allowed them to continue up the mountain. Already, the day had drawn on.

  The next Niflung assassin hunted them—he could feel it. There was a thickness to the mist, a foulness beyond even the norm. And ravens seemed to watch their every move, as if waiting for a new corpse to feast upon.

  “Have you ever met this witch?” Slagfid asked.

  Kelda grunted. The path had grown so steep, they had to use their hands to grab rocks and aid the ascent. “My father climbed this way, just before he became king. She does not like visitors.”

  “Imagine that.” The town vӧlva had told them to seek out her mentor, that she might have some wisdom with which to arm themselves. Given that the old woman could have been a grandmother, this other vӧlva must have been ancient. And since she kept to herself atop the damn mountain, very few petitioners disturbed her rest.

  Today they had climbed high enough even the mist lay below them, choking the land like a blanket of poison. The pure, unfiltered sunlight stung his eyes and lit the glorious sky. Sadly, though, it would not last but a few more hours.

  They climbed on until his legs ached from it, until his palms were worn raw. How some old woman made this ascent he would never guess. By the ghosts of his ancestors, this vӧlva better have something real for them to use. They had risked their lives, made this climb, and left the town without its best protectors. All to get advice from an old woman who might have heard the voices of the gods … or might have just been mist-mad.

  But Kelda insisted. She believed in the vӧlvur and their mysticism, a faith Slagfid almost envied in her.

  At last they crested onto a plateau. The snows here had not melted. From the edge he stared down. You couldn’t even see the damned ground through all that mist. If he did not know better, he might have sworn the mountain descended on forever, straight into Niflheim itself.

  Kelda moved to stand beside him, while some of the others praised or implored the Vanir. Most had probably never seen such a view. “We’re dying,” Kelda said after a while.

  “We’ll find a way to kill this assassin. And seven more of his brothers.”

  “Maybe. But skalds talk about the Old Kingdoms, about how they once ruled the known world. And what are we now? Tiny tribes and kingdoms. And we kill each other over the few bits of land where food could grow.”

  Slagfid sighed. “There are great empires in the south, Miklagard and Serkland even beyond that.”

  “The only great kingdoms I know are those of fell lineage,” Kelda said, “peoples like the dvergar or the Niflungar. And a Niflung hunts us like frightened rabbits. I think all mankind is dying out, or at least bound for slavery. We like to call Midgard our world, but it’s not. Forget whatever horrors lay beyond the Midgard Wall. We are losing the world to the terrors on this side.”

  Slagfid grabbed her by the shoulders and spun her around. “You sound as morbid as my brother, and it suits you even less.”

  The princess shook her head then snorted. “Which brother?”

  That got a laugh. “Volund, gods. Agilaz may have had his arsehole permanently frozen shut, but he’s a practical one, grounded in the real world. Volund is the one given to such …” He was going to say pointless, but it would have no doubt further darkened her mood. “… such dour musings.”

  “I find it hard not to be dour when faced with—”

  “We are going to win. By the ghosts of my ancestors, Kelda, I’m going to give you eight more lives.”

  Kelda frowned a moment, staring out over the mist. Finally, she pointed to where the slope wound behind a bend. “I think this is it. The rest of you stay here. Slagfid and I will meet the vӧlva alone.”

  He followed as she led. He had expected a hut atop the mountain, a tiny house maybe. Instead, they stood before a dome of rock, most of which was buried in snow. An open entrance lay in the middle, torch sconces burning on either side of it.

  Slagfid glanced at Kelda, who shrugged. So—not what she was expecting either. Nice of Frothi to prepare them.

  Naught else for it, though. They had come this far. After prying a torch loose, he entered the dome. Inside it was a hemisphere with a large fire pit in the center. Beyond the pit lay stairs descending into the mountain.

  Someone groaned. Slagfid spun, sword in hand. Kelda forestalled him with a look that would have done Agilaz proud. Together, they advanced on the figure.

  The crone wore a cloak, shrouding her face. When she reached a hand out, though, he could see why. Her skin was stretched so taut her bones seemed ready to pop right out of it, and numerous blemishes marred her misshapen hand. The fire’s smoke did not quite cover the stench of old urine and rot that filled the dome.

  “Ancient One,” Kelda said, and knelt before the crone.

  The woman’s answer was a low moan. This witch was going to drop dead before she could reveal a damned thing. Still, he too knelt before her. They had come here for this. For this! Gods.

  Desperation made fools of even wise men. And apparently of town vӧlvur.

  “Our kingdom is threatened.”

  “Mmmm.”

  Kelda glanced back at Slagfid. His turn to shrug. What did he know about such things?

  The old woman reached into her cloak and pulled out a handful of bone tiles, each carved with a rune. She tossed them on the stone before her, then collapsed to the floor. Dead? No, she was leaning close, examining the runes.

  She sat like that far too long. His knees hurt from the stone floor. The mist-mad woman was wasting everyone’s time. In fact, they needed to find a safe place to camp before nightfall. This errand might yet prove the death of them all.

  With a groan, the vӧlva sat back on her haunches. If that wasn’t an invitation to do the same he wasn’t like to get one. The stone was cold on his arse, and more than aught he wanted to scoot closer to the fire pit.

  The woman spoke. “You are hunted.” Her throaty voice barely carried to where he sat a few feet away. “The Niflung assassin prince, Guthorm, stalks the island. Looks for you. Looks for …” She pointed to the staircase descending into the mountain.

  “He wants to enter the mountain?”

  Kelda glared at him as if he had interrupted her. “Why? What is this place?”

  “A Hilding burial chamber, the tomb of one of the great princes of old.”

  “Hildings?” Kelda asked.

  This much, Slagfid did know. “One of the Old Kingdoms, enemies of the Niflungar. The Niflungar destroyed the kingdom and hunted down most of those claiming direct descent from Hildir. These people were quite possibly your ancestors, princess.”

  Her mouth hung open, though whether at the revelation itself, or the one delivering, he couldn’t say. “Wh-what? I mean … what do they want here? What good is a tomb from a dead kingdom?”

  “That I don’t … No.” He turned back to the vӧlva. “No. Is it here? Is that what you mean, witch?”

  “Mmmm.” The
crone nodded, her joints popping and creaking with the motion.

  “Is what here?” Kelda demanded.

  By the ghosts of his ancestors! As if things were not dire enough. And if this Guthorm tracked them up the mountain, they had led him right to it. He rose and started for the stairs, torch out before him. A thick layer of dust coated the steps and walls both, and the smell of rot grew stronger with each step down he took.

  “Slagfid!” Kelda called after him. She followed. Not as though he had a right to keep her from this.

  At the base of the stairs, a tunnel ran for a few fathoms before ending at a stone slab, sealing the tomb.

  He sheathed his sword and handed Kelda the torch. He never should have made that oath to Njord. It had taken him so far from Svanhit … and despite all the death, the valkyrie had not shown herself. Nor, in truth, had he given nigh as much thought to her in these past moons as in the first few.

  “What is going on? I insist you tell me this instant.”

  Slagfid placed both hands against the slab and pushed. Dust spilled over him, stinging his eyes. Clogging his nostrils. He coughed, pulled away. Damn thing was heavy as a troll’s arse.

  “I might need your help here.”

  “First tell me what you expect to find.”

  “It’s easier to show you, princess.”

  Grumbling, she set down the torch, then pressed her own hands on the slab. Together, they shoved. It creaked, stone grinding on stone, before finally giving way. It slid into a recess, revealing a circular tomb. A wave of stale air hit him, sent him into a coughing fit.

  “Freya! What is that stench?”

  Slagfid put the back of his hand to his face. “Old death.” In the middle of the tomb lay a stone platform, upon which rested a skeleton.

  In its hands, it clutched a sword, covered in a thick shroud of dust.

  Somehow, he had almost hoped the crone was wrong, or lying. Not his urd, he supposed. Kelda pushed past him to stare at the corpse.

  She looked like she planned to ask another question, so he strode up beside her. With his sleeve, he wiped the dust away from the sword. Doing so revealed beautifully etched runes running its length. The blade seemed to glitter in the torchlight.

  “Behold, princess. The runeblade of the Hildings—Hrunting.”

  20

  The Njarar king had his castle high up the mountain: a route that, even in summer, chilled Agilaz. Hermod made the climb without complaint, though his teeth chattered before they reached the main gate. Decent folk did not live in such places. Still, Agilaz had to admit any attack against this fortress was doomed. From the platform above, he alone could probably hold off a small army.

  Despite the summer, ice still crusted the fortress, including the main gates. Guards with spears met him before he reached the landing, barring the way.

  “I have come to see your king.”

  “And just who are you?”

  “Agilaz, thegn of your ally, Jarl Hadding.”

  The guards exchanged glances, then one of them ordered a runner sent to the king. The men guarding the platform did not invite them up, so Agilaz wrapped an arm around his shivering son. So this was how King Nidud treated guests? It did not speak well for him, nor for Volund’s likely fate here.

  None of the men spoke.

  Finally, the runner returned and whispered something in the ear of the guard who had sent him, who in turn whispered back. Agilaz frowned. What in Hel’s domain were these people about? The guards parted then, and the apparent leader waved him forward.

  Agilaz glared at the man who had kept them waiting in the cold before accepting his invitation. They escorted him through the great doors into a long hall. Footfalls echoed behind him. He stilled the urge to glance over his shoulder. Armed men were following, at least five of them.

  Hermod looked back, tried to speak, but Agilaz silenced him a heavy grip on his shoulder. There was a time to acknowledge bad manners. All things had their proper time, and patience was oft the difference between wisdom and foolhardiness. The boy would learn it.

  The king and his queen were both too aged, especially the former. To hold a throne so long meant he must be cunning, ruthless, or beloved. From what Agilaz had seen of the town, he doubted Nidud fell into the last category.

  “Agilaz Wadeson,” Nidud said. “Thegn to Jarl Hadding of the Hasdingi. Your exploits are fast becoming a legend, even here in Njarar.”

  Agilaz inclined his head. “King Nidud. I’m honored you’ve heard of me.”

  “Indeed. If one believes the skalds, your archery skills would make you a match for Ullr himself.”

  “I would never deign to compare myself to any of the Vanir.”

  Nidud chuckled. “How modest, archer. What do you wish here?”

  To the point then. No invitation of hospitality as custom dictated—only the barest pretense of civility to one who ought to be his ally. Did the king know who he was? He knew of Agilaz’s father, after all. It stood to reason he might understand the connection between Agilaz and Volund. It had been a mistake to reveal his parentage to the Aesir. If Nidud had heard his name, perhaps the dvergar might one day as well. Volund, though, he would have been wise enough not to reveal his heritage. His little brother was cunning and always wary.

  Agilaz frowned and gazed about the hall. A lot of men, well-armed, and many wearing chain almost as fine as Otwin had. “Word reaches us you employ the finest craftsman in the world of men. I would see this smith for myself and … with your permission … I would have him craft something for me as well.”

  Nidud shifted on his throne and drummed his fingers. “With my boys away at war, this place has grown too quiet. Dull. I would have some entertainment. A demonstration of your legendary skill seems in order.”

  “If it would please my king.”

  “Oh, it would.” Nidud motioned, and guards encroached around Agilaz and Hermod. A pair of them grabbed his son.

  Agilaz reached for his knife, but a man punched him in the gut. Gasping, he fell to his knees as they dragged Hermod away. His boy was kicking, shouting for him.

  “What treachery is this?” Agilaz could barely catch his breath, and still he stumbled to his feet.

  “You know the custom, I’m sure. What better way to test a man’s aim than with a living target?”

  The king’s men marched Hermod back toward the main entrance, in the middle of the hall. One placed an apple on the boy’s head. Then they backed away. Hermod stood there, jaw clenched and only the slightest tremble in his legs.

  “This game is not played with children, but with grown warriors.” And it was barbaric, often resulting in men being maimed, killed. Drunken fools and old men tired of life played it, and even then, not so far a shot.

  Nidud shrugged. “It is played between those who care about the outcome. Since there is no one else here you could be expected to care for, show us your skill. You can do it, can you not? Show me you are worthy of the workings of my smith.”

  Agilaz glanced back and forth between his son and this vile king. What cruelty prompted such an act? Hadding was a fool to throw in with this man, no matter what he offered. And Volund … he was here at this man’s mercy. But Volund was a man grown, and Hermod was Agilaz’s own son. His brother would not ask this of him under any circumstances.

  “No craft is worth risking the life of my son,” he said. Damn Nidud, but he could not save his brother. Not at such a cost. He’d feared to leave Hermod alone in Aujum, alone to be used or harmed by enemies Agilaz knew remained behind him. He had not considered Nidud would imagine such a mockery of hospitality. “I withdraw my request. I shall take my son and leave.”

  Some of the men surrounding him grumbled in disappointment. What would Hadding do on learning of Nidud’s behavior? Would he consent to march against the Sviarland king? Even if he would, they could not seize this place. Such a war would be hopeless.

  “It seems your prowess with a bow is exaggerated. How disappointing. Or perhaps you nee
d more motivation?” The king rose and advanced, one shambling step at a time. “How about this then? Shoot the apple, or you both hang from the platform for, say, an hour? Does that entice you to a demonstration?”

  Frey’s flaming sword. The king had gone mist-mad. Agilaz knew his mouth hung open, but he could find no words, even in his own mind. He felt empty. Blank. That, of course, was the best way to shoot.

  With a long, low breath, he let his quiver slip to the floor. Then he pulled two arrows from it, one in hand, one wedged into the cracks between floor stones. He looked to Hermod.

  “You can do it, Papa.” The boy was not shaking any more. He had gone absolutely still.

  All else fell away. The hall, the guards, the evil king. They vanished into his periphery as he nocked an arrow and drew it to his cheek. Even Hermod was gone. All that remained in the world was the apple and the arrow and his own slow, steady breath. There was naught else.

  Naught else at all.

  He loosed. The arrow flew straight and split the apple down the middle.

  Some of the gathered men cheered, other shouted in disbelief. Dimly, he saw a few exchanging coins. They had bet on whether his son would live or not.

  Nidud sank back onto his throne and clapped his hands. “Well done. Well done indeed.” He shifted around as if having trouble finding comfort in his chair. “Tell me, if you could make such a shot, what was the second arrow even for?”

  “For you, should any harm have come to my son.” The words left his mouth before he could think better of them. So much for patience. His hands shook with cold rage.

  Many of the warriors brandished spears at his words, and a collective gasp had silenced the hall.

  Nidud however, snorted. “Well said. I commend your honesty. And your courage. You may see the smith—tell him to craft whatever it is you wish, archer.”