by Matt Larkin
“So now you’re human too, mama?” Hermod asked.
They had agreed to return to Vestborg. After all Volund had done, there was no going back to his brother. It weighed heavy upon him when Olrun had told him Slagfid had died, fallen in battle. She knew, for he had died gloriously and thus been chosen by the valkyries. A fate Agilaz had expected for himself. And it would have been, had a mother not so loved her child. Though he liked to think he carried as strong a weight in Olrun’s decision.
“More so than you, most likely.”
Though she spoke lightly, her words felt heavy to Agilaz. They had spoken of it once, when Hermod was born. That she, not quite human, might have passed on some of that nature to their child. Never had he demonstrated any such tendency, but then, he was young. No one who knew the truth of Volund’s lineage could deny what impact it had had upon him.
“But why?” Hermod asked. “I liked your wings.”
Olrun laughed, but her eyes looked sad. “So did I. But a valkyrie cannot make as fine a wife for your father as a woman can.”
“Oh.” Hermod walked in silence a while longer. They moved through the forests nigh to Halfhaugr, and hoped to pass the night within the safety of its walls. A few nights, maybe, if Hadding favored them.
Soon, the first flakes of snow would fall. Winter loomed again, and he was eager to be settled for it, to find a warm hearth and claim some quiet with his family. Slagfid had said they would all meet again after one year. That year had passed, but Agilaz would not return to Wolf Lake. If he was to have a home now, it would be among the Hasdingi.
First, though, they needed to see Hadding, to be certain the jarl still wished Agilaz’s service at Vestborg. He had left with Hadding’s blessing, but things could change. Especially if word had reached them of Nidud’s falling out with Agilaz.
Word had already outpaced them on one story, though Agilaz did not know if it were truth. But skalds already sang of the cruel smith Volund, and of the fallen king Nidud. In the end, they claimed, the king had hung himself from the platform. Ordered his body not be removed until ravens had eaten the last of his flesh. It sounded more like a skald’s fanciful end to the morbid tale, but who could say? Agilaz’s beloved little brother had become a legend, not only for his skill, but for the depths of his unmatched revenge against the tyrant king. There was a horrid poetry in that, though Agilaz could only pray no one came to associate his name with Volund’s. Such ties were now a great liability to the family he had left.
“So,” Hermod asked finally, “weren’t you a woman before, mama?”
She chuckled. “Ask your father.”
“Papa?”
“We will discuss it when you are older.”
“Why?”
Agilaz was spared having to answer that by the sound of footsteps in the forest ahead. He held up a hand, stilling his son, then crept forward, while readying his bow. Hasding scouts, most likely, but he could not be too careful. As predicted, war now raged between the Hasdingi and the Skalduns, and had even begun to spread to other tribes. The chaos was like to go on several summers unless something changed, though men already spoke of the jarl of the Wodanar trying to bring peace.
No scouts were here, though. Instead, Hadding crouched by a small creek. The jarl set a wrapped baby down in the woods and rose, shaking his head. Exposing the child.
Agilaz cleared his throat, and Hadding spun, hand on his sword hilt.
The jarl groaned then. “I had begun to think you’d not return.”
“The child is deformed?”
Hadding shook his head. “No. She’s beautiful, perfect. But Liv didn’t survive the birth, and Fjorgyn won’t have the girl in our hall.”
Agilaz slung the bow back over his shoulder. That explained a great deal. “Liv was not carrying Erik’s child at all. It was yours.”
The jarl shrugged and spread his hands. “And if another man had so abased his wife, I might have had him hanged. But my wife has agreed to keep it quiet so long as the child is gone. What would you have me do, man? If I keep her, I shall never hear the end of it.”
Twigs crunched behind him. Olrun and Hermod. How much had they heard?
“You found your wife.”
“Yes.”
Olrun’s eyes darted to the baby. Finally, she nodded.
Agilaz sighed. Urd was odd, twisted. Or maybe the gods had a sense of humor not so different from Slagfid’s. “I was fond of Erik and Liv both, despite what happened.”
“So were we all.”
“My wife and I would be honored to foster this child.”
Hadding shuddered and at once swept the babe up in his arms. He stared at her for a long time before finally approaching and handing the babe to Olrun. Agilaz’s wife took the child without comment, but her smile was warm.
“She has milk?” Hadding asked.
That earned him a scowl from Olrun that might have sent other men shitting themselves. “We’ll manage,” Agilaz answered before Olrun decided to unleash her anger. “The girl has more chance to survive on goat’s milk than she does on water from the creek.”
Hadding hung his head. “You shame me.”
“No, you honor us.”
“You won’t earn gratitude from my wife for this, you know.”
Agilaz looked at Olrun, cradling the babe, and to Hermod, now peeking at his new sister’s face. “I don’t care.”
“Well, in either event, you have my gratitude. You have saved me from making a terrible mistake. I will never forget what you’ve done, Agilaz Wadeson.”
“Just Agilaz, now. I make my future among the Hasdingi. Myself, and my family.”
“Then Vestborg is yours, my friend.” Hadding turned to go.
“What is her name?” Agilaz called after him.
“You saved her life,” Hadding said. “Fitting you should decide.”
Agilaz looked to his wife, who smiled down at the babe. “Sigyn,” Olrun said. “Our little victory.”
The girl was staring intently at Olrun, eyes with startling intelligence. Sudden, unnamable emotion forced Agilaz to steady himself against a tree. He had lost his brothers forever. But he had not only regained his wife, they made themselves a full family with a proper home.
As they walked, Olrun began to sing to the babe.
However twisted fate might prove, he had much to be grateful for.
26
As a raven, Volund could cover vast stretches of ground in a single night. He could not stand the sight of the sun, of course. It burned him, as it burned all svartalfar. When daylight approached, he would fly to one ruin or another, take shelter from the painful rays. Shadows would well around him then, soothing and counseling, obeying his whims as need be.
Perhaps he could not walk well. He could, however, fly. And so he passed the nights, flying from one battlefield to another. Ravens were a common enough sight in such places. They feasted upon the slain. But then, so too did valkyries flock to the fallen. And now, he could see them whether they willed it or no.
They never knew him for what he was, of course. If they had, perhaps they would have struck at him or shunned him or even fled. But they ignored him, and he watched. Waited. He had seen Svanhit once, but he did not reveal himself. Even if she knew where her sister was, she was not like to reveal it willingly. And Volund meant her no harm. Svanhit had never wronged him, and thus he could hardly visit ill upon her.
And svartalfar visited ill upon all who saw them. That was what Altvir had held back in him until, after nine wondrous years, she could no longer deny her oath. And when she had left, the darkness had wakened from its long slumber. Nidud, the fool king, could not have imagined he imprisoned not only a prince, but a dark alf waiting to rise. Soldiers spoke of the king the night before his last. In his despair, he had cast himself from his own platform, howling as he hung there, long in dying. And Volund had not made good on his threat to carry Nidud’s soul to Hel. Somehow, though, he suspected the king would find his way to the Queen of Nif
lheim.
Volund hoped Queen Ragnhild would not be too quick to join her late husband. Let her suffer the loss of her children. Let her wither in grief, dwindling through the remaining years of her life, knowing her grandchild would be Volund’s spawn. Svanhit had warned him his seed might carry on this darkness. Now it seemed fitting.
He flew over another battlefield. This battle had raged well into the evening. Otwin, the eldest and last remaining son of Nidud, continued his father’s campaigns. Given the recent events in his house, Volund suspected his rule would not be an easy one. Some claimed the gods cursed Otwin’s line. It was not far from the truth. Volund, after all, was no longer a mere mortal. And he had weighed the idea of hunting down this Otwin. But the last son was naught to him, and if Nidud was dead, the king had naught else to lose.
He alighted on a withered tree atop a hill, one giving him a clear view of the carnage.
A handful of valkyries lurked about, drifting among the dead and dying. Only those on the very edge of death could see them. A man’s eyes lit in fear and longing and, sometimes, the barest hint of hope just before the end. To Volund, it seemed the valkyries pulled an etheric light from the slain and carried it away with them.
Such was the true duty of valkyries.
The World of Dark called to Volund. It was the destination of the most wretched of the fallen. Those driven mad by hatred, unable to let go and destined to become dark. Others, the weak and cowardly, would probably fall into Niflheim. And the glorious dead … wherever the valkyries took them was a place beyond his reach. If Valhalla existed, he would never see it.
He was a vaettr, and he might enter the World of Dark. He could, were he so inclined, then cross over into Niflheim or other adjacent worlds. He could not, however, enter the World of Sun, if that was where the valkyries went. Whatever power to which Altvir and her sisters answered was beyond his reach.
In this world, though, he was unusual. He had become his own host and, as such, might walk freely in the Mortal Realm as so very few vaettir could do. Walk figuratively, if not literally.
The nearest valkyrie woke him from his musings. She was looking at him. Altvir. Had he found her at last or had she chosen to finally reveal herself? It mattered not. A beat of his wings carried him to her and, as he touched the ground, he melted like a shadow and rose up as a man. An ashen-skinned, ebon-haired man, but at least he bore the semblance of a human. It was something.
Altvir swallowed hard. Her hand lay on her now-bulging belly.
Volund sputtered, all his constantly rehearsed lines dying on his tongue. Whatever he had thought to say to her, to hear from her, he was not prepared for this.
“Volund.” Altvir shook her head sadly.
“I … found you.”
“You lost me.” Her voice was barely a whisper.
Volund swallowed, reached for her, but she flinched away. “Is that my child?”
“You sired two sons. I don’t think either will ever truly be your child.” Her eyes welled with tears for the second time in all their years together.
“Two sons … twins?”
“No.” Altvir looked away. “One son I gave you in the last days before my oath forced me from your side. A dream I wanted to share with you, if I could. And one son you got on the princess of Njarar. So that you might be born again in pain and live in shadow.”
Bodvild, of course. But how did Altvir even know about that? Volund shook his head. “I had no choice. Vengeance demanded I …”
“You always had a choice, Volund. You could have remained at Wolf Lake, waited for me.”
“W-waited! You abandoned me with naught but a ring with which to find you.” He held up his hand where the now-black ring rested upon his little finger once again. “I tracked you with it and they dared take it from me. It lost its power because of what they did to us.”
She shut her eyes, and a single tear fell down each cheek. “It lost the power because of what you did to yourself, Volund. I gave that to you in the hopes you would cling to the light until I could return. The ring was a mirror of your humanity, and you cast it aside as surely as if you had destroyed the ring itself.”
Volund forced his trembling hand to his side. “You have no idea what they did to me.”
“I know what they did to you. And I know what you did to them. And that was your choice. You chose to descend into a dark place where I cannot follow.”
What was she saying? He had finally found her again. All of this, he had done only for her. To hear such judgment, such condemnation, was an insult to all he suffered and fought for. He reached for her hand again, and she fell back, shaking her head.
“There is no future for us, Volund. Even if I gave up who I am, there is no turning back from where you have gone. Your choices are few now. Eternity alone, or else seek the company of your own dark people.”
“No. No! You give up too easily. I am not broken, I am tempered. I have become strong.”
“So strong you cannot stand the light of the rising sun. And it will rise soon, dark smith. Best you find a hole to hide in before that.” Her voice broke at the last. Before he could speak further, she raised the hood of her cloak and became a swan, instantly taking flight off to the east. Toward the rising sun.
Where she knew he could not follow. Could never follow.
Volund slipped to his knees. And he roared at the fading night.
The other valkyries turned and stared, some making warding signs, others backing away. Even the etheric souls, ghosts they drew forth, watched him in horror. He was like a wraith. Damned to wander in torment, ever mourning his losses and hateful of those who retained what had been stolen from him.
He laughed without humor. And then, as a raven he flew.
To the north rose mountains, and within them caves. Any would do to hide from a single sunrise. But Volund needed to hide from every sunrise until the dying of the world. And so he took the deepest paths, as one trained in Nidavellir knew how. Deep paths which would lead to tenuous borders between the Mortal Realm and the Otherworlds—into the World of Dark.
They were waiting for him, he knew. He could feel it. His people waiting for their great smith to come. With every step he grew more certain of it.
There was no light left for him in the world.
And so, one last time, he descended into darkness.
If you liked Darkness Forged, you’ll love The Apples of Idunn.
Witness the aftermath of the Njarar War.
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http://www.mattlarkinbooks.com/the-library/the-apples-of-idunn/
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Thanks for reading!
Matt Larkin
From The Apples of Idunn
Footfalls crunched on the snow behind him. A hand fell on his shoulder. Jaw tight, Odin turned to see Tyr there. A powerful man with long dark hair and a trim beard, Tyr was taller than Odin—and Odin was a large man. Tyr bore the scars of a hundred battles, more perhaps. But he hadn’t been at his jarl’s side in the end. Odin fixed him with a glower and did not speak. There was naught to be said, after all.
“Valkyries have taken him to Valhalla by now,” Tyr said. “Borr feasts with the Vanir.”
Odin shrugged the man’s hand off his shoulder and turned once more to the pyre. If only he could believe Tyr. But surely his father’s spirit did not rest easy, not while his murder stood unavenged. Thousands of ghosts dwelt in the mists, lingering just beyond firelight, wandering in eternal torment. Father would not rise as a draug, for such things inhabited their own corpses. But a ghost … perhaps. A fevered specter or wraith, watching as his son did naught to bring him peace.
But then, whom could he take revenge against?
No one in the village of Unterhagen had survived to tell the tale. When Father did not return from secret meeting, Tyr had tracked him to the village, Odin following with a small war band. The slaughter and savagery they found in Unterhagen suggested trolls—except trolls didn’t usually kill the women, preferring to c
laim them as wives. Men, women, children—all lay dead, battered and beaten, their corpses spread across the village.
Odin had walked there in agonized torpor, fearing what he’d find. Unterhagen had been a small valley, only nine homes cluttered in a wooded valley a few days from Eskgard. A snowstorm had swept in and blanketed the massacre, forcing Odin and Tyr and the others to dig through the snow to even find many of the corpses.
And they had found them. No corpse could be left to rot, for fear of the draugar. So they had dug through the snow until at least he’d found a severed head.
The bodies of the freemen and slaves they had burned back there in three large pyres. But Borr was noble, of the line of Loridi. He thus deserved a funeral fit for such venerated blood. And so they brought what pieces of him they could find and waited. Waited while the other tribes braved the winter storms to come and pay last respects to the greatest of the Aesir.
“You must speak to your guests,” Tyr said.
Odin scoffed. He had questioned all he could, trying to learn who his father had gone to meet with. Searching for an answer, searching for the path to vengeance. No one had those answers. Not the vӧlvur, whose useless visions told him less than naught. Not the jarls or their thegns. No one.
“You do not well remember the Njarar War—”
“Of course I don’t fucking remember it. It was twenty winters back, I was four.”
Tyr scowled at his interruption. “You may not remember it. I do. By the end, more than half the Ás tribes, the better part of all Aujum. It was drowning in blood. If not for Borr, Njord knows what would have become of this land. Your father ended the war. Brought peace between us.”
Relatively speaking. The Ás tribes still raided against one another, from time to time. Father did—had done—his best to direct their aggression back north, into Sviarland. Njarar was one of numerous petty kingdoms there. Father had spoken more than once of turning from raids to conquest, of bringing those kingdoms under Ás control. He might have done it, too. But still, not all the tribes cared overmuch for Father’s attempts to unite them. Some claimed the man thought he was Vingethor himself, thinking to be king. No one had stood as king since then, not in the five generations since the Great March out of Bjarmaland. Maybe no one would ever be king again. None of it mattered. Not compared to the weight on Odin’s shoulders. His first duty was to his father’s honor. Blood called out for blood, and he would bathe all Aujum in it to avenge Father.
