Darkness Forged

by Matt Larkin

  They were fools. If Volund had any doubt left as to the truth, Agilaz’s tale of his birth had shattered that doubt.

  And now, it took the innocence of this girl to ask the question grown men and warriors dared not, fearing the answer.

  You stand upon the threshold now.

  He clucked his tongue. What had happened to him indeed? “You know … I think my mother may have been a foreigner.”

  “You mean from Serkland, or … or somewhere beyond the Midgard Wall?”

  Volund nodded and continued closer, until he could almost feel the warmth of her skin. “Beyond it, yes, I think so. Farther than Serkland, I’d wager.”

  “By Freyja. She must have quite the stories to tell. No one lets me travel anywhere. I saw the town once, it was amazing. All those people each with their own lives, trades. That must be so interesting, to have a trade.”

  “Hmmm.” His mother would have had stories to tell, had he ever met her.

  Finish it.

  Perhaps one day he still might meet the woman. Was it lust that had driven her to take up with Wade? Or had she had some deliberate plot, a ploy to saddle Kvenland with a bastard son who was not quite whole? If dvergar could make moves planned out centuries ahead, could not all vaettir take such actions? If he was a piece on a chessboard, was he then a pawn? Or as a prince, was he a more valuable piece? He tended to think the latter.

  “So, you make jewelry?”

  “I can make most aught you might wish.”

  Bodvild held out her hand, displaying a tarnished ring. It had grown so plain, he had almost not even recognized Altvir’s band. Only the slightest hint of its luster still shone where once it had glittered in the light. “You made this one, right? But it’s losing its quality, and I can’t see why. I tried having it polished, but it can’t be fixed.”

  Volund’s hand trembled as he reached for the ring. “I did not make that one.” His voice sounded so hollow, weak in his own ears. Empty, like the ring without its sheen.

  Bodvild pulled her hand back as if suddenly wary. Far too late for it, of course.

  Step over the threshold.

  The threshold? Oh, but he knew what they would have him do. This girl was but a means to that end. And still, it tasted foul in his mouth. She was not her mother.

  Step over the threshold and be free. Or linger forever in twilight.

  Was that his urd? To not quite embrace the darkness and still be shunned and blinded by the light? No. He was meant for a grander fate than that. And if the only way forward was through darkness, then it was darkness he must become.

  Volund motioned to a stein of ale that sat on a table. “Join me in a drink?”

  “Oh, I don’t know … I just wanted to get my ring fixed.”

  Volund poured some ale into a goblet and offered it to her. “I thought you wished to hear of the lives of others. I can tell you quite a tale, you know. Stories you would not believe. You know, I have visited the deep kingdom.”

  “Nidavellir?” Bodvild took the goblet without taking her eyes off his face. She settled in a chair and sipped, her attention so rapt he could almost feel it on her skin.

  Do not turn away.

  Volund sunk down into another chair with a groan. “Nidavellir, yes. The realm of the dvergar.”

  “Dwarves?” She giggled.

  “Mmmm. The dvergar are experts on suffering, you know. Their very existence is predicated upon it. They can neither walk nor sit without pain. After long enough like that, it sometimes seems the only respite from their pain comes from inflicting it on others.”

  “Oh!” She hiccuped and swayed in her chair. “Well, that sounds awful. I shouldn’t like to meet them.”

  “No. I suppose you wouldn’t.” Volund swallowed and let his forehead slump into his palm. Finally, he looked up at her through his now-black hair. She was sipping more. “To deal with their pain, they cultivate mushrooms that have a mind-altering effect on their human hosts. Sapphire shrooms, they call them.”

  “Uh. I feel funny.”

  “The dvergar built this place, too. These mushrooms grow down here, in the dank darkness where so few things can thrive. And if you’re not used to them, I fear they can prove quite powerful.”

  Bodvild tried to stand and instead toppled over backward. She lay on the stone floor, staring at the forge roof. What did she see? The play of shadows? Or perhaps brilliant colors born of her own imagination. A rainbow of sensation.

  Standing was hard, of course. His leg protested, but less than he expected, as if her suffering had somehow fed him. In such a case, it became harder than ever to deny his course. He shuffled over and knelt above her, knife in hand. There it was, on her finger.

  A ring that bound him to Altvir. And in giving it to another, the foul queen had robbed that ring of its glory. The last of its luster had winked out, yet he had to believe it still held power. Maybe enough power for him to free himself from this place.

  The freedom is in vengeance. Become who you are .

  Volund sighed. “Your father had me abducted. He stole that which I valued most. Tortured me. Maimed me. And so I cut down your brothers. In doing so I regained some small measure of my strength, my vitality. Or perhaps I unlocked what had lain dormant there all along. It is in me, girl. And your life might complete my vengeance, and evoke the depths of that power, and with it, my freedom.”

  There are worse things than murder. Do not turn away. Walk into darkness, or dwindle to naught in half-light.

  Volund’s hands shook. He looked at the ring, faded and hopeless as himself. Only complete vengeance would balance the scales and finally waken the seed within him.

  And but one path remained to him.

  With the knife, he cut away the girl’s dress.

  23

  King Nidud of Njarar had at last deigned to feed Agilaz and Hermod. Their feast hall lay across from his throne room. A dozen braziers and a great hearth lit the room and provided warmth. Even the distance from the main hall did not quite abolish the howl of the wind outside. Summer was well under way, true, but a chill rain had risen.

  In all honesty, Agilaz would have preferred to leave and seek shelter in the town below the mountain. With the rainstorm, though, it was too late for that. And if Nidud had not offered him hospitality he didn’t know what he’d have done for Hermod. The boy ate ravenously. Agilaz found it a bit hard to stomach food from the table of a man who had hamstrung his brother and, worse, threatened his son.

  By now, most likely, the princess had paid a visit to Volund. And if he had stolen back the ring, perhaps he had escaped. If so, Agilaz too needed to be away from here. Despite the risk, he might have to try to take Hermod and sneak out in the night. If they could make it off the mountain, he could lose the Njarar. The storm would even work in his favor, though it would prove hard on poor Hermod. The boy was strong, though—he had more than proved that.

  “So tell me, archer,” Nidud said. “What did you request of my smith?”

  Agilaz took a long swallow of ale. He should have prepared an answer for such a question already, but the shock of seeing Volund like that … “Well, my king.” Agilaz took another sip. Only one answer came to mind. “An archer is naught without well-wrought arrows.”

  “Oh, indeed. And is he making arrows for you now?”

  Agilaz opened his mouth. The loud caw of a raven rang through the feast hall, interrupting him.

  The bird had perched above the hearth, though Agilaz had not noticed it fly in.

  The queen put a hand to her chest and shook her head, as though the shock had almost been too much for her.

  Several of the thegns at the table murmured, and a slave rushed over to wave the bird away.

  “I think—” Agilaz began.

  The raven cawed again. As the slave drew nigh, the raven swooped at the man. A swift peck of its beak tore out one of the slave’s eyes. The man fell screaming, clutching his face.

  Agilaz launched himself to his feet, fumbling to get
his bow off his back.

  The raven spat out the eye and laughed. Not the laugh of a bird, but of a man. Its dark chuckle rang through the hall and sent shivers through Agilaz.

  “What sorcery?” Nidud demanded.

  “Do you sleep well, lord of the Njarar?” the raven asked … in Volund’s raspy voice.

  A terrible cold settled over Agilaz.

  The king rose slowly, steadying himself on the table. “I-I do not.”

  “Nor ought you, son of man, he who thought to imprison a prince of the alfar. Do your sons fare well now? Was it wise to send them to fight your battles?”

  “What are you?”

  It was a nightmare. He had but to wake from it.

  The raven cackled. “You ought to have asked that before cutting my leg, oh mighty king.”

  “Volund? How is this …” The king held up his hands as if to ward off evil.

  Agilaz was half inclined to do the same. Volund had taken the ring, he must have. And somehow it had let him change his form, as their wives did. With a hand beneath the table, Agilaz began to draw Hermod away. They needed to be free from here, and quickly. Whatever Volund intended, it did not seem to bode well for them. Not for anyone.

  “Why do you speak of my boys, Volund?” the king demanded. “What has become of my sons?”

  Volund cackled again. “A great many things have become of them, king. Go to the deep forge and see for yourself. See the bellows spattered in blood where I hacked their heads from their shoulders. Dredge the lake and find their limbs. Even now, you drink from a goblet carved from one’s skull, inlaid with silver.”

  Nidud paled, his eyes dropping the ivory cup on the table. The queen looked down at a similar goblet before her and screamed.

  “Oh, cunning wife of Nidud,” Volund said when she quieted. “Do you not like the goblet? And yet you wear their teeth upon your breast.”

  Oh, Hel. The brooch? What had Volund done?

  Volund snickered again, the sound deafening in the now silent hall. Agilaz tried to pull Hermod away, but the boy was shaking. Damn Volund for letting his son see such horror.

  “And dear Bodvild, your precious daughter. Already my seed has taken root in her womb. I think mine like to be the only child she ever bears.”

  The queen collapsed to the floor, babbling and pointing at the raven that now flew about the chamber.

  “Live in despair, king,” Volund said. “And know that when death closes in around you, I shall wait on the other side to drag your soul to the gates of Hel. Or somewhere darker.”

  Nidud swallowed hard, turning empty eyes on Agilaz. “Shoot it. Shoot the monster!”

  He couldn’t move at all. He couldn’t think, couldn’t act.

  This was impossible.

  “Kill him or your lives are forfeit, archer!”

  Nidud was right. The king was a monster—but so was Volund. He had murdered two princes and raped the princess, all so he could release that monster from deep inside himself. All so he could become this accursed thing. And still he was his brother.

  Agilaz nocked an arrow. The raven swooped past him, out into the main hall.

  “Papa!” Hermod shrieked.

  Men were advancing on him, swords and spears readied. The nearest, Nidud’s thegn Thakkrad, had snatched Hermod by the arm. Agilaz swerved and loosed his arrow. It punched through Thakkrad’s eye and sent him crashing into the table, overturning all the dishes.

  “Run, son!” he shouted.

  Hermod did so, dashing for the main hall. Agilaz ran several steps after him, then turned to face the charging troops. He launched an arrow into the throat of the nearest one, then raced out again in the chaos.

  A guard lay on the floor, clutching his face. The raven had torn out another eye. Hermod raced out of the hall, ducking under a guard’s arms and sliding outside. There was no way Agilaz had time to get any more shots off now. His foes were too close. He tossed the bow aside and pulled a knife from his belt, then slammed bodily into the guard who’d tried to grab his son.

  The man toppled to the ground, and Agilaz leapt over him. Shouts echoed through the hall. A spearman blocking the exit thrust at him. The man was shocked by the scene, must have been—his attack was clumsy. Agilaz stepped around it and caught the spear in one hand. He flung himself forward and buried the knife in his attacker’s armpit.

  As the spearman fell, Agilaz wrested the weapon from him. He spun on the others. They advanced in a rough unit now, several with shields up. Agilaz backed outside, into the pouring rain.

  A glance over his shoulder, all he could spare. Hermod was backing away, toward the edge of the platform. Lightning crashed above, silhouetting the boy.

  Agilaz’s ring had grown warm. Yes, he would see his love very soon. If this did not qualify as a heroic death, he knew not what would. A dozen men advanced, forcing him to fall back. Others already blocked the path, denying him even the barest hope of escape.

  “Stay behind me!” Agilaz shouted. “And whatever happens, do not cower. Meet the end on your feet and you may see Valhalla!”

  Men surged forward. Agilaz flung the knife in one’s face. He saw it coming too late, didn’t start to raise his shield in time. The blade hit between his eyes and one of his companions tripped over his falling body. Agilaz ducked to the side and slammed his shoulder into the shield of another. The man lost his footing and fell backward over the platform, screaming.

  A blade bit into Agilaz’s ribs and something hard slammed into his face. The impact bowled him over and sent him sliding along the rain-slicked platform until his head dangled over open space.

  “Papa!”

  More thunder. Crashing. Demanding more from him before the end.

  His ring had become a molten flame on his hand. He would die on his feet, and she would come for him. If he had but one last wish, it would to be look into those pale blue eyes of hers one more time. Agilaz roared as he rolled to his feet. Unarmed, he did the only thing he could and flung his own body into the nearest man.

  Something sharp gouged his shoulder. It did not matter. Lightning flashed. He grabbed the man and hurled him out behind himself, into the open air. Thunder covered his screams.

  Men before him faltered. They knew they would buy his death dearly. Skalds would speak of this day.

  Lightning nigh blinded him even as a heavy impact crashed onto the platform, flinging standing water up in a wave that washed out in all directions. Every man there froze, blinking away the afterimages of the lightning.

  A silver-winged woman rose from a crouch, sword in hand. With terrifying swiftness she surged at a pair of men. Her sword lopped off one’s head while she caught the other by the throat. With one hand she flung him out, off the platform and into the night. Those screams rang for a long time.

  The woman, the valkyrie, looked to him … with those beautiful, pale blue eyes.

  Was he dead? Had that last blow felled him? He looked down, but blood still seeped from his wounds.

  “Mama!”

  Hermod’s voice tore him from the dream, and Agilaz caught the boy in his arms, shielding him with his own body.

  Olrun folded her arms over her chest and swept her wings together. Their beat hurled her off the platform and created a wave of air that flung Nidud’s men backward, into the great hall. A moment later, strong arms caught Agilaz around the waist, and he and Hermod were swept up.

  Air scoured his face as they plummeted downward faster than a man could fall. Each beat of Olrun’s silver wings carried them uncounted fathoms away from the castle and out into the night. Her chest heaved with the effort of carrying them. On she pushed, farther.

  He called to her, but the wind swallowed his words.

  Until the ground began surging toward them.

  “Olrun!” he shouted.

  Trees drew nigh. All he could do was tighten his grip on Hermod. They brushed over the treetops and out into a clearing.

  Not a clearing, he saw below them. A lake.

&nbs
p; He had time for no other thought before they plunged into the chilling waters.

  The small fire might attract attention. Agilaz could see no way around that risk. Hermod was shivering and had to get dry. And Olrun would no doubt survive, but she had lost consciousness when they hit the water. Her wings had vanished then, making it much easier to pull her from the lake.

  For a long time he sat there, hand on her shoulder. His other arm was wrapped around Hermod, who had fallen asleep against him, the boy’s fingers interwoven with those of his mother.

  Agilaz sighed, finally able to breathe. Olrun’s hair hung in a heavy braid over her shoulder, but strands had come loose, either in their flight, or underwater. Agilaz ran a hand over her cheek as she stirred, blinking. Those beautiful eyes.

  “You came back for us.”

  Olrun pushed herself up. “Well, I …”

  “I thought you would come for my soul.”

  She glanced around until she spied her sword where he had stuck it in the mud. “That was the plan. That was what I was supposed to do.”

  “You could not watch us die.”

  Olrun swallowed and looked up at the sky. “They do not like us to bear children.”

  He could see why not. He had never known a mother to turn her back on her children. Not for any rule, not for any law.

  After laying Hermod on the ground, he rose to his feet, then helped her stand as well. “I will not let you go again, wife.”

  “I gave you all the years I could. The oath always draws me away.”

  No. He shook his head. He would not accept that. “I will chase you down, again and again, mother of my son. Love of my life. I will track you across Midgard and … if you so force me, beyond. Through all the wilds of Utgard if need be.” He held up his hand, displaying her ring. “I will never give up on you.”

  Olrun pressed her palms to her temples. “Oh, Agilaz. What you want is not how it works.”