by Matt Larkin
At the tunnel’s end, atop a walkway, stood a single snoring guard before a thick iron door. The lever below the walkway opened the door by chain pulleys, but there was no way to operate it without making noise.
Sometimes, a man was left with no good options. In such times, one had to choose the best of the bad options. Such was the way of the world. Volund slipped his sword from its sheath and slowly began to creep up the slope toward the sleeping dverg.
“Fucking stone bubbles, boy!”
Volund froze, cringing at Durin’s shout from the lower landing. The guard in front sputtered awake, reaching for his spear. Damn it, and damn Durin for following him. Without even looking back Volund swung, cleaving into the dverg’s head. His blade clanked off the helm but slid down, biting through eye and nose and mouth. The dverg fell, clutching his ruined face.
Sword high, Volund turned now. Durin seemed to melt out of the stone. He stood behind the girl, one hand on her throat. She was a hair taller than the dverg, but Volund could see his face, his hard, disappointed eyes.
“You have no idea what you’ve done.”
“Maimed that poor host and inconvenienced the spirit possessing him.” Volund leapt off the ledge and fell six feet or so to land in front of Durin. “Release her. She has naught to do with this.”
“You care? You’re still too human, aren’t you? And Dvalin thought he got it out of you. You never heard what I was trying to tell you, boy. Well, you care about this bitch?” Durin stepped back into the wall. The stone pooled and folded around him, letting him pass. The girl, it stopped cold. She slammed into the rock with a sickening crack that splattered her skull against it.
“No!”
The body slowly slid down the wall.
“Damn you, Durin! Why?”
The dverg stepped out of the wall where he had entered, rock flowing around him like water. “Because you are not supposed to get attached. Not like that. And because you must be punished for your temerity. I warned you about the cost of pride.” The dverg now drew his own sword, circling around Volund.
“I wonder,” Volund said, sparing at glance at the exit. “What time is it?”
“What?”
Volund kicked the lever. At once, the door began to recede into the ceiling, pulled up by the chains.
Durin shrieked as rays of sunlight poured through the base of the door. Volund used his momentary distraction to race up the slope. The guard was trying to rise. Volund hacked through his throat and then rolled under the door.
Outside, the sun was high. Bright. Too bright, it stung his eyes and felt like it burned his skin. His momentum carried him into the snow, and he tumbled down the steep path. End over end he fell, barely holding on to his sword, pitching forward before finally landing in a snow drift.
Gasping, world spinning, he tried to sit. Instead, he fell over sideways. For a time he lay there, panting, feeling the sun bake his skin.
He had never asked her name. He had intended to, had run it through his mind as they walked. He just thought they shouldn’t talk until they had reached freedom.
And Frey’s flaming sword. He’d killed a dverg. Or killed his host, at least. For that they would hunt him. Not now, not in daylight. He looked up. Morning still, which meant he had a very small time to move. To put as much distance between himself and the gates of Nidavellir as …
His brothers. They were probably still in the slave camp. And when the sun set, they would be the ones to pay for his crimes.
Volund pushed himself up. Dvalin was right. The dverg had tempered him. He had created a man who could push beyond human limits, keep going despite pain, fatigue, hunger, or despair. And right now, Volund was going to need that.
Part II
Year 97, Age of Vingethor
End of Winter
15
They had spent two moons chasing ghosts. The Niflungar did not engage them, despite Slagfid’s best efforts. They vanished into the mists of their goddess, only to once again sweep away a man or a woman. Sometimes whole families.
And so King Frothi had paid their tribute, though it had nigh crippled his kingdom. Kelda took it hard, as a personal insult. But they could not move well in winter, and so they passed their nights watching over the town. Great patrols of ten, twelve men, each bearing a torch. The town consisted of nine thatch-roofed longhouses and the king’s own great house, plus outlying fields and work houses. It was a lot to patrol. Still, no more families vanished. Slagfid wished he could attribute it to his diligence, but he knew it had only happened because Frothi had met their demands.
More moons passed then, one by one. And there was stillness. Even the patrols had ended long since.
Now though, winter had broken. And a new emissary had come to the court. The man had refused to enter the king’s hall and so stood out in the square. He appeared just after sunset, demanding Frothi attend him.
Slagfid stood at one side of the hall, while Kelda stood beside her father. The king stared at the emissary, a man who had not even lowered the hood of his cloak. Indeed, mist writhed about his feet, coiling like a nest of serpents.
“Speak then,” Frothi said. “What do you wish now?”
“Each kingdom in Reidgotaland is to pay us tribute equal to their king’s weight in gold.”
Slagfid had to bite his tongue to keep from chuckling at that. The lean winter had not worn away all of Frothi’s oversized gut. His people would be paying a fair bit more than the average kingdom. And it seemed the question they had all feared was answered—the Niflungar would indeed expect their tribute annually.
“How dare you?” Frothi fumbled with his own sword on his back. “Do you think you can bleed us dry? That we will simply fawn over you like some southern weaklings?”
At the king’s motion, every other warrior readied their weapons. Including Slagfid. For once, he could see the foe before him.
With a battle cry, Kelda threw herself at the Niflung emissary. The man whipped his cloak around in front of her, and she stumbled, choking on a sudden blanket of mist. The shieldmaiden dropped her blade and fell to her knees, clutching her throat. Even as she fell, the sorcerer caught her wrist. She gasped, her face losing all color.
Slagfid charged forward an instant before the king. He swung at the sorcerer’s wrist. The man released Kelda and twisted again, stepping behind Slagfid. Immediately Slagfid spun, using his momentum to continue his swing. His sword met the mist as though he had tried to swing it through a curtain of water. The resistance slowed his blow and his enemy danced away again.
The princess had fallen over, clutching her wrist where the sorcerer had touched her. Her cries of agony meant she was breathing, though.
Men raced after the Niflung, chasing him into the mist gathered between houses. Slagfid glanced back and forth between Kelda and the other men.
“Kill him!” Frothi bellowed, then knelt to help his daughter.
Yes, Slagfid had an oath to uphold. He raced into the mist himself, pausing only to grab a torch. He almost stumbled over the corpses littering that alley. Three men lay dead. Friends, men he had patrolled beside, drank with.
Slagfid waved the torch in front of him, but the alley appeared empty. He crouched to examine the bodies. One had turned blue, ice seeming to spread from a handprint around his throat. Poor Arvid. The other two had been cut down with a blade. If the sorcerer needed to use a sword, he was not all-powerful.
Once, Slagfid had asked his sword instructor how to fight a sorcerer. The man had fixed him with a level gaze and told him he had two options, neither good. The first—run and hide, and pray to any god who would listen the sorcerer did not find him. The second—fall to his knees and beg the sorcerer for mercy. But then, those who touched the Art were not known for their mercy.
Neither option would serve him this night.
Torch held before him, sword ready, Slagfid advanced into the mist. It had grown so thick it felt almost like a physical impediment, a wall pushing back against him, if
only a bit. Whispers thick with ancient hatred sounded all around him.
“Njord,” he whispered. “Grant me strength to uphold my oath.”
A silhouette moved before him. Slagfid lunged forward and struck. The figure twisted to the side and again vanished into nothingness. Damn it. The torch banished the mist as his foe drew nigh, but not enough of it. Sunrise was too far away. This Hel-worshipping Niflung could probably kill the whole damn town before the first rays of dawn drove him from here.
That hissing mist. It mocked him.
A man screamed somewhere to his right.
Slagfid grimaced. He had promised Njord deaths, and he was going to deliver. “Forgive me,” he mumbled. Then he flung the torch onto the roof of the house to his right. The snows had mostly melted, and the thatch caught almost immediately. In the space of a few heartbeats, the flames spread, erupting over the house. The mist evaporated, seeming almost to hiss in pain as the fire raged. Other vapors retreated like an animal from the flame.
The dancing figure appeared, cutting down another warrior. He saw Slagfid then and raced back toward the curtain of mist. Slagfid charged him, slamming into the sorcerer with his shoulder. The pair of them tumbled to the ground. Rather than try to gain his feet, Slagfid punched the Niflung in his face. The cowl fell away revealing the face of a man—albeit one with runes marked on it. Slagfid punched him again. Sorcerer or no, his nose shattered under the attack. Blood splattered over the man’s face.
Slagfid rolled off him and rose, sword in hand. The sorcerer lunged for his own blade. Not fast enough. Slagfid’s sword bit into the man’s skull, shattering it in a mess of blood and brains. To be certain, Slagfid hacked away again and again. Gods only knew what it took to kill a sorcerer. Panting, he lifted the corpse by the hair and swung at his neck. It took several chops to sever the head. Great swaths of blood drenched his arms and chest and face by then.
Such creatures ought not to be allowed to rise as draugar. He didn’t think a man could rise without a head, but better to be certain. He tossed the head on top of the flaming house. Then he dragged the corpse over to the blaze.
“What have you done?” someone demanded. “You’ll burn the whole fucking town to ash!”
Slagfid ignored him. The townsfolk could stop the flames from spreading. And now one of the Niflung sorcerers was dead.
One down.
Eight more to fulfill his oath.
The grimace on her face meant Kelda struggled not to cry out as the vӧlva held her arm by the hearth fire. Her frostbitten flesh had changed from blue to a pale, icy white, and she shivered like deathchill threatened her. Slagfid glowered. By the ghosts of his ancestors, he’d kill that Niflung again if he could. The princess deserved better than this, and the vӧlva had spoken as though she might even lose the arm. Claimed she would try to save it.
“I’ve already slain a sorcerer this night,” Slagfid had whispered in her ear. “Killing an old witch would be a small task beside that.”
Of course, he would not harm the town vӧlva, and she would know that. Nevertheless, her eyes had widened and she had not left the princess’s side, though others bore similar injuries. The Niflung had killed men with his mere touch. Such powers did not bode well.
The Niflungar would learn Frothi’s people had slain the emissary, and their assassins would return.
Finally, the vӧlva pulled away from Kelda. “Remain by the fire and do not fall asleep. Keep the arm moving.” The old woman looked to Slagfid, and he nodded. Yes, her task was done, and she could see to the others.
When she left, he knelt beside Kelda. She did not look at him. On long nights of patrol, she had demonstrated a keen enough mind and a sharper wit. They often boasted or traded good-natured insults with one another, and she’d won enough exchanges he’d challenged her to swordplay. That he had won, causing her to storm off. Proud one this, but she deserved her pride. She was skilled, fast. Clever, even.
After a few moments she cleared her throat. “You saved my life. I admit it, all right? Now we are even.”
“The thought had never crossed my mind. I promised I’d kill nine men for you, and I will fulfill that promise.”
“Why?”
“I do not break my oaths.”
“Oh? Hmm. And who is Svanhit?” She continued shifting her arm by the hearth.
Slagfid scowled at Kelda’s back. He had not thought of his wife all day. Her ring no longer seemed warm. Besides, talking about her with Kelda felt wrong. No, she wouldn’t understand. She had asked him this question on a few occasions before, and he avoided it.
“No one.” The words tasted vile in his mouth. She was someone important. And he had made an oath to her, as well. He ran a thumb over the ring. Svanhit had made him laugh even more than Kelda had. He just needed to fulfill his oath to Kelda, then he’d find his wife. She’d understand—Hel, she had been the one to leave him. “Just get some rest.”
Very soon, they would need every warrior they had.
16
Winter had broken at last. Agilaz had spent the better part of it at Vestborg with Hermod and a few slaves granted to him by Hadding, as well as a handful of freemen he still trusted. Mostly trusted.
Now, with the storms no longer threatening, he could make the trek back to Halfhaugr without much worry. They had been on the road two days already and ought to reach the town by nightfall. Hermod walked beside him. He was growing strong, and Agilaz would not deny him any chance to learn of the world.
They had made no more raids during the winter. Agilaz was content he had stirred the Skalduns into a frenzy, though. Either they would retreat and return Hadding’s lands, or else there would be outright war very soon. And if there was war, perhaps Olrun would finally show herself. He refused to give up hope. She was here, he could feel her still, through her glittering ring. Sometimes, he almost felt she watched him, even watched over him. Maybe his victories in the winter had come, in part, thanks to her grace. That was what he told Hermod, at least. It cheered the boy to learn his mother remained nigh, helping them.
When the boy held the ring, he’d said he also heard Olrun’s song, sweet and forlorn. How did such a young boy even know a word like forlorn? And why had Agilaz never realized Olrun’s songs held such undertones? They did; he could say that now. Maybe she’d always known she would be called back, that her respite was temporary. He would not believe that, though. He was going to find her and bring her home.
Once, returning to Halfhaugr had been a welcome event. Once, he had allowed himself to care, to forget this place was not home. Without Olrun, no home existed. Erik’s betrayal had reminded him of that. Seeing that thick wooden wall brought him no pleasure now. Still, what would Hadding do with his summer? Hide behind these walls again? Or take the battle to the Skalduns at last? The latter, with any luck.
Patience was wisdom. And still, Agilaz’s patience had worn thin through the dark, cold moons he’d spent at Vestborg, alone without his wife.
The men and women of the court welcomed him back as though naught had gone wrong a few moons before. They greeted Hermod and asked over how the winter had gone out west. His son replied politely, while Agilaz made his way toward Hadding.
Liv caught his eye before he reached the jarl. Her belly was swollen, far along. Erik’s unborn son or daughter? And would she tell the child how Agilaz had slain its father? A man he called friend, burned to death by his hand. Liv ducked away before he could speak to her. So be it. What could he say, in any event? Maybe she had misconstrued his intentions toward her, or maybe only her husband had. Either way, he could not change it now, much as he wished to. It haunted him at night.
Betrayal. The smell of flesh burning. Screams.
Agilaz shook himself. He had not come here to dwell on such deeds.
Many of the men in the hall seemed outfitted for war, freshly so. A good sign.
Jarl Hadding sat at his table, feasting a new guest. A blond-haired young man just past twenty winters, Agilaz would gues
s.
The jarl waved at him as he approached.
“Ah, come, Agilaz. You’ve not met Prince Otwin.”
“Prince?” The Aesir had not had a king in generations. No two tribes could remain allied long enough.
The young man rose. “I am the eldest son of King Nidud of Njarar.” He spoke with a pomposity that made Agilaz instantly hate him.
He had heard the name before. Nidud was one of the seven kings in Sviarland. “You are far from home, prince.”
“So speaks the Kvenlander,” Hadding said. “Prince Otwin brings us an offer of alliance, of trade. Have you seen the armor they bring to us? So fine you’d think dvergar themselves crafted it.”
“Oh?” Agilaz took a longer look at the mail Otwin wore. It was fine work, as far as he could tell, though he was no expert on such things. But if Hadding was … “Dvergar, you say?”
Had the dvergar actually left Nidavellir? Or did they just have some trade agreement with Nidud? Either way, every step they drew closer to this place was an unwelcome one.
“Not actually,” Otwin said. “My father has employed a great smith trained by them, though. His works are unmatched in all the North Realms.” The boy patted a sword hanging over his shoulder. “He made this as well. It is remarkable.”
Agilaz frowned, but nodded. There was only one smith trained by dvergar, and Agilaz did not think Volund like to seek employment with some petty king. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe his brother had done as Agilaz himself had done with Hadding. And yet, if he were crafting so many things to outfit the Hasdingi for war … why? Why would Volund do it, and why would Nidud want him to outfit the Hasdingi? What would a Sviarland king profit from war among the Aesir tribes?