At the far end of the hall, an enormously fat troll squatted upon the dais, glaring round at his squalid court, occasionally barking in a brutal language Eric assumed to be Trollish. Clad in no more than a loincloth, the troll chieftain - so Eric identified him - was an obscene, evil figure. Eric was glad of his invisibility.
A fight broke out between two drunken trolls. Others gathered around, egging them on. Eric seized the chance to pick his way through the filthy, stinking hall, casting his eyes about for some sign of the hoard of the Niflungs.
Finally, he saw a heap of feathers in one corner, spotted and smeared with filth, but recognisable from their descriptions. The feathercloaks!
He hurried forwards.
8 RUNEBLADE
Eric knelt down beside the pile of cloaks, and seized one, heaving it from the pile. Immediately, he heard a commotion from nearby.
The troll chieftain bellowed. Eric spun round to see troll warriors shambling away from the fight, in his direction. Had they seen him? Impossible. He was wearing the Tarnhelm. But they were staring past him, anyway - at the pile of cloaks. Of course! The eagle-eyed troll chieftain had seen them moving.
The warriors investigated the pile, while Eric backed away into a noisome corner and waited. After a moment, the trolls returned to their king, and reported. The king scanned the corner suspiciously, and then waved a hand. The feast continued.
Eric crouched there, cursing under his breath. What now? The moment he moved one of the cloaks - and there were thirteen, remember - the trolls would notice. They might not be able to see him, but a chance lunge of a club and he would be struck senseless. And he would give his position away if he started dragging the cloaks across the hall floor.
He was stuck.
He crouched there with a horrible uncomfortable prickling feeling of embarrassment creeping over him. So they couldn’t see him, great. But what was he going to do now? He couldn’t go back to the others and say, sorry, guys… Yet he would be risking his life if he grabbed one feathercloak, let alone the full thirteen.
And this place really reeked.
The troll feast was winding down now, Eric noted. They had had quite a party, it was clear, even before he had crashed it. Troll warriors were lolling on the floor, some facedown in pools of vomit. Even the troll chieftain was slumped back in his throne. Eric wondered if this was how they spent every night, or was this perhaps some special occasion?
The troll chieftain’s head thumped back and he began to snore. Eric looked around the draughty hall. Most of the other trolls were asleep by now, as well. Was this his chance?
He gave them a bit longer. The fires that lit the hideous scene dimmed down to coals. Even better! Nerving himself, Eric grabbed the entire bundle of feathercloaks, and rose.
Nothing happened. Either all the trolls were asleep, or they couldn’t see what he was doing. Eric cautiously began to pick his way across the cluttered floor.
More times than he cared to think about, his foot splashed in something unpleasant, and he stumbled more than once. At one point, he tripped over the outstretched leg of a sleeping troll, falling to the floor where he lay prone, as the troll mumbled into wakefulness, and glowered woozily around. Finally, it laid its head back, and Eric grabbed the cloaks he had dropped, and bolted for the main gate.
Outside, in the chill, clean air, Eric drew shuddering breaths until noises from the rampart to his left alerted him. The troll guards were still patrolling.
A bellow of anger burst from the hall behind him.
* * * * *
‘So what do we do now?’
Hal surveyed his gathered companions. It was clear the trolls had captured Eric - killed him, maybe. He had been gone for too long. And now they had lost the Tarnhelm.
‘Do we attack?’ Hal added.
Gwen raised an eyebrow. ‘Attack?’ she hooted. ‘We’d be slaughtered. We’ve got no chance. That’s a hall full of trolls, according to Alfrek here. We did okay when we were fighting a patrol, but this is the whole tribe.’
Distant shouts drifted through the steam. Hal whirled round at the sounds of frantic flight.
A pile of feathers floated into the valley, heading straight for them. Hal scratched his head. He had met some strange things in recent weeks, but this was just inconceivable.
‘What is it, Alfrek?’ he asked, drawing his sword.
‘It’s me!’ Eric’s voice shouted. The pile of feathers fell to the ground, and then Eric appeared, pulling the helmet off his head. He glanced wildly over one shoulder. The sounds of pursuit had not abated. ‘I think the trolls are after me!’ he gasped.
Hal looked at the cloaks. ‘Maybe we could fly out of here,’ he said.
‘No time to find out how they work,’ Gwen said. ‘Everyone grab a few and stuff them in your saddlebags. Then ride like the wind!’
* * * * *
A day later, the five companions reined their ponies as the town of Aurvangar appeared on the misty horizon. Their flight from troll-haunted Niflheim had been swift, and they had eventually left the trolls far behind. They had hardly halted in their headlong flight before reaching Svartalfaheim.
‘At last!’ Hal cried. ‘We’re back.’
As Alfrek studied the town with glittering eyes, flame leapt up from the golden roof of Sindri’s Hall.
‘What is it?’ Ilmadis murmured.
‘It’s the swart-elves!’ Gwen said. ‘They’ve reached Aurvangar. We’re not a moment too soon.’
‘Come on,’ Eric said.
They rode across the fields, their ponies’ hooves splashing in the mud as they approached. They could see dragons flying above the town, vomiting combustible venom on the buildings. By now, Sindri’s hall was blazing fiercely.
As they entered a courtyard, they almost rode down some fleeing dwarves.
‘Hal! You have returned!’ cried their leader. It was Eikinskialdi.
‘What happened to Tanngrisnir?’ Hal demanded. ‘Was he defeated?’
Eikinskialdi shook his head wearily. ‘Tanngrisnir fought them off for days. They forced him to retreat across the plain, until this morning his host rode into Aurvangar. He said there was no hope but that we should prepare to defend the town against our attackers.’
A dragon roared overhead like a portent of doom, trailing fire as it went. On its back, the dragon-rider loosed arrows at the crowd.
The moment it was gone, Eikinskialdi turned back to Hal.
‘Do you have the feathercloaks?’ he asked. ‘They are our only hope. Helgrim would not accept his cousin’s life in return for ours. Tanngrisnir is embroiled in street fighting on the other side of the town. But the dragons continue to burn down the buildings. We need to stop them.’
Silently, the companions drew the cloaks out of their saddlebags. Only then did Eikinskialdi see the dwarf who had been sitting behind Eric.
‘But who is this?’ he asked. ‘Surely, it is not…’
‘We met him in Niflheim,’ Hal said absently, opening out a feathercloak. It resembled two giant eagle wings. ‘His name is…’
‘Alfrek,’ the dwarf-king replied proudly. ‘Last of the Niflungs.’
Eikinskialdi gasped, and bent his knee. ‘The king of the dwarves! He returns to us in our hour of need!’
‘Rise, chieftain,’ Alfrek said. ‘We have no time for formalities! Thirteen of us must don the cloaks and fly to the aid of your warriors. Hurry!’
The feathercloaks fitted on over their shoulders by means of a metal framework. Alfrek lectured the chosen thirteen in their use - Hal, Gwen, Eric and Ilmadis had all insisted on joining the assault - and soon they were airborne, soaring above the town.
Three dragons flew low across the roofs, spitting venom as they went. Eikinskialdi, at the head of the airborne squadron, pointed grimly towards them. They dived, splitting the air with their wings.
Hal flew towards the lead dragon, his sword held out ahead like a lance. A startled expression crossed the dragon-rider’s features as he spo
tted him, but too late. Hal’s sword pierced the swart-elf’s scale-mail and jerked him off the saddle.
Gwen, Eric, and Ilmadis attacked the dragon, seizing it from either side, stabbing at its underbelly. Soon its corpse was spinning away towards the ground. Hal looked up, his wings beating as he hovered. The other two dragons were down. Eikinskialdi punched the air with exultation.
‘More come!’ one of his warriors shouted. Eikinskialdi turned in mid-air to see a squadron of dragons hurtling towards them across the town.
‘Onward!’ Eikinskialdi roared. ‘For our families, our folk, and our freedom!’ The thirteen winged warriors soared towards the oncoming dragons.
On the ground, matters were growing desperate for the dwarves. Tanngrisnir stood at the head of the main division of foot as they battle in the square in the very lea of the blazing Hall of Sindri. At his side was Dolgthrasir.
‘More dragons,’ the captain warned.
Again and again the dragons had flown over the town, raining venom upon the battling dwarves. Now the swart-elves had battered down their defences and were flooding into the town. Tanngrisnir feared that this would be his last stand.
The dragons swooped over the square, seeming intent on somewhere ahead of them. Another rush from the swart-elves at the entrance to the square tore Tanngrisnir’s attention away.
‘Riders!’ he bellowed. The remnants of his cavalry swooped round from either wing, thundering down on the charging swart-elves and their dwarven mercenaries. Then a division of lizard-riders scuttled in after them and charged the cavalry.
Suddenly, there was a down-rush of air and the mighty corpse of a dragon crashed down into the square, landing in the midst of the charging lizard-riders, crushing and scattering them. Tanngrisnir looked upwards.
He saw, high above them, battling in the chill, misty air, a dozen winged figures locked in combat with dragons. Again and again, dragons would fall out of the sky, spouting blazing ichor as they came to crash down amongst their own troops. The battle in the air raged fiercely.
‘They got through!’ Dolgthrasir bellowed. ‘Your friends brought us the feathercloaks!’
New courage emboldened Tanngrisnir’s troops. Across the square, the swart-elf army was watching the aerial battle with dismay. Time to seize the advantage, Tanngrisnir told himself.
‘Charge!’ he bellowed. For one last time, he led his tattered forces in a rush against the swart-elves.
The assault on their airborne allies devastated swart-elf morale. The dragons, more accustomed to carrying out air raids than to battling highly mobile flyers with the courage of desperation, fell to the flying dwarves and their allies in huge numbers. On the ground, meanwhile, the demoralised swart-elves and trolls fought the angered defenders then began to pull out.
Prince Helgrim rode at the head of the retreat, cursing his foes. His army was torn apart, his dragons destroyed. Even as they fled the field, dwarf cavalry rode after them, cutting down retreating warriors, giving no quarter.
He reached the Dark Moon Plains with a sadly reduced retinue. From the rise, he watched the dwarves fall upon his rearguard down by the riverbanks.
‘We are defeated,’ he said. ‘But this is only the beginning. For this defeat, I will have revenge. I know who worked my dishonour - it was he who is destined to bear the Runeblade. One day I shall meet him face to face and then we shall see who survives.’
‘My lord prince!’ cried one of his retinue. ‘The dwarves still pursue. We must return to Svartaborg.’
Prince Helgrim turned cold, bitter eyes upon the chieftain. ‘Run like rats?’ he asked. He gave a short laugh. ‘What will my father think of this?’ He sawed at the reins of his lizard and kicked it into a gallop. ‘I will kill you for this, bearer of the Runeblade!’ he shouted as they rode across the plain. ‘I will kill you!’
* * * * *
Hal and Tanngrisnir met in the middle of the square. Behind them, the blackened beams of Sindri’s Hall rose against the blank sky. The square was littered with the dead and dying.
Hal wrested the feathercloak from his back.
‘So you got through,’ Tanngrisnir replied. ‘You entered Niflheim, and returned!’
Hal nodded. ‘It’s a right dump. With any luck, we won’t have to go there again.’ He looked around at the other flyers. ‘That was incredible!’ he said enthusiastically. ‘Gwen, wasn’t it amazing? Even better than flying on dragon-back.’ He searched the ranks. Someone was missing.
‘Gwen, where’s Eikinskialdi?’ he asked.
Gwen stared tiredly at the littered ground. ‘Didn’t you see?’ she asked. ‘In the last battle a dragon killed him. His body crashed into Sindri’s Hall, behind us.’
Hal’s heart sank. He turned to Tanngrisnir. The dwarf’s face was sombre.
‘And so fell a valiant chieftain,’ he rumbled.
‘So fell a hero,’ said Alfrek, last of the Niflungs.
A group of dwarves entered the square. At their head were the two chieftains, Dvalinn and Brokk. They gazed round at the scene of devastation.
‘Then this is victory,’ said Brokk darkly.
‘Now we must rebuild,’ Dvalinn replied.
Alfrek stepped forward.
In the aftermath of the battle, the dwarves feted Alfrek as a hero. The dwarves greeted his timely appearance with joy. Ever since they had entered Svartalfaheim, they had been a people without a king, plagued by feuding and dissension. Since the fall of the Niflungs, they had believed that only those of chieftain’s blood survived. Now Alfrek appeared from the waste land and gave new heart, new strength, and new unity to the dwarves, binding together a nation still threatened by the swart-elves.
He was crowned king of Aurvangar amidst rejoicing and celebrations that lasted many days. The hall-fires blazed merrily, transforming Svartalfaheim’s darkness into the brightness of day; the dwarves and their guests ate copiously of meat roast and boiled while ale and mead flowed freely.
King Alfrek set Princess Mordis free at Hal’s request, and she joined them with a scowl on her beautiful face.
‘Imprisoned!’ she complained. ‘While you went off on an adventure. No!’ she added, as Hal tried to convince her that their experiences had been anything but, ‘I don’t want to hear a word. Just don’t you dare leave me behind, next time.’
Tanngrisnir approached them, clad in the rich ermine robes of a dwarf noble. Some among the Sons of Lofar had suggested he should succeed Eikinskialdi as their chieftain.
‘His highness wants you to come to the forge,’ he told them. ‘You especially, Hal.’
He led them down a passage at the back of Sindri’s Hall. In a vast, echoing, subterranean smithy beneath the hall, the two dwarf chieftains were hard at work, putting the final touches to a sword. The king stood by, overseeing the work.
‘In the end, King Alfrek convinced us to work together,’ Dvalinn told them, as they approached. ‘But his highness himself forged the blade.’
Alfrek quenched the Runeblade in water that bubbled like the spring of Hvergelmir. He looked up, and brandished the sword.
Hal looked upon the blade. Runes inscribed either side; its handgrip was of gold, in the shape of a dragon; its wings formed the crosspiece.
‘This,’ Alfrek said, his eyes fixed upon the glittering steel, ‘is the Runeblade. This is your sword, Hal. With it, you may seek your weird.’ Almost unwilling, he handed the weapon over.
Hal took it, and stared at it in wonder.
So this was what his wanderings and sufferings had all been about. This was why the swart-elves had come for him, why Gangrel had uprooted him from his home, why he had travelled for so many dark miles through savage worlds, experiencing loss, disillusionment, fear, and war. Gangrel had died for this blade. Hal had fought for it.
Now his once-tarnished honour shone bright. He had fulfilled Gangrel’s wishes. He had become bearer of the Runeblade. But he must learn how to wield it.
9 RIVERS OF ICE
‘We cannot r
emain here,’ Tanngrisnir announced one day, about a week after the forging of the Runeblade.
Hal looked up guiltily. He had been dreading this moment.
Although Alfrek seemed to have stolen most of the glory - the dwarves seemed more at ease celebrating heroes of their own folk than those of other races - the travellers had spent the last week in luxury and idleness, enjoying a well-earned rest after their warring and their wandering. They had a well-appointed chamber near the ruins of Sindri’s Hall, sufficiently opulent for even Mordis’ extravagant tastes. They had witnessed the reconstruction of Sindri’s Hall and the rest of Aurvangar, as they went about a day-to-day itinerary of rest and relaxation.
But Hal had known it could not last.
‘Where are we going, then?’ Eric asked, slouching in the corner. ‘Back to planet Earth?’
Tanngrisnir had clearly decided to take on the mantle of Gangrel, mysterious pronouncements and all, but he condescended to explain. ‘Hal’s fate - and the fate of us all - depends upon his ability to wield the Runeblade.’
Hal’s eyes wandered to a chest, upon which the sword in question lay, now sheathed in a jewel-encrusted scabbard.
‘It’s a sword like any other,’ he said. ‘I’ve managed to pick up a thing or two about swordplay.’ He had been trained in the toughest school of fencing around, learning tricks that no re-enactor could ever teach him.
Tanngrisnir shook his head. ‘I know little of Grimnir’s plans for you, Hal, except that he hoped you were the one to fulfil the Foretelling. But to wield that blade, whose forging was foretold in the morning of the world, you must learn from the greatest weapons-mistress this age knows.’
‘Mistress?’ Hal scowled. ‘I’m going to learn from a woman?’
‘And what is so wrong with that?’ Mordis bristled. ‘A woman could teach you much, Hal.’
‘My old comrade-in-arms was a storm giant named Hlymir,’ Tanngrisnir told them. ‘As a lad he dwelt in the forest of Ironwood, in the world of the giants. His mother, Iarnvidia, taught many heroes the arts of war, in which she was well versed. She will teach you.’
‘But aren’t the giants our enemies?’ asked Gwen.
‘The frost giants and the fire giants are at war with the Aesir,’ Ilmadis agreed.