by Rich Horton
Of course Kormak knew this. He had even seen the skin of a white bear, when he was a slave in the north. It had been yellow rather than white and not nearly as soft as a fox’s pelt.
“The foxes are too small to bother us, and we don’t have a problem with bears in this part of Iceland. But it was an ugly surprise when Kveldulf appeared in wolf form, and it made our night journeys unpleasant. He was a frightening sight. We elves do not like to be afraid.”
No one does , thought Kormak.
“We thought of killing his wolf form, but it was possible that Kveldulf would be unharmed and wake up, knowing about us. Life was easier when we had Iceland—and Borgarfjord—to ourselves.” Alfhjalm lifted a pitcher and poured more ale. “He died of old age finally, and the wolf was not seen again. Then his son Skallagrim inherited the farm at Borg. He was another man like Egil, big and strong and ugly, almost a giant; and he was an ironsmith, which sounds better than a wolf. But we elves are not entirely comfortable with iron. Though we can use it and even work it, we prefer other metals. We are able to cast spells over copper, tin, silver, and gold, making the metal stronger, sharper, brighter, luckier, and better to use. Iron resists our magic. If we make an iron blade, it cuts less well than a blade of bronze. If we make an iron pot, it cooks food badly. Iron tools turn in our hands. Everything becomes less useful and lucky.
“Skallagrim made us uneasy, since he had great skill with iron, and we suspected his skill was magical. He never did us any harm. Nonetheless, we avoided him and watched him for signs of danger. In the end, he died in bed like his father, and Egil became the farmer at Borg. He is the worst of the three: a Viking, a poet, and a magician. There is no question about his magical power, though it appears diminished now.
“He knows a spell that can compel land spirits, such as we are. He cast it on our kin in Norway, so they could not rest until they drove King Eirik Bloodaxe from the country. If he could do this to Norwegian elves, he can do it to us. It’s a difficult spell that requires killing a mare and cutting off its head, then setting the head on a pole carved with runes. We are not sure he can still do it, but we are always careful around him.”
“Why did you help me?” Kormak asked.
“I wanted to know what Egil was doing. He was killing men on our doorstep. Who could say what that meant? And he had a mare with him. It was possible that he intended to cast a spell on us. I am willing to cross him, if I can do it without him knowing. We have lived in fear of the Marsh Men for a long time, and it’s been angering. Now this seems to be ending. Egil will die soon. Thorstein is a good farmer, but not at all magical. He will cause us no more trouble than any other human.”
“What will happen to me?” Kormak asked.
“I think Alfrad will make you a slave. Do you have any special abilities?”
“I have worked with horses,” Kormak said. He did not add that he’d learned some ironsmithing from Svart.
“We have fine horses, as you have seen, and we take good care of them. You have a useful skill.”
This was his fate, Kormak thought, to go from owner to owner, a slave to farmers in Iceland, then a slave to Icelandic elves. It was a discouraging idea. At least he was alive, unlike Svart, and he was away from the horrible old man. If it was his fate to labor for the elves, he would not trust them. Svart had trusted the Marsh Men and been killed.
He slept in an outbuilding. The next day the elf lord announced that he would be a slave and sent him to work with the elf horses. They were intelligent, well-mannered animals, and Kormak enjoyed them.
All the slaves in Elfland were human. The elves did not own one another. But when humans came into their land, they enslaved them. There is always dirty work to be done everywhere, in Midgard and Alfheim and Jotunheim and Asgard. Even magical beings had work they did not want to do, either with their hands or magic. The slaves were a miserable group, badly dressed, dirty, and sullen.
Kormak was sure he remembered stories about humans who went into Elfland and had fine lives, sleeping with elf ladies, hunting with elf lords, till they woke and realized a hundred years had passed. Instead he mucked out stables and groomed horses. Well, life was never like stories. In time, he began to help an elf smith, who forged gear for horses out of bronze. The smith had some iron, which he never used. “An evil metal,” he told Kormak. But he kept the ingots tucked in a corner of his smithy, and Kormak remembered where the iron was.
So the days passed. There was no winter in Elfland, though the sky grew dark when winter came to the land outside. Still, it was warm. He never had to follow animals through the snow. One period of darkness came and went, then another, then a third. He had been in Elfland three years. Egil must be dead by now. Should he try to escape? Was it possible?
Elves came to get horses and ride them inside or outside Elfland. Some were tall and handsome men. Others were beautiful women. One was the lord’s daughter, Svanhild. Her favorite mount was a dun mare with white mane and tail. No horse was lovelier, and no rider was more beautiful. Svanhild was blue-eyed with blond hair as white as her horse’s mane. Her dress was usually blue, a deep and pure color; and her cloak was scarlet. Gold bracelets shone on her arms. Of course Kormak was interested in her, but he was not crazy. He kept his ideas to himself and helped the elf girl on and off her horse.
One day she came by herself. The elf smith was gone from the forge, and Kormak worked alone. “I know you have been watching me,” she said. “I think you want to have sex with me. I also know you are Irish, like my mother.”
“I am Irish,” said Kormak. “I am also a slave, and I take my pleasure with other slaves, not with noble women.”
“That may be,” Svanhild replied. “I want to go to my mother’s country. My father is narrow-minded and avaricious. Look at what he did with the treasure you and your companion brought to the river. You don’t have it. My father does, and he has not shared. Instead, you are a slave, though you brought him wealth.”
“Yes,” said Kormak.
“The men here want to marry me because I am my father’s heir. I have no interest in any of them. In my mother’s country, I might be free.”
“Or maybe not,” Kormak replied. “I have not found freedom anywhere.”
“I am willing to try,” Svanhild replied. “Will you come with me and help me?”
“Why should I?”
“Once we reach the land of the fey, I will set you free. You will be in Ireland then, which is your native country.”
He would be taking a risk, but maybe it was time to do so. He did not want to spend the rest of his life as a slave in Elfland. Kormak answered, “Yes.”
The woman smiled, and her smile was an arrow going into Kormak’s heart.
She left, and he had a thought. While the elf smith was gone, he shod two horses with iron. One was Svanhild’s favorite horse, the dun mare with white mane and tail. The other was an iron-gray gelding with black mane and tail. The iron shoes made the horses uneasy. They sidled and danced. But they endured the iron.
Three days later, Svanhild returned. She rode a red mare and wore a chain-mail shirt. Two full bags were fastened to her saddle.
“Is this the animal you want to take?” Kormak asked, disturbed. He was relying on the iron shoes.
“No. I needed it to carry my bags, but my dun mare is sturdier and better tempered.”
Kormak unsaddled the animal and moved the saddle to the dun mare. As he did so, he noticed that the bags were heavy. “I hope you have directions.”
“I have a map, which my mother left me.”
“Good.” Kormak’s horse was the iron-gray gelding, a strong animal, intelligent and calm. He did not want trouble on this journey. Fire was fine for war and stallion fights. But what he needed now was sturdy endurance.
They mounted. Svanhild led, and Kormak followed. This is hardly wise , he told himself. He was risking his life for a girl who had no interest in him and for the hope of freedom. But he was tired of Elfland and Iceland.
Each lamp shone like a star in the distance. When they reached one, they rode through a brief region of brightness, then back into darkness, with the next lamp shining dimly in front of them.
On and on they went, until they reached a place with no more lamps. Svanhild reined her horse and opened a saddlebag. Out came a lamp made of bronze and glass and full of brightly shining sun stones. She gave it to Kormak to hold, then took out a bronze stick and unfolded it, till it became a long pole with a hook at one end. “Put the lamp on the hook,” she told Kormak, “then hold it up, so it casts light over us.”
Kormak did as he was told.
They went on, riding slowly, lit by the lamp that Kormak held.
At length they came to a spring that spurted out of the tunnel wall and flowed across the stone until it reached another hole and vanished. They dismounted and watered the horses, then drank themselves.
“How long is the journey?” Kormak asked.
“Twenty-five days by horse,” the girl replied.
“Is it all like this?” Kormak asked, waving around at the tunnel.
“I think so.”
“The horses will need to eat, and so will we.”
“There are folk down here, dark elves mostly. They are kin to us, though they prefer darkness to light. We used to live in the sunlight, as I think you know, but they have always lived underground. This is their tunnel.”
“Do they have hay?” Kormak asked.
“I think so.”
They mounted and rode on.
There was no way to tell time in the darkness, but they continued until Kormak and the horses were tired. He was about to say they would have to stop when a light appeared ahead of them. It wasn’t a sun-stone lamp, he realized as they came nearer. The light was too yellow and uncertain. It came from a lantern fixed to the tunnel’s stone wall. A man stood under it, leaning on a spear. The still air smelled of hot oil.
He was as tall as one of the elf warriors, but broader through the shoulders and chest. His hair and beard were black. His skin was dark, and his eyes—glinting below heavy brows—were like two pieces of obsidian. He wore a mail shirt that shone like silver and a helmet inlaid with gold.
“What do we have here?” he asked in a deep voice.
“I am Svanhild, the daughter of Alfrad, a lord of the light elves and kin to you. This human is my slave. We are going to my mother’s country in Ireland. I ask your help in getting there.”
“I can’t make that decision, as you ought to know. But I’ll send you to those who can decide.” He put two fingers in his mouth and whistled sharply. A dog emerged from the darkness, iron-gray and wolfish. When it reached the elf warrior, it stopped. Its back was level with the warrior’s belt, and every part of the animal was thick and powerful. A man could ride it, Kormak thought, if he pulled his feet up, and the dog was willing.
It opened its mouth, revealing knife-sharp, gray teeth and a gray tongue that lolled out.
It was made from iron, Kormak realized, though it moved as easily as a real dog. The dog regarded Kormak and the girl with eyes that glowed like two red coals.
“A marvel, isn’t he?” the dark elf said. “Made of iron and magic. We can’t do this kind of work any longer, but our ancestor Volund could. He made the dog after he fled the court of King Nidhad of Nerike, where he had been a prisoner. He took his revenge on Nidhad by killing the king’s two sons and making goblets of their skulls and a brooch of their teeth. He gave the goblets to the king and the brooch to the king’s wife, who was the boys’ mother. In addition, because he was someone who did nothing by halves, he raped Bodvild, the king’s lovely and innocent daughter. Then he flew away on iron wings. He couldn’t walk because the king had cut his hamstrings, wanting to keep Volund as a smith.
“Once he was safe, he forged the dog, working on crutches. He wanted a servant who was intelligent and trusty, but not any kind of man. By then he was tired of men, even of himself.”
“What happened to the girl?” Svanhild asked.
“She bore two children, products of the rape, which happened while she was in a drunken sleep, so she didn’t know it had happened until she began to grow in size. Her father kept the boy but put the girl out on a hillside to die. The child lived, but that’s a story too long for me to tell.” The dark elf looked down at the iron dog. “Take them to the Thing for All Trades.”
The dog replied with a bark.
“Follow him,” the dark elf ordered.
They did, riding into a side tunnel dimly lit by a few oil lamps.
“What do you know about these people?” Kormak asked.
“They are ironsmiths who use no magic. They say iron is sufficient and better than any other metal, though we think it’s obdurate and uncooperative. I had not realized that Volund could enchant iron. He was a prince of the dark elves and famous for his skill as a smith. These days the dark elves have no princes, nor any lords. No one could equal Volund, they say. Instead, they form assemblies, where every elf has an equal voice.”
“Like the Althing in Iceland,” Kormak said. “Though rich and powerful men have more say there, and slaves have no say.”
After a pause, Svanhild said, “The dark elves do not distinguish between rich and poor or between men and women. All work, and all join the assembly for their trade.”
“Why are they so different from you?” Kormak asked.
“Iron,” Svanhild replied. “And lack of magic! All beauty and nobility come from magic.”
Kormak was not sure of this. There was little magic in Iceland, except for a few witches and men like Egil. But the black mountains and green fields seemed lovely to him, also the rushing rivers and the waves that beat against the country’s coast. He could praise the flight of a falcon across the summer sky or the smooth gait of a running horse. At times, he was at the edge of speaking poetry. But the words did not come; he was left with the memory of what he’d seen.
The tunnel opened into a cave. No sun stones shone from the cave’s roof. Instead, the floor was dotted with lights. Some looked to be lamps or torches. Others—brighter—might be forge fires. Hammers rang out, louder and more regular than any he’d heard before.
The dog kept going. They followed it down a slope. There was a track, lit by the lantern Kormak held: two ruts in the stony ground. It led into a little town. The low houses were built of stone. Lantern light shone through open doors and windows. Torches flared, fastened on exterior walls. Here and there, Kormak saw people: tall and powerful and dark. A woman swept her doorway. A man wielded a pick, pulling cobbles out of the street.
Now they rode next to a stream, rushing between stone banks. Rapids threw up mist that floated in the air. Kormak felt it gratefully.
Ahead was a hall, torches blazing along its front. Two elven warriors stood before the door, armed with swords and metal shields.
Kormak and Svanhild reined their horses. “We were sent here by the guard in the tunnel,” Svanhild said in her clear, pure voice. “I am Svanhild, the daughter of Alfrad, your kinswoman from the north.”
“We know Alfgeir sent you, because the dog Elding is with you,” a guard replied.
“What do you want?”
“Passage to my mother’s country in the south.”
“Who is your mother?”
“Bevin of the White Arms.”
“Irish fey,” said the second guard. “We know them, though we don’t much like them. Still, it’s up to the thing-chiefs to decide your fate.” He turned and pushed through the hall’s metal door.
They waited for a while, staying on their horses. Finally, the guard came back out. “Go in.”
Svanhild and Kormak dism
ounted.
The first guard said, “I’ll water your horses while you’re gone. They are fine animals, better than any we have, though they look weary and thirsty.”
“Not too much water,” Kormak warned.
“We know iron better than animals. Nonetheless, we have some horses, and I have cared for them. I know what to do.”
They walked inside, the iron dog pacing next to them. The hall was as large as Alfrad’s. Stone pillars held up the roof, and stone benches ran along the two side walls, unoccupied at present. A long fire pit ran down the middle, full of ash. Here and there red light shone from the ash, and a thin trail of smoke rose, but most of the light came from torches burning around the high seats at the hall’s far end. There were six. Three held old men with broad, white beards; and three held old women with long, white braids. The dog barked. Kormak and Svanhild walked forward and bowed to the thing-chiefs.
“Who are you?” an old woman asked, leaning forward. She was bone-thin, with skin the gray hue of a twilight sky. Her eyes were dark and keen.
“Svanhild, the daughter of Alfrad. My father is an elf lord and your kin, as he has often told me. This man is my slave.”
He was tired of this introduction, Kormak thought, but said nothing.
“Why have you come?” an old man asked. He was darker than the woman, though his skin had the same faint tint of blue. His eyes were as pale as ice.
“I seek help in reaching my mother’s country in Ireland.”
“Why should we help?” another woman asked, this one fat and black. Her blue eyes looked like stars to Kormak. No woman this old should have eyes so bright.
The dog opened its mouth and spoke in a harsh voice that Kormak could barely understand.
“Hat-hidden, Odin
tests human hosting.
Hard the fate
of those who fail.”
