by C. L. Werner
The room he found himself in was immense and illuminated by the red glow of the massive forge at its center. An enormous basin, apparently crafted from obsidian, stretched across the middle of the chamber. It was filled with bubbling lava fed by a chute that stretched back into one of the walls and a flue that carried up into the ceiling. A gate of diamond sealed the flue, but behind its transparent face could be seen a mass of molten lava. Rings were embedded in every side of the basin and to these were fitted heavy chains. From what Tyr could see, the shackles hung empty, saving those that were fastened about a lone dwarf. It was his hammer that they’d heard, and the object upon which he worked was a sight that caught the Aesir’s breath.
A gigantic blade, twenty feet long and five feet across, its edge as black as midnight, lay in an obsidian mold. It was a weapon fashioned for a giant, shaped from an ore Tyr couldn’t begin to put a name to. Its darkness was mottled by internal sparks, as though a constellation had collapsed into its surface. An aura of distortion flickered about it, coruscating through shades of brightest red to deepest purple. More than its shifting hues, it was the atmosphere of menace that rolled off the sword that impressed Tyr, the condensed horror of a battlefield, impatient and eager to wreak havoc upon the universe.
In the moment it took Tyr to recover, he saw Bjorn dash past him. “Fire giant! Bjorn Wolfsbane has come for you!” he howled as he charged into the chamber, axe held high. Tyr shifted his gaze and saw the huntsman was making for a colossal seat that appeared to have been carved from a single ruby. Sculpted with dragons along its arms and a fanged beast for its backrest, Tyr imagined it was a recreation in gigantic miniature of Surtur’s Burning Throne from which he reigned over Muspelheim in his Court of Conflagration. The haste of Bjorn’s rush to come to grips with the tyrant before Tyr made the hunter overlook an important detail. The chair was empty.
Not so the room. Bjorn’s headlong charge exposed him to the other denizens of the forge, set there to guard Twilight. Four monstrous sentries moved away from alcoves cut into the walls. One had already started towards the doors Tyr threw open, but the other three lumbered after Bjorn. Each was twenty feet tall, crudely human in shape if not proportions. Their skin, if such the shell that covered them could be called, was hardened stone, grinding and groaning as they moved. Though Tyr thought they resembled some manner of ape in body, their heads had a woeful familiarity, evoking the horned visage of Sindr. Revulsion filled Tyr as he asked himself to what use Surtur had put her siblings, those who failed the cruel tests set by their father.
The shambling sentinels bore weapons in their oversized hands, an array of swords and bludgeons larger and more imposing than those of the stronghold’s fire demons. Tyr noted that armor had been riveted directly to the stone bodies, encasing the most vulnerable points with irremovable plates of dull red metal. There was only a dim awareness in their gaze, recalling to him the stare of a trained dog. Attentiveness, even cleverness, but no real comprehension.
“Back, monster!” Tyr shouted at the sentinel as it advanced towards him. The lumbering creature didn’t so much as pause, but merely raised its stone club to strike at him. He met its swing with a sweep of Tyrsfang that sent the better half of the bludgeon spinning through the air. The armored brute drew back its arm and threw the remains of its weapon into his face.
The tactic caught Tyr by surprise. The broken heft of the club slammed into him, slashing his nose and cheek. Momentarily dazed, he failed to fend off the sentinel’s fist when it drove a punch at his belly. The stony fist had the force of a battering ram. Tyr was lifted off his feet and flung through the air. He crashed against a rack of tools near the forge, spilling them across the room. He heard the horrible sizzle of those that splashed into the basin of lava.
In his fall, Tyr’s sword was knocked from his grip. As he started to rise from the wreckage, he could see it lying on the floor but before he could make a move towards it, the sentinel charged him. A second blow of its massive fist drove him back to the ground. Tyr raised both arms to shield himself as the monster made ready to stomp on him with its foot.
Before the blow could fall, sparks flared before the sentinel’s eyes. The brute didn’t cry out, it simply pawed at its face as though by such means it could regain its sight. Tyr took no chance that the strange creature could. He seized its upraised foot. The stone sentinel must have weighed several tons, but the Aesir’s strength was equal to the burden. Gripping with his hand, leaning in with his other arm, Tyr heaved against the creature’s mass. This time it was the sentinel that was lifted off the ground, pushed back against the forge. It had enough awareness to recognize its peril, for its hands left its eyes and fumbled at the lip of the basin. The agility to save itself, however, wasn’t in the monster’s favor and it toppled over into the molten fire.
“Quickly! Get Twilight!” Lorelei shouted to Tyr, pointing at the obsidian mold.
Tyr took one step towards the black sword, then his gaze was drawn to Bjorn. The huntsman was surrounded by the remaining sentinels. His axe had removed the fingers from one and gashed the knee of another, but the creatures were little bothered by such injuries. Steadily they converged upon Bjorn. When he tried to put a stone rack between himself and the enemy, one of the monsters swatted the barrier aside, spilling materials used by the smiths in every direction.
“Get the sword!” Lorelei shouted again.
Tyr shook his head and turned. His hand closed about the grip of a sword, but it was that of Tyrsfang, not Twilight. He couldn’t leave Bjorn to be overwhelmed by the sentinels. Ignoring Lorelei’s shouts, he rushed to help the huntsman.
Twenty-Three
One of the sentinels turned as Tyr ran toward the melee. It had little chance to defend itself before he leaped at it, bringing his gleaming sword chopping down. The brute had just started to lift its own blade to block his blow. Tyrsfang sheared through the weapon and ripped down into the creature’s head. The metal plates bolted to its skull split beneath the strike, torn from their moorings in the stony skin. The creature staggered as fiery sludge bubbled up from its wound. It appeared immune to pain, however, and struck at Tyr with the remains of its broken sword. The jagged edge raked across his armor with a metallic shriek.
“The heart! Strike for its heart!” The shout came from the dwarf shackled to the forge. Tyr seized upon the smith’s advice and stabbed at the hulking monster’s armored chest. The red metal offered no protection against Tyrsfang, and its point punched through to the stony skin beneath. Tyr had to spring back as a spray of steaming ichor jetted from the wound. The sentinel staggered for a moment, clutching at the gash in its chest as though to stem the molten flow. Then it slammed forward, the ground shaking as its lifeless bulk fell.
Tyr gave a worried look at Tyrsfang, but the enchantments laid upon the Great Wolf’s fang were too mighty to be overcome by the sentinel’s burning heart. Jumping over its inert form, he hurried to help Bjorn. The remaining monsters had him pressed back near the crimson throne, forcing him up onto the steps of the dais on which it stood. He was bleeding from a gash in his leg, nearly losing his footing as the steps became slick with his blood.
“Stay there!” Tyr cried out in warning. With his back to the throne, Bjorn was unaware of the grisly change that had come upon the chair. Flames were emanating from its depths, slowly growing in intensity. Some dread sorcery was involved, for though the flames became more violent, he noted no increase in the heat that afflicted the room. He wondered what magic disguised the flames, and to what purpose.
Bjorn didn’t appear to hear him, for he continued to climb the steps, doing his best to stave off the sentinels with his axe. Tyr sprang over the materials scattered on the floor, ingots of Uru and dwarven steel stolen by Surtur’s minions for the continual refinement of Twilight. He came upon the sentinels from behind, lashing out with his blade and slashing each in its turn across its broad back.
One of the monsters
swung around, chopping at him with its sword. Tyr managed to fend off the blow, though turning the sentinel aside was like matching strength with Sindr again. He made a quick feint to one side, hoping to trick it into exposing its chest, but the creature refused the bait and he had to content himself with a long cut down its leg. The brute stumbled, the injured leg buckling under it, but the sentinel remained very much in the fight.
The same couldn’t be said of the wolfhunter.
“Bjorn!” Tyr cried out. He saw the sentinel fighting his friend drop the Asgardian with a glancing blow from its club. He crumpled on the steps of the dais at the monster’s very feet.
Tyr ignored the creature he was fighting and charged instead for the dais. He felt pain shoot through his body and knew he’d been hit in the side by the monster he’d been fighting. It was a sloppy contact, however, for a more telling strike would have thrown him across the room.
Forgetting the closeness of his escape, Tyr leaped at the sentinel standing over Bjorn as it raised its club to deliver the killing blow. The Aesir slammed into the creature from behind and sent it crashing into the throne. The eerie flames, that fire without heat, engulfed the monster, lapping around its stone body in a slithering, creeping manner. Tyr shoved Bjorn aside as the sentinel rose and stumbled away from the throne. The thing was a walking pyre now, flames writhing greedily around it. The armor bolted to its body dripped away in molten blobs, its craggy flesh began to split and fracture as the inferno consumed it. Tyr thought of the awful precision with which the Burning Throne had been named if it too possessed the deadly power of this one. He could readily imagine the fire giant reigning from such a lethal place, a chair whose blazing fury only Surtur could endure.
While the stricken sentinel was being consumed, the one that Tyr had struck in the leg returned to the fight. It stalked straight towards the two warriors. He tried to rally Bjorn, but the stunned huntsman didn’t stir. Tyr frowned when he saw that the last enemy was aware of how its fellows had been struck down. It was coming at them from an angle that would keep it well away from the throne’s trap and it had one arm clenched close over its chest to protect its heart.
Tyr ground his teeth. Now would be a good time for one of Lorelei’s spells! If the situation weren’t so dire, he might find it funny that he should call on magic to help him after warning the others not to depend too dearly upon it. He shot a glance across the room. He saw Lorelei beside the obsidian basin. Though they had not found Surtur waiting for them in the chamber, he took a bleak kind of comfort knowing she was ready to make off with Twilight if the fight with the sentinels went against them.
“Come along and get me,” Tyr hissed at the monster, flourishing his sword to hold its attention. He wanted to divert it from Bjorn and, above all, keep it from noticing Lorelei. The monsters had been set here to guard Twilight after all.
The ploy worked. The brute came lumbering after Tyr. Now, as he moved, he began to feel the hurt of his wound. Blood ran down his side from where the sentinel’s sword struck him. “You’ve had a bit of my blood, but that’s all you’ll have,” he warned the guardian.
The sentinel stomped through the spilled materials. Tyr watched as steel ingots were stamped out of shape by the monster’s weight. He heard the groan of Uru as it resisted the pressure brought against it. Pursuing Tyr through the debris, the creature shattered jars and pots, spilling more esoteric materials from their vessels. When one pot in particular broke open, Tyr noted a familiar smell.
Perhaps if Sindr hadn’t boasted about her venture to Hel, Tyr would have dismissed the connection the odor evoked. He’d also ventured into Hela’s deathly domain and while there he’d seen the dragon Nidhogg chewing on the roots of Yggdrasil. The smell of the worm’s venom wasn’t easily forgotten, nor its terrible effect.
Tyr sheathed his sword and circled around the last sentinel. He was certain the monster had no idea of its peril, otherwise it would never have risked stepping on the pot. Only luck had kept the monster from already suffering the bite of Nidhogg’s venom. Tyr was going to change that luck.
“That’s it,” he goaded the brute. “Keep after me. I’m the one you want.” He darted back as the sentinel slashed at him with its sword. Tyr kept one eye on the broken pot, not willing to risk exposing his plan by looking directly at it.
The opportunity finally came. Tyr angled himself so that with one quick motion he could make a grab for the broken vessel. He could see the venom leaking from it, sizzling on the floor. Would there be enough left for his purpose? He didn’t know, he could only act and trust that there would be. When the sentinel made another swing at him, Tyr darted to the side. His hand seized the handle of the shattered pot. Wary lest so much as a speck of the venom land on his own skin, he swung the broken vessel at the sentinel.
The monster brought its sword up to block the crude missile, but in doing so it only caused the venom to spatter across more of its body. Smoke bubbled off the sentinel as its stony skin crumbled, dripping to the floor in bits and pieces. The brute’s face cracked and where the venom sizzled its features began to slough away.
Tyr drew Tyrsfang once more and charged the stricken monster. He thrust the blade into its chest, easily penetrating its crumbling skin. He was prepared this time for the gout of molten ichor that jetted from the wound, twisting so that he was clear of the fiery spray. The sentinel made a last, feeble swipe at him before collapsing to the floor.
“And then there were none,” Tyr said. He turned and hurried back to Bjorn. The wolfhunter was recovered enough that he was sitting up, one hand pressed against his bleeding scalp.
“Couldn’t save one for me?” Bjorn grumbled. “Had to show off in front of Lorelei.”
Lorelei! A sudden dread took hold of Tyr. He spun about and faced the forge. Unbidden, rising up from deep inside him, was an overwhelming fear. Though he’d urged her to escape with the sword, Tyr now feared that he would find both her and Twilight gone.
Twenty-Four
Tyr found that Lorelei was still beside the forge and Twilight was still resting in its mold. What he couldn’t be certain of was whether either situation was of her choosing. She was backed up near the basin, her dirk in her hand. The satchel of arcane apparatus was lying on the floor at her feet. Preventing her from reaching it, or from stepping away from the forge was the dwarven smith, his hammer clenched in his fist and raised to strike her if she made a move.
A tremendous sense of relief rushed through Tyr, blotting out the fear that had come over him. Here was the explanation to why Lorelei lent them no aid in the fight. She’d been set upon by the dwarf. She was still true to her friends and to Tyr. It had been shameful of him to suspect her, even for a moment, of treachery.
“Peace, swordsmith,” Tyr called to the dwarf as he stepped closer. The shackles fastened to his chains made it clear he was no willing helpmate of Surtur, but a captive like Grokrim and his group. “Lorelei is a friend who has led us through many a danger to reach this place.”
The dwarf shifted back so he could see both of them at the same time. When Lorelei made a move to recover the satchel, he gestured menacingly with his hammer. “I recognize you for Tyr Odinson,” the smith declared in his gravelly voice. “That is why I called out to you in the fight. Her I don’t know.”
Lorelei glared at the dwarf. “It should be obvious to you that I’m not a fire demon or one of Surtur’s brood,” she snapped.
“The obvious is the most deceptive of all,” the dwarf said with a shrug. “We’ve been forced to craft many things for the fire giant, among them a jeweled belt that allows the wearer to take on the seeming of whatever they choose. For all I know, I bandy words with Sindr at this moment.”
“You would be wrong,” Tyr assured the smith. He gestured with his sword at the dwarf’s chains. “Would you accept that we’re friends if I freed you?”
The dwarf’s eyes were wary, and became more so when
he spotted Bjorn limping across the chamber toward the forge. “I trust nothing until I know why you’ve come here.” He gestured at Twilight in its mold. “Obviously you’ve come for Surtur’s sword, but with what intention? What use do you hope to make of it?”
“No use at all,” Tyr said. “Merely to keep it from the fire giant’s grasp. We will bear it back to Asgard and seal it away in a vault where it can harm no one.”
The answer brought visible relief to the dwarf. He lowered his hammer and bowed in apology. “Forgive me, but I had to be sure. I trust the word of Tyr Odinson that you’ll do what you say.” He nodded at the obsidian basin. “I’ve labored long over these flames, giving shape to Twilight. I know only too well the evil power that has been infused into the sword. The only thought that gave me any comfort at all was that its evil wouldn’t be unleashed until Ragnarok and the end of all things.” He turned and bowed his head to Lorelei. “When you reached to take Twilight, I panicked, fearing you’d come to bear it away and set its evil loose.”
“The only thing I’ll set loose is you,” Tyr said. “And I do so now.” He brought his sword shearing through the smith’s chains.
The dwarf stepped back, massaging his wrists, a jubilant smile on his face. “You’ve the fellowship of Nilfli for this deed,” he said. “If there’s any favor a dwarf too long held by the chains of Muspelheim can render you, you’ve but to ask and it shall be done.”
Tyr smiled at the smith. “I’ve but one favor for now,” he said, nodding at the forge. “What wards have been laid on Twilight to prevent its theft?”