Terribly Twisted Tales

by RABE, JEAN

  The dvergar mourned, but they did not interfere. They had long avoided the affairs of men, only making an exception for Isvíít because of her beauty. So they kept to their halls, and delved their ore, and waited for the next round of tales to come.

  Looking back, even Heimskur understood what fools they were, to think they could stay safe from Isvíít’s wrath.

  One day, the queen sent her huntsmen instead of her usual traders, offering a paltry price for the dvergar ’s iron. Reifur and Reithur, who had gone to trade with them, rejected their offer and bade them leave. It fell to quarreling, and Isvíít’s huntsmen shot both brothers with arrows and stole their ore. Reifur took a shaft through the eye and died at once, but Reithur lived, and his fury grew hotter with every passing day while he recovered from his wounds.

  The dvergar laid Reifur’s body in the crystal cave, where Isvíít had slumbered, and held a moot about what they would do. In the end, they chose to set aside their oath: two of them would return to Fjarheim to speak with Isvíít. Reithur wanted vengeance, but he was too badly wounded and couldn’t convince the others. Alvííss still hoped they might persuade her to honor their old friendship and that she might order her men to leave them in peace. They drew lots to see who would go, and Ónd and Móthur were chosen. With heavy hearts they set out for Fjarheim, to beg for peace.

  Months passed, and they did not return. Then, one misty morning, a rider came to the gates of the dvergar ’s halls, threw a sack upon the ground, and galloped away. Heimskur went out to fetch the bag, and when he opened it up, Móthur and Ónd’s heads tumbled out, withered and eyeless.

  For the four remaining dvergar, there was no more debate. The next morning they set out, with swords and axes on their belts and shirts of steel mail under their cloaks. They left their halls empty and started down the road to Fjarheim to end Isvíít’s reign, once and for all.

  The town of Hafodd crowded gray and dour at the angle of a long fjord, surrounded by dark hills crowned with pines. Its buildings were few and plain: stone houses with thatched roofs, looming close to narrow, muddy streets. A haze of smoke made a pall over them, mixed with drizzle that blew in from the sea. The village’s docks stood empty but for a handful of fishing vessels: Fjarheim’s longboats were gone, its reavers plundering faraway lands. Only the queen’s huntsmen remained to defend the town, clad in white cloaks over their hauberks of mail.

  Standing with his clan-brothers on one of the overlooking hills, Heimskur stared down at the town and marveled at how the years had changed it. Part of it was an illusion made by the weather—it was the month of Einmanúd, when winter’s bitterness gave way to damp spring—but there was more than that. Hafodd had been a blithe place, and merry, on the day when Isvíít married Prince Frííthur. There had been colors other than gray and dun and rust. Years of strife and war, however, seemed to have drained all the joy and life from the place. Even from a distance, the townsfolk looked grim and stooped as they slogged through its muddy streets. Shriveled heads stood on stakes atop the wooden fence that surrounded the village, their long, dry hair whipping in the wind. The Tree of Wotan, a massive oak around which girls and boys had danced on the wedding day, was leafless and thick with ravens, which took turns plucking morsels from the corpses that hung from its boughs.

  Reithur spat in the dirt, glowering at the town. “Killed the place, she did,” he said. “Like she does everything she touches.”

  “Mind your temper,” Alvííss replied, “and keep your voice down. The dead could hear you, the way you gripe.”

  Stygg grinned and said nothing.

  “Go ride a long-axe,” Reithur muttered—but he said it quietly.

  All was silent but for the creak of the pines and the shouts of fishmongers from Hafodd’s wharf. Heimskur’s gaze drifted to the king’s keep—now the queen’s, he supposed. It perched on a rocky spur on the town’s north side, a broad hall with a peaked roof that once had been covered with bright silver, shining in the midday sun. Now the metal had tarnished and looked as dull as lead. A tall watchtower rose from the hall’s seaward end, crowned with a white banner emblazoned with a crimson rose.

  That brought the smell back to Heimskur’s mind. Everything here was roses, it seemed—sweet and cloying and wrong. The dirt and the rocks had little scent of their own. He’d been feeling sick for days because of it. A wave of nausea crashed over him, and he lowered his head and retched.

  A hand settled on his shoulder as he heaved. When he was done, he looked up to see Stygg, silently comforting him. Alvííss and Reithur stood behind him, their faces grave.

  “I hate this place,” Heimskur gasped. “I wish we hadn’t come.”

  “I know, my friend,” Alvííss replied. “But she must be dealt with. It is our responsibility.”

  Reithur tugged his beard. “Let’s do it and have done, then. No more skulking. No more planning. Let’s put steel in her and leave her carcass for the crows.”

  “But how do we get close enough?” Heimskur asked.

  “There are huntsmen everywhere. How will we hide from them in the town?”

  Reithur snorted. Stygg smirked. Alvííss, however, was the soul of patience.

  “We’ve discussed this,” the elder dverg said. “We won’t be going through the town.”

  He reached to his throat and pulled out an amulet on a chain: a slice of agate, green and tawny, etched with tiny runes around the hole in its center. It gave off the faintest smell of its own, a scent like burning peat that soon drowned in the rose reek.

  Seeing the agate, Heimskur remembered at once and felt stupid for forgetting. It was an ancient charm, made in the days when the dvergar were many, and giants and gods still walked the hills: a hurthmen, a door-stone, the last of its kind. Alvííss turned it over in his hand, then tucked it away again.

  “One chance,” he said, “is all we’ll have.” Reithur fingered the hilt of his sword. “All we’ll need.”

  Soon they were moving again, picking their way along the ridge, keeping low among the trees to avoid being spotted. That was easy, for the dvergar were skilled at hiding from the eyes of men, and they went untroubled. At last they came to a high outcrop of rock, a hunk of deep gray stone bearded with russet moss. Alvííss stood before it, touched its face with his fingers, and shut his eyes. Heimskur and the others stood by, watching. When he pulled his hand away again, it trembled.

  “This will do,” he said. “It is the same stone as lies beneath the keep. The road should be clear.”

  “Do it, then,” Reithur said.

  Alvííss looked to Stygg, who nodded, then to Heimskur.

  “Are you ready, my friend?” he asked.

  Heimskur licked his lips. “Yes,” he answered, but it was a lie.

  Alvííss turned back to the rock. As he did, he pulled out the hurthmen again, clutching it in his hand.

  “Open,” he said. “In the name of Jörth who is the earth, of the jötnar and the thursar, the stone-giants and trolls, of the fathers of the dvergar, the first-delvers, I bid you. Open and make a road for us.”

  With that, he took the hurthmen in both hands and snapped it in half. When it broke, the agate disappeared in a flare of golden light. The earth beneath Heimskur’s feet shook—a faint rumble, as when a mine passage was about to give way. There followed a loud snap, and a crack appeared in the face of the rock. It swiftly widened, revealing a passage through the stone, disappearing into darkness. Dust showered down from the tunnel’s ceiling. The smell of the rock, an aroma like mown hay, rolled out, banishing the roses for a moment. Heimskur drank it in.

  Alvííss nodded at the tunnel. “This is our road,” he said. “The other end will open into the keep. Now we must—”

  None of them saw the arrow until it struck. One moment Alvííss was talking, the next he was on the ground, and blood was everywhere, and a feathered shaft quivered in his neck. He clutched at it, choking, his face turning red. Heimskur gaped at him, and something whined by his ear: a second ar
row, which burst into slivers against the rock.

  Reithur swore, yanking his sword from its scabbard. “You bastards! You misbegotten whoreson filth! By Thunor, I’ll have your balls to cook and eat tonight!”

  Heimskur looked up and saw the white cloaks, the mail hauberks, the bows and spears and murderous eyes. The queen’s huntsmen had found them after all, and they were swarming over the crest. He reached for his axe, hauling it out and standing over Alvííss. The elder dverg lay still, his eyes staring at nothing.

  More arrows flew. One grazed Stygg’s arm. Another glanced off Heimskur’s helm. And three hit Reithur—two in the stomach, one in the thigh. He howled in rage, going down on one knee, and then fought his way back up. Blood poured down.

  “Sons of dogs!” he roared, hacking the shafts away with the blade of his sword. “You’ll have to do better than that!”

  The next shot hit him in the eye, just like his brother. He died with a curse on his lips.

  I will be next, Heimskur thought, seeing the huntsmen moving among the pines. Or maybe I will be last. I will die here, like the others.

  But he didn’t. Instead, Stygg grabbed his arm and hauled him back, away from the bodies of their clan-brothers, toward the tunnel in the rock. Heimskur barely understood what was happening, saw only death and arrows coming. Another shaft hit Stygg’s shoulder and stuck there; he grunted, but still he said nothing.

  A moment later, they were in the passage. The ground shook again, and the sliver of light from outside narrowed and then vanished altogether, shutting out the huntsmen and Alvííss and Reithur. Darkness fell, and the hay smell was all around them. They were inside the rock.

  Heimskur could see in the dark, as could all dvergar, but it took a moment. When his eyes began to work again, in tones of gray, he saw Stygg standing before him, anger and pain in his eyes as he yanked the arrow out of his arm. He didn’t cry out.

  There were only the two of them now. Their clan-brothers were dead—Reithur, Reifur, Móthur, Ónd, and Alvííss, all gone. The thought was like a mountain on Heimskur’s shoulders. A fool and a mute were all that remained of the mighty dvergar.

  “What do we do?” he asked. “Where do we go?”

  Solemn, Stygg pointed the only way they could go—onward, down the tunnel Alvííss had opened. To Isvíít’s lair. Heimskur stared into the dark and sighed.

  “All right,” he said.

  He began walking, and Stygg came after.

  They followed the road through the stone for hours; it didn’t run straight but wound this way and that, now down, now up, never keeping to the same direction for more than a dozen steps. Time and distance grew difficult, and Heimskur wondered whether they would ever come to the end—or if, without Alvííss to guide them, he and Stygg would remain lost forever beneath Fjarheim’s hills.

  Finally, though, he sensed the end was near: a new warmth in the air, and the stink of roses behind the hay. Heimskur wrinkled his nose, and behind him Stygg sneezed. They both chuckled at that, thinking of Órd, who had been forever sneezing and wheezing when he was alive. It had driven the others half mad, but now Heimskur wished he could hear the sound again—along with Reifur’s laughter, Reithur’s grumbling, and Móthur’s snores when he slept.

  So lost was he in painful memory that he blundered right into the tunnel’s end, bloodying his nose against solid stone. The road simply stopped there, at a blank wall. He stepped back, rubbing his face, and Stygg bumped into him from behind.

  Heimskur stared at the rock and felt a stab of panic. He’d been expecting the passage to open out into Isvíít’s hall, or maybe end in a door.

  “What now?” he wondered. “How do we get out?”

  Stygg tapped him on the shoulder, and he glanced back. The big, silent dverg pointed at the wall, then to his lips. He mouthed words, though nothing came out.

  Of course, Heimskur thought. Alvííss had spoken a spell to open the wall on the other end; words would likely do the same here. He struggled to remember what his clan-brother had said; then it came to him, as if Alvííss himself were whispering in his ear. He turned back to the wall.

  “Open,” he said. “In the name of Jörth who is the earth, of the jötnar and the thursar, the stone-giants and trolls, of the fathers of the dvergar, the first-delvers, I bid you.”

  It didn’t occur to him until the walls were already trembling that he had no idea what lay on the other side. For all he knew, it could be a barracks filled with huntsmen, or the mead hall itself in the midst of supper. He reached for his axe and heard the soft scrape of Stygg unsheathing his sword. But when the rock split open, it revealed a cellar storeroom, filled with barrels and sacks and coils of rope. A wooden door stood shut on the far side, torchlight spilling beneath.

  The floral stench was almost overwhelming, and Heimskur gagged. Swallowing, he stepped out of the tunnel, and Stygg followed. A breath later, the wall closed behind him, the hidden road gone forever. There were no more hurthmen to open it up again. The two dvergar exchanged grim glances: they could only go forward now.

  Heimskur crept to the door, pressed his ear against it, and heard nothing on the other side. Holding his breath, he eased it open, its hinges squeaking. Light stabbed his eyes, and when he could see again, he beheld a corridor of stone. He and Stygg looked left and right. There were more doors either way, and the hallway bent out of sight in both directions.

  For a moment, the fear returned. Heimskur had no idea where he was. Behind any door, around any corner, might be many men with swords. He glanced at Stygg, who shook his head and looked frustrated.

  Heimskur snorted, and nearly choked on the rose reek. Then, like a stormbolt, it struck him: the smell. It had been growing stronger as they got closer and closer to Isvíít. Why would it be any different now? All he had to do was follow his nose.

  He sniffed the air again. The roses were stronger to the left.

  “This way,” he said. “I know it.”

  Stygg shrugged. Together, they took the left passage, rounding a corner and coming to a door. Heimskur pushed it open . . . and there, on the other side, was a circular staircase, winding up and up and up around a central pillar.

  The tower, Heimskur thought. And Isvíít at the top.

  Following the roses, they began to climb. The stairs were tall and difficult for the dvergar’s short legs, but Heimskur was hardy, and grief and vengeance drove him. He and Stygg passed several landings, but they met no one. There were narrow slit-windows at times, looking out at the gray sky, hills, and sea. Heimskur only glanced at them in passing, axe trembling in his hand as the roses drew him on.

  Finally, knees aching and ears popping, they neared the top and came to a halt. There were voices ahead: two doorwardens, bored and playing at runestones. One cursed his partner after a good throw, and the other laughed.

  The guards were still reaching for their blades when they died, Heimskur’s axe chopping into one man’s knee while Stygg’s sword cut the other’s throat. Heimskur’s foe, a golden-haired warrior with a scar across his cheek, let out a scream as he fell, then caught Heimskur’s axe in the side of his neck. Blood spurted against the wall, and his head twisted unpleasantly as his body slithered down the stairs.

  All was silent, but Heimskur knew they’d been heard. The guard’s howl had been loud enough to rouse the entire keep. He and Stygg looked to the great, oaken door the men had been crouching outside. It was bound with iron bands and graven with runes. They waited for a sound from inside, for it to fly open and death to rain down on them—but nothing came. Instead, an uproar arose from below: curses and boots, pounding up the stairs. Men’s voices called out for the queen.

  Heimskur and Stygg lunged for the door. They slammed their shoulders into it, expecting it to be locked.

  It wasn’t. It swung wide, and the two dvergar stumbled in.

  The room was dim enough that Heimskur’s dark-sight took control. When he could make out details, he saw that it was vast—it must have filled the
whole top of the tower—and in complete disarray, as if a battle had been fought there. A broad bed sat to his left, disheveled and heaped with furs and blankets; several chests and wardrobes stood open, clothes spilling out and onto the reed-strewn floor. Half-drunk flasks and half-eaten plates of food covered a long table, and several chairs lay tipped over nearby. Fine tapestries of hunters and giant-slaying warriors hung askew on the walls. The hearth stood dark and cold, thick with old ashes. Curtains covered all the windows.

  There were bones, too—a great mound of them, capped with a pile of small, grinning skulls. Heimskur thought of the tales, of young girls brought back from raids, and his stomach clenched.

  He was still staring at the bones when Stygg caught Heimskur’s arm. Heimskur looked to the far end of the room and spotted something he’d missed: a scrawny, huddled form, sitting on the floor, wrapped in a threadbare cloak. When he’d first looked at it, he’d thought it was just the cloak with nothing inside, so frail was the person who wore it.

  Stygg glanced at him and shook his head, then turned and began to drag furniture in front of the door. Heart thudding, Heimskur crept forward. The huddled figure was moving, very slightly, rocking back and forth. And she was speaking, her voice a dry, cracked whisper. Heimskur moved in, axe ready, and heard the words.

  “Mirror, mirror, on my wall,” croaked the voice, “who in this land is fairest of all?”

  The figure looked up, its head hidden beneath its hood. Heimskur followed its gaze and caught his breath. Mounted on the wall—the only thing hung that straight there—was a large mirror, made of what looked like brightly burnished silver. In it, he saw his own reflection, and he was handsome . . . more handsome, he knew, than he really was. He also saw Isvíít there, in place of the huddled figure, and she looked as she once had, black-haired and fair-skinned and red-lipped as she’d been as a girl.