Forger of the Runeblade Page 5

  His breath blazed like fire in his lungs. On he ran, the bones beneath his feet splintering and clattering while the great serpent pursued him. The red-glowing cave was still far-off when Hal staggered to a halt, panting hoarsely. He gave a start, as part of the cliff seemed to detach itself and move into his path.

  His eyes widened. ‘Gangrel!’ he cried. ‘I thought you were dead! How did you get here?’

  The old man nodded in greeting. ‘The same way as you, I presume,’ Gangrel replied.

  Hal saw that the old man held a long spear. He heard the serpent slithering closer. ‘Gangrel!’ he gabbled. ‘It’s following me - it has been since I climbed the cliffs - it was near the hall. Gangrel, I saw people there - long lines of them. And I thought I saw… I thought I saw my mum and dad there!’ He sobbed, choked. ‘It couldn’t have been them. It said on the radio that they were dead…’

  Gangrel frowned, and stared at the serpent as it flowed towards them. Then he looked at Hal in horror. ‘The hall? You mean you went to Eliudnir?’ he asked.

  Hal gaped at him but couldn’t speak.

  The old man turned, and sent his spear winging across the strand like a javelin. It bit deep into the scaly hide of the serpent, which writhed and threshed across the bony beach, before growing still.

  Gangrel strode forward, and tore the weapon from the serpent’s unmoving coils. He looked down at it. ‘A serpent,’ he said. ‘One of the Nidhogg’s brood. You were lucky. See here.’

  Venom leaked from the serpent’s mouth with a sulphurous smell. Where the drops fell on a skull, the bone smoked, shrivelled, and blackened. ‘You should not have gone near the Hall of Hel,’ Gangrel added. ‘Come.’

  He led Hal up the beach in silence, using the spear as a staff. Hal wanted to ask how he was supposed to know that it was the hall of… Hel? And did that mean they were in Hell? What were they doing here? They’d certainly chosen a cold day for a visit: if this was Hell, it must have frozen over a long time ago… He said nothing, though, feeling bitterly cold and weary from his exertions.

  He followed Gangrel to the lea of the cliffs, where a cave yawned, lit with flickering red flame. Gangrel ushered him within, and surprised cries came from the two figures sitting by the smoky fire as Hal gratefully flung himself down beside it.

  Gangrel joined them. ‘See who I found on the strand,’ he said. ‘Washed up like driftwood. And I was barely in time to save him from the beachcombers.’

  ‘Hal!’ Eric said, grinning incredulously. Beside him was the small but bulky form of Tanngrisnir the Dwarf, his sword Helbrand propped against the cave wall.

  Hal had dropped his own weapon beside him as he hunched before the cave, still shivering. He acknowledged their greetings with short nods, and greedily stared at the flames.

  ‘So cold,’ he muttered. ‘So cold…’ He sneezed.

  ‘And you would be colder, had you fallen into the withered hands of Loki’s Daughter,’ Gangrel said ominously, standing over them. ‘This is death’s dominion. Thanks to you, lad, we are far from the realm of the dwarves.’

  ‘Me?’ Hal was annoyed. ‘That’s not fair! What did I do?’

  ‘You capsized the boat!’ Eric said.

  Hal shrugged. ‘We were going into the whirlpool anyway,’ he replied. ‘But we survived, didn’t we? Where are we?’

  ‘That whirlpool was a portal leading into other worlds,’ Tanngrisnir said balefully. ‘If we had approached it from the right angle, we would have been transported to the land of my people, where the Runeblade waits to be forged.’

  ‘Instead we ended up here,’ Eric said unpleasantly, ‘washed up in bonesville. And Gwen is a captive of the swart-elves.’

  Hal looked at him in horror. Again, he remembered how Prince Helgrim’s followers had seized their friend.

  ‘But where are we?’ he asked. Before anyone could speak, he added; ‘I saw them up there, by the hall. I saw my mum and dad!”

  ‘I have already told you,’ Gangrel replied. ‘This is death’s domain, the world of those unheroic souls who died in their beds, the Straw-Dead.

  ‘This is Helheim, the world of Hel.’

  Hal stared at him, and said no more.

  * * * * *

  Gwen remembered little of her journey through the maelstrom. She had been terrified when Prince Helgrim’s warriors steered the boat directly at the whirlpool; her only consoling thought had been that she would soon join her drowned friends.

  But the boat began to descend the vortex slowly and sedately, remaining upright and dry. The descent was long, and her captors were busy. Soon she fell asleep.

  She awoke in the stern. Empty black skies sped past above her. Sitting up, she found the boat was sailing down a wide river that wound its way across a rocky plateau, in a land of darkness and shadows. A range of fantastically high mountains marked the plateau edge. A huge Gothic castle stood upon one peak, overlooking a gorge. The air was icy cold.

  She sat in silence, as the swart-elves guided the boat down the river towards a great lake in the lea of the mountains, where the river opened out before tumbling over a great cataract, down the gorge into the land beyond. The mountains loomed on either side as Prince Helgrim’s followers directed the boat towards a bay bristling with other vessels at anchor: longships and cargo boats, war ships and fishing smacks. They tied up in the lea of the wharf.

  Two of the swart-elves seized Gwen by the arms and hustled her up a dank staircase onto a wide expanse of stone. Prince Helgrim and the rest followed behind them. She saw that they had removed all the gothic gear they’d worn before, and now were clad in lacquered armour and black silk.

  The town beyond was lit by great blazing bonfires that burned smokily at street corners. It was thronged with swart-elves and dwarves like Tanngrisnir, though these were leering, wicked-looking fellows. Shops and houses lined winding streets. Every few seconds, troops of swart-elves marched pass, and Gwen saw many signs that preparations were being made for war.

  Prince Helgrim led Gwen into a chariot drawn by two reptilian quadrupeds, like giant lizards. He drove them towards the castle that towered over the winding city streets, his men marching behind.

  They crossed a drawbridge and entered the castle under a vast gateway. As they did so, Prince Helgrim, hitherto wrapped in brooding silence, turned to Gwen. ‘Welcome to Svartaborg,’ he said. ‘Welcome to your new home.’

  Gwen was still puzzling over his words as they marched her through high-roofed vaults and down tapestry-hung passages where pale-skinned slave-girls scurried about their masters’ bidding. But she forgot any other considerations when they swept into the royal audience chamber.

  The cyclopean walls seemed to vanish into darkness above. Torches lit the wide room, but darkness lurked in corners. A long carpet stretched down the centre of the hall from the entrance to a throne near the far side. Ranked alongside this were hundreds of rows of pitch-black swart-elf warriors, who looked on impassively as Prince Helgrim and his companions dragged Gwen up to the throne.

  Sitting upon the throne, between two chained slave-girls, was a swart-elf king. His very demeanour proclaimed his royalty more clearly than the throne or the diadem upon his pale locks. His feline eyes blazed in a pitch-black face as he looked sternly down at Gwen, while Prince Helgrim and the others knelt.

  ‘A spirited female,’ he said in a voice that hardly rose above a whisper. ‘Do you not know to abase yourself in the presence of King Hrafnsvart the Black, ruler of the swart-elves?’

  Gwen looked disdainfully at him, though inside she was quaking. ‘I just want to know what’s going on,’ she snapped. ‘This lot’ - she aimed a kick at Prince Helgrim, and missed - ‘hustled me down here without so much as an explanation. Why’ve you brought me here?’

  King Hrafnsvart chuckled. ‘Such pride becomes you,’ he whispered reedily. ‘I apologise if my son was hasty. He is an impetuous boy, are you not, Prince Helgrim? But doubtless he was anxious to show his old father the wench who is to be his bride.’

  Gwen stared uncomprehendingly at the swart-elf king for a moment. Then the meaning of his words sank into her numbed mind.

  ‘Bride?’ she asked. Then she frowned. ‘Wench?’

  Again, Hrafnsvart chuckled. ‘By Ymir, has my son been so boorish as to neglect enlightening you as to your fate? To fulfil his weird, he must wed you. You are to be his wife.’

  Gwen smiled thinly, and put her hands on her hips. She had seen her mother do this with recalcitrant males, and it always seemed to do the trick.

  ‘I think there must be some mistake,’ she said politely.

  ‘There is no mistake,’ croaked the swart-elf king, growing suddenly impatient. ‘Take her away!’ he told his son. ‘I have seen enough. Tame her, and she will be a fitting consort when you lead the Hosts of Muspell against the gods!’

  5 THE FETTERED GIANT

  ‘So if we’re in Hell,’ Hal asked, ‘why aren’t we dead?’ A thought struck him. ‘Or are we?’

  ‘It is possible for the living to enter Helheim, and live,’ Gangrel replied in a matter-of-fact tone, ‘although it is perilous and inadvisable. As luck would have it, however, we have succeeded for the while.

  ‘This world lies far to the north of all others, remote from the Sun. South of here lie the swart-elf domains, and beyond them, on the margins of the world of mist, is Aurvangar, the realm of the dwarves. That is where we must go.’

  ‘But what about Gwen?’ Eric asked softly.

  ‘She will be a prisoner of the swart-elves,’ Tanngrisnir said. ‘There is little hope for her if they have taken her to Svartaborg.’

  Hal’s jaw jutted heroically. ‘We’ll save her!’

  ‘How?’ The dwarf asked. ‘The castle of the swart-elves is impregnable. Besides, our mutual fr
iend’ - he inclined his head towards Gangrel - ‘tells me that we must go to Sindri’s Hall at once. The fate of worlds hangs upon it.’

  ‘I don’t really know what we’ve got ourselves mixed up in here,’ Eric said, looking at Hal, ‘but whatever else we do, we can’t just leave Gwen to the swart-elves.’

  ‘No we can’t!’ Hal said firmly. He turned to Gangrel. ‘How are we going to rescue her?’

  The old man stroked his beard solemnly. ‘We must ask ourselves why they took her,’ he said darkly. ‘We know they wish to slay you, Hal, because of the Foretelling. But why should they capture Gwen…? Many verses are obscure... Somewhat concerning Vestrnes... I must speak with the Norn some day.’ A shadow of an idea crossed his face. ‘And there is another I might speak to, sooner. On the journey.’

  ‘What journey?’ Hal demanded, as Gangrel sprang to his feet and strode from the cave.

  They caught up with him outside. ‘Where are we going?’ Hal asked. ‘Are we going to the realm of the dwarves?’

  ‘Presently,’ Gangrel replied. ‘But first we must pass through the kingdom of the swart-elves. Or do you wish for Gwen to languish in Svartaborg forever?’

  Tanngrisnir stamped along beside him. ‘Do we have the time?’ he asked, looking up at him. ‘It is a long way to Sindri’s Hall, up the Valleys of Helheim and across the Dark Moon Fells. And we have no ponies.’

  Gangrel laughed. ‘I have a plan,’ he replied. ‘One that will speed us on our way and at the same time, frustrate our enemies’ schemes. Come!’

  * * * * *

  The door of the bedchamber slammed behind her. Awkwardly, Gwen sat down on the bed, and gazed round at the opulent furnishings of the room. She had to admit that, although it was as cold and dank as the rest of the castle, this was not her idea of a prison.

  Prince Helgrim’s followers had hustled her along dark stone passages and up winding spiral staircases. Prince Helgrim himself had remained with his father, to discuss “the coming assault”; whatever that meant. The other swart-elves had brought her to this well-appointed chamber, and flung her inside.

  She got up, and tried the door. Locked! Much as she had expected. Now what was she going to do? She took stock of her situation.

  Her friends were all drowned. Creepy swart-elves had imprisoned her, and Prince Charming there seemed to think he and she were going to tie the knot; optimistic, to say the least. She did not share his optimism, about marriage or anything else.

  A curtained alcove on the far side of the chamber gave on to a narrow window-slit. Eagerly, Gwen scrambled up onto the sill and looked out. She caught her breath.

  No way out here! The dark plain extended far below her, vanishing into the shadowy distance. Her chamber seemed to be approximately halfway up the main tower of the castle. As far as she could gauge it, the ground was over five hundred feet below.

  Disappointed, she jumped down again, and surveyed her prison.

  Tapestries hung from the walls, depicting scenes of battle and the hunt, or episodes in ancient stories that reminded her of Gangrel’s tales. She groaned. It seemed as if she herself was now living in one of those absurd sagas. Still, she was damned if they expected her to be a damsel in distress.

  Again, she started hunting round for a means of escape.

  * * * * *

  ‘But how will we get to Sindri’s Hall?’ Tanngrisnir asked insistently. The group was picking its way down the bone-strewn beach in the lea of the dark cliffs. Hal’s sword was drawn, and he cast suspicious glances around them as they walked. He had no wish to meet another serpent.

  ‘By ship,’ Gangrel replied, and refused to be drawn. Tanngrisnir fell back as the old man strode on. He exchanged glances with Eric.

  ‘He’s being all enigmatic again,’ said the youth sardonically.

  ‘Oh,’ Tanngrisnir replied carelessly, ‘he is forever enigmatic.’

  Eric watched Gangrel’s loping form. ‘What’s he mean, ship?’ he asked, giving the dark ocean a concerned glance.

  Tanngrisnir shuddered. ‘I am not certain,’ he admitted. ‘But I have an idea.’

  Gangrel halted, and turned to the others. ‘This is where we forsake our pleasant path along the shore of the dead, and wend our way inland. There I intend to speak with an old friend; and an old enemy.’ He led them up a narrow path towards the head of the cliff.

  Hal stared after him. ‘Why can’t he just tell us what’s going on?’ he muttered peevishly.

  Eric came up alongside. ‘Maybe he thinks that if we knew what we faced, we would be too scared to come,’ he said ominously.

  ‘I’m not scared!’ Hal declared, and hurried after Gangrel.

  ‘Well, you should be, you idiot,’ Eric said, and followed more circumspectly.

  Tanngrisnir took the rear, gripping his sword hilt and darting suspicious glances to either side.

  * * * * *

  Gwen had not given up. No, she was simply resting, lying on the featherbed mattress, staring hopelessly at the ceiling. She had been for the last half hour.

  She had searched the room three times, and each time she had found no way to escape! She felt wretched. More significantly, she was bored. In all the stories she’d read, no matter how often the characters ended up imprisoned, it had never mentioned how unutterably, fidget-makingly boring it was! It was even worse than school, even worse than being stuck in a Maths exam on a balmy June morning. She could see how people went stir-crazy.

  There seemed to be no escape, but nothing else was happening. All she could do was wait.

  A key scraped in the lock. She sat up quickly, as the great door opened. Two swart-elves stood in the doorway, and a slave crouched between them.

  ‘In,’ a swart-elf grunted, propelling the pasty-skinned girl through the door. He looked at Gwen.

  ‘My master sends you this slave to help you prepare for your wedding,’ he said with a leer.

  Gwen rose, scowling. ‘You just tell your master…’ she began, but before she could convey precisely what she thought of Prince Charming’s intentions, the door slammed shut, leaving the slave sprawled across the cold flagstones.

  Gwen heard them lock the door as she knelt over the slave. ‘Get up,’ she urged. With her eyes downcast, the slave rose, and stood in silence.

  Gwen looked at her critically. ‘Aren’t you cold?’ she asked finally.

  The girl shrugged, clearly petrified. She wore nothing except for the scantiest of garments and a metal collar round her throat.

  Gwen took a sheet from the bed and put it round the girl’s shoulders. The slave stood unresisting, and the sheet dropped to the floor.

  ‘Oh, pick it up!’ Gwen snapped.

  Immediately, the girl squatted to obey. With a little cajolery, Gwen convinced her visitor to wrap the sheet round herself and sit down on the bed.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  The slave-girl looked at the floor. ‘Please, ma’am, Ilmadis, if you please,’ she whispered.

  ‘Look at me, Ilmadis,’ Gwen ordered.

  Slowly, tentatively, the slave-girl raised her eyes, and looked, blinking nervously, at Gwen.

  ‘How may I serve you, ma’am?’ she asked hoarsely.

  ‘For a start,’ Gwen said uncomfortably, ‘you can stop all this bowing and scraping. My name is Gwen. Gwen Ramsey.’ She looked at the girl, noticing that she had the flowing hair, the lobeless, pointed ears, and feline eyes that she had come to associate with the swart-elves.

  But while the other elves had skin as black as tarmac, despite the “corpse-paint” worn by Prince Helgrim and his warriors, this girl’s skin was truly white, pale and luminous. In fact, if she had been less neglected, Ilmadis would be really pretty; one of those translucent-skinned, highly-strung beauties, blonde hair floating like thistledown.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Gwen asked. ‘Are you… a slave?’

  Ilmadis bobbed her head. ‘The swart-elf raiders attacked my village in Alfheim when I was only a little girl,’ she replied sadly. ‘They slew the oldest and the youngest. They would have slain me, too, but the chief decided to take me for his own.

  ‘They coffled us and marched us to their ships, then sailed to Svartalfaheim, where they sold most of us. When I grew too mature for my master, he sold me, too. I was lucky to be bought by the royal household.’

  Gwen listened to the story queasily. ‘This is Svartalfaheim?’ she asked.

  Ilmadis nodded, her eyes growing wide. ‘You did not know?’ she asked. ‘But now I look at you… forgive me, ma’am… but you are not of the svart alfar, the swart-elves. Nor are you ljos alfar, light-elf, like myself. You have the look… oh, I have heard stories! … Are you from Midgard?’