The Curse of the Dwarves

By Gavin Chappell

His kingdom beset by enemies both without and within, King Svafrlami is desperate to defend his people, but he is old and ailing.

When he encounters two dwarves in the forest, he forces them to provide him with a sword that will win him victory in battle. But the dwarves, angered by their ill-treatment, lay a curse upon the blade.

The Curse of the Dwarves tells the saga of that cursed blade and the tragic generations that bear it through battle and treachery...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gavin Chappell
• Release date: May 31, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458167019

Gavin Chappell

Gavin Chappell was born in northern England and lives near Liverpool. After studying English at the University of Wales, he has since worked variously as a business analyst, a college lecturer and an editor. He is the author of numerous short stories, articles, poems and several books.

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The Curse of the Dwarves

Gavin Chappell

Copyright Gavin Chappell 2011

Published by Schlock! Publishing at Smashwords

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

The following novel is adapted from Hervarar saga ok Heiðreks. The translations I have used are those of Christopher Tolkien and Peter Tunstall. The translations of Old Norse prose and poetry are my own.

* * * * *

1 THE CURSED SWORD

The king was lost.

Shadows lengthened as he rode through the silent forest. The hart he had been hunting was nowhere to be seen, though he had followed its spoor for miles across the radiant snow. The distant horns of his hunting companions were no longer audible.

He reined his horse and stared apprehensively at the eerie woods. Snow was falling lightly on the frozen ground, covering any tracks the beast might have left.

He was a tall man with a long, grizzled beard who sat his horse with an air of assurance. Beneath his craggy brows, his eyes were sharp and shrewd. His long nose tested the chilly air as the red-hot ball of the sun sank into the trees behind him and twilight fell.

The king knew that he was no more than twenty miles from Holmgarth, northern capital of his frost-bound kingdom of Scythia. He had been hunting with his men since that morning, after bidding farewell to his daughter, Princess Eyfura, at the gates of the citadel. All his mightiest thanes and earls had ridden with him, including Arngrim the Berserk, the Viking who had led them to victory over the Huns a year ago.

But the king mistrusted Arngrim, for all that he had pledged his daughter in marriage to him. The king wondered if he had not been mistaken in his choice. Men whispered that the Viking was descended from trolls: it was certain that he was a bestial, brutish man. The king distrusted him. He wondered if the man’s ambition would not be his doom.

He put his hand on his sword-hilt and looked around again as the snow continued to fall. No sign of the hart. His fellow huntsmen were nowhere to be seen. Was this some plot by Arngrim? Had he suborned the king’s men, worked it that the king should be lost in the forest? Would Arngrim even now ride back in mourning for a vanished king - and seize the throne himself?

Telling himself that he was jumping at shadows, the king spurred his horse and rode towards the setting sun.

But again, the mazy avenues of the snowbound forest led him astray. He hunted up and down the animal paths that wound among the pines, searching for his own tracks. But the falling snow had covered them completely and it was as if he had never ridden this way. Something akin to fear clutched at the king’s heart. Had this been Arngrim’s plan? To lead him astray in the snow and leave him to the wolves? Had the uncanny Viking wrought some sorcery or glamour to confuse the king’s sight and let him wander the freezing forest tracks until Hel took him?

The path led down a slope where the trees began to thin. His horse picked its way through the drifts of snow and the king gazed out across the forest beyond, seeing evergreen boughs turn blood red as the sun set.

He came out into a glade where a huge stone outcrop loomed blackly against the sunset. As his horse clopped across the clearing, he shaded his eyes in wonder and then narrowed them cunningly.

Two small, burly, bearded men crouched beside a doorway that led into the rock. One wore a tunic of green with breeches of blue and a scarlet hood, while the other’s hood was sky blue, his tunic and breeches of red and yellow. Each bore the face of a man in his forties, with long beards that reached down to their gold-worked leather belts. Each watched the king in silence as he leapt down from the saddle.

He drew his sword.

The dwarves turned to run into their rock, but the king was there first. He threatened the pair with his sword. The blade he held was blue iron, graven with runes; it was from these magical symbols that the dwarves cowered as much as from the sword itself.

‘Spare us, O man,’ the dwarf in the green tunic begged.

‘Aye, spare us,’ the dwarf in red and yellow whined. ‘We do you no harm! Why do you threaten us?’

The king smiled to himself. This chance meeting - or was it the work of the Norns? - had given him a plan. He knew now that he could save his kingdom from the nomadic hordes and his daughter from an unhappy marriage. These dwarves were instrumental.

Little did he guess what many-linked chain of events, stretching into the distant ages of the future, his actions would forge.

‘What are your names, dwarves?’ he asked. ‘For I know what you are, if not who.’

The dwarf in green drew himself up slightly, looked at his more timorous companion and replied in a reedy whisper: ‘I am Dvalin.’

The king nodded. ‘And you?’ he asked the other.

‘I… am Durin,’ the second dwarf told him. He made a sudden dash towards the door in the rock, but the king was too quick. In an instant Durin was retreating from the graven blade.

‘I am Svafrlami, son of Sigrlami, son of Odin; king of Scythia,’ the king told them. ‘Long have I ruled these wide lands, but I grow old now and struggle to ward my land against the Huns. I have a war-chief, a Viking named Arngrim, yet I distrust him, although after he vanquished the Huns I pledged him my daughter Eyfura to be his wife next summer. I believe he yearns for lands and nations to rule - that he wants mine. Were I able to defeat mine enemies in the East I would not need this Viking, who they say is half troll.’

The dwarves listened in sullen silence, unsympathetic to King Svafrlami’s woes. The king went on:

‘I have heard that you are the most skilled of all the dwarves who dwell in Svartalfaheim. You shall make for me a sword of the like this world has not seen, your masterpiece.’ He looked thoughtful. ‘It shall have a crosspiece and pommel of gold and its grip shall also be gold. Its blade shall cut through iron as if it through linen and shall never rust. It will give victory in duels and battles to whoever bears it.’

The two dwarves were now indistinct, shadowy figures in the deepening dusk. Dvalin looked up at the king. ‘Very well,’ he hissed. ‘Let us pass…’

‘Swear it,’ the king insisted. ‘Swear that you will forge the sword. Swear on the beards of your fathers.’

The dwarf seemed to scowl. ‘On the beards of my fathers,’ Dvalin said, ‘I will forge the sword.’

Svafrlami turned to Durin. ‘Swear it!’

‘On the beards of my fathers,’ Durin said.

‘You must give us time,’ Dvalin added, his voice as cold as the snowy waste. ‘Return here at midsummer and we will give you the sword you demand. Now let us return into our rock.’

The king stepped aside and the two dwarves, little more than shadows in the twilight, scuttled into the greater darkness of the rock. Svafrlami stood in silence for some time as the snow swirled down and his horse snorted and neighed near the edge of the clearing.

Midsummer, the king thought gloomily. By then his daughter would be Arngrim’s wife. He could not dispose of the Viking before he had the sword - he owed it to his folk to ensure that his kingdom continued to benefit from the Viking’s protection. The Huns remained a threat and only Arngrim could defeat them - until the king had the sword. He had no choice. He would have to yield his daughter to the Viking until the sword was his.

Night had fallen and the snow glowed eerily in the light of the risen moon. The king went to his horse, patting the great beast and whispering words of comfort. Then he mounted quickly and rode into the night.

The king was passing a peasant’s hut a few miles from Holmgarth when he heard hoofs on the road ahead. He spurred his horse toward the riders and hailed them. They clattered to a halt and King Svafrlami rode up to join them.

Recognising his call, one man called: ‘It is the king!’

‘The king! The king!’ the others chorused.

One man walked his horse forward, a broad-shouldered fellow whose face looked familiar in the moonlight. ‘My lord king,’ he rumbled. ‘We had thought you lost in the forest.’

It was Arngrim the Berserk.

‘And sent none to search for me?’ the king asked.

Another cried out: ‘We searched for you for many hours, sire. But Arngrim, he said you must have returned alone, that we would meet you when we returned to Holmgarth.’

‘And we encounter you on the road,’ Arngrim added with a laugh. ‘What adventures have you had in the forest, lord king?’

‘I shall speak of that when we return to the city,’ the king replied, but he would tell Arngrim nothing of the promised sword. He spurred his horse and rode on, with his men falling into line behind him.

So King Svafrlami returned from hunting to Holmgarth.

* * * * *

The following evening, Princess Eyfura came to her father’s chamber in the citadel, troubled in mind and spirit. As the torches flickered on the stone walls of the passage and the pitter-patter of her slippered feet echoed in the stillness, she clutched her fur-trimmed cape closer and struggled with her conscience.

Two guards stood at the door to the king’s chamber, tall, impassive men clad in gleaming byrnies and helmets of bronze. They stepped aside at the princess’ approach and respectfully ushered her into her father’s chamber.

He looked up from his seat where he had been gazing into the fire. An expression of joy crossed his venerable face but a look of concern followed it.

‘What is it, daughter?’ She came into the firelight and he saw her clearly; a maiden of seventeen summers clad in a fur-trimmed cape and a long-sleeved dress of samite cinched by a girdle of cloth-of-gold. Her uncovered fair hair hung in plaits on either side of her heart-shaped, winsome face. But eyes that usually danced with laughter were sombre tonight.

‘Father, I must speak with you,’ she said, her voice soft but her face hard. ‘I could not speak to you before, while… he was in the city.’

‘Do you mean Arngrim?’ the king asked. ‘Your betrothed?’ The Viking had ridden south with his warriors that afternoon, to take up his new post as governor in Kaenugarth, the second greatest city of Scythia, that lay on the River Dnieper, bordering with Gothland. The king had rewarded him lavishly with lands and cities in the south of the kingdom, for his role in the campaign against the Huns. Becoming governor of Kaenugarth was a sign that a man was second most powerful in the kingdom, usually reserved for the crown prince. Yet none of these rewards could compare with the greatest honour that King Svafrlami had promised the Viking.

‘The match was not made with my approval,’ Princess Eyfura reminded him. ‘This foreign warrior’s lustful eyes fell upon me and you were so besotted with him that you were ready to marry me off at a moment’s notice! I would not trust myself to speak of it until he had gone. For these months, since Yule, when you announced the betrothal, I have endured his familiarity, his burning gaze, his arrogance.’

‘Daughter…’ the king began, but she would not let him speak.

‘Now he is gone I can speak to you freely, father. I shall have nothing to do with this betrothal! You have no right to marry me off to the first mercenary who leads your hosts to victory. What would my mother have said, were she not in the grave these five years?’

The king gazed at his daughter regretfully. She looked so much like her mother had when they had first met, so many years ago. The child of their old age, Eyfura had known her mother for twelve years only, but she had inherited so many of her qualities and quirks. The way she held her head when angry, the proud way she swept through the passages of the citadel… His heart ached at the thought of her at the mercy of Arngrim.

‘You said nothing of this before,’ he said. ‘I did wonder if you were happy with the match.’ He shook his head. ‘But it must be, daughter - for the moment. I am old now, old and weak. In my youth, while your mother was still alive, I was a bulwark to the kingdom, a shield to my folk. When the Huns ravaged our borders, the Goths marched to war, or the Vikings raided our western coasts, I led my hosts against them, led them to victory. But when this beard turned grizzled with age my strength diminished and for long years I could find none worthy to lead my men in my place. Our foes raided our lands, our warriors fell to fighting among themselves, - and like my own strength, this powerful land of Scythia began to diminish.

‘Then, last year, the Vikings came to us - Arngrim and his men. He offered to lead my hosts against the enemies of my folk and I promised him all that was in my power to give if he would save us. He faced the Huns on the field of battle. Long was the fight which I watched from my pavilion. The sky was black with arrows; the heavens rang with the shouts of the embattled hosts. The Huns charged our warriors time and again and the dead littered the meadows where they fought. But at last Arngrim led us to victory and Eggther, king of the Huns, sued for peace and promised tribute. Arngrim’s victory is praised in the songs of the bards and minstrels and his fame spreads far and wide. With it goes our fame, the fame of Scythia. Few dare face us for fear of our champion.’

Eyfura sat upon the arm of her father’s chair and gazed fondly into his rheumy old eyes.

‘I am glad that the Huns were defeated,’ she murmured. ‘They are monsters. I hate them! Yet the Vikings are no better. And they say Arngrim’s kindred are descended from trolls and mountain giants. Please, father! Do not give me to that man. Let him find a mate more fitting for him. Let him marry a Hun, or some other savage! I fear him.’

The king reached up to touch her cheek. His voice was hoarse. ‘I would not follow this course if there were not some other way. But it is the destiny of kings and their kin. We cannot marry for love, like commoners; our unions must be for the good of the kingdom.’

The princess shook her head defiantly. ‘Father, I will not marry that man! You cannot force me!’

He shook his head. ‘For the moment, we need him,’ he said. ‘I will glut his greed so he defends us. I cannot defend my kingdom unaided in my old age. But rest assured, daughter. I have a plan. You will have to marry Arngrim. I am sorry for that. But it will be brief. Soon I shall be able to defend my kingdom again.’

Haltingly he told her of his encounter in the forest; what the dwarves had promised to do for him. The princess listened in silence, her eyes troubled.

‘You use one evil to rid yourself of another,’ she murmured. ‘How can you trust these dwarves? It is ill-luck to depend upon sorcery.’

The king shrugged his shoulders. ‘Daughter, what else can I do? Arngrim’s ambition is ceaseless. He will eat up the kingdom in his greed if I do not stop him. Besides, I cannot bear to see you in his arms. As soon as I can, I will use the sword against him. But we must not rouse his suspicions. Daughter, you must marry him.’

Princess Eyfura regarded his father in silence. The shadows danced around the room as the fire guttered in the fireplace. They grew, seeming to transform her father’s face into an awful death mask.

* * * * *

Arngrim’s wedding took place at midsummer, when Scythia was sweltering in the sticky heat to which he had grown accustomed. He rode back from Kaenugarth at the head of his Vikings, entering the city of Holmgarth the day before the wedding. The next day, he was wedded to Princess Eyfura in the great temple near the citadel gates.

The king himself officiated at the ceremony as high priest. He raised the Hammer of Thor in a ritual gesture as he approached the pair. Arngrim stood with the princess before the altar in the midst of the high-roofed, pillar-lined temple, as the citizens of Holmgarth and the king’s retainers looked on. They saw a large man with a great beard and long black hair, his nose large, his eyes thickset and piggy, his skin ruddy and blotched. When he grinned in triumph, he revealed a mouth filled with broken teeth like fangs.

‘In the name of Njord and Frey and the Almighty As I name you before the folk as man and wife,’ the king said, his words resounding through the temple. The cheer of the citizens was muted and Arngrim glared about him in anger.

What was it with these folk? He had saved them from the foes that had ravened the kingdom like wolves around a stricken reindeer. He was Governor of Kaenugarth, owner of lands all across the southern half of the kingdom. He was leader of the king’s hosts. Yet they seemed to disapprove of his marriage to the princess.

No matter. The old fool Svafrlami was soon destined for Hel’s kingdom and Arngrim’s hold over the lands of Scythia would be complete. Then he would see how the citizens grovelled before him!

But the ceremony was interrupted by the clatter of hoofs in the cobbled garth outside. A man in the colourful garb of a herald strode in moments later and bowed before the king.

‘My lord, I bring urgent tidings!’ he cried.

The king gestured around him. ‘What is so vital that you must interrupt my daughter’s wedding to Arngrim?’ he demanded.

‘I apologise, my lord king,’ the messenger said hurriedly. ‘But I have killed seven horses riding from the eastern marches and I bring terrible tidings. The Huns have ridden in from the steppes again and they are looting and burning and pillaging the east!’

A murmur ran through the watching crowd.

‘My lord king,’ said Arngrim, ‘the meat of the ceremony is finished with. Your daughter is now my woman. Let us give thought to this invasion. It seems the Huns have yet to learn their lesson. We must prepare our defences at once, ready ourselves to ride out and school them well.’

King Svafrlami turned to face him, his expression cold. ‘Very well, Arngrim,’ he said. ‘I will send messengers to our warriors to join us. You must prepare them for the fight. But in the meantime I must attend to another matter. I ride into the forest.’

Arngrim regarded him sardonically. ‘Very well, my lord king. I understand. You are an old man and matters of state overwhelm you. While you ride on your mysterious errand, I shall steer the kingdom to victory. Fear not! Like your daughter, the kingdom will be safe in my hands.’ He seized Princess Eyfura in his massive paws, planting a slobbering kiss on her delicate lips, shouted for his Vikings and strode from the temple.

* * * * *

The forest stretched endlessly beneath the midsummer sun and the king felt the sweat run down his back and pool beneath his tunic as he rode through the sunlit glades. This incursion could not have come at a better time. Soon he would have the sword that would give him victory. He would vanquish the Huns and Arngrim would no longer be needed. Perhaps the Viking would die in the fight. Who could be sure which sword struck him? - and if the wound was in his back, then all would know was that their hero of a summer ago was a coward.

The king dismounted when he reached the edge of the clearing. He led his horse forward. Flies darted in swarms in the forest air as Svafrlami approached the great rock in the middle of the clearing. The sky was blue above them, without a cloud, but in the shade he felt as cold as he had in winter’s shadow.

The door in the rock was open. The two dwarves stood before it, bearing a cloth-covered