The Deluding of Gylfi by Matt Larkin

Author:Matt Larkin
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Incandescent Phoenix Books

The town lay on an icy crag above the fjord, making it unapproachable on two sides. A thick wall encircled the rest of it, no doubt intended to protect from the other kingdoms as much as from trolls and dangers of the wild. It was damned large, too. Several dozen houses gathered together in mutual defence, all probably beholden to some king or other. In the far distance, a castle rose up out of the mountainside. No one built like that anymore. More remnants of the Old Kingdoms, mostlike, but it lay too far off to judge for certain.

The gate guards had welcomed him at the mention of trade, and now he climbed the rocky path toward the town centre. There would be a market up there. Atop the path, a wooden bridge spanned a small waterfall pitching down into the fjord. Clumsy work that would not last a decade—yet one more example of Man’s vain attempt to assert the slightest dominance over nature. The bridge creaked under his boots as he strolled toward the market. Volund shook his head. He could have built a better bridge in his sleep. Did the artisan take no pride in his craft? None at all?

In the square, he paused before a cobbler’s shop. His boots were worn almost through, and that was one thing Volund could not so easily make. After inspecting the lot of them—all serviceable, in a handful of different sizes—he broke off a piece of his arm ring. A tiny shard of silver, but more than enough for a good pair of boots. The cobbler grunted at him and tossed him a pair.

Volund frowned. How could the man know which size he needed? He slouched down on a rock and yanked his old boots off. His toes had turned sickly yellow, and he had to massage warmth back into them ere he tried on the new boots. They sat snugly, as close a fit as he’d ever had. Cobbler knew his trade after all. And everyone needed shoes. Especially men going off to the spear-din, marching long distances. “Who rules here?” Volund asked.

“King Nidud, ‘course.” The man arched his neck toward the castle in the distance, then spat for emphasis.

Volund refrained from comment. Dvergar were known to do the same. Most Men were, in fact, vulgar. And to a prince of Kvenland, it seemed, quite vulgar. “Not a just king, then?” The man spat again, the only answer forthcoming. So not just—but then, who was? Power settled upon the corrupt, the one drawn to the other in an endless cycle. Such was the way of the World. And if this Nidud was not generous with his people, perhaps he was at least ambitious. “Men come through here. Do they speak of wars?”

The cobbler grunted, then looked to the sword hanging over Volund’s shoulder. “You a mercenary?”

Volund might have told him he was searching for a valkyrja. The man might have laughed, might have said it best to die in battle. Either way, it did not seem apt to get him anywhere.

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