Darkness Forged

by Matt Larkin

  “Njord, if you get me through this … I will offer up nine lives in your name. I swear it.”

  A surge of water crashed over his boat. One of his oars fell from his grasp, then disappeared, carried away from the boat. The Vanr did not seem to be listening. Damn fickle, the gods could be. Especially the god of wind and sea.

  He pushed his hair back from his eyes. Damn it. He still couldn’t make out land.

  Another wave rocked his boat and flung him forward. His shoulder hit the rail, and he almost tumbled over the side.

  The gods did not love him this day. And his father’s ghost was not listening either.

  He could not steer the boat with one oar, and the waves were tossing him about so violently it might not have mattered. The winter storms had come early. “Svanhit … I hope you guide me true.” The ring pulled him to one side, tempting him with the promise of land.

  With a deep breath, he jumped over the rail and dove into the sea. He was already soaked, but still, that first plunge felt like slipping into the icy realm of Hel. The deeper he dove, though, the less force the waves held. In the darkness, he could make out almost naught.

  All he could do was strive forward. Trust the ring.

  Men claimed serpents and mermaids and even a terrible kraken lived beneath the Morimarusa. He didn’t even see any fish.

  Lungs were about to burst. Slagfid broke the surface, gasping. The moment he did so, another wave crashed over him. It flung water down his throat. He sputtered, coughing up a lungful of the stuff. Please, Svanhit. Or any other god who might be listening. He did not want to die, pulled down into the net of Rán. Some said the mermaid queen spat out her rejects as sea draugar, forever haunting the sea where they died. Slagfid would not wish such a fate even upon his enemies.

  He dove under again. His lungs wanted to explode in an instant. He’d not had a full breath of air, but he was not like to get one.

  Yes, at this point he’d accept aid from Rán or her dire husband, Aegir. He’d almost welcome succor from Hel herself.

  None of them answered.

  Follow the ring.

  His whole chest was on fire.

  He did not want to die like this.

  “He lives.” A woman’s voice.

  Svanhit had come for him.

  Slagfid blinked. A man had flung him over his shoulder, was carrying him. An armored woman trotted beside them, the wind batting her hair over her face.

  Svanhit …

  “Svanhit.”

  He jerked awake. He lay on furs, beside a fire. A wooden house, thick with wood smoke and the smell of cooking fish.

  A woman sat a few feet away, sharpening a sword. Other warriors, too, one tending to a pot over the fire.

  The woman rose at his voice. She had Svanhit’s height and build, her hair color. But it was not she. She knelt beside him and peered into his eyes. “I am Kelda Frothisdotter. And you are lucky to be alive. The gods must favor you.”

  Perhaps. It seemed Njord had answered his prayer—or accepted his offer of sacrifices.

  “Who is Svanhit?” she asked.

  He pushed himself to a sitting position. His muscles ached, trembled, and tried to refuse, but he was not about to meet these warriors lying down. They had removed their armor, but he was certain he’d seen it when they found him. Wealthy enough warriors, then.

  And what should he tell them about Svanhit? That he had married a valkyrie and she had left him? They might think him mist-mad. Or a liar. “I am Slagfid Wadesson, prince of Kvenland.”

  The woman cocked her head at that. “Then, prince, I should tell you my father is king of this island.”

  Rescued by a princess. That was a tale for the skalds.

  His stomach rumbled, and a few of Kelda’s men laughed. With a wooden bowl, one man scooped out a lump of fish from the pot, then handed Slagfid the bowl. Slagfid snatched it up and pried the flesh loose with his fingers. The heat seared him, but it was welcome. Haddock, and well-cooked. At this point, he’d have devoured it raw had they given it to him.

  “Get the prince some ale,” Kelda said, then served herself some fish.

  They waited until he had finished eating before anyone spoke further to him.

  Kelda broke the silence then. “You are a long way from Kvenland, aren’t you? And yet you speak our tongue.”

  Slagfid nodded. Kvenland was part of the North Realms, but the Northern tongue diverged in different lands. “We had instruction from foreign tutors as children.” One of many benefits of being a prince, even one who could never inherit the throne. Since his own father was a bastard—as were the brothers, all sired on different women—they lacked political importance. The king had still seen his bastard brother as an asset, however, and might have married Slagfid off to some noble’s daughter, had things gone differently. Had his father not sent Volund to the accursed dvergar.

  “I owe you my life, princess.”

  She waved her hand as if it were of no consequence.

  “I made a vow to Njord if he would spare me, I would kill nine men in his name. But it was your men who pulled me from the sea, so I ask you. Tell me the names of your enemies, and I shall slay them for you.”

  “Are you so great a warrior to make such an offer?” A curious look had overtaken her face, and the other warriors, too, were watching him now.

  “I have rarely met my equal with a sword.” In truth, since attaining manhood, only Svanhit had bested him. And besides, Svanhit remained close, perhaps waiting for heroic deaths. Slagfid might fulfill his oath and find his wife with the same stroke. “If a man troubles you, princess, point me toward him.” He yawned. “And I shall attend to him once I have rested.”

  One of the warriors chuckled. Slagfid noted his face. He expected he was going to like the man. “You would not be so quick to offer if you knew our foes.”

  Slagfid snorted. The looks on their faces, however … stern as Agilaz and drawn out. Like men who knew they were soon bound for Valhalla and had accepted it, but found no joy in the knowledge.

  Kelda rubbed her arms and looked around the hall. “You have heard of the Niflungar?”

  Oh, by the ghosts of his ancestors. Slagfid scowled and nodded. The sorcerer kings had once been the terror of the old world, the greatest of the Old Kingdoms. According to the skalds who had instructed him in ancient lore, the Niflungar worshipped the goddess Hel, Queen of the Mists, and thus called themselves Children of the Mist.

  “They have wakened,” Kelda said. She looked faraway now. “They demand tribute—great hoards of gold, silver, all other value our people had gathered. We already send so much to Nidavellir, and now this emissary comes, claiming lineage from a dead kingdom? No, my father refused.”

  One of the men spit. All had hands on their weapons and kept looking about, as if expecting the mist to somehow permeate the wooden walls and choke the life from them.

  Kelda seemed to look through him, at some ghastly memory and sight he’d rather not see. “They came in the night. We didn’t know, didn’t hear aught. But in the morning, we found a man dead in his house, door wide open. His wife and children gone. Just … gone. And the fisherman—eyes frozen inside his skull, face twisted like he’d looked upon Hel herself.”

  “No one leaves their door open at night,” Slagfid said.

  “No,” Kelda agreed. “But the next night it happened again. And again. So my father sent us into the wilds to hunt them. We found naught. And so we pass from one town to another. Three times, one of our own number has vanished in the night.”

  A chill shook him. How did a man track something like that? Maybe one as keen as Agilaz could do it, but Slagfid was a far better swordsman than woodsman. And was this truly the task the Vanr god wished of him? Slagfid had been careless in his oath.

  Slagfid sighed. “I swore to Njord I would kill nine men in his name. I swore to you I would fight your enemies. Grant me a sword, princess. And we will see about hunting these mist children.”

  Another w
arrior scoffed. “If the king doesn’t pay, Hel will have us all before the winter breaks.”

  Perhaps she would. Either way, Slagfid intended to return at least nine of her children to her.

  3

  Beyond the valley lay the seven petty kingdoms of Sviarland, each ruled by an equally petty king. The brothers had rarely had contact with any of them, save for trading with the nearest border town, usually done by Slagfid.

  Volund had passed through that town a day back and traded some silver for supplies. Extra torches, especially. One could not walk the wilds without torches. The dvergar who trained him had spoken of days before the mists had seeped into Midgard, had confirmed the legends among men that those mists had come from the icy world of Hel—Niflheim. And they were poison to mortals. Not only to the body, but to the soul, to the mind. Those who breathed them deep went mist-mad, lost themselves, and if they came back at all, they came back wrong. Once, Volund’s own father, Wade, had cut the head off a man gone mist-mad. Volund had been a boy, but he remembered those empty eyes, like the man was looking at something no one else could see.

  Even the dvergar of Nidavellir avoided venturing out of the underground realm when possible. And now Volund wandered through those mists. Forests covered much of Sviarland, so he would not lack for wood. If he wandered too far, though, he might run low on oil.

  The ring kept drawing him northward. Into the heart of those damn kingdoms. Not places he had any desire to see. Nine winters had passed, yes, but the dvergar had long memories and held the deepest of grudges. They would hunt him for the rest of his days. Maybe beyond. Some said the dvergar could conjure the dead and force them into servitude, as did their own dire creators. An apt punishment for his crimes against them, perhaps. Volund shook his head. The more time he spent in civilization, the more chance for word to reach Nidavellir. A great mountain range separated Sviarland from Nidavellir, but mountains were no barrier to the dvergar. The Earth spirits were born of rock and stone, spawned in a world far below Midgard. Sooner or later, they would hear of him, and they would come for him. Such was the way of the world.

  And yet, if he did not follow Altvir, he was already lost. His life would mean less than naught.

  Just shadows.

  So northward he pushed, but not on the sledge trails. In winter, dogsleds and sledges wore common paths one could follow between kingdoms. Common, if not safe. But Volund had less fear of the mists and the wilds than he did of wagging tongues, so he kept to the depths of the woods. He had no sled, but soon snowfall would necessitate skis or snowshoes. Those first snows always came this moon. He did not have much time.

  Agilaz was the best woodsman and tracker among them. Volund could not match his brother’s skill. Still, he had the ring to keep his course true. When he slept, it sang to him in a whisper. He could not make out the words, but the voice he knew. It was her voice, calling him, calming him. Saving him from himself.

  The brisk wind tugged at his cloak, threatening to tear it loose from its clasp. At least the valkyries had not left in the heart of winter. True, it was easier to cross frozen lakes than go around them. But in winter, that chill could kill a man while he slept. And worse, thanks to the mist, those who died alone without a pyre might again rise.

  Ahead, in a clearing, lay a stone hall. Volund hesitated. Shelter was good, especially with night approaching. But the obvious disrepair meant naught human laired in this place. Some such ruins were empty, safe from men. Many, though, housed vaettir, beings of spirit keen to prey on humans foolish enough to draw nigh. Even those without vaettir could still harbor trolls and the like.

  Still, a hall would have a fire pit. A fire pit meant safety, a chance to sleep without fear of mist. Volund knelt, watching the hall. No one emerged from it. No smoke from the chimney. That alone must confirm no people lived here, not any longer.

  In the distance, a wolf howled.

  Damn it. Night was fast approaching. He either had to claim this place or find somewhere and build a fire. As the sun set, the mist would thicken. And with it, vaettir would grow bolder. Darkness unleashed draugar, trolls, and … worse. Vaettir even dvergar feared.

  This place offered an unknown risk, but also his best chance.

  He approached the hall in a crouch, staying low, hand on the sword hanging over his shoulder. He had crafted it himself, in the great forges of Nidavellir. Pattern-woven dvergar steel, stronger than blades carried by men. Strong enough to cut down a varulf if need be. And yet, naught stirred as he approached.

  The wall around the compound was nigh eight feet tall, much too tall for him to see over once he had drawn up against it. Runes marked it, but the work was sloppy. The dvergar had not built this place, though they might have taught the men who did. Remnants of one of the Old Kingdoms, perhaps. Volund jumped up and grasped the top of the wall. His fingers slipped immediately. A thick layer of ice coated it. It would make going in that way impossible.

  That left only the front approach. The builders knew what they were doing in that much, at least. He edged along the wall, cringing at each crunch of pine needles beneath his heels. The gate had long since rotted away. Slipping his sword free, he peered around the wall’s edge. The stone hall lay beyond, its entrance off-center so one could not charge straight from the gate to the door. From here he could see that the door, too, had fallen away.

  Volund slipped around the wall’s edge and crept nigh to the entrance. Still naught to see. The sky grew darker with each passing moment. He had no choice now. It was too late to search for other shelter.

  More runes marked the hall proper, though they had faded. Perhaps they still offered some protection, barring the house against vaettir. Hard to say for certain. Had he more time, he might strengthen those runes, but not now, not tonight. Torch in one hand, sword in the other, he stepped inside. The shadows retreated at the light as though they resented it, and, almost, he swore they hissed at him. The main hall was open, not unlike a modern longhouse. On the far side, a wall separated the main hall from back rooms, so the keeper had once had enough wealth to want to hide it. If luck held, maybe he would even find a treasure hoard. More importantly though, in the center was a stone fire pit. Volund drew closer. No kindling, of course. The last of the Old Kingdoms had fallen some eight hundred years back. If this was such a ruin, of course naught would remain.

  A long, low growl from behind set the hair on the back of his neck on end. He turned slowly to see a mound of fur lurching from the shadows on the far side of the hall. It lumbered forward, its gait uneven, its form massive, five, maybe six feet tall at the shoulder. A cave bear. A fucking cave bear had chosen this place to hibernate, and he’d awakened it. Thing had to weigh half a ton. And it was coming closer, moving faster with each step.

  Volund backed away slowly, torch held out before him. If the bear feared it, it might well count for more than his sword. He ought to have trusted his first instinct and passed this place by. The bear snarled again.

  Heart pounding, Volund’s vision narrowed. Those shadows grew thicker, enclosing the bear until he could see naught else. Yes. If he slew the bear he’d have meat. A lot of meat. Yes. It had chosen its home poorly.

  “Well, then,” he said, “come on.”

  The bear growled once more, then barreled forward. Fast. Volund thrust the torch at it and dove to the side in the same motion, even as it swiped with its claws. Those dagger-like weapons scraped stone, shrieking. The torch caught the bear’s foreleg, and it roared in pain.

  Volund came up from his roll and thrust the torch again, barely warding off the enraged animal. It did not like fire, but that wasn’t going to keep it at bay for long. It reared up on its hind legs. Volund flung himself to the ground, rolling away as fast as he could. In an instant the bear had closed the distance and swiped again. This time, he flung the torch in its face. The cave bear howled, pawing at its singed maw. Instead of retreating, Volund leapt forward and swung his sword with both hands. The dvergar steel sliced through muscl
e and bone, severing the bear’s foreleg at the joint. Off balance, it pitched forward.

  This time, he did leap backward, immediately running for the far side of the room. A wound like that and the bear would bleed to death. Eventually. The cave bear bellowed, half running, half falling forward at a more uneven gait, driven mad with rage.

  It was going to rip him to shreds before it died. He dashed into one of those back rooms and froze for a moment at what he saw. A forge—an ancient forge, long cold. It was naught compared to the smithies in Nidavellir where he had trained, and yet … it called to him.

  He shook himself and backed away from the door. Almost immediately the bear slammed into the doorway and began to wedge itself through. Had it not bulked up for the winter, it would have fit through all the quicker. But that would buy him only a moment. The forge had a back door. He could retreat that way. He could.

  Instead, the bear’s rage seemed to seep into him. It licked at his mind and soul, drew him forward. With a cry, he rushed forward and hacked straight down with his blade. It cleaved through the bear’s skull and muzzle and stuck, held fast by the bone. The bear dropped to the floor, yanking the sword from his grasp.

  His muscles trembled. It was dead. And still, he saw naught but that bear, surrounded in darkness. Calling him. With a foot planted on its shoulder, he yanked his sword free of the skull. Before he even knew what he was doing, he hacked into the bear again. And again. He chopped the skull into bloody bits, screaming with wordless rage.

  Finally, he fell to his knees in exhaustion.

  Cold sweat had soaked through his tunic and breaches. It stung his eyes. He mopped his face with his palm, and his hand came away smeared in blood and brains. His chest was tight, heaving. The bear now blocked the doorway to the main hall. Where his torch was.

  The mist had not crept in through the back door, but he wasn’t about to take chances. He dug another torch from his travel bag and immediately set about trying to light it. With his trembling, bloody hands, it took a good many tries before it caught. When it did, he rose and drifted about the forge.