by Matt Larkin
Nidud licked his lips, while his queen averted her eyes.
“What is it you wish, king?” Volund asked.
Nidud rose slowly, a pop echoing from his spine, followed by his slight groan. The dvergar architecture was designed with such perfect acoustics the sound carried throughout the entire great hall. Why did the men follow such an elderly king? Had he earned such loyalty in his younger days? More likely he’d bought it with treasures stolen from this ancient place.
“The townsfolk speak of a smith with talent worthy of song. Some say you seek employment in my wars.” Nidud spread his hands. “And you have found it.”
“You want me to forge a weapon for you?”
“A weapon? I want you to forge an armory. You will outfit every thegn under my command with such arms and such protection none can stand against them. Do this, and you shall have your weight in gold.”
Volund rose slowly enough that Thakkrad made no move to stop him. His weight in gold? His father had once paid that price, though Volund was a man now, with thick muscles and much greater weight. “I have no time for such lengthy endeavors, king. Nor do I find your men’s hospitality sufficient to warrant any such arrangement.”
Nidud groaned, stretching his back before answering. “You seem to have misunderstood. You will do this work.”
“Or what? You’ll kill me?” Volund smirked. “Then you will have naught to show for it.” He jerked his head back toward Thakkrad. “Give me this one’s head and I’ll make a sword for you the likes of which you have never seen.”
The king arched an eyebrow and glanced at Thakkrad. Volund kept his eyes forward, watching the queen, but the sound of the thegn squirming back there almost made him smile. “Thakkrad,” the king said, “our guest needs encouragement. Hang him from the platform.”
The thegn chuckled back there, and this time, Volund couldn’t help but look at him. The man winked before seizing him by the shoulder.
Before he was taken anywhere, the queen rose and whispered something in the king’s ear. Nidud’s eyes went to Volund’s hand, and he grunted.
“Hold his hand.”
The thegn grabbed Volund’s wrist. Volund slammed his elbow into the man’s face. Cartilage shattered under the blow and the thegn fell, blood gushing between his fingers.
Several more men rushed forward and drove Volund back to his knees.
The king shook his head and rolled his eyes at the thegn. “I’m half tempted to let the smith have your head after that foolery. Get his hand.”
Blood streaming down his face, Thakkrad did as the king commanded and grabbed Volund’s wrist with both of his own. Volund strained, but could not pry his arm free from the man’s grasp. Slowly, the thegn pulled it forward.
“What in the fathomless dark of Svartalfheim do you think—”
Nidud grabbed his hand and yanked Altvir’s ring from his little finger.
“No!” Not that. “Do not touch it!”
“My wife seems to think the princess will find this a prize.” The king held the orichalcum band up before his eyes, examining it. “Such exquisite work. Yes, let Bodvild have this.” He returned to his throne and handed the ring to the queen. Then he waved a hand. “Get on with it. The platform.”
“No!” How dare he? Altvir’s ring was for him alone, his gift, his blessing. His solace in the darkness. Without it, he could never find her. Never even find himself.
They dragged him away from the throne, even as he raged, pulled against their grasp. He could not lose that ring. It would never be allowed to grace the hand of another. Never. “I will bring ruination upon your entire line! Return it to me or the skalds will tell of your vile fate for a thousand years! You will reap horrors for this, king!”
Six men hefted him into the air and carried him from the great hall, out onto the platform. The men flung him onto the freezing ground, the impact sending jolts of pain through his limbs. Thakkrad attached another chain to the manacles on his feet, this one running from a great iron ring embedded in the stone.
Two other men grabbed his arms and dragged him toward the edge.
“Return my ring!”
“Go fuck a troll. Assuming your cock doesn’t freeze off.” Thakkrad shoved him.
For a heartbeat he fell through the air, icy wind stripping his scream. Then the chain jerked him to a sudden stop, a feeling like his legs had been ripped out from their sockets. He’d fallen only a few fathoms, but now hung in open air, swinging back and forth beneath the platform.
Hanging upside down here, he had an excellent view of the masterful buttresses supporting the platform. His cloak fell away, denying him even the slightest ward against the screeching wind. Snowflakes landed on his face and stung his eyes.
Above, the men’s laughter rang out. Volund howled in pain and rage.
And then he shut his eyes.
He had survived two years of servitude to the dvergar. Oh, he had known suffering. They had forged him from it like tempered steel. And if they had not broken him, neither would some worthless king.
9
Ten Years Ago
A year in the shadowed halls had toned his muscles, his body. More so, it had toned his mind and soul. As Dvalin had promised, they had visited nigh unto every torment imaginable upon him in an attempt to break him, to drive him to despair. Once, Dvalin had promised him if he begged for mercy he would be granted it. Volund had refused and could have sworn Dvalin looked on with pride, even as his slaves branded Volund’s back with irons from the forge.
And Volund had not broken.
He could work a forge for days on end—as Dvalin often demanded. At thirteen winters, he could lift more than most men twice his age. And slowly, over the passing of moon after moon, the dvergar began to teach him their lore. For they understood the true nature of stones and metals and gems. All manner of precious things they knew, and bit by bit he began to know it too.
After working uncounted hours, Volund returned to his chamber. Day and night meant less down here. He slept when he could. They had furnished him with a stone slab covered in furs. He’d thought he’d never sleep there, but after working himself bone weary he did. Every time he came here.
Tonight, though, Astrid lay under those furs, naked.
Not everything was suffering here. No, once they had decided Volund would not break, they began to offer him all the same indulgences—excesses really—they sated their own desires upon. When they ate, they feasted. When they drank, they drank themselves into a stupor. And the slaves they sometimes passed around. As he had been told, any slave he wished—male or female—was his to claim.
At first he had been too shy to do so, and the dvergar men had mocked him for it. Dvalin’s brother Durin had suggested Volund preferred having a dvergar cock rammed up his arse. Soon, Volund had taken to sending for a girl. One time even, two girls at once. He had enjoyed that experience less than he expected, despite Dvalin’s claims of taking on seven. Always, he asked their names. That was not a mistake he would ever repeat.
He slipped beneath the blankets beside Astrid and took her slowly. With a lot of practice, he’d found his bedmates actually seemed to enjoy his attentions. He liked Astrid. She was a cupbearer he’d first met two moons back. The dvergar discouraged attachment and had frowned when he’d favored one girl more than the next. They had not been kind to the object of his misguided affections. He was careful now, not growing too close. Not calling on any slave too often.
Dvalin told him their language had nine words for lust. It had no words for love. Not romantic love, at least, though the dvergar seemed to care a great deal about their children and lineages.
He groaned in release and held Astrid close.
And now the year was ending. His apprenticeship would be over any day now. Father would return and take him back to Kvenland. For the life of him, it was hard to decide how to feel about that. The worst suffering of his life had come in these dark, cold halls. But then, so too had he expanded his mind far bey
ond the dreams of other men. Enough to know more secrets remained just out of reach. He would return home the finest human smith in the North Realms. And yet, still far below the dvergar in his craft—at once a master, and a pale imitator.
A slave woke Volund to tell him Dvalin had sent for him. Astrid was gone already. She never stayed. And he was not fool enough to ask. The dvergar did not have a word for love and they did not like to see aught that might be mistaken for it.
He found the dvergar prince downing a mug of mead almost as large as his own head. Three other such mugs lay empty on the table before him. Volund waited for Dvalin to invite him to sit. The dvergar belched then motioned for him to do so.
When he had settled, Dvalin waved to a slave to bring Volund a mug as well. Dvergar mead was heady, and Volund still could not drain a full mug at once, though they kept asking him to practice. He took a long swig, wiped his mouth, then stared at Dvalin.
“Your father loiters outside our gates. Come to claim you, Volund.”
This was goodbye then. A drunken send-off was the dvergar custom, and they would not show any other form of remorse or regret. It was not their way. “I almost wish … I had more time.”
“Do you now?” Dvalin spit on the floor. “Few are given what they want in life. Such is the way of the world.” It was his favorite aphorism. The dvergar word for cynicism was the same as the word for practicality.
Volund shrugged. Dvalin was right, of course. Few got what they wanted.
“So.” Dvalin belched. “Your father is a bastard prince of Kvenland. And your mother?”
Volund cocked an eyebrow at that. “I thought you didn’t care about human lineages?”
“I don’t. Fuck it.” He motioned for another drink, and a slave girl—Astrid, he suddenly realized—brought it.
Volund let his eyes meet hers for the briefest of instants. Not so long Dvalin would notice. He hoped.
“You wish to stay in Nidavellir?”
What a dangerous question. Most of those invited to stay never left, for one reason or another. One had to be very careful about expressing one’s wishes to the dvergar. They were wont to grant what was asked while arduously avoiding all that was desired. “I do not wish to become a host to a dverg spirit.”
It had come as a shock to learn that was their true nature. Spirits without body in this realm, who took human hosts. If the host was not willing, it had to be beaten down, his or her spirit broken to allow for possession. Over time, they changed. Their bodies warped by the vaettir inside.
Dvalin snorted then waggled a calloused finger at him, as if acknowledging a well-played move. They loved their strategy games here. He and Dvalin had passed many hours in front of a chessboard. Dvalin always won. As did Durin and all the others he had played. “No. I think you would not be suited for it.”
What in the fathomless dark of Svartalfheim did that mean?
“But,” Dvalin said. “There is something inside you. Something that could be great, could be legendary. Perhaps with a bit more tempering.”
Unpleasant as his “tempering” had been, some part of him almost longed for more. That probably meant he had a sickness in his head, if not his very soul. But that suffering had made him strong.
He leaned forward. “What would you have me do?”
It was dark out when the great gates opened. Dark, and still the moonlight stung his eyes, seemed too bright after a year of naught but torches to see with.
His father rose from a crouch as Volund strode outside. “Gods, boy, I hardly recognize you.” Father raced over and embraced him tightly.
The open display of such affection seemed off, a little alien. Despite that, Volund returned his father’s embrace. How could he not? Some of the same guards watched him, nodding with approval. Yes, he had grown taller and much broader of shoulder. He knew that.
Volund greeted those guards he knew. They all congratulated him, spoke their empty praises. Somehow, he could feel the questions they wanted to ask about his time here. About what went on beyond the gates. The truth was, even were he inclined to share, they would not understand. Nidavellir might have been a dvergar kingdom on Midgard, an imitation of their true world of Nidafjoll, and yet, despite lying in Midgard, it was not of Midgard. His people had no way to imagine the truths buried in the stones.
And no sign of his brothers. Shame.
He pulled away.
“We can leave at first light,” his father said. “The braziers here keep the mist and vaettir at bay, so we’re safe for now.”
Volund grunted. “I must speak with you.”
His father motioned him away from the camp, and Volund walked with him, until they stood in the shadow of one of the towers. The chill wind bothered him less than he’d have expected, though his father shuddered.
“They made me an offer,” Volund said.
Confusion played out over his father’s face. Confusion and perhaps ambition. The past year had given Volund time to wonder at his father’s reasons for sending him in the first place. As a bastard son of the king, Wade would be given a comfortable life, but his legitimate brother stood to inherit everything. Did he hope for glory through the deeds of his son? For wealth? Or did he consider some more elaborate plot to take the throne when his own aging father passed? It was hard to tell. Volund had left his father a child—twelve winters though he’d had—and now looked at him with a man’s eyes.
He had wished his brothers would be here to meet him. But maybe their presence would have made things harder on him.
Volund ran his fingers over the ice on the back of the tower. “They believe I have a gift, one they wish to nurture. They want to extend my apprenticeship.”
His father nodded slowly, his lips working. “I have not brought more gold to offer.”
Yes, there was that. The complexity of the offer. The dvergar made their deals with twists unfathomable to a human mind. Sometimes Volund thought their games more elaborate than any match of chess. Sometimes, he thought they just liked to wring suffering out of others. To watch them writhe like prey caught in a snare.
“They ask for no more gold, Father. In fact, they will return half your payment. But you must return exactly one year from today. Return even one day late, and all the gold is forfeit.” Volund swallowed. Dvalin played for higher stakes than that, after all. “As am I.”
“What?”
At the mention of the return of gold, his father’s eyes had glittered. Now, his face fell and he was already shaking his head. True affection, or a show of it? Or perhaps the dvergar had infected him with their cynicism. Practicality. Volund supposed it didn’t matter at the moment.
“There is much more I can learn.” He could leave now. Go home with his father, meet his brothers. Suffer no further tortures in the darkness beneath the mountains.
He could leave it all behind.
And never know the greatest secrets. Always know he had turned back when but a few more steps into that darkness might have made him a legend.
“You want to take this deal?”
Volund held his peace a moment. “Yes.” He did. Despite himself, he desired it. He needed it.
His father glanced back at the men, then rubbed his temples. Weighing the offer? To not only get his gold back, but get more training for his son? How could he turn it down?
And when he looked back at Volund, there was the answer. Father would never turn down such a chance. “I will return in one year, to the day.”
10
There were a lot of tracks in the fresh snow—men hunting through the woods around Vestborg. With the clear skies, maybe they did not know how close a fresh storm was drawing. Maybe they thought they could track their prey before it hit. That was certainly how Agilaz felt.
But while the Skaldun thegn and his men hunted a reindeer, Agilaz hunted them. They were too many—five men following one animal, and more like to scare it off than catch it. Fear kept men from wandering alone, especially in winter, as if numbers would prote
ct them from a snowstorm. Agilaz had chosen to go alone this time. After Erik’s betrayal, it seemed hard to trust any of the Hasding men. Besides, in this sort of hunt, there was more to lose than scaring away the game.
He crept among the spruces and pines, bow in hand. Men spoke in hushed voices, their whispers carrying farther than they probably expected. Agilaz had managed to track the reindeer and get ahead of it. It seemed the thegn’s hunters were at least partly competent, because they had followed.
Maybe he should have just taken Hermod and left. Maybe an attempt to find Olrun like this was a waste of time, a pointless risk. He could probably still walk away. Slip off in the opposite direction, return and tell Hadding he’d had no chance to move against the Skaldun men. If the jarl bought it, he might let Agilaz take Hermod.
No. Damn, but no. He had a plan, and you had to stick to a plan or you had naught. He needed his wife. He needed her beautiful song. And his son needed a mother.
He slung the bow over his shoulder, then jumped up to catch a low-hanging branch. After pulling himself up onto it, he began to climb higher and higher into the tree. The forest here was dense, even in winter. Thick enough to conceal a man who could climb well. And Agilaz could.
Once he reached high enough, he swung one leg over the branch to steady himself. Then he unslung his bow and nocked an arrow. There was a definite pitfall to his plan. If they did spot him, he had very little ability to maneuver while in the tree. They would plant him full of arrows almost as easily as he would them. It meant he needed to be certain he made every shot count. He had a full quiver, but he was like to get no more than a dozen shots in.
The reindeer walked beneath him, but a few trees over. It raised its head as though it had his scent. That would only matter if the beast—
It bolted.
Damn it.
The hunting party came crashing through the trees a moment later, chasing after the fleeing deer. Running targets were harder. Not impossible though.