Forger of the Runeblade

  Ilmadis was staring at her in horror. ‘What did you say?’ she whispered. ‘When the fire giant comes?’

  Gwen shrugged carelessly. ‘Some such rubbish,’ she replied. ‘I couldn’t understand a word of it. Why, does it mean anything to you?’

  Ilmadis stuttered in fear. ‘The fire giant… They must mean one of Muspell’s Sons,’ she gulped. ‘Coming… coming here!’

  ‘Who is this Muspell?’ Gwen asked. ‘The King did mention him. Ilmadis, you’re shaking! What’s up?’

  Ilmadis was about to reply, when she started at a commotion from outside.

  ‘I must enter the bedchamber, by Surt!’ It was a shrill, high-pitched voice.

  ‘Prince Helgrim’s orders are that none but the maid is to enter,’ a gruff voice replied, one of the guards.

  ‘Let me in, I command you! I am of the blood royale! Let me in or I’ll have you flogged. Here, take this. I will say nothing and you will say nothing. Understood?’

  Gwen heard a jingle of coin. A few seconds later, the doors opened, and a slight, black-clad figure hurried within, two leashed wolves at its side.

  ‘What it takes to bribe guards these days,’ Princess Mordis muttered. Then she turned, and looked superciliously at Gwen.

  ‘So, my cousin jilted me for this, did he?’ she purred. She looked Gwen up and down, and patted one of her wolves on the head. ‘A mere otherworlder! And all because of this foolish Foretelling!’

  Gwen raised her eyebrows. She recognised the Princess from before. ‘Princess Mordis?’ she said formally. ‘This is an … unexpected pleasure. I’m afraid you find me in something of a state of dishabille. To what do I owe this honour?’

  Mordis’ lip curled. She stalked close, her wolves trotting at her heels. Gwen saw that the Princess had changed into a little black snakeskin number with arm-length leather gloves; very fetching, she didn’t think.

  Mordis glowered into Gwen’s eyes. ‘You, hussy!’ she hissed. ‘You took Prince Helgrim from me…’

  ‘Oh, you can have him, and welcome,’ Gwen muttered. Mordis ignored her:

  ‘… and now I demand recompense.’

  Ilmadis shrieked as Mordis whipped a stiletto from beneath her dress and raised it high.

  2 THE FIRE GIANT

  Gwen shot out a hand as the knife whipped down, and she caught Mordis by the wrist. Ilmadis grabbed the Princess from behind, but Mordis flung her off.

  ‘Varg! Ylg!’ she snarled, unleashing the two wolves. They leapt at Ilmadis.

  Gwen saw Ilmadis standing before them, strangely unafraid. Then Mordis tore her hand free from Gwen’s grasp, and Gwen was too busy fending off her assailant to worry about the howls and snarls and…. singing? she heard.

  They fell back onto the bed, Mordis stabbing down at Gwen and Gwen flailing out at her. The stiletto sank into the pillow, feathers fountained into the air. Before Mordis could pull the blade free, Gwen gripped her in a half nelson. Thank goodness she’d always been a tomboy!

  Mordis struggled and spat in Gwen’s hold, and elbowed her in the ribs. Winded, Gwen rolled back. Mordis leapt for the stiletto again. Gasping, Gwen beat her to it, seized the little blade, and sent it spinning across the floor. Mordis, her face suffused with wrath, leapt at Gwen, spitting like an alley cat.

  Gwen dodged to one side. Mordis collided against the bedpost. Gwen whirled round, seized the swart-elf by her feet, and tried to pin her down. Mordis turned and kicked her hard.

  Gwen slithered off the side of the bed and hit the flags with a thump that knocked the breath from her. As she did so, one of the wolves bounded over, and she closed her eyes, expecting the end.

  ‘Ylg!’ Mordis shrieked. ‘No!’

  Cautiously, Gwen opened one eye. The wolf was standing over Mordis, gripping her arm in its mouth. The other wolf had hold of the swart-elf’s legs. Gwen frowned.

  She looked round to see Ilmadis watching in satisfied silence.

  ‘Princess Mordis,’ the elf called. ‘Do you yield?’

  ‘What have you done to my wolves?’ Mordis spat. ‘Vile ljos alfar!’

  ‘I have cast a rune over them,’ Ilmadis replied. ‘The grey folk of the forests have long been at peace with my people; for we treat them as equals, not as slaves. When you set your wolves on me, it was an easy matter for me to make them see reason.’

  One of the wolves growled, low in its throat. Mordis glared up at it in fear.

  Gwen took a deep breath. Well, it looked like that little scrap was over. She went over to the corner and picked up Mordis’ stiletto.

  ‘Why did you come here?’ she asked, looking down at the Princess, and toying idly with the blade. ‘Did you want to kill me? Because I’m marrying Prince Charming?’

  ‘His name is Prince Helgrim,’ Mordis snapped. ‘Aye, I would kill you! You stole him from me!’

  ‘He took me prisoner!’ Gwen snapped right back. ‘I didn’t get any say in the matter. As I was saying before you tried to perforate me, you can keep him.’

  ‘He wants you!’ Mordis wept. ‘Because of the Foretelling! He loves power more than he loves either of us.’

  Gwen looked thoughtful. ‘He mentioned something about a Foretelling when I first encountered him,’ she said. ‘That it said I would be his queen… is that what you’re talking about?’

  ‘Aye,’ Mordis said. ‘The Foretelling of the Norns. An ancient superstition. It says that should the swart-elf prince wed a woman of Vestrnes, he will ride at the head of the Hosts of Muspell and storm the walls of Asgard.’ She spat. ‘Nothing any elf in their right mind would believe in, these days. But my beloved knows the propaganda value of ancient foretellings; and cares more about it than about I!’

  Gwen ran her fingers through her hair, confused. ‘Vestrnes?’ For an instant, strange pseudo-memories flitted through her mind, images of sailing the high seas, battling monsters, visiting other worlds... She dismissed the nagging visions. ‘But you don’t want that to happen, do you?’ she demanded.

  Mordis favoured her with a look of slitted malice.

  ‘No, you don’t,’ Gwen answered her own question. ‘And neither do I. So why don’t you help us escape?’

  * * * * *

  ‘Here comes Tanngrisnir,’ Eric said suddenly, from his position among the rocks at the crest of the rise. ‘And there’s another dwarf with him!’

  Hal came up to join him. He peered through a gap between two boulders.

  Hurrying out of the village gates were two small, bearded figures. Hal recognised the first as Tanngrisnir from the battered horned helmet. But another dwarf was at his side, a flabby-looking fellow with a big black beard and a lazy eye. With him, he led five small ponies, laden down with packs, by the reins. They watched in silence as the two dwarves trailed up the slope, the ponies following behind.

  ‘You return.’ Gangrel looked up as Tanngrisnir led his companion into the rocks.

  ‘Aye, Grimnir,’ Tanngrisnir replied. ‘And with me is Althiof, son of Gullthiof, a former mercenary, now merchant of Svartalfaheim.’

  Hal looked at the second dwarf with suspicion. The little man placed his hands on his belly and squinted about craftily with his piggy eyes.

  ‘Aye, I shall aid you in your endeavours,’ Althiof said in a high-pitched, piping voice. ‘You wish to gain entrance into Svartaborg, secretly? I will help. First, however, we must go to Myrkheim, at the foot of the Dark Moon Fells, from which we shall prepare the route.’

  ‘What about these?’ Eric asked, looking at the shaggy little creatures, not much larger than Shetland ponies.

  ‘We shall need mounts if we are to travel as far as Myrkheim,’ Althiof replied in surprise. Eric and Hal exchanged grins. Hal looked up at Gangrel, who was regarding the little ponies sombrely.

  With his knees almost round his ears, doing his best not to fall off, Hal followed the others as they rode off across the waste land. All except Gangrel, who preferred to keep up with his companions by virtue of his own loping strides. Eric sat on his pony like
a sack of potatoes, but Tanngrisnir and Althiof rode with dwarven dignity.

  Myrkheim, Hal learnt, was the settlement at the foot of the Giallarfoss waterfall. Althiof was a former citizen of this cosmopolitan town, a respected member of the town council, which lived in a state of uneasy truce with the swart-elf lords. The swart-elves took a dim view of trade, and regarded the dwarves as an unpleasant necessity. Though the swart-elves wielded greater political power, the dwarves were richer, craftier, and more technologically advanced. The swart-elves coveted their smithcraft, and those dwarves who lived within the swart-elf domains waxed fat on the profits from trade and moneylending - the dwarves bankrolling the swart-elves’ many costly wars, despite occasional pogroms by the authorities.

  Tanngrisnir told Hal that his folk, however, did not live in peace with the swart-elves. They dwelt on the southern edges of Svartalfaheim, around Aurvangar in the land of Ioruvellir, and remained in a state of war. Hal attributed to this a certain reserve he detected between the two dwarves.

  On pony-back, the journey across the wilderness took about half a day. The Dark Moon Fells loomed ever closer on the skyline. At last, the vast mountains seemed to block out the dark skies entirely, rising for thousands of metres above the sloping plains. Hal and his companions plodded on in their shadow towards the great waterfall of the Giallarfoss which cascaded down the mountainside from the valley that Tanngrisnir had brought to Hal’s attention, days before.

  At the foot of the falls was a wide pool, from which the Gioll flowed out across the plain. On the shores of the pool stood a small town of stone buildings that seemed to cower in fear of the shadow of the vast peaks.

  A high crenellated wall surrounded the town, and a large gatehouse stood over the road the companions had been following. Althiof indicated the building.

  ‘We will rest here,’ he told them. ‘It is a famous inn, resorted to by many travellers, in which I own a part-share.’

  Standing in the gate were two heavily armoured swart-elf sentries. Hal’s mouth went dry as they rode towards them. ‘What are they doing here?’ he said.

  Althiof gave him a cunning look. ‘You did not know? Although the town council is independent from Svartaborg, the swart-elves provide us with guards and watchmen.’ He smiled merrily, his lazy eye vanishing behind rolls of fat. ‘We use them to our own advantage.’

  Hal’s heart pounded as they rode towards the gatehouse, but the guards did no more than bow to Althiof as he rode in. One called out:

  ‘You return to us once more, Master Althiof. Do you come to trade?’

  Althiof laughed. ‘Aye, you might say so,’ he replied. ‘Valuable cargo.’ Hal and his companions rode on through the gate.

  After they dismounted in the bustling square beyond, Althiof led them to one side of the gatehouse, where a gaudy tavern sign hung over a door. The inn was built into the gatehouse itself. As Hal dismounted, he gazed around him.

  The square was small and crowded. Stone houses surrounded it, and three well-paved roads led off into the rest of town. Dwarves made up much of the throng, but there were also swart-elves and other creatures Hal failed to recognise.

  Althiof led them into the tavern. Gangrel had to stoop to pass under the doorframe. Eric whistled as he gazed round at the opulently furnished room within.

  A bar stood along one wall, and three dwarven barmaids were serving drinks to a varied crowd of guests. Costly-looking tapestries in reds and purples hung the walls, while red satin lined the chairs and benches.

  Althiof led his companions into a private room above the common room, with horn windows that looked out over the square. ‘Wait here, please,’ he asked, as they settled themselves down at a table. ‘Refreshments are on the house. Meanwhile, I must go to get the means to ensure our safe passage into Svartaborg.’

  Althiof disappeared. A few seconds later, Hal saw him crossing the square below, to disappear down an alleyway.

  Lounging back, Hal gazed round the room, stretching and groaning at his aches and pains. His blisters had healed during the ride, but the constant jolting of the little ponies had created a whole new set of agonies.

  ‘Couldn’t Althiof get us any larger ponies?’ he grumbled.

  ‘Where’s he gone now?’ Eric asked. ‘I don’t trust him. Not when he’s out of my sight.’

  Gangrel grunted. Tanngrisnir spat. ‘Never trust a collaborator,’ he said.

  ‘So why did you go to him, instead of someone else?’ Eric asked.

  Tanngrisnir grimaced. ‘I know of no one better,’ he replied. ‘If we are to enter Svartaborg, we must deal with such slippery customers.’

  Gangrel leant back. ‘Ignore Tanngrisnir’s prejudices,’ he said. ‘Not all the dwarves who live with the swart-elves are evil.’

  ‘But are they trustworthy?’ Tanngrisnir grumbled.

  * * * * *

  ‘So you think I could smuggle you out of Svartaborg?’

  Mordis seemed to be coming round to the idea, but Gwen despaired of her ever taking any action. ‘You’re a Princess of the Blood. If anyone can do it, you can.’

  Ilmadis looked up from the bed, where she was petting Ylg and Varg. ‘You could disguise us.’

  ‘That’s right!’ Gwen said encouragingly. ‘And smuggle us out. Even if it doesn’t work, anything’s better than waiting here for someone to rescue us; or for Prince Charming to marry me.’

  ‘Prince Helgrim,’ Mordis said pettishly. She was silent for a moment. Then ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘But first; you!’ She stabbed a finger at Ilmadis. ‘Remove the rune from my wolves.’

  Ilmadis went to the beasts and muttered words in a foreign tongue over them. Soon they were fawning around Mordis’ ankles once more. Satisfied, the Princess rose, and went to the door.

  ‘Enter at once!’ she called to the guards.

  ‘What are you doing?’ hissed Gwen. But Mordis ignored her.

  The two swart-elf guards entered cautiously. They looked at Princess Mordis.

  ‘Give me your swords,’ she commanded. The two guards obeyed.

  ‘Now bow before me.’

  Again, the guard complied.

  She placed the scimitars to the guards’ respective throats. They flashed in the torchlight. Blood sprayed out from slit throats, and the bodies of the two guards collapsed to the floor.

  Casually, Mordis turned to Gwen. ‘Your disguises...’ she said, and then halted. ‘My dear,’ she said, peering at Gwen. ‘What is wrong? You look pale.’

  A little later, a small group left the bedchamber. Princess Mordis locked the doors behind her, holding her wolves by their leashes, and then turned to her companions.

  ‘Now all will think you merely my escort. Those helmets hide your pasty faces.’

  ‘I can’t believe you just killed them…’ Gwen gasped.

  ‘Enough sentiment!’ Mordis tossed her head. ‘Do you wish to remain here? Do you want to marry Prince Helgrim?’

  She turned, and strutted imperiously down the corridor, dragging Ylg and Varg with her. Grudgingly, Gwen and Ilmadis followed.

  They were escaping! At last, Gwen told herself. Even if it had meant allying themselves with that cold, vicious bitch ahead. But it was true; no one would recognise them in this baroque armour. It was heavy, though. She looked at Ilmadis, who returned her glance bravely.

  Princess Mordis led them in silence through the dark, almost deserted corridors of Svartaborg. Occasionally, patrolling guards challenged them, and then bowed in abject apology as they recognised the Princess. Gwen wondered why the castle seemed so empty.

  She received an answer when Mordis opened a little side door leading into the vast entrance hall. The Princess halted, and paused in the doorway.

  Gwen and Ilmadis crowded up behind her.

  Rank upon rank of swart-elf soldiers packed the entrance hall. Prince Helgrim and his retinue were walking down a gap in the middle. Their cold eyes were intent upon the great doors.

  ‘What’s happening?’ Gwen whispered.
/>
  ‘Of course!’ Mordis cursed. ‘Eld is coming.’

  ‘Who’s Eld?’ Gwen asked.

  But as she spoke, the great doors rumbled slowly open. A stench of sulphur filled the hall. Blazing, flickering light and heat scorched through the opening doors.

  A figure stalked into the hall, twelve feet high, cracked black skin wreathed in living fire. Scaly, repulsive looking creatures with blue-black skin followed behind it.

  ‘All hail, Eld of Muspellzheim!’ the assembled troops cried. ‘All hail the fire giant!’

  3 THE SECRET STAIR

  Gangrel leaned back against his chair. ‘Althiof does indeed seem untrustworthy,’ he said. ‘But who upon else can we rely, in this land?’

  Tanngrisnir took out Helbrand and began sharpening the blade, whistling tunelessly. ‘Still,’ he said, ‘better to be prepared.’

  ‘Here he comes,’ Eric reported, from the window.

  The dwarf was hurrying back across the square. He entered the inn. A moment later, the door opened, and he entered, bearing a scroll of parchment.

  ‘This is all we need,’ he announced in a conspirator’s whisper. ‘It will aid our entrance into the swart-elf city.’ He joined them at the table and unfolded the scroll. Crabbed sketches and runic script covered it.

  ‘Here we are,’ he said, pointing to a part of the map showing a town. ‘Myrkheim. Up here’s Svartaborg.’

  Gangrel studied the map. ‘How do we get there in secret?’ he inquired. ‘I see the main road that leads to the top of the Giallarfoss. But that leads into the city through a main gate. It’s sure to be guarded.’

  Althiof stabbed a stubby finger at something on the map. ‘Here is the secret stair,’ he explained.

  Gangrel frowned, and his single eye narrowed. He scratched his beard. ‘I see…’ he said.

  Hal craned his neck to see the map showed a winding stair leading up from the cliffs at the back of Myrkheim, in the opposite direction to the main road; a narrow path that led towards a postern gate at the back of the castle.

  ‘Don’t the swart-elves know about this path?’ Eric asked. ‘Won’t they have it guarded?’

  Althiof shook his head. ‘According to the annals, it was constructed long ago, during the Wars of the Elf-Princes. When Prince Ylfing the Cruel besieged Svartaborg, teams of sweating slaves built it in secret, and by that route, the retinue of King Alsvart crept down into the camp of Ylfing to slay him in his pavilion. The swart-elves later had it blocked with boulders. I unblocked it.’