Trapped

They came with weapons drawn, modern rifles like our smiths now make, shooting into our tunnels but never spreading out, always marching deeper, past our treasures and warrens of riches. Many thousands were they, yet so were we and determined to stop them, for now we thought Ragnarok had begun.

The hammer horn sounded throughout Nidavellir, and the Stonearms assembled, and with them the Black Axes, the Shield Brothers, the Maidens of Wrath, and the Guardians of Lore. Miners and craftsmen, merchants and millers, all were called to martial arms, all of them answered, abandoning the day’s cares for the defense of the realm, save for myself and the Runeskalds by especial command of King Aurvang. “You must remain in your workshops, ever diligent,” he said, “and continue crafting the armor to slay the father of lies, whensoever we find him.”

And so battle was joined without my hammer, and the king’s skalds will never sing of my valor around the hearths of my people.

Here is what they sing instead:

Grim-visaged and stouthearted, dwarfs young and old, yet Shield Brothers all, marched to meet the shambling blue draugar of Hel, detested queen of frosted twilight. Her army, unbreathing, steeped in the attar of woe, unleashed a hail of bullets, stolen weapons from the mines of Midgard. Deafening thunder roared through Nidavellir that day, rattling teeth and rifle fire and ringing shields and battle cries. Forearmed, skaldic runes on shields and helmets, the front line advanced undaunted, metal pieces flying back at the foe, ragged soldiers who knew no honor in life. They, heedless of any harm below the neck, bore the ricochets in silence.

The Shield Brothers pressed forward, unwitting of their coming doom.

Cunning Hel, bride of ice and despair, gave commands in tombstone whispers to her soldiers, who raised their weapons and fired at the ceiling above the Shield Brothers, bullets whipping off rocks, tearing through flesh from above, felling many who never struck a blow for their clans, never hewed a head from its shoulders.

The front line marched on, and behind them quickwitted Shield Brothers raised their skaldic wards, redirected ricochets, foiled the efforts of Hel. And finally, when the armies met, the draugar learned of the strength of dwarfs! Rotted skulls flew from rotted bodies as axes swept the air over shields, while others were trampled under the vanguard and hewn apart by subsequent ranks.

The draugar shrank back at first, their orderly advance exploded, but then they swelled as corpses will with blowflies and maggots, filled the tunnel with their unholy bodies, halted our advance and held their line, while their back ranks emptied magazines above the Shield Brothers’ heads, ceaseless ammunition thrown up to tear us down, and some found targets after two, three, or four ricochets.

Slowly, by attrition, the draugar took their toll, slaying noble dwarfs in heat and noise and close rock walls with cowardly attacks. The dead soldiers of Hel pushed back, advanced again despite the best efforts of the valiant Shield Brothers, courageous warriors to the last.

Bodies of their dwarven brethren, slick with blood, impeded both retreat and advance. The wounded, no matter how they cried for help, could not be tended in that close tunnel with so many enemies to fight; naught but enduring agony, desperate breaths, and despair was their lot, until their honorable deaths brought them peace and immortal glory.

Back, back, beneath the onslaught, the Shield Brothers gave ground, slowly yet inexorably, pushed by the juggernaut of Hel’s army. Yet every footstep was dearly won, for it took hours for the draugar to travel the distance a dwarf may walk in five minutes, crawling over the massed dead.

And in that time, assembling in the Grand Cavern, a mighty force of Shield Brothers awaited, ready to protect the market and residences and streets there. Ricochets would not be so effective in the Grand Cavern, and the Shield Brothers had firearms of their own. So when the tunnel forces were pushed back to the cavern, they abruptly retreated on a signal from their general, fell behind the lines, and allowed the draugar to walk into an ambush.

Thousands of shambling soldiers were mown down by a fusillade from dwarf-made guns, and a furious cry of victory echoed in the cavern! Blue and twitching, heads shattered by bullets, the draugar fell in ranks, turned to foul dust, leaving their weapons behind.

Yet still they came, innumerable as ants or the swarms of summer bees, and after we had slain a thousand with unremitting fire, they paused, and we entertained hopes that our resolve had taught Hel to reconsider her rash invasion of Nidavellir. But then they flooded once again through the opening, yet with this cruel difference: They held the bulletproof skaldic shields of our fallen brothers in front of their heads, and thus we could not slay them, only poke holes in their rotted flesh, slow them for a time with a shattered thighbone, a pulverized ankle, nothing more. And then the chill craft of Hel manifested itself, and we shuddered in horror at her plan, for every piece of it represented the death of a Shield Brother in the tunnel: The draugar began to make a wall of shields, three high, linking them together and then creating another column, by which method they created a corridor that would allow them to maneuver in safety.

And it was, indeed, a corridor. Strangely, the draugar made no attempt to advance in the cavern, to advance on our treasures, to reach for our lives or destroy our homes. Putting aside their modern weapons, the Shield Brothers charged with axes and hammers to break the wall, and the resultant clash of arms thundered in the great cavern, as draugar were beheaded and dwarfs were shot by the defiant minions of Hel. Reports came back that the draugar were advancing through and past the cavern as fast as they could move, their objective elsewhere, their purpose unclear.

And then in the court of King Aurvang a Svartálf bowed, ambassador of the dark elves, longtime resident of our realm, and announced he brought a message from Hel, she having no other way to speak to us in safety.

“Speak,” King Aurvang said, his fury palpable, “and then begone from my realm! We will have no traffic with Svartálfheim henceforth for this betryal!”

“My people should not be punished for bearing you a message,” the ambassador said, “especially since it may save the lives of many dwarfs. Will you hear me in patience, rashness reined, ire checked with prudence?”

Our king made no promises. “Speak your part, Svartálf,” he said.

The dark elf simpered and bowed again. “Hel wishes me to say she has no designs on your realm and wishes no more harm to the noble dwarfs of Nidavellir. She simply searches for her father, Loki, whom she has heard is currently visiting. Her army will not attack dwarfs except in self-defense or if their progress is impeded.”

“And when she finds her father, what then?” King Aurvang roared, wrath awakened, patience fled. “Will she reduce my tunnels to rubble, set my caverns aflame, slaughter my people?”

“Nay, noble king,” the Svartálf replied. “She will leave with him if she can, containing his madness so far as she is able. Her quarrel is with Asgard and Vanaheim, not the honorable people of Nidavellir.”

“Have you aught else to say?” the king asked.

“My message is complete, sire.”

“Then remove yourself from my presence and my realm! I never wish to see you more!”

When the Svartálf had gone, chastised yet unrepentant, the king sent for me. I rushed to answer his summons on bended knee.

“Runeskald Fjalar,” he said, “long have you labored for our greater good as a poet and enchanter of armor. Now I must ask of you a service befitting a hero. Retrieve the Deadman’s Shroud and wear it yourself. Follow Hel’s hordes and discover what they intend, then report back to me. Slay none except in the utmost extremity. You must live to return the shroud and speak of her plans.”

“It shall be done, sire,” I said, and wept as I bowed deeply to him. Never had I been asked for so weighty a service.

The Deadman’s Shroud was crafted centuries before my time by the greatest of all Runeskalds, Mjotvangir son of Rathsvith, nimble-fingered, honey-throated, unmatched scion of clever craft. The shroud may be worn only by Runeskalds, but, once worn, it convinces the dead that the wearer is also dead. There is no copy, for none have ever duplicated the skald of Mjotvangir; his runes exist for all to see, but the dread words he sang while crafting the shroud are forever lost.

Orders given, I was led to the king’s treasury and presented the Deadman’s Shroud, sacred relic of my forebear’s skill. I collected my skaldic shield, fire-tested, then was ushered to the front lines of the Shield Brothers, where battle still raged. Rather than try to break through the wall, where I would be exposed to gunfire, I was