Darkness Forged Read online

  Darkness Forged

  Matt Larkin

  Contents

  Dramatis Personae

  Part 1

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Part 2

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Part 3

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Keep Reading

  From The Apples of Idunn

  Author’s Ramblings

  About the Author

  DARKNESS FORGED

  * * *

  Legends of the Ragnarok Era

  * * *

  MATT LARKIN

  * * *

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  * * *

  Copyright © 2017 MATT LARKIN

  * * *

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.

  * * *

  Edited by Fred Roth and Brenda J. Pierson

  Published by Incandescent Phoenix Books

  * * *

  incandescentphoenix.com

  For Juhi. You have never stopped believing in me. I could not do this without you.

  DRAMATIS PERSONAE

  * * *

  The Sons of Wade

  Slagfid: The eldest son of Wade, a sword-master.

  Agilaz: The middle son of Wade, a master hunter and archer.

  Volund: The youngest son of Wade, a master smith who apprenticed with the Dvergar of Nidavellir.

  * * *

  The Valkyries

  Svanhit: A valkyrie who married Slagfid.

  Olrun: A valkyrie who married Agilaz.

  Altvir: A valkyrie who married Volund.

  * * *

  The Dvergar

  Dvalin: Prince of Nidavellir, son of King Modsognir, and a master smith. He trains Volund in secret lore.

  Durin: Prince of Nidavellir, son of King Modsognir, brother of Dvalin.

  * * *

  The Njarar

  Nidud: King of the Njarar

  Ragnhild: Queen of the Njarar

  Otwin: Eldest son of Nidud and Ragnhild, sent to conquer the Aesir

  Ulf: Second son of Nidud and Ragnhild

  Snorre: Youngest son of Nidud and Ragnhild

  Thakkrad: Thegn to Nidud

  Amilias: Nidud’s master smith

  * * *

  The Hasdingi Aesir

  Hadding: Jarl of the Hasdingi tribe

  Fjorgyn: Hadding’s wife

  Frigg: Hadding’s young daughter

  Erik: Thegn of Hadding

  Bjore: Thegn of Hadding

  Part I

  Year 97, Age of Vinegthor

  End of Summer

  1

  Of the many works Volund had wrought in his life, the house at Wolf Lake always filled him with the most pride. He had not forged it in shadow nor worked into it any ancient dvergar craft—save for a few runes of warding carved between the boards. No, nine winters back, he and his half-brothers had cut fresh timber and built the house on the lake shore as refuge from a broken world. And every time he returned home after a long hunt such as this, that first sight of the roof’s peak filled him with more satisfaction, more contentment, than any other place he had known.

  “Volund has that look on his face again,” Slagfid said, or panted, rather. Volund’s eldest brother had a reindeer slung over his shoulders. Even with his impressive build, they had to take turns carrying this catch. The beast was damned heavy.

  Agilaz nodded sternly. He did most everything sternly, but Volund didn’t hold it against him—much. It was Agilaz’s steady aim that had brought down their prey, as usual. “I’m also eager to see my wife.”

  Slagfid chuckled. “See her? Or enter her?”

  Agilaz scowled and Volund tried not to smile. He waved his torch around, dispelling the mist. It was growing thicker as evening drew nigh. The torch’s flame would protect them in daylight, but it would be best they sat round a real fire before sunset. Such mists covered all of Midgard and were apt to poison men’s minds and bodies both.

  “Oh, come now,” Slagfid said. “Don’t tell me you aren’t keen to pry apart those magnificent thighs of hers, brother. I know I am.”

  Their middle brother spun and shoved him, sending man and deer collapsing into a heap in the snow. Slagfid, however, just continued laughing. “I meant my wife, brother. Not yours.”

  Volund snorted as he helped Slagfid up. Somehow, he suspected Slagfid had said exactly what he meant, just to get under Agilaz’s skin. They each treasured their wives, without any doubt. Notwithstanding that Slagfid had suggested—once or twice—they might trade wives for a night. For her part, Volund’s wife, Altvir, did not seem the least bit offended, but Agilaz would never have agreed to share Olrun with anyone.

  Nor, in truth, could Volund stand to be parted from Altvir. She brought out the best in him. Or held down the worst. He was never quite certain.

  Agilaz paused now, staring at their house in the valley. Volund followed his gaze. The wall’s gate was closed, but from up here he could see the house’s door stood wide open. An odd sight. Even if the women had gone down to the lake to bathe—and they did so no matter how cold the weather grew—they ought not to have left the door ajar. That might risk allowing the fire to go out, something no one in the North Realms would dare allow.

  Volund shared a glance with Agilaz. As one, they took off running, snow crunching under their heels, paying no mind to Slagfid’s shouts from behind. Wolf Lake earned its name for the dire wolves that prowled the woods throughout this valley. Such animals should not prove a threat to their wives—valkyries all, and master warriors. Should not, and yet, on occasion, a varulf or two had taken to running with the packs. Mostly, the brothers chased them off. Once, though, a stubborn werewolf had forced them to hunt him down.

  Not bothering with the gate, Volund vaulted over the wall and dashed into the house. An instant later, Agilaz shoved him aside. The place showed no sign of disturbance. The bed alcoves were neat, still lined with furs. The pots hung from the walls. The fire still crackled in the pit at the house’s heart. But there was no sign of …

  Agilaz pushed forward and knelt by the fire pit, hand shaking as he reached for something.

  Before Volund could see what it was, Slagfid plowed his way inside. “What in Hel’s icy trench has gotten into you two?”

  “Olrun …” Agilaz said.

  And as Volund turned his back, he saw. Agilaz held his wife’s ring between two fingers. Its rosy, golden hue glittered in the firelight. They always wore those rings, even when bathing. Altvir had told him once, when they were first wed, that the ring was a symbol of her oath—her vow to some being beyond life and death, an entity she spoke of in whispers, if at all. And Volund had told her that same ring would now serve as their oath in marriage.

  Two more rings glittered around the fire pit. Volund fell to his knees. His hand shook as he reached for the one Altvir had worn. His fingers hesitated a hairsbreadth away. This simple object whispered to him, like the hiss of a serpent, as shadows began to gather at the edges of the house. Jus
t the sun setting. But as the darkness lengthened, it danced. It hungered.

  It was starting again.

  Or his mind was playing tricks on him in his fear.

  Volund snatched the ring. It had grown warm by the fire, so warm he could almost imagine it still graced Altvir’s slim finger. And that warmth banished the shadows. They crept away, seeping back into the corners of the house like the mist, fleeing a torch. And the ring pulsed like a beating heart. Her heart, calling to him.

  His brothers were there, but he had lost track of them. All he heard, all he saw, was that pulsing ring resting in his palm. And it demanded his utter devotion. As she had. Small, sized for a woman. Uncertain why he did so, he slipped it onto his little finger and clenched his fist.

  A welcome calmness settled over him, and only then did he realize his entire chest had been trembling. He clenched his fist, pressing it over his heart. That pulsing was still throbbing through him, blurring his vision, lulling his mind. Beating.

  Summoning.

  Volund fell to his side, overcome by something that was not sight. Not exactly. And yet his heart and soul saw. A battleground, men dying in wars. They fought one another. They always did, despite the mists of Niflheim choking the world, despite the otherworldly dangers that lurked in the mist. Still, the dying kingdoms fought for the scraps of a dying land. It was half the reason the brothers had settled here, beyond the bounds of civilization, separated from the world of men.

  And their wives had gone back to it. The ring told him. Almost, if he listened hard enough, he could hear the screams of the dying over that ever-present heartbeat. Men were always dying, and as a valkyrie, Altvir had once delivered their souls unto the realms beyond Midgard. No matter how oft he asked of such worlds, she would not speak of them.

  The night breeze battered his face. She was flying. Had taken the form of a swan and flown away.

  Left him.

  Why?

  Why, after nine winters, would she abandon her home? Why would she do this?

  “Papa?”

  Volund shook himself, trying to regain his vision. It came back slowly, the house seeming to warp and spin even as he shook. She was gone. She was gone! Those shadows were laughing at him, mocking. Growing bold and creeping out of their hiding holes, sliding ever closer. And yet also on the periphery, never there if he looked directly. They were coming for him.

  A child was crying. Groaning, Volund crawled to the threshold. Outside the house, Agilaz cradled his son in his arms. Hermod had five winters now. Had he been outside? In the night? Frey’s flaming sword. He must have wandered out, seeking his mother.

  Slagfid lay on the floor, clutching his wife’s ring as Volund himself had done. As Agilaz had probably just recovered from.

  A terrible heat built in his chest. And with that heat came the rage. He wanted to punish someone for this. It was someone’s fault. It had to be. Slagfid. Maybe his own wife, Svanhit, had tired of Slagfid’s not-so-subtle hints they ought to trade wives. Was that it? Had she convinced her sister valkyries to flee because of him?

  Damn him. Damn the lustful, arrogant fool. Volund seized his half-brother and heaved him to his feet. Slagfid shook himself, glazed eyes starting to clear. Volund punched him in the face. Slagfid pitched backward, almost falling into the fire pit.

  “You did this, didn’t you?” He could push him into the flames, immolate the one who had ruined their lives.

  An instant later Agilaz wrapped him in a bear hug, pinning his arms to his side. Volund strained, slowly breaking his older brother’s grip. Agilaz might have been strong, but Volund had spent years slaving at a dvergar forge. His muscles had become like the rocks from which the dvergar crawled.

  “Volund!” Agilaz shouted.

  Slagfid regained his feet, inspecting his bloody lip with a hand. He spat. “Yes, little brother. After nine winters I decided to drive away my wife. And yours too, for good measure. All while hunting reindeer at your side. By the way, while you slept, I also fucked the goddess Freyja. And slew a dragon. At the same time. Gods you should have seen it, what a tale to be told from that.”

  “Shut up!” Volund broke Agilaz’s grip but did not go after Slagfid again, despite the roiling hunger in his gut to hit him, to punish him for his words and arrogance and for this—this nightmare.

  “They’ve gone,” Agilaz said.

  Volund spun on him. “Any other obvious wisdom you want to share?”

  Agilaz glowered. “They have gone to fulfill oaths made long ago to some ancient power. Perhaps a fresh war draws them, perhaps they can no longer deny the pull of their vows.”

  “And what?” Volund folded his arms. “That’s it? You’ll leave your son without a mother?”

  Leave yourself, leave them all, without their wives. Without Altvir. She was the sun shining in the sky, banishing the shadows. He ran his thumb over the ring, drawing small comfort from its grooves, its intricate etching.

  “No.” Agilaz shook his head and held up his hand, displaying the ring. He too wore it on his little finger. “I’m going to find her. With this. I can feel Olrun. I know she still loves me. Maybe she could not break her oath to whatever god or goddess she serves. But she left this for me, and I have to believe it a sign she still wants to hold her oath to me, as well. That she wants me to follow, to find her. And so I will.”

  “How will you know where to look?” Slagfid asked.

  Agilaz shut his eyes and clenched his fist around the ring. “I can feel her. To the southeast.”

  “Southeast? You mean Aujum. Those are the lands of Aesir tribes.” Slagfid said.

  Agilaz nodded. “Then little surprise there is war.”

  Volund shut his eyes and concentrated on Altvir. Yes. She was there, somewhere close. North? Did he need to travel north? Everything was a confusing rush of sensations. Like a dream, nonsensical if viewed apart from its own reality. But in that dream … in the dream, she seemed to have gone north.

  He opened his mouth to say so, but Slagfid spoke first. “I must go south, then. Southwest, I think.”

  “The islands?” Agilaz frowned. For once, his stern look was justified. There were powers on those islands even dvergar were not keen to challenge. Powers of ancient times, best left sleeping, best left forgotten.

  “They have flown in three different directions,” Volund said.

  Slagfid shrugged. “Perhaps war spreads throughout all the North Realms. What say you then? We must go our separate ways and meet back here once we have reclaimed our wives. Either way, let us agree to meet here again, in one year.”

  Volund shuddered. The valley had been a refuge. In nine winters he had barely left, and never without Altvir at his side. But without her, even this refuge would become hollow, empty, save for the ever-lengthening shadows grasping at his mind.

  The ring pulsed. A heartbeat, calling to his own. He might remain here, wait, and pray to all the gods she returned to him. But perhaps Agilaz was right. Perhaps the valkyries wanted their husbands to come after them. And if such was the price to reclaim his wife, he would do so. He would trek across Midgard and even beyond if needs be.

  But on his soul, he was going to find Altvir.

  That was his oath.

  2

  Numerous isles dotted the Morimarusa, many of them claimed by jarls or petty kings who strove to dominate those jarls. None of those so-called kingdoms concerned Slagfid. Only the call of the ring mattered. Rumors, though, legends even, spoke of other powers calling some few islands in Reidgotaland home. According to these stories, after their fall, one of the Old Kingdoms did not die out entirely. This kingdom, the Niflungar—people steeped in knowledge even vӧlvur feared—had retreated into mist-cloaked isles. New kingdoms rose around them, but still there remained a shroud of fear. Sometimes, men ventured to one island or another and never returned.

  No one wanted to take him there, especially not on the cusp of winter, so he’d been forced to row a small boat himself. His arms ached with the effort,
but his ring grew ever warmer, telling him he drew nigh unto Svanhit. Probably, any two of the small kingdoms were squabbling over an island or some other stretch of land. And their battles—rather, the heroic deaths those battles engendered—would draw valkyries. Svanhit always liked a good battle. Sometimes they had sparred, Svanhit winning her fair share of their struggles.

  It had bothered him, at first, a woman besting him as often as not, when almost no man had ever done so. But then, she was a valkyrie, not just any woman. Svanhit knew the ways of war well, and was an expert in sword and shield, bow and spear. Besides, their matches ended most often with them going at each other like rabbits in heat. He didn’t mind that so much.

  A chill sweat dripped down his back. He glanced over his shoulder. Yes, there in the distance was an island, maybe the source of the battles. Certainly he felt the warmth of his ring increasing. The sky above that island though, it was growing dark. A storm was sweeping in. He watched it a moment longer.

  By the ghosts of his ancestors, it was coming toward him. He’d never make it back to his last stop before it hit, nor could he be sure of finding land if he turned more southerly. It seemed Njord was angry with him. Probably should have made a sacrifice before he left.

  “Father, if you’re listening … I need to reach land before the storm reaches me. Grant me strength.”

  He turned back and heaved on the oars, propelling himself with all the speed he could muster.

  Rain lashed against him, whipping his hair about his face, nigh to blinding him. He’d mocked Agilaz for keeping such short hair. Seemed his half-brother had a reason for it. The waves had grown in intensity, casting his rowboat off course. The dim sensation of his ring told him that.