The Best Science Fiction and Fantasy of the Year: Volume Eight (Best SF & Fantasy of the Year)

by Jonathan Strahan

  The white sky slowly darkened. At length he found the remains of a banquet. Torches on poles blazed around it, and ragged humans fed at the board. He joined them, gathering bread, roasted fowl and wine.

  He ate until a fey appeared. It was short and looked like a badger, covered with gray fur, with white stripes on its head. Unlike any animal Kormak had seen before, it wore pants and shoes. The pants were bright blue and the shoes red. The badger's beady eyes were intelligent, and it could speak. "Away! Away, you miserable vermin! Eat acorns in the forest! Eat worms in the meadows! Don't eat the food of your betters!"

  Kormak ran. No one followed him. After wandering awhile, he found the hollow where he'd slept the night before. He settled down and slept. In the morning, he woke in a kind of daze. His promises to Alfgeir and Alda were no longer important. Why should he visit the weaver in the cave? Why should he deliver the golden dog? It seemed more reasonable to wander in the woods and meadows, watching the fey from a distance, admiring their beauty.

  That day – or another – he found a well and leaned over the stone wall that rimmed it. Below was water. A salmon rose to the surface and said, "Well, you are a sad case."

  "What do you mean?" Kormak asked, not surprised that the fish could talk.

  "You were given a task, but you have not completed it. Instead, you have let the country of the fey enchant you."

  "It's better than Iceland or Elfland," Kormak said.

  "There is more than one kind of slavery," the salmon replied and dove.

  He left the well, dismissing the salmon's words.

  He had no idea how many days passed after that. The sky darkened and then grew light, but there was never sun or moon to keep time. He remembered meals, though not well, and tumbling in a pine-needle bed with a woman, not a fey, but a ragged human. They were both drunk. After, she told him of the days when she had been the lover of a noble fey. Everything had been magical then: the fey's loving, the wine, the gowns she wore, the music and dancing.

  The woman left in the morning. He had a terrible hangover and slept most of the day. More time passed. He had more food, but no more sex. One morning he woke and saw Alda standing by his hollow. "You didn't come back," she said.

  "I forgot," he said after a moment.

  "That can happen here. It's dangerous. Always try to remember. You said you had one more gift for me."

  He dug in the earth of his sleeping hollow till he found the bag Alfgeir had given him.

  "I have dreamed of my childhood every night," Alda said. "of my foster parents and our neighbors. Ordinary things, though sometimes – not often – I have dreamed of a man working in a forge, leaning on crutches, his legs withered. His shoulders are wide and strong, his hammer blows powerful. I don't know who he is."

  Volund, thought Kormak. But how could she dream of a man she had never met?

  Alda continued, "This country seems dim now. I no longer find it attractive, and weaving has become tiresome. I want to return to the land outside. I suspect you may know the way, so I came to find you."

  Kormak scrambled to his feet. He pulled out the gold dog with garnet eyes, the last of Alfgeir's gifts, and Alda took it. As soon as it was in her hand, the gold shell split in two. Inside was a dog made of black metal. Alda cried out and dropped the tiny thing. As soon as it was on the ground, it began to grow larger and larger, until it was the size of an Icelandic horse.

  "Mount me," it growled. "I will carry you from this place."

  "Will you do this?" Kormak asked Alda.

  "Yes."

  "You as well, Kormak," the dog growled.

  He hesitated.

  "The fey will punish you when they find Alda gone," the dog growled.

  They mounted the iron dog, Kormak first, Alda behind him, her arms around his waist.

  The moment they were on the dog, the sky darkened.

  "The fey know I'm here," the dog said. "Though there is little they can do, except send apparitions. Their magic cannot harm me, nor you as long you ride me. Hold tight! And ignore what you see!"

  Frozen rain began to fall, hitting them like stones. The dog ran. Monsters emerged from the gray sleet: animals like wolves, but much larger. They kept pace with the dog, snarling and snapping. Then the ground, covered with hail, began to move. Other monsters rose from it, long and sinuous and white. Kormak had no idea what they were. Their mouths were full of sharp teeth, and liquid dripped from their narrow tongues. Was it poison? The dog kept running, leaping from monster to monster, never slipping on the wet, scaly backs. Like the wolves, the worms snapped. But they could not reach the dog or its riders.

  The storm ended suddenly. They ran among flowering trees. Lovely men and women paced next to them now, riding on handsome horses. "Don't leave, dear Alda. Whatever you want, we'll give you."

  Alda's arms tightened around Kormak's waist.

  "And you, Kormak? What do you want? Gold? A fey lover? Music, rare food, dancing? In the land outside, you will be a slave again. Here you can be a noble lord."

  The air around them filled with harping. Dancers appeared among the flowering trees.

  "Run faster!" Alda cried.

  The dog entered a tunnel. Flying things pursued them: giant dragonflies and little birds with teeth. They darted around the dog, almost touching. The wings of the dragonflies whirred loudly. The little birds cried, "Return! Return!"

  "Don't bat at them," the dog warned. "If you touch them, you will lose the safety I give you!"

  Holes appeared in the tunnel floor. The dog leaped these easily, undistracted by the birds and dragonflies. Looking down as the dog passed over, Kormak saw deep pits. Some held water, where huge fish swam. Others held fire.

  The tunnel ended in a door. The dog paused and lifted a foreleg, striking the wood. It split.

  They passed through and were outside, in the green land of Ireland. Hills rolled around them, covered with forest. The sun shone down. A man stood waiting.

  It was Alfgeir, of course. He looked older and more formidable than he had before, and his legs were encased in iron rods, with hinges at the knees. The rods were inlaid with silver patterns that glinted in the Irish sunlight.

  "Don't get off the dog, till you hear what I have to say," he told them. "Kormak, you've been in the realm of the elves and fey for thirty years. When you step down and touch the ground, you will be more than fifty. Consider whether you want to do this. Alda, you have been among the fey for many centuries. You are part-elf, and we age more slowly than humans. Still, you will be much older if you touch the ground."

  "What alternative do we have?" Kormak asked.

  "I can tell the dog to carry you into the country of the elves. You will remain your present ages there."

  "I am tired of magic," Alda said. "I will risk age in order to live in sunlight." She slid down from the dog, standing on the green turf of Ireland. As soon as she did this, she changed, becoming an upright, handsome old woman with silver hair. Her blue eyes shone brightly, no longer veiled. Although her face was lined, it was still lovely.

  "And you, Kormak?" Alfgeir asked.

  He sat awhile on the iron dog, looking over the hills of Ireland. Thirty years! Well, he had experienced a lot in that time: the light elves, the dark elves, the fey. He could not say the time was wasted. Like Alda, he was tired of enchantments; and Alda – old though she might be – looked better to him than the fey or their human slaves. Lack of aging made the fey indolent and selfish, while their human slaves became greedy and envious. The Icelanders had been better. They knew about old age and death. The best of them – the heroes – faced it fighting, like Egil.

  It surprised him that he thought of Egil with approval. The old monster! The killer! How angry he must have been at his son and his dying body! That was no excuse for killing Svart. He would do better, Kormak thought. He could not excel Egil in fighting, but he could excel him in growing old.

  "I will risk age as well." He swung down off the dog. As he touched the ground, he fel
t his body thicken. He was heavier than before, though still strong. A gray beard bristled over his chest. He brushed his hand across it. Hairs prickled against his palm. Age, or his stay in the country of the elves, had made it thicker and more manly.

  "Well, then," Alfgeir said. "I ought to tell you my true name. I am Volund, Alda's father. I could not enter the country of the fey to rescue her. The doors leading into the land of the fey have wards against anything that is foreign and might be dangerous: humans, iron, unfamiliar magic, and magicians who are not fey. My leg braces are iron and magic, and they cannot be made otherwise. In addition, I am a great magician. The fey doors would have roared like dragons if I had tried to enter. The fey let you in, because you seemed harmless.

  "I gave you three magical gifts to give Alda. The first two would wake her and break the magical bonds that held her, because they contain what the fey hate most: death and history. As much as possible, they try to live beyond time and change. Memory fails in their country. Although they love to hunt, they do not like to touch blood or death. Their human servants strike the killing blow and butcher the animals.

  "But, as Odin said:

  'Cattle die. Kinsmen die.

  You yourself will die.

  I know one thing that does not die.

  The fame of the dead.'

  "That is what's real for humans: blood and death and history; and that is what I gave to Alda with my first two gifts.

  "Bodvild asked me to make the bracelet when she came to my forge. Foolish child! Later, when she lay drunk on the smithy floor, I raped her, breaking her maidenhead, and took back the bracelet. She was your mother, Alda."

  "A cruel gift," Alda said.

  "The brooch was made for your grandmother, the wife of King Nidhad. He took me prisoner and made me lame. In return, I killed his sons, your two uncles, and made their skulls into drinking cups. Their teeth became the ivory in the brooch. I recovered it before I flew from Nidhad's court, but left the cups for Nidhad to enjoy."

  Alda's hands went up to her breast, touching the brooch under her dress. "Another cruel gift."

  "Yes," Volund said. "But remember the third gift. The dog could not enter the land of the fey any more than I could. But hidden in its golden shell and carried by you, Kormak, it could slip in. When the shell broke, it could carry you away."

  "Why did it take you so long?" asked Kormak, always curious. "Alda was a prisoner for centuries. Did you not care for her at all?"

  "How could he?" Alda asked. "I come from blood and death."

  Volund smiled, showing strong, square, white teeth. "I am comfortable with blood and death, as my history ought to tell you; and kin matter to me. I knew your brother, Alda, and made him a sword that he used until he died. A famous warrior! But not as lucky as he might have been.

  "It took me a long time to learn that Alda was still alive and then discover where she had gone. Then – hardest of all – I had to find someone who could enter the land of the fey unsuspected. You could, Kormak. A human and a slave. No one would fear you or suspect you, since you came with Svanhild."

  "What will happen to her?" Kormak asked.

  "She is as hard-hearted as her mother – you must have noticed that. She will be fine among the fey. Her father may try to recover her, but I doubt that she will go back.

  "I promised you silver," Volund added. He bent down and lifted up two bags. "This is the silver that Egil hid in the waterfall. Svanhild stole it from her father, so she would have a gift to give her mother. I took it from her while she was sleeping on the train. The treasure you carried into the land of the fey is gravel, enchanted to look like silver. When you entered, did the doorway groan?"

  "Yes," said Kormak.

  "That was because you are human, and also because you carried magic – the gravel and the three gifts. Since you were not turned away, the guard must have thought the door was groaning for only one reason."

  "Yes."

  Volund grinned again, showing his strong, white teeth. "The spell on the gravel will wear off, but this is real. You are a rich man now." He held the bags out.

  Kormak took them. They were as heavy as ever. "This is what I carried all the way from the country of the light elves?"

  "Yes."

  "Won't the fey be angry with me?" Kormak asked.

  "Yes. I suggest you go into the part of Ireland that the Norwegians and Danes have settled. You know their language. The fey have little power there."

  Volund gestured down the grassy slope behind him. At the bottom, three horses grazed. "I will accompany you for a while. I would like to know my daughter. And the iron dog will make sure that no one bothers us."

  They rode together into the part of Ireland the Norwegians held. The iron dog made sure they had no more adventures. Kormak bought a farm, and Alda stayed with him, as did Volund for a while. Kormak had more questions to ask him. How had Volund known to be in the tunnel, when Kormak and Svanhild came riding? Was it an accident that Svanhild and Kormak were traveling together, or was that part of Volund's plan? How far back did the elf prince's planning go? To the elf who opened the door in the cliff and beckoned Kormak in?

  But Volund had grown silent and refused to answer these questions, except to say two things. "I plan deeply and slowly, as the story of Nidhad tells you. The king thought I was reconciled to life in the smithy, and he thought I was safe. I was not."

  In addition, he said, "Not everything is planned."

  He spent most of his time with Alda, sitting by her loom and watching her weave, his withered legs stretched out in front of him, encased in iron. His hands, folded in front of him, were thick and strong. His face was worn. Though elves aged slowly, he was obviously not young.

  Of all the people Kormak had met – Egil, the lord of the light elves, the chiefs of the dark elves, the queen of the fey – Volund was the most formidable.

  Sometimes he talked about the swords he had made. All were famous. More often, he listened to Alda speak about her childhood. She never spoke about her long stay in the land of the fey.

  In the end, Volund returned to the lands of magic. Before he left, he said to Alda, "If you ever want to visit Elfland, send the iron dog to find me. He will always know where I am."

  The dog growled. Volund touched it, and it suddenly looked like an ordinary wolfhound. "Stay here, Elding."

  The dog said:

  "Decent behavior

  outshines silver.

  Kindness is better

  than gold or fame."

  "Glad am I

  to be a farm dog,

  guarding the farmer,

  guarding the sheep."

  "I don't intend to raise sheep," Kormak said, scratching the dog behind its ears.

  "Nonetheless, I will guard you and Alda," the dog growled.

  Volund rode away.

  "A hard man to understand," Alda said. "I'm glad he's gone."

  "I wish he had answered more of my questions," Kormak replied.

  Kormak raised horses and sold them at a good price. Alda wove. Her cloth became well known among the Norwegian and Danish settlers. Noble women, whose husbands had grown rich through raiding, bought it. They had no children, but the wars in Ireland produced many orphans, and they found several to foster. Kormak lived thirty years more, aging slowly and remaining strong. Alda did not age at all.

  At last, Kormak grew sick and took to his bed. "What will you do?" he asked Alda.

  "Go to Elfland," she replied. "The dog will know the way. Our foster children can have the farm and the silver that remains. I still have the gold bracelet and the gold and ivory brooch, though I have never worn either. I want to return them to Volund."

  "Have you ever regretted staying here?" Kormak asked.

  "I have liked it better than the country of the fey," Alda replied. "As for Elfland, I will find out how I like it."

  Alda sat beside Kormak until he died. After he was buried, she picked out a horse. "The farm is yours," she told her foster childre
n. "I am taking this horse and the dog."

  The children – grown men and women – begged her to stay.

  "I want to see my father and the lands of my kin," she replied. "The dog will guard me."

  And she rode away.

  SING

  Karin Tidbeck

  Karin Tidbeck (www.karintidbeck.com) is the award-winning author of Jagannath and Amatka. She lives in Malmö, Sweden, where she works as a creative writing teacher, translator and consultant of all things fictional and interactive. She has published short stories and poetry in Swedish since 2002 and English since 2010. Her short fiction has appeared in publications like Weird Tales, Tor.com, Lightspeed and numerous anthologies including The Time-Travelers Almanac, Steampunk Revolution and Alien Encounters.

  The cold dawn light creeps onto the mountaintops; they emerge like islands in the valley's dark sea, tendrils of steam rising up from the thickets clinging to the rock. Right now there's no sound of birdsong or crickets, no hiss of wind in the trees. When Maderakka's great shadow has sunk back below the horizon, twitter and chirp will return in a shocking explosion of sound. For now, we sit in complete silence.

  The birds have left. Petr lies with his head in my lap, his chest rising and falling so quickly it's almost a flutter, his pulse rushing under the skin. The bits of eggshell I couldn't get out of his mouth, those that have already made their way into him, spread whiteness into the surrounding flesh. If only I could hear that he's breathing properly. His eyes are rolled back into his head, his arms and legs curled up against his body like a baby's. If he's conscious, he must be in pain. I hope he's not conscious.

  * * *

  A strangely shaped man came in the door and stepped up to the counter. He made a full turn to look at the mess in my workshop: the fabrics, the cutting table, the bits of pattern. Then he looked directly at me. He was definitely not from here – no one had told him not to do that. I almost wanted to correct him: leave, you're not supposed to make contact like that, you're supposed to pretend you can't see me and tell the air what you want. But I was curious about what he might do. I was too used to avoiding eye contact, so I concentrated carefully on the rest of him: the squat body with its weirdly broad shoulders, the swelling upper arms and legs. The cropped copper on his head. I'd never seen anything like it.