Darkness Forged

by Matt Larkin

  He pointed at Hermod. “Tell that to our son.”

  “He would be our only child.”

  “Why? You spoke once of wanting a daughter.”

  She bit her lip, then shook her head. “My mistress punished me for giving you the first child. I will never be able to bear another.” She put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. “You are a prince. Go! Find some princess to love and let her give you a dozen children. Live your life.”

  Now he shook his head. “Not without you. You are the only princess I care for.”

  Her expression warred between joy and grief, until finally, she looked up at the sky once again. “Is this truly what you want?”

  “You know it is. You’ve always known. No oath you ever made or could make counts for more than the one between husband and wife.”

  Olrun shivered such that he could barely stop himself from throwing his arms around her. The cold was probably not the cause of her distress. “Agilaz … you must return to me the ring of my mistress.”

  He hesitated. That ring was all that had let him follow her. If he handed it over and she chose to flee, he could not pursue.

  “Trust me.”

  Trust. He asked her for a lifetime, and that meant naught without trust. His chest clenched as he slipped the band from his finger, but he did so and dropped it in her palm.

  She stood there, looking at it. The moonlight reflected off the coppery band. Then she shut her eyes and set her jaw. When she opened them, she strode to her sword and took it up.

  Was that it? Was she going?

  She met his gaze.

  And she set the ring upon a rock. “You will have to give me a new wedding band, one day soon.”

  “What are you—”

  “Stand back.” She held her sword before her face, whispering something.

  A long time she stood like that, speaking some tongue he could not begin to catch, much less understand. Until the first rays of the rising sun began to reflect off her sword blade. Then she raised the blade above her head. Her silver wings shot from her back and spread into the sky. With a shriek, she thrust the sword downward. It pierced the ring and rock both, burying itself.

  The ground rumbled outward from that rock. Hermod woke from it, but Agilaz wrapped his cloak around the boy, shielding him. Olrun’s whole body shook. She turned to him, light pouring from her eyes and mouth and nose. The earthquake built in intensity.

  The ring melted into the stone. The sword turned to glass and shattered in her hands. And then her wings exploded. It hit him in a wave of heat and light that flung him to the ground and sent him tumbling end over end. Dazed, he lay there a moment.

  What the …

  Gods! Olrun!

  A macabre spray of blood and swan feathers covered the lakeside and floated upon the water. Olrun lay face down in the mud, clad in naught but her undershirt, now soaked through with crimson. The armor had vanished, trails of gold melted into the ground. No obvious wound marred her, but her back was drenched in blood.

  “Olrun!”

  “Mama!”

  He and Hermod raced to her side, rolled her over.

  Her chest rose and fell lightly. She lived.

  Agilaz kissed her face, her forehead, her lips. Hermod wept over his mother.

  24

  They had taken respite in the vӧlva’s dome, spent the night there. The Niflung assassin had not come for them. That provided very little comfort, for the vӧlva claimed he had passed the night in sorcery, had summoned aid to himself.

  Slagfid had been too afraid to ask what kind of aid a sorcerer assassin might call on. Naught good, naught meant to walk on Midgard.

  At first light they had pressed on, down the mountain and into the woods. They would not make the town. Not unless Guthorm paused to examine the tomb. Kelda had begged the vӧlva to come with them. The witch had refused, said she would rather meet her end on a Niflung blade than succumb to her age climbing a mountain. Slagfid did not blame her. It was the most honorable death he could offer her, though he doubted any valkyrie would come for the old vӧlva. What fate did that leave her? To descend to reach the gates of Hel, or else to remain, trapped in torment as a shade haunting this place. He did not blame her, but nor did he envy her.

  Panting, Kelda paused, leaning against a tree. None of the others looked much better. No sleep for two days, and now they’d all but run down a mountain. Terror of the impending sunset kept them standing, but not much more.

  “We do not have much time, princess.” Slagfid looked at the sky. No sign of the sun, hard to judge the proper time. “They will be upon us soon.”

  “And we cannot outrun them. Let us at least choose the terms we will fight on.”

  By the ghosts of his ancestors, he admired her spirit. Maybe valkyries would not come for the vӧlva, but they’d come for Kelda and her people. It was a shallow comfort. They had believed in him. He’d killed a Niflung and somehow, they had trusted when he promised to kill eight more. Instead, these people were all like to die to a single one of the sorcerers. Slagfid might have overcome another sorcerer by himself, but the vӧlva said he had aid now.

  They could leave the path, try to hide in the woods. It was a chance, if a poor one. He could see only one alternative left. No one had questioned when he had taken Hrunting and slung it over his shoulder. Several moons training together had left no doubt he was the finest swordsman among them. They thought he could use it to save them. He supposed he would, in a way.

  He unslung the sword and offered it to Kelda. “It is the legacy of your people, princess. Moreover, if the Niflungar take a runeblade, they grow that much closer to rebuilding their kingdom. You cannot let it fall into their hands. My brother told me of these swords, of the power and terrible destinies they bestow on their wielders. I wanted to spare you the latter because I …” Care for her? What did it matter now? “But no man can change his urd. And yours is to take Hrunting and escape the Niflungar, ensure it is wielded by heroes of your people and not by some sorcerer assassin.”

  She took the sword and stared down at it as if a serpent writhed in her hands. “What are you saying? We will fight him together.”

  Slagfid sighed. That sounded wonderful. And impossible. “More than our lives are at stake here. If the sword is gone, they might not further trouble your island. Either way, you cannot let them take it. Go from this island, fast as you can, and spread the word that the Niflungar are on the move. That the old world wakens and seeks to conquer the new.”

  “And what will you do, prince?”

  He shook his head. “I promised you eight more lives. You—and your seven men and women.” It had not been what he meant. But maybe Njord would accept the offering just the same. If not, well … fuck the damn Vanr. “Take your lives and go, push as hard as you can. Find a way off this island.”

  Kelda looked at her companions, must have seen how badly they wanted to flee. Oh, they would have stayed, he had no doubt. Had the princess asked them, they would have stayed, defended her. Died to the last. But they did not wish to die. Slagfid could not solve all their problems with the Niflungar. But if he had any choice in the matter, they would see at least one more dawn.

  The princess slung the runeblade over her shoulder, then grabbed him and kissed him. And then she left, they all left.

  Left him time to prepare. Time to pray.

  On his knees, Slagfid draw a dagger across his palm. He squeezed his fist until blood welled between his fingers, then flung it into the bonfire.

  “This is the only sacrifice I have to offer. That and myself. My life, Njord, if you but protect the others. Spare them from the mist and its children.”

  The sun had set, and that mist grew denser. The flames kept it from engulfing him. Nearby, his sword waited for him, stuck in the ground. Kelda had once granted him that sword to fulfill his oath, to protect her people. Had he done a better job of it, he might not find himself here now. Or perhaps the gods had willed it this way. Either way, a raven wat
ched him from the nearest tree.

  That tree’s branches had sprouted no leaves in the summer. It had become a husk, a hollow shell of its former self. Like the Niflungar—a people who had died out and didn’t seem to know it. Much of the world had forgotten them, but now they rose once more.

  Leaves crunched behind him. Slagfid rose and drew his sword in one motion. A figure stepped out of the mist. To call it a man did it too much justice, though once it had been. Its flesh had turned sallow, its eyes glowing red beneath an iron helm. The draug clutched an axe in both hands. Perhaps the dead had no need for shields.

  Another figure stepped from the mist, this one also a draug, a shieldmaiden. She bore both shield and sword. It might have been better had she worn a helm, for at least it would have partially concealed her face. A blade had severed the lower half of her jaw, exposing her rotting palate and throat.

  “This is the aid you summoned, Guthorm?”

  The mist congealed to his side, and he turned as a living man walked from it. He was young, or seemed it, with blond hair bound at the nape of his neck. His eyes did not glow, though a fell hunger seemed to reflect from them. “How do you know my name?”

  “Not everyone has forgotten your people.”

  “Good.” He drew a blade belted at his side. The sword glimmered in the firelight. Runes lined it, runes glowing with the barest hint of blue light. So, this assassin bore the runeblade of the Niflungar—Gramr. Guthorm followed his gaze to the runes. “Witness the final days of the age of man.”

  Slagfid took one slow-paced step after another, trying to get his foes all on one side. “You believe yourself immune to Gramr’s curse?”

  At that the assassin prince paused, then crooked a smile. “Oh. You know of the runeblades? Then perhaps you even know why I am here. Hand over the blade and pledge your service, and you may yet live.”

  “Go back to Hel.”

  Guthorm shook his head. “Then you will see our lady soon enough, for there is none greater. And through her, I shall raise your corpse and bind your soul.” He pointed the blade at the female draug. “You will serve me for eternity, even as your soul screams in agony and withers into oblivion.”

  Slagfid had no desire for more words with this sorcerer. He rushed the axe-wielding draug. The creature raised its weapon for an overhead chop. It was fast, especially for such a heavy weapon, and Slagfid barely managed to dodge to the side. He raked his sword along the draug’s ribs. Though his strike bit flesh, the draug barely slowed. It twisted, making a horizontal chop that forced Slagfid to leap backward.

  Already the dead shieldmaiden charged him, while Guthorm had vanished into the mists again.

  “Coward!”

  Slagfid rolled to the side and came up swinging at the female. She smashed his blade aside with her shield and swung overhand at him. Slagfid twisted out of the way and swept his sword low, scoring a hit on her leg. It clanked off bone and the woman stumbled. Slagfid kicked her forward, sending her toppling into the male. They knew how to use their weapons, but these were no master warriors.

  The sudden whoosh from the mist was his only warning as Guthorm appeared from nowhere, swinging. Slagfid stumbled backward, parried, and tried to turn the parry into a riposte. Guthorm twisted his swing into a thrust, forcing Slagfid back again. The runeblade scraped his left shoulder. Immediately a vile chill shot through his arm. It spread with every beat of his heart, like a viper’s venom, numbing him down to the hand.

  He fell away, desperately parrying with his right hand. Here, he had found a master. The Niflung’s relentless assault gave no room to even think of attack. Behind him, the draugar had risen and were flanking Slagfid.

  Guthorm fell short then, and—before he could think better of it—Slagfid took the opening, attacking. The Niflung prince twisted out of the way and cleaved down onto Slagfid’s blade. The maneuver stripped Slagfid’s sword from his hand.

  Slagfid leapt backward an instant before Guthorm would have opened his gut. The prince advanced on him, sword held high, aggressive. Draugar moved in on him from either side. Not much longer now.

  Njord, please let Kelda have made it far from here. Let her see another dawn. Slagfid drew a knife from his belt and turned, trying to keep each opponent in view.

  The male draug closed in first, with a wide horizontal swing intended to cleave Slagfid’s legs from his torso. Rather than dodge away, he dove forward, rolled under the attack, and slammed his knife into the draug’s knee. The dead thing roared at him but did not fall. Fuck. Didn’t feel pain, not the way a man did.

  He scrambled between the creature’s legs and struggled to regain his feet, even as the creature turned about—admittedly with less grace than before. Slagfid grabbed the axe haft before the draug could strike again. Had to wrest it from the draug.

  It swung the axe, flinging him to the ground on his wounded shoulder. He barely felt the impact, but he thought he heard something snap. By the ghosts of his ancestors, that fiend was strong. Even had he had two working hands, he could not have overpowered it.

  “You fight well,” Guthorm said, continuing his advance. He held up a hand and both draugar paused, glowing red eyes locked on Slagfid. “Well enough, but like a man who only knows how to fight the living. Years of training have honed reflexes that do you not one bit of good when faced with the power of Hel.”

  Slagfid stood, rose to his full height. Guthorm was right, of course. Probably even one of the draugar would have slain him. He could not hope to win against two, much less face the sorcerer assassin. He looked to where his sword lay a dozen feet from him, beyond Guthorm. It might as well have been on the other side of the ocean.

  “I do not fear my death.” A lie. Guthorm’s threat to raise him as a draug hung about his neck like an anchor, a chain wresting all hope from him.

  “You should. Only darkness remains for you.”

  Slagfid roared a battlecry and charged forward. He would die a warrior. He leapt into the air, throwing his whole weight behind his descending knife. Guthorm’s blade bit deep. Slagfid felt it cut through his spine.

  He did not feel himself hit the ground.

  Darkness shrouded him, as Guthorm had promised, and the Niflung prince snickered. Slagfid could not move, could only stare up at the vile sorcerer. He was dead. His body broken, his mind unable to escape it. All color, all light began to seep from the world.

  Guthorm wiped his hands in Slagfid’s blood and began to trace strange runes on the ground, on rocks, even on the twisted tree.

  The world flickered and darkness swallowed everything.

  And then there was light. A thousand colors of it, painting the sky. A star-filled sky, unobscured by mist. And a figure drifted toward him, winged, a faint radiance wafting off her.

  Guthorm had become but a shadow, his words a senseless whisper. He was cursing the woman, trying to banish her.

  Svanhit smiled down at him, reached a hand toward his hand. And Slagfid stepped out of his corpse. He stood beside his wife whole, if not alive. The world around him pulsed, the ground gave way, and a profound vertigo forced him to shut his eyes.

  When he opened them, Svanhit still held his hand. They stood upon a rainbow that stretched infinitely in both directions.

  “Wife?” His voice rang oddly in his own ears.

  The valkyrie stroked his cheek before shaking her head.

  “You came for me.”

  “Of course I did.”

  Slagfid looked around. Starlight and colors and world with no horizon, no beginning, no end. Something between death and whatever lay beyond. “You stopped him from taking my soul.”

  “Yes. You will not serve the Niflungar, nor face torment from the Queen of Mist.”

  “Then we can be together.”

  Now she shook her head once again, eyes filled with none of her usual joviality. “I can only take you to the threshold. Where you go now, I cannot follow.”

  “No.” He shook his head. “Then take me back to Midgard, or stay
here with me.”

  “If I returned you to Midgard, you would become a ghost even if the Niflungar did not bind you to their will. Either way, you wouldn’t like it.” She winked, though it seemed forced and brought no smile to his face. She sighed. “Nor can we stay here. This is a realm for journeys. It is not a destination. Your destination is ahead, Slagfid.”

  Slagfid stared up at the strange, starry sky, unsure even what to say. He had so many questions. What had happened to Volund and Agilaz? What would he find at the end of this journey and why could Svanhit not join him? And, had he … “Will the others, will Kelda make it?”

  “Yes, it seems she will. Thanks to you.”

  He opened his mouth to ask further questions.

  Svanhit forestalled him, pressing a finger to her lips, kissing it, then pressing it onto his. “Shhh. I am not permitted to give you any more answers.” She pointed in one direction. “There lies the Mortal Realm and your eternal damnation.” She turned, pointing the other way. “There, you will find the light. But I loved you, so I will not force the choice upon you. Go where you wish, prince who once was mine.”

  A beat of her brown wings carried her high into the sky. He watched her long after her form had disappeared beyond the stars.

  If the valkyries spoke of their mistress at all, it was with some mix of reverence and fear. If he went where she had bid him, he would no doubt find that mistress and she would decide his fate for him. If he turned back … There was naught left for him. He deluded himself to think he could ever see anyone he cared for again. Volund, Agilaz, even Kelda. They were gone from him.

  But his wife had come for him, spared him that damnation. And in the end, his trust in her was all he had left. Because the unknown future might still be better than the torment waiting behind him.

  And so he walked toward the light.

  Part III

  Year 98, Age of Vingethor

  End of Summer

  25