Chapter 11 - Chapter XI: In the House of Dagfinnr

Trapped in a dreamless darkness, a space without end, Sigrún neither screamed nor attempted to do so. Such was the oppressiveness of the tenebrous shadows that held her captive for time without end that she was all but joined to it. She could not quite explain why this was so, nor could she quite rationalize why it should not be. Broken by this darkness, it was all she could do to retain some sense of her own self. Her sense of reason and the cold courage that had been imparted to her were torn from her some time ago, and were repeatedly torn asunder more than once, the longer she remained there.

Not knowing how to return to herself, or even if she should truly desire this, she floated about in endless shadows, frightened and broken. In time, she came to at last feel something other than emptiness and fear, cold. It was impossibly cold so that in time she was overcome by a numbness that was without compare, one that stabbed into her skin far worse than any winter cold she had ever experienced in Norvech.

She identified Norvech as elsewhere, because she knew herself to no longer be there. She did not know where she was, only that the land of her birth was far, far away. Quite where she was was a mystery to her.

There was much that she had seen, much that had made her soul shrivel in terror, and much more that she was to see. It was all the stuff of nightmares, and all of it was enough to drive the very strongest of men or the firmest of women mad.

Somehow, though, Sigrún succeeded in retaining some memory of who she was. She knew herself to be Freyvar and Gertrud's daughter, she knew herself to be Helgi's foster-daughter, and knew herself to be from Heiðrrán. All else was forgotten. It was too difficult to recall, and far more elusive to her than these things could ever prove to be.

The shadows that haunted the darkness that surrounded her, and that was her new present, were too great, too oppressive to allow her to remember aught else. When she peered all about her, as she journeyed across the void of wintry cold, she discovered not simply a frozen landscape but a myriad of halls, each one more ruined, more decrepit, and terrible to behold than the last. Most of them had jagged stalactites jutting down from the ceiling, and most had half-frozen inhabitants screeching in agony. Most of these halls also had icy spikes jutting up from the ground, threatening the air from the sides, and upon every banquet table made from ice, there were rotted bones and food.

The most terrible of all these sights to behold at first was the rotted witch who, covered in frost, leered at her, hungering for her in some manner that frightened Sigrún far more than any other nightmare she had ever borne before then. Thereafter, she would always remember the blue-eyed witch that peered back at her from the shadows cast by the ceiling. This witch, seated before a banquet table, stretched out a frozen arm for her, seeking to seize her.

This horrible corpse, vile and rotting as she was, was naught compared to the very worst of all the sights deep within the great keep. That was to be the lady of the keep, half-rotted and cast in greater shadows yet utterly there in the open and the light of day (of sorts) to behold in the deepest bowels of this terrible place.

The woman was monstrous and terrible, her raiment hardly able to contain or cover her skeletal left half, with the woman's eyes what stood out most to Sigrún. They were terrible and black beyond the blackest of nights. Such was the wickedness that she beheld, there that her very soul shrivelled completely and utterly.

Consumed by fear, as by the shadows, she could feel them pulling at her even as she felt her soul shrivel from the very gaze of this wicked and terrible lady. Nameless though she was at that moment, nameless more due to Sigrún's refusal to name her (for she knew far too well who she was), and her refusal to name the dark figure she could see amused her. This amusement, this dark joy that radiated from the wicked one chilled Sigrún still further.

This was the last that Sigrún was to see of her before she was cast into darkness, which was a great relief to her. Sleep was preferable to the evil that was to be seen there before her, especially if it was an eternal sleep that shielded her from this frosted place of purest evil.

*****

It was with a start that Sigrún was shaken from the darkness, rescued from deep within it to find herself once more in darkness. Dark as the shadows of the room she now found herself in were, they were a pale imitation of the spectral realm that had previously held her prisoner. Incapable of seeing the vast majority of the room, she was forced to wait until her eyes had begun to adjust before she could properly see the chamber's interior.

It was with a great deal of fascination that Sigrún examined her circumstances, hardly able to discern most of the details of the room, due to the shadows that hung over it. There was nary any light beyond a small guttering candle on the cusp of burning out, as she turned her head here and there and squinted, her eyes that she might discern what she could of her whereabouts. It was a bedchamber to be sure, but unlike any other she had ever slept in before then. This was as much due to the comfortableness of the bed upon which she had slumbered hitherto, thick and layered, it had a trio of feather-filled pillows where her head had been. But to all sides, there seemed to be walls and floors of stone, with the walls stretching out for five to seven meters at a time, with large columns separating the various sections of the wall.

These columns were more for show than for any practical purpose, with each of them carved from marble and set into the stone of the walls themselves. So perfectly had they been fused with them that it was difficult to see where one ended and the other began, with the columns themselves square in shape and form, yet decorated with ornate, sculpted images. The images in question were of various scenes of battle, from across Dwarvish history. Notably, the history of Dagfinnr's lineage she guessed, as there was to the right of her bed the image of a large Dwarf lowering his axe, as he gathered a child into his arms that he might escape a burning house with the infant. To the left, there were images of a great warrior with a crown racing into battle and holding his own along a great iron bridge.

The image by the next column to the left was of a great variety of beasts invading the Dwarf homelands in Norvech. Quite where this was, Sigrún could not say as some of the monsters looked as though they were little more than corpses, whilst others looked almost akin to spiders. There were also some who appeared to be deformed scorpions or akin to great lizards, ones with twin maws and sharpened fangs. All of them were resisted by a small army of Dwarves that fought on valiantly, if almost futilely, given the numbers.

Where the images to the left may have depicted a great defeat in the history of the Kings of Fránnstein, those to the right were quite a bit more triumphant. The valour of one of the Kings, a thick-bearded warrior with his beard in an ornate braid of sorts, hewing down many of the monsters to the left, and also further to the right on one of the columns by the door, he could be seen being enthroned. It was a magnificent image. One that Sigrún was amazed and struck by, and wondered if this Dwarf might be one of Dagfinnr's ancestors.

She was to find also when she glanced down that the marble floor was covered in rich rugs made from elk-skins, ones that were warm to the touch. To both sides of her, there were also tables made of the finest redwood furnishing, the exquisite craftsmanship was unlike any of those found in the home of Helgi or Thormundr. There were empty plates on the table to the left, with the bones of cooked poultry and deer legs to be found on those aforementioned plates. But this carpet was naught compared to the wealth displayed upon her bed, which had a number of furs of the thickest sort thrown atop it. These furs consisted of those drawn from bears, wolves, and coyotes that Dagfinnr had hunted in summers long past.

But this was not what startled her most about her surroundings. What surprised her more than any wealth, or how comfortable the bed was, it was how Auðun was asleep in the chair by her bedside.

Surprised she was to study him for some time. Last she had seen him, he and Wolffish had been heavily wounded by the enemy on the road, yet there he slumbered, peaceful as the day he was born. Having dreaded this reunion for fear of what she might discover, namely that her two friends would be dead, Sigrún felt a great wave of relief now. Though she still would have liked it better had there been a physician present therewith her to explain his condition to her.

Pulled from her reverie by her spinning head, she very nearly laid it back down more from instinctive exhaustion than any great desire to rest, then, when the unexpected happened.

*****

Suddenly, the door to the right of the large bed-chambers was thrown open, with a loud 'bang', one that resounded throughout the bedchambers, along with the rest of the keep. Sigrún, bewildered, could hardly keep from gaping as her stepfather, Guðleifr, burst into the room, never the most subtle of men. He, however, froze mid-step, a plate in hand and a horn of ale in the other, both of which he dropped the moment he saw her.

"You have awakened at long last, Eir be praised!" Guðleifr cheered, startling her, so that she leapt what must have been some twenty or thirty feet into the air. His face was ragged and drawn with lack of sleep, so that he looked far worse than he had at any other time in all the years she had known him. Rushing to her side, to pull her to the edge of the bed and into his arms, he was to ignore or perhaps hardly notice her squirming, discomfited by this gesture of his as he shuddered. "Thank the gods! I prayed day and night for this, and cannot believe you have at last returned to us, Sigrún!"

Shuddering and shivering for some time, he seemed on the cusp of tears as he held her close. No man had held Sigrún so tightly in some time, not since Helgi himself had she been embraced by one. The thought of her foster-father, ordinarily more than enough to make her feel irritation towards her mother's second husband, hardly inspired the usual scorn she felt for Guðleifr.

Her moment of temporary weakness did not last for very long, as she, after several minutes of letting him hold her, casting away as might an exorcist a dark spirit possessing an unwary victim,what fear lingered on in her pushed against him. Pushing him away, she pulled herself at the same time that she did so from his embrace.

Hardly aware of her coldness towards him, Guðleifr was to continue to pat her on her flaxen head with a soft look in his eyes. His eyes pierced her with their gentleness as he pressed to her immense embarrassment a soft kiss to her forehead.

"Thank the lady Eir you have awakened, Sigrún," Guðleifr told her sincerely, as he at last pulled away, though his voice remained gentle as ever.

Discomfited by how kindly he was behaving, and how visibly he had made it clear how much he continued to cherish her. Sigrún was to struggle to accept this, as she was always wont to do in spite of the knowledge that it was right and proper.

Thankfully, though, she did not offend him when she was to ask him, "Where are we? Did we arrive in Dagfinnr's realm? Where are the Death-Riders?"

Guðleifr, uncertain of how to answer, glanced back over his shoulder to her surprise, with the young maiden peering around the aforementioned shoulder to discover Thormundr standing in the doorway. His shadow was cast over the whole of the entrance to the bedchambers, by the torchlight from the hallway, a strange little smile on his bearded lips.

"Let her lie down and rest once more, Guðleifr, she will have need of rest," Thormundr counselled, appearing suddenly in the doorway with a small chuckle.

Sigrún felt certain he had been there for some time, observing the reunion between the two of them with an amused gaze. His arms crossed before his chest, he stroked at his long beard with an air of worry and uncertainty despite his amusement.

This made her all the more consternated, so that she could not help but ask, "Where are we, Thormundr? What has happened? Where are the Death-Riders? Did we escape? And where is that nefarious rotted lady?"

"One query at a time, my dear girl," He was to answer patiently, only to reiterate, "There will be time enough for questions and answers, my dear Sigrún. At present, it is time for you to emulate my apprentice and sleep. You are still tired from the journey and from all that you have endured."

Sigrún tried to resist; she honestly did not wish to sleep. She felt certain she had slept too much, and yet as she yawned and her stepfather at last did as he was bidden and pushed her back towards the pillows, she felt herself being dragged once more down into the dark.

This time, when she slept, she did so without seeing any dark witches or evil goddesses. She dreamt of waves and the sea of all things.

*****

"Oh do wake up, Sigrún! Wake up!" Auðun urged desperately, awakening Sigrún from the midst of a deep sleep, one that she felt irritated to be roused from. Looking up at him with equal exasperation as sleepy befuddlement, she was annoyed to find him pale and almost gasping with relief when she did glance up at him. "Praise be to Oðin! You have emerged from thy rest intact and in good health. I was not certain whether I should believe Thormundr or not."

"Well, you have found that he spoke true, now may I return to rest?" Sigrún snapped at him, with nary any cheer or joy in her voice.

"But you have slept for so long, why return to sleep?" Auðun countered at once, with all the eagerness of a child at the start of a new day. When she refused and turned over, he pulled her back so that he might look her in the eye, doing so with a seriousness and gravity that caught her attention at once. "We are now within the realm of Dagfinnr, and he wishes to meet with you, Sigrún, and has waited for days, and I do not think it wise to make him wait for much longer."

Reluctantly, as she still craved more sleep and felt as though she had barely slept, Sigrún nodded if reluctantly so.

Permitted to change and prepare herself for the day, she was to exchange her sleepwear, which was simply her clothes that she had worn beneath her armour, for a dress. The dress itself was a dark one that fitted her as might a glove, of rough wool it was thick and covered her from her neck to her ankles. It was perhaps not the most recent fashion, however, it was snug and covered her up completely and entirely, which pleased her. Added to this dress was a second over-dress (also black) and a fur-cloak that had for a pin, a gold, highly decorative wolf-pin.

The ostentatious decoration and rich clothing took her by surprise, so that the young girl felt at a loss for what to do. She liked what she saw but felt that somehow it was too much for her, so that she hesitated before she pinned the cloak into place. "Is all well, Sigrún? What is the matter?" Auðun asked her from the other side of the door.

"Y-yes, it is just this pin and some of the clothes, they are-" She searched for the best way to describe them to him.

"They are to thy liking?"

"Y-yes, it is just that they are rather more than I expected," She admitted, a little embarrassed at her lack of ease with such displays of wealth, so that she truly felt like a country-bumpkin at that moment.

Auðun laughed, so that she grew cold once more towards him, if only for a brief minute. "Ah yes, Dagfinnr can occasionally be ostentatious where his guests are concerned, or so I have learnt. Do wear them, lest he be insulted. I have observed that he and his daughter, the princess Eldrid, tend to take offence when others refuse their kindness."

It was with a sigh that Sigrún did as advised, though she eyed the silk outer dress and decorative pin with some trepidation. She kept her hair in the same braid that she had worn the day prior, thinking it best if it was kept as simply as possible. She had observed on the small table in the corner of the large room a number of hair-pins and had no wish to make a bigger show of wealth than she felt she merited.

When at last she stepped out, it was to find Auðun had been joined to her weary irritation by not only Thorgils, but their younger half-sister. The little girl, in contrast to her elder one, had clearly taken to the local culture and was dressed far better than her sister, with a silk outer dress also, one of a lighter colour. She also had her hair done up in a variety of braids with gold and ruby-encrusted wolf-shaped hair-pins and a decorative hare-pin keeping her own cloak about her shoulders.

"Sigrún, you have awakened at last!" Myrgjǫl cheered as she threw herself at her, with all the joy of a large dog who had been starved of attention.

Pushing her away, as always, Sigrún refused to accept her affection, which as always resulted in a hurt pair of eyes staring up at her. Ignoring her, the elder of the pair of sisters was to push away the younger, as much because she was irritated as she was still wearied from a sense of fatigue that permeated all her bones.

"Let us be on our way, Auðun," Sigrún stated while he looked on disapprovingly.

"Sigrún, she was merely demonstrating her relief to see you are well," Auðun remarked, voice thick with disapproval, and the same sternness her mother had often worn whenever she did not demonstrate 'suitable' affection for Myrgjǫl.

Sigrún sighed in exasperation, "Oh very well, do come along,Myrgjǫl, show us the way to the King's hall."

This response, though it did not spark the same joy as before, certainly ignited in her a giddy happiness that she was more than keen to demonstrate also. Guided through the torch-lit halls of the Dwarves, Sigrún was regaled with tales of how her friends had arrived there, whilst she was unconscious, and of some of what they had learnt in recent days since their arrival.

*****

The halls of the Dwarves of Fránnstein were immense. More so than any other building or castle keep that Sigrún had ever seen in all her years. She had never considered that the old poems and songs sung of the realm of Dagfinnr and his ancestors were at all true. This was not to say that she believed them to be lies, but rather that she had thought them to have exaggerated the grandeur of all that the Dwarves had built.

What she discovered with her own eyes was a grand palatial city that dwarfed all expectations and dreams she had ever had, regarding Fránnstein. The walls of the hallway just outside of the bedchambers lent to her were high, the marble that supported them magnificent, and the stones of each wall were engraved with carvings and painted frescos of ancient scenes of battle and glory. The walls were thus some of Sigrún's favourite parts of the fortress-city to look upon, so that she stood in awe of them for quite some time. Some of the stories she knew, such as those of Sigurðr, and there was also Brynjarr the King, who restored the monarchy of Norvech. Other stories she did not at once recognize, such as those of a Dwarf-King who, with a large double-headed axe, could be seen tearing asunder the throat of a large Erde-Wyrm. One of the wingless dragons was ushered into being in ancient times, and corrupted, it was said, by the likes of Loki.

This image, engraved into the very rock of the walls, along with that of the coronation of a Dwarf surrounded by winter snows and legions of his people, with the cadavers of the defeated Svartálfar at his feet, was her favourite. This second one she discovered nearer to the end of the grand hallway that seemed to stretch on for several leagues. By then, she had, alongside her sister and friend, discovered more than three dozen doors that led to several more bed-chambers, with several of those having been given over to the travellers.

It was nearer to the entrance to that hallway that she was at last informed, "You have only seen about half of the architectural and sculptural beauty of the Dwarves, Sigrún."

"How so?"

"Look up," Myrgjǫl told her gleefully, for the equally amused Auðun.

Curious, and slightly exasperated by the knowing look in their eyes (notably that of the younger girl), she was to do so. What she saw stole her breath as she stared up at the most wondrous frescoes imaginable. She could never have imagined anyone ever carving and painting such things, for unlike the walls' frescoes, these were painted with a variety of colours.

The images that she saw were not of the night sky like in her bedchambers, with the constellations captured exactly, but rather images of what the Dwarves fancied the realm of the gods to look like. They had somehow captured the wildest imaginings of Ásgarðr, with there being the homes of the Æsir and the Ásynjur dotting the landscape. The homes were painted gold and silver, with the great wall of Ásgarðr surrounding the realm of the war-gods, who wandered from home to home, it seemed.

There were figures such as Oðin, along with his Queen Freyja, who stood outside of his great palatial home, Valhalla, looking worriedly after their daughter. The youngest of their house, the princess Hnossa, who sat by the side of Heimdallr, who sat by the rainbow bridge, telling the young princess with her necklace the glimmering Stjárgamen about her throat. There were other figures, such as Asa-Thor, and the likes of Tyr riding out into battle in their great chariots of war. And there were all the other Æsir, each of them tearing their way down below the stars as though in preparation for battle.

But the figure who most captivated Sigrún was that of Vulcan, for she did not at once recognize him and was stunned to see him there. Confused, she stared, and stared and stared at him, unable to determine who the crippled smith was, with his scarred face and thick beard, and his beauteous wife the Nereid Aglaea, who stood at his side.

"Who is that?" She was to ask her friend, who glanced up.

"Who?"

"The smith, I have never heard of the Æsir having one, save for the odd Dwarf in old tales or the odd Jötunn," Sigrún clarified, pointing to the red-haired figure she spoke of.

"That would be Vulcan, I believe, to my knowledge, the Dwarves love him best above all the gods, for they consider him to be theirs," Auðun explained to her, only to correct his error. "Or perhaps it would be more apt to say that they believe themselves to be his children of a sort or his specially chosen people. They love him, and aspire to be as like him as they could be."

"But why? he looks to be a cripple?" Sigrún said, fascinated despite herself.

"Because he is a smith," one of the nearby Dwarves who had just arrived, this one was blond-haired with dark eyes and the thick beard that was so characteristic of the Dwarves. Dressed in a tunic of the finest dark silk, he wore dark green trousers and had gold armbands upon each arm, both of which were encrusted with emerald gemstones. "I am Durin, and am to escort the three of you to the feast-hall."

"What, why? I did no harm today! I did not splash any of Father's wine on the statues of Dagfinnr's ancestors, not yet at least!" Myrgjǫl protested, thinking she was in trouble.

At her words, Durin turned a vivid shade of scarlet, not unlike the robes of Freyja or Vulcan's beard or Thor's wild, mane of untamed hair. "No, but- wait, does this mean you had every intention of doing so?" When Myrgjǫl did not answer, he looked as though he wished to throttle her all the more. "We shall have to have a talk with your sire later, after you all have been fed properly."

Of the same opinion as he, Auðun was to as they walked to be heard whispering to her, "I had thought you had sworn not to indulge in any further pranks!"

Myrgjǫl grumbled under her breath, visibly annoyed by Durin and herself for having exposed her. Far less amused than they, Sigrún, who had already fallen in love with this place, with the frescoed walls, the gem-encrusted ceiling with its painted magnificence, continued to glare at her long after the others had ceased to do so. Certain that it was only a matter of time before the young girl was going to slip away to do some sort of mischief that would bring shame to them all and might permanently damage some part of the grand house of Dagfinnr.

*****

As they journeyed through those dank halls, which delved deep far below ground, and were to those who lived above-ground of such depth as to be fathomless. Such was the amazement that Sigrún felt as they walked along through them that she could not help but gape, gasp, and stare all about her. Her sister took evident pleasure in this, as did Auðun, both of whom had taken their time to properly revel in the grandeur and beauty of the Kingdom of Fránnstein.

It was at that time that Auðun told her of a little of the history of this place, doing so with evident joy and fascination for the realm of Dagfinnr. "This palatial city was originally a simple holdfast of the Dwarves more than two millennia ago. Built in the same age that Völsungs lived in, it was constructed by Dagfinnr's ancestor Thorkar, who was uncle to Fáfnir and Regin. A mason of unparalleled skill even amongst the Dwarves, he was to devote himself to the construction of the initial fortress and stone mound which you beheld, outside this place. The gates he also built, along with much of the old city below,are a testament to his skill at stone-cutting and sculpting. It was he who had taught what he knew of sculpting and blacksmithing to his nephews when they were young, wherefore it was said they had surpassed him.

Though he had not been as favoured as the more talented nephews, who were also greater in fame, Vörin, son of Thorkar, was said to aspire to expand the city of his father in the hopes of honouring his legacy. And to surpass the accomplishments of his cousins, who had dishonoured the family, however, in his fiftieth jubilee as King of the Dwarves, Vörin was slaughtered on a visit to the kingdom of Arnrige by Guðrun. This was said to have been done by her, as vengeance for the many crimes committed by Vörin's cousins against Sigurðr. This was a laughable punishment that had awoken the hatred of the Dwarves, for a time, against the line of Sigurðr. Because of this murder, they were to war for a time with the kingdoms of Norvech and Arnrige until they made peace shortly after the outbreak of the First Wars of Darkness.

Much of this tale could be seen on the sculpted walls of the grand palace in which Dagfinnr lived. There was more to the history as Auðun was to recount, for while she had slept, he had been reading a great many history tomes and scrolls and had been visited by one of Dagfinnr's granddaughters, the lady Eldrid, who had recounted to him much of the learning of the Dwarves. When no other would heed the calls of Fitela, the last of the Völsungs Kings, nigh on two centuries or so ago, Dagfinnr had in his youth answered the call gladly.

"Ordinarily, Dwarvish women are not allowed to see outsiders, or to speak with them, as the Dwarves prefer to jealously guard them." Auðun was to explain to them, only to say quite proudly, "I, however, had the honour of speaking with her, since you, Sigrún, were placed in her care."

"A great honour, since the princess is ordinarily preoccupied with her duties to her grandfather," Durin added with a heavy nod of his own.

"What sort of duties?"

"Mostly scribal ones, his Grace Dagfinnr did not see the purpose of hiring a new scribe, when he had an as yet unmarried granddaughter living in his household who could work until he had finalized her marriage negotiations," Durin explained with a shrug of his shoulders, utterly indifferent to the princess' destiny even as he was proud of her taking up scribal duties for her grandfather.

It was evident to Sigrún that the Dwarf loved his King and was deeply proud of old Dagfinnr. Musing that it was not only men and Dwarves who were proud of the old ruler, she was to rub her chin thoughtfully about this fact. Intrigued in spite of herself, she set it aside in her mind as simply another of life's strange mysteries.

*****

Distracted from such thoughts, she was to concentrate her gaze as well as her thoughts upon her surroundings, as she was pulled from talk of princesses and kings to the study of the walls once more. The beauty of the sculptures, of the painted frescoes, and the odd tapestry that hung from the walls was undeniable.

Everywhere they stepped, in every hall, there were hundreds of stout figures to be seen. A number of whom regarded their guests with either thinly veiled contempt or disdain, or they regarded them with timid curiosity. It was difficult for Sigrún to imagine the Dwarves as a shy people, yet there was proof of it before her. A number of them did not seem to quite know what to make of their guests, so they simply kept their distance and tried not to stare. Their efforts proved so amusing that at times, as she advanced through their hallways, it was all that Sigrún could do to keep from bursting into laughter, so amused was she by their failed efforts to keep from glancing every few seconds at her and her friends.

It was hardly as discomfiting as one might imagine, for any who had ever encountered another who is incredibly curious about oneself yet attempts to hide it, if out of politeness. In this regard, the Dwarves never failed in their politeness then, though they never failed to demonstrate when they might disapprove of something their guests did. It was Durin, though, who was made to explain what was proper and what was not.

"You must not throw up thy arms as you walk, and women ought to walk one and a half steps behind their men-folk," Durin explained, his words first directed at Myrgjǫl, then to her sister.

"Bah," both girls hissed, displeased by this particular latter custom.

"I must say that you Dwarves seem quite a great deal more civilized than our own people," Auðun jested with a sly wink in the direction of the two girls made to walk a short distance behind him.

Though she scowled at this show of humour on his part, Sigrún struggled to repress a slight snort of amusement and a smile. The moment of humour was soon set aside as she returned to her study of her surroundings.

Escorted through the palace, she was left, given the grandeur of the building, to wonder if the whole of the Dwarven people in Norvech lived within the palace. When pressed about this matter, Durin was to shake his head, saying to her, "No, milady, we do not. The palace is larger than any other structure in this place, and was originally far smaller but has been gradually expanded with each generation that has passed. Most of my people live down in the Middle-City and Upper-City, both of whom have their own palaces and large estates built of stone."

"There is no Lower-City?" Auðun queried curious.

"No, well, there is one who lives in a place that could be considered to be akin to such a thing, though he does so by choice rather than being forced to do so," Durin admitted, visibly discomfited by such talk. "Our King does not believe in Lower-Cities, and has long since fused it with the Middle-City after he saw to employing many of those people generations ago, as his father had before him, for building projects. At present, we do not have the sort of ghettoes that other Dwarf cities and kingdoms have, such is the wisdom of Dagfinnr."

Unfamiliar with the nature of Dwarvish society and the troubles that plagued most of their kingdoms and cities, Sigrún remained quiet. Hardly knowing what to say on the topic, she simply contented herself with listening to what her friend had to say and what questions he wished to ask. Her sister, in contrast, though, had by this time become bored with the conversation and was impatient to reach the feast-hall. Speaking of her favourite foods, she was to begin to recite her favourites of the meals that the Dwarves had served them. Most of these consisted of meat and fish, just as it might have been on the surface. In this case, fond of pork, they had lathered a great many of these dishes in a kind of raspberry sauce that was mixed with the animals' blood and boiled together in a cauldron. They had lathered many of the pork dishes also with honey, as this was greatly loved by the Dwarves, who always had jars on hand, not unlike the Ursidon in this regard.

Fish, they had a tendency to mix with strawberries, honey (again), and also with, of all things, flour, so that it was a truly odd array of dishes. There was, of course, bread, though this they slathered with honey, and crushed berries all mixed together into a jam of sorts.

Mead and milk were served in a variety of drinking-horns, goblets with large jugs kept nearby, to the surprise of their visitors. "We do not always only drink ale or mead," Durin informed them with a hearty laugh, "Milk, especially that from cows from a nearby pasture that belongs to a nearby Wolfram tribe, is one of our most traded commodities."

*****

The first to take notice of her presence as they ate was Thormundr, who was to let slip a great cheer when he saw her. Leaping to his feet with an agility and spryness, the old sorcerer defied all expectations that one could have put before the most elderly of the newcomers to Fránnstein.

It was in this relieved mood that he was to embrace her as might a father do with a favourite daughter, after a lifetime apart from one another. "Gods be good, I had begun to think you might never awaken!"

"Do let her go, lest you strangle the poor girl," Skalmöld remarked pleasantly from where she sat, "And would that not be the greatest shame of them all? To have rescued her from certain death, only to then kill her with your own hands?"

The bleakness of the jest startled not only the old sorcerer who stared at her after a moment, visibly distraught by it. He was not alone in feeling confused and fairly upset by what seemed a particularly bad joke, as Thorgils, his father, and even the Wolffish stared uneasily at her, not that this bothered Skalmöld a great deal. No less disturbed by the joke, Sigrún was distracted by her growling stomach (for she had not eaten a proper meal in some time) and was to make for the nearest chair at the table.

"Well now, awake at last," Wolffish remarked when she slipped into the chair directly next to his own, dressed in a fresh tunic and trousers.He was in the midst of eating a large hunk of meat. Tearing strips of it with his bare teeth, with nary any utensil or knife in sight, his tail wagged from side to side, up and down, and back up once more, in what was a demonstration of joy. "Freshly cooked deer meat with spices, and with onions cut up and served with fish boiled in lamb-blood! This is a meal worthy of a King!"

"Indeed, it is which should come as no great surprise, my friend, given that it was prepared specifically for his table." Thorgils teased with a great laugh, as he tore into a similar strip of meat with no less enthusiasm than Wolfram had.

"Really now, there is no need to be shy," the maiden seated to the left of the King remarked with her own no less boisterous laughter. "Thorgils, really, you ought to eat more!"

"Especially, if he wishes to expand as the Wolffish has himself, since his arrival herein this place," Skalmöld teased from where she sat to the right of the richly dressed Dwarf to the right of the monarch.

Wolffish came near to choking on his roasted deer meat at her teasing remark, all while his friend snorted with laughter and struck him on the back with a large hand. No less amused than they, Auðun turned scarlet with his own chortles, which resulted in the sheepish young man being the recipient of a dark look from Wolffish.

Hardly as amused as those around him at this remark, he was to grumble about it for some time, though this did not mean that he restrained himself where food was concerned, or so Sigrún noticed. The rest of them, for their part, ate no less voraciously if a little less than their canine companion, with even the ordinarily cautious with food Thormundr indulging himself ever so slightly.

It was only after the meals that most of them reclined in their seats, and Thormundr was to take up humming a slight tune. One that his apprentice was keen to join in on, to the surprise of the young maiden who was to ask of the two of them, "What is that tune?"

"That? It is of a song that Thormundr was in the habit of singing, in my younger days, shortly after you had left us for Helgi's home," Auðun admitted, surprised by the question. "It is a song I believe his own mother had used to sing him."

"Not my mother, Auðun," Thormundr retorted almost sleepily with only one eye cracked open.

"Then who taught it?"

"Someone very dear to me," the old sorcerer confessed, ere he began to sing a tune, almost shyly, which demonstrated to his friends and those at the table just how special this tune was to him.

"One hop, two hops,

Several dollops,

Of honey that ne'er stops,

Crimson as blood,

Amidst sword and flame,

Away went he in a flood,

To stranger lands she came,

Yet always for hers she will run,

Swift as a flame,

Ne'er fear,

One hop, two hops,

Several dollops,

Of honey that ne'er stops."

When he had finished singing the song of his childhood, Thormundr smiled softly, a hint of wistfulness on his lips and in his eyes. Having joined him in song, Auðun was to bear a similar expression, though he himself was to admit that he was always reminded of his childhood when this song was sung.

"It is a reminder of better days," He admitted in a conspiratorial whisper to the young maiden, who could not resist a certain pang of regret at this confession. It reminded her of the time she had lost with him and the rest of her family, so that she took his hand and was to squeezed it, which resulted in the youth flushing scarlet.

The two were to separate as Dagfinnr at last made his entry into the feast-hall. Quite what she had expected, this figure was both exactly it and greater than her greatest imaginings, and also somehow lesser. Long-haired and bearded, both of which were tied in a series of great braids, with his beard in particular braided together in an intricate braid, one that separated it into a duo of 'tongues', which was how he had won for himself the name 'fork-beard' in his youth.

This was not the only show of majesty Dagfinnr put on. All of his people had a profound love for wealth, of the material sort. Notably, he loved emeralds and was keen to have them present in all his decorations, including his crown, his rings, various necklaces, and even his armbands. These treasures he was keen to show to all of his visitors and people, who oftentimes emulated this demonstration of wealth on his part. Dressed in green robes with silver trimmings and sleeves decorated with Dwarven runes, notably those of enzus (the rune for peace) and belka (that of gifts), with there being similar silver trimmings and runes all along where his robes met near his throat. Most of that part of his robes, though, was covered by his enormous beard, which also covered the six emerald necklaces he wore. Those necklaces which were forged in the days of his ancestor Darin and which had been passed down through his family, along with countless other treasures, were among his favourites.

His hands, immaculate and kept clean at all times, were washed often and were bedecked in emerald-studded gold rings save for one on his left middle finger. Upon that finger sat a silver ring with a ruby stone, which, though she did not know it at first, Sigrún was later to learn had been passed to the Dwarf-King by his father. There was also a bronze ring on his third finger with a cerulean stone cast upon it, a gift from Dagfinnr's now long-deceased elder sister, Eldrid. A maiden of great renown amongst the Dwarves, lost during the Second Wars of Darkness, whom he continued to cherish the memory of.

This then was the stout figure who conducted himself into the large feast-hall that was more than three leagues long, four in width, and five leagues high. The reason for these very specific measurements had everything to do with Dagfinnr's own personal choice when he expanded the city and palace of his ancestors.

Escorted by a number of his advisors and guards, he was to seat himself at the table with them, with a grunt, while to his left, his young granddaughter took up the chair to that side of him. To his right, one of his grandsons did much the same, with Thorgils introducing the two of them in a hushed voice. "The princess Eldrid and the prince Darin."

The princess, for her part, was auburn-haired with vivid blue eyes akin to those of her grandfather, and was no less short than he, though she only came up to his shoulder while he came up to Sigrún's waist. The young Dwarf was dressed in a green dress, with a silk-cloak which had embedded into its texture ceruleans and other blue gemstones, so that the aquatic coloured cloth seemed almost aglow when the light of the torches and ceiling gemstones bounced off of it.

A charming young woman she was, and one with a mischievous gleam in her eyes, one that her cousin shared, if somewhat lesser in some way. There was a more serious air about him, one that left Sigrún convinced that he was ordinarily fair company, but that he was strongly affected by recent events. Muscular and with gold hair rather than the auburn of Eldrid, he was slightly taller and dressed in rougher clothing than she or his grandsire, as he dressed in a simple wool tunic and trousers. About his shoulders hung a large fur-cloak that trailed a short distance behind him, and that was pinned together with a pin in the shape of a hammer. Bright-eyed, his eyes were not oceanic blue but rather browner and slightly more lidded than theirs.

"You must realize what an honour it is to be permitted to see the princess, as Dwarves typically shield their womenfolk from outside eyes," Völmung whispered to them.

"But why?" Thorgils wondered curiously.

"It is simply their way," Völmung replied at once with a shrug of his massive shoulders.

"Such strange customs," Wolffish remarked with a shrug of his shoulders, wherefore he said almost more to himself after he had devoured a little more of the meal before him. "Though, I suppose given how tiny she is, they have good reason to wish to protect her."

It was a view that Skalmöld was to agree with, even as she cautioned them to be polite. She was to speak to them in a gentle voice that was remarkably similar to one that Gertrud might have well utilized with them. "Do remember you sit before the King of Fránnstein and that Dagfinnr has taken you into the bosom of his family, therefore some politeness is well in order."

Agreeing with her, Auðun for his part, was to prove himself unable to repress his thirst for knowledge much longer, piping up all of a sudden, "Thy Grace, if I may ask of thee, regarding the knowledge in the libraries, most of the books from outside this place do not speak of the death of Fitela. Yet here they do, namely that he had a son who outlived him, and that that son had sons of his own. What I would know, since the tomes and scrolls that speak to this fact are the names of these last heirs of the Völsungs?"

"All shall be answered in good time," Dagfinnr replied, adding with more than a touch of humour in his voice, "This might be a more than worthy time for you to learn the value of patience. I understand you have shown it solely towards thy friend, while she lay in bed, but it is also of some use to those in the pursuit of knowledge."

This silenced them, whereupon they waited for him to announce that he was prepared to receive their tales. They had waited days for this, and had much to tell, not that they wished to waste any time in doing so; each one was intimately aware of the fact that they had little choice in the question of whether they could wait or not.

It was as they did so, though, that Myrgjǫl was to become excited, having eaten her fill, asking in a loud voice, "Oh, I do hope that Eldrid will tell us more of her ancestor King Anders IV and how he defended the kingdom in the Second Wars of Darkness!"

This brought about an embarrassed laugh from several of those present, the King included, though his granddaughter was to turn scarlet all the way up to her ears. "Behave yourself, you are before the King, Myrgjǫl!" Her father scolded her with a sheepish glance to the ruler, who smiled benevolently.

"No need for consternation, Guðleifr, I am quite familiar with the nature of children," He assured him.

"Let me go find, Aslaug, that the girls might amuse themselves in private while we discuss matters between ourselves." Völmung volunteered as he arose to his feet and left the hall with a slight bow to the old King, who nodded his head.

No sooner had he disappeared from view, did Sigrún lean over to whisper to Auðun ask of him curiously, "Who is Aslaug, Völmung's daughter?"

Keen-eared, Dagfinnr answered for the sorcerer's apprentice, with a slight twinkle in his eyes, "Near enough, though she is in actuality his niece. She is the daughter of his now deceased elder brother Sigmundr."

"Oh," Sigrún said, embarrassed by all the eyes on her, some of whom looked rather ill-pleased with her question, while others were a little more sympathetic, such as the gaze of her friend and his mentor.

"Fret not, I asked the same question in rather more awkward circumstances," Thorgils assured her with a short chortle that was shared by the ruler to the irritation of the Dwarf's grandson.

"Indeed, it has been some time since a man meant to bow and say his thanks for being taken into my house, only to blurt out several queries all at once." Dagfinnr teased to the renewed amusement of the warrior and irritation of those around him.

Matters, though, turned ever more serious as Dagfinnr took at long last his seat before them, as servants hurried forth to take their plates and what remained of the food from there. His eyes serious, as those of his guests were, who composed themselves and prepared for the task of presenting their suit to him, just as Völmung returned. The girl who accompanied him was flaxen-haired and blue-eyed, just as he was, and was slightly shorter than Myrgjǫl herself was.

"Myrgjǫl, Aslaug would like a playmate. Would you be so kind as to join her in searching the castle for treasure?" He asked cheerfully, only for his niece to become shy when she saw how many there were before her.

The two girls hurried away, with Myrgjǫl already prattling on about the best place to possibly find gemstones, and with Durin the servant racing after them at Dagfinnr's grandson's behest. The two of them were nervous that Myrgjǫl might try to peel away some of the gems from the walls themselves, in spite of Aslaug's presence therewith her.

*****

It was as they sat before the King Dagfinnr, who white white-haired and snow-bearded, sat with all the dignity of one of his rank, his hands folded together over the table. His eyes, clear as the blue skies of the world outside his grand halls and great keeps, pierced each of his guests as they told him of their adventures in greater detail. Certainly, he had heard much of their travels in the time that Sigrún had been asleep, yet now he was to hear more than ever before of their travels. It was after a great many hours that he called for refreshments for them, his great brows furrowed together as he did so.

They were all present therewith him; Skalmöld, Vegarðr, and even Völmung, who was seated near the Dwarf King's side, with the golden lady seated at the side of Wolffish. While the large warrior responsible for having previously rescued Sigrún reclined in a chair near the back of the large hall, his feet raised with one on his seat and the other thrown onto the smaller table before him. Inelegant and hardly concerned with dignity, he was, however, the most at ease of all those present in that hall during that time, his dark gaze piercing Sigrún from behind, whilst she explained her plight to the King.

The only comfort during that time was the presence of Auðun and Thormundr, who were both seated to her right, with the former directly at her side. Wolffish, for his part, was seated to her left, while Guðleifr was to Thormundr's right with Thorgils to his other side at the large stone table.

"I now have the whole of this matter before me and comprehend better how it has come about that you all lie before the gates to my city. I have a great many questions regarding how it is you came hither and out from the Tower of Franir Thormundr, but that shall have to wait for another time." Dagfinnr stated, stroking his great beard with a large, callused hand, with a frown on his lips, "At present, I would ask of all of thee to be patient while I recount to thee the tale of the Darkspire. It was built by a member of my line, in the age after Sigurðr had passed from this world, a hero of unparalleled renown, one whom none could surpass in these or any other lands the heroism of. Certainly, with regards to his age, none, either in the distant lands of the Dorians or the Elves to the east, could quite compare to him. His intended bride, Brynhildr, had likewise glory and was the greatest of the Shieldmaidens who once served at the table of Oðin himself, and was intended for him from the moment she defied her adoptive father. This was never intended to be a punishment but a reward, for her long years of service and for the love he bore her.

What happened next in the tale was that Sigurðr was fed a potion that made him forget her, as all know, and he went on to force Brynhildr to marry a man she did not love. The tragedies that ensued could be placed at the feet of a great many men and women, but none more so than Guðrun. It was she who, after the death of her lover, went on to marry again and to cut down her own children and feed them to her new husband, only to slaughter him also. He was a brute, it is true, but her children were innocent. And after this, she went on to seek to do the same to her daughter's husband, the King of Arnrige, Ermanaric himself, a terrible King, the murder of his sons, however, inspired such outrage that one of his guards at last hunted her down and slew her."

None dared to breathe it seemed, as all waited for Dagfinnr to finish his tale.

All save for Guðleifr, who spoke up to ask of him, "The tale of Sigurðr and that of Guðrun are well known to each of us; therefore, why tell us it? What of those Death-Riders? And what of Franir and of the Darkspire?"

"Let him speak, Guðleifr," Thormundr advised irritably, "You listened to me attentively in Heiðrrán; therefore, let Dagfinnr speak, he knows more about this matter than any other living soul in Norvech, I think."

"Thank you, Thormundr," Dagfinnr uttered gratefully, before he carried on with his tale. "The reason why the story is important and relevant to us millennia after the fall of fair-haired Guðrun is that it was when she first passed on that King Gunnar, her only surviving nephew, conspired with King Attlhul, the son of Attli, to contain her. You see, they did not believe that she could possibly remain among the dead, for they had become aware of how she had stolen a single pin from Brynhildr. This pin, which had been utilized in another life to keep together the swan-cloak that she wore as a Valkyrie, was still filled with some of the light that she had had when she was a divine being of sorts. There were a great many possessions of Brynhildr's that Guðrun stole or claimed as her own, and it was for this reason that the two later-day Kings were suspicious that she might find a way to revive herself."

"But how could they believe such a thing? Surely, once slain Guðrun would remain in the halls of Hella," Wolffish spoke up, interrupting the story also, only to become considerably more sheepish than Guðleifr had been when embarrassed by his own lack of knowledge.

"A good question, for which I have the answer," the young and fair-haired Skalmöld retorted quietly, "There was a prophecy, of course, as there always is one, with this one uttered by Guðrun herself. In her last moments, she clung to the pin, believing it to have been a gift to her by Sigurðr, and she claimed that death may hold her for the moment, but that this would prove temporary."

"Indeed, and it was this prophecy that so frightened the two men, so that King Gunnar turned to my ancestor and begged him to construct the Witch's Tower or Darkspire. This tower was to serve as her final resting place. Darin was to hide the brooch of Brynhildr and gave it over to the Order of Auguria for safekeeping shortly after the founding of the Order. You see? Between the taking of the brooch and the many spells placed upon the tower, they hoped that Guðrun might be sealed away forevermore. The knowledge of the Witch's Tower was to be passed on to the kings after the First Wars of Darkness, then later to the likes of Brynjarr, who took the matter as seriously as his predecessors had. It was more so perhaps, given his own ancestry and the hatred that his line had incurred from Guðrun for being rivals to that of Sigurðr."

"Rivals? In what way?" Thorgils asked, no less confused than the other two had been before him, had proven themselves to be.

"Can we simply not let him speak for himself, rather than interrupting him at every turn?" Sigrún cried out in exasperation, her hands thrown in the air.

"This interruption has its place, milady," Dagfinnr replied smoothly with a small smile, one that smoothed out his heavily wrinkled brow. "I shall, however, turn the question to the one to whom this bears the greatest relevance."

*****

It was at this time that Völmung stood up from where he sat that he might command the room. This he might well have done, even had he not done so, such was the magnificence of his person and the greatness that could be seen in his face, and heard in his voice. Dressed now in fine silks, those of a nobleman, he no longer seemed the travel-worn warrior first met outside of Heiðrrán.

Dressed in crimson raiment, with the emblem of a split standard; that of twin crossed golden blades, to the upper right and lower left, and in the upper-left and lower-right, there was the emblem of the golden maiden on horseback with her blade drawn and pointed upwards. Strange as the emblems were, they suited Völmung, and he wore them and his emerald, and golden blade-covered cloak with silver trimmings with dignity.

It was to him that Thorgils' question was turned, and he who chose to answer, standing tall as any man ever could in the halls of the Dwarves. "You recall that on the road, the song of Sinfjötli was sung, and how it sang of his love for the Lady Arnbjörg? It was not simply a song, and it was not simply an affair that he had. The lady was to carry his child to term, which was to be a son, the first of the Völsungs in a generation, and it was this child that was to wed the shepherdess Tove, who was the daughter of one of Sigmundr's many tenants. Raised in the household of his maternal grandfather, he was said to be the last of the Völsungs, other than Sigurðr. He it was who was to carry the bloodline forward, and he it was who challenged the Erde-Wyrm Hreiðmarr, and he who it was who was to have the courage to draw his blade also against Guðrun.

In later days, it was to be his bloodline that was to challenge the heirs of Sigurðr for the throne after they wrested it briefly from that of Gunnar. But the heir of Gunnar was to play one Völsung against another, and so the dynasty was destroyed because of their own ferocity. Much later, it was Brynjarr, heir of the line of Sinfjötli, who was to claim the throne, just before the Second Wars of Darkness. It was his line that ruled until the unfortunate Fitela was slain, and the realm of Norvech fell to chaos and civil strife."

"Sinfjötli was married? I had heard he had competed with King Ásgeirr for a maiden, but never heard of such an event." Sigrún remarked, amazed at this revelation, interrupting as her mind raced to catch up to the fact that the eldest son of Sigmundr had begun his own line.

"That he did, yet by that time the maiden had already given herself over to him," Dagfinnr said gently, ere he indicated to the youth who stood tall, casting a long shadow over the table, to continue. "Do continue with thy tale, Völmung."

"The line of Sigurðr had time and again warred with that of Sinfjötli after the latter dethroned the former, in the days after the First Wars of Darkness, and it was this conflict that brought about the end of the rule of my lineage. It was this infighting that led to the barons declaring the two lineages to have forfeited their claims to the throne." Völmung explained with a sorrowful air about him, "It happened that the two lines of Sigmundr were hunted and hounded from their old royal palaces. In the days leading to the line of Sweyn uniting the whole of the northern lands and those of Brittia, the two lines at last came together as Hallvarðr the Old promised the last of his children, the lady Grimhildr, to the heir of the line of Sinfjötli. This heir of Sinfjötli, named Fastúlfr, was a conscientious youth who fought a great many battles not for his own name, but for the greater glory of Norvech, as was done in former days by the lineage of Völsungs. Formidable and wondrous, he even went on to become a huscarl for the formidable Sweyn for a time, but the two in time came to disdain one another when the latter beheld the lady Grimhildr and came to long for her. When Fastúlfr refused to share his wife, he became a hunted man, at which time he fathered a son and fled into the wilderness with them.

It was there that he raised his son, Hrafn, the heir to the line of Völsung, with the latter marrying a fisherman's daughter, a lady who was strangely a cousin to the likes of Helgi as her father was half-brother to Helgi's father and was a quiet man who had desired neither wealth, nor trouble and had become a simple fisherman. It was this union, though, that led to much trouble as the heirs of Sweyn continued with the vendetta of their forbears, and they were not alone in this, as the Collubar, newly returned to the realm, began an active campaign of war against the line of Völsung. Entrusting his wife and sons to the care of the oldest friend of the line, Dagfinnr, father and son soon disappeared far to the north, where they were in time hunted down and slain. By what means they were overcome is not known, but their bones came to decorate the soil of Mt-Hrygglos, with the eldest of Hrafn's sons, when he came of age, taking for a wife a relation of the Jarl of Njarla, shortly before he was slain in the battle of Jorvik-Bridge, in Brittia. He went whither to the south to prove his mettle, and paid for this folly in blood to the horror of his wife, who was the next one that the Collubar hunted down."

"And where is this last son of the Völsungs to be found? Where might we find this warrior of warriors, who belongs to the greatest line of berserkers in all of history?" Thormundr cried out eagerly, speaking for a great many others at that moment who followed his example and looked on expectantly.

It was at this time that Völmung cast a heavy, half-amused look in his direction, with a slight quirk to his lips. "You look upon him, for I bear the emblem of both lines of my ancestors; that of my beloved grandmother and of my right honourable and beloved grandfather. Both of whom I buried with these very hands, just as I did my father and brother, and good-sister, all of whom were believed lost and that I found after many long years of wandering and a great deal of sorrow."

*****

When Völmung had at last finished his tale and had resumed his seat, no one said a word. No one was to utter any questions, though a great many of them still harboured them deep within their souls.

Dagfinnr was to propose that that was enough for one day, and decreed that they ought to have the remainder of the day to themselves, as it was nearing dinner-time and after that the suns would not be up for much longer. The King and his guests were able to tell the time from small holes in the ceiling that enabled discreet rays of the suns into the mountain. This light served to illuminate the gemstones embedded into the ceiling, stones that in turn served to illuminate the halls of the Dwarves.

Intrigued as she was by this, Sigrún was not to spend a great deal of time obsessing over the 'starry' ceiling which had so fascinated her and her sister before the meeting with Dagfinnr. Once she had eaten a healthy meal of mutton and pork, mixed with onions and potatoes, she was to go whither back to her bedchambers that she might sleep a little more.

"You wish for more rest when you are in such a place?" Wolffish asked scornfully of her, "Have you not rested enough for three people? You have slept for three days!"

"Leave her be, Wolffish," Guðleifr retorted sharply, adding with a weary sigh, "All know that we are all fatigued."

"I am certainly not," Auðun replied at once, "We are in one of the most extraordinary places, and you would have us rest? I say we go to yon library, and rejoice in the learning that is to be found there!"

The direction he pointed lay to the east of the hall, and was past the doors through which Dagfinnr and his guards, advisors, and grandchildren had left. It happened that Auðun was hardly of a mind to go there alone, so that he was to look to his friends as might a pup in desperate need to go in that direction.

His fierce desire to examine the libraries of the King was strongly endorsed by the likes of Völmung, who said to him. "If you would like Auðun, I would be delighted if you would allow me to accompany you to his library. I must admit that it has long been to my mind the greatest treasure that Fránnstein has to boast of."

"Indeed, it is," Thormundr agreed at once, "And it is most appropriate that you visit it thyself, young man, rather than having your Master hurry to and fro on your behalf, fetching books. Why, in my day, it was the apprentices who ran the errands rather than the Masters!"

"Now, now, old man Thormundr, you know all too well that Auðun had far more pressing concerns in the shape of my stepsister," Thorgils remarked with a sly wink that made not only Auðun turn a vivid and interesting shade of red, just as Sigrún did also, all while the old sorcerer glared at the warrior.

"Do desist with those jests, son, they grow tiresome," Guðleifr grunted, more than a little weary of his eldest child's endless jests.

"And I had thought you might appreciate them still," Thorgils jested lightly to the exasperation of not only his father, but his stepsister.

"Some jests ought not be uttered," Sigrún grumbled irritably, desirous to put an end to the matter, so tired was she. "If some of you wish to go to the library, so be it. I would prefer to retire for the evening."

"I do not think that would be wise of you, given the circumstances, and your peculiar situation, milady," Vegarðr interrupted suddenly to the surprise of all gathered as he appeared quite suddenly, it seemed, behind them.

"How so?" She asked archly of him.

"Because, there is much wisdom there that might be of use to you in the days to come, for you are near enough to being Helgi's daughter, for some to wish you dead outside these halls," Vegarðr informed her quietly, in his deep voice, before he turned away. "I would search the books that are focused upon the history not of the line of Helgi, but that of Njarla."

"Why the lineage of Njarla? I had thought them merely northern neighbours of Helgi's estate and lands," Sigrún remarked, confused by his suggestion.

"I cannot tell you, it is for the lot of you to investigate this matter by yourselves," Vegarðr retorted, quietly departing with Skalmöld, whom he bent his head to whisper.

"There is something very queer about that man, I have never known one such as he, or one so strange as she," Wolffish commented uneasily as he stared after the two of them for some time.

Though she did not approve of the tone and manner in which he spoke of the pair who had rescued them, Sigrún was in agreement with him. There was something strange about them, so that she wondered from whence they heralded and for what reason they had taken upon themselves the duty of helping them.

*****

The following day began in much the same manner as the prior day, if in far gentler fashion, that is to say, for Sigrún, who woke to find Auðun and Thorgils indeed still there. The latter was leaning back in his chair, snoring loudly and with a line of drool running down the corner of his mouth. This, while Auðun had fallen asleep on the hard, marble floor surrounded by the books he had brought hither from the library.

The sight of her oldest friend drooling next to one of the books, which he had grown ever so attached to, amused Sigrún almost until she let slip a giggle or a smile. Almost.

Preferring to nudge him awake, she was greeted by the sight of her friend glancing about, whereupon he realized he had drooled, at which time he panicked over the book next to his head. True to his nature, Auðun was far in a way more concerned for the book than his side, which ached after a night spent on a hard stone floor.

This led Thorgils, who had already woken almost a minute prior to the sorcerer's apprentice, to chortle cheerfully. "Pay heed, Auðun, lest you ruin the precious stones of Fránnstein; all know how attached the Dwarves are to them!"

"Oh, do stop with your endless jests at my expense, really, I have never met a greater fool than you, Thorgils Guðleifrsson!" Auðun accused irritably, too tired to truly be amused by the other man's jest at his expense.

Full of the sort of eagerness that comes only from a day full of hope and ease, Sigrún was to ask of him, "What lies ahead for us? I do hope that Dagfinnr has more to tell us of the Collubar and of the Darkspire Conspiracy, beyond ancient bloodlines."

"One can only hope," Thorgils muttered tartly, just before Wolffish arrived, bursting through the door.

"Dagfinnr-"

"His Grace!" Corrected Durin sharply.

"Dagfinnr has called for us to gather once more; it appears that another group of travellers has arrived or awakened and has much to add to the tale of events surrounding this Darkspire." He said defiantly, calling Dafinnr by his name, rather than by his title as Durin wished him to. "We must be away now, to listen to the tales of those others who have seen those beastly dark riders."

*****

"Let us now turn to the matter of what has brought Skalmöld hither, to my halls," Dagfinnr announced sharply with a glance towards her, "Then afterwards we shall speak of her friends Ailthin and the newly arrived Knights of Gallia, who have come here under truly terrible circumstances."

Skalmöld's name meant 'sword-age' and in contrast to this meaning she was at present dressed rather femininely for a lady in her sort of work; a long dress that the ladies in Heiðrrán, such as Gertrud, might have favoured. It was long and dark, and supple as she was with many a man's eyes drawn to her and how it hugged her lovely figure, with none eyeing more closely than Aithlin, her companion. "I am Skalmöld, as you all know by this time, we were introduced the previous day, and upon this one, I shall introduce you all to what I have endured in my travels. I have travelled the length and breadth of this land, from the distant Swethin lands in the east, to the even further eastern ones of Friskalia, and as far south as the lands of Arnrige and even Valholant. I have journeyed far and wide as a sellsword, under the command of Aithlin."

At those words Aithlin the Elf twitched and opened his mouth to speak, only to think better of it, Sigrún noticed.

Skalmöld, though, had been swept along by her story and could no longer stop it, "And it happens that we saw as far south as Arnrige Collubar. We last engaged them in battle to the north, where we were hired to guarantee the safety of someone who reported to us a great need for protection, when he threw himself into the tavern where we were staying. It was there in the frozen wastes, where a town had been founded decades ago near the Tower of Fránir, that this fellow begged us to escort him to Dagfinnr's halls.

Not knowing much about him, Aithlin told him, 'Only if you have the coin to afford our wages,' while I was swept by pity for him. We thus offered at my pleading, swept along by feminine sentimentality for him to pay us upon arrival, he claimed the knowledge he carried was worth its weight in gold."

"And it is when we took him into our custody, and made to leave with him that the Snake-Men, beasts that they are, came upon us, and slew one of my companions," Aithlin hissed, full of anger and malice. One might daresay that he was imbued with a special hatred for them. "Dathlin was a good man, and he perished in the stables at their hands. I had known him some thirty years. Sworded in the dead of night, as though he were little more than some common thief, is insulting and demands blood for blood! I might well have flown at those murderers for the death of my comrade, were it not for Skalmöld."

"And you would have perished then and there, my friend," Skalmöld interjected sharply, a little more severe towards him than she was towards others.

Visibly angry and wounded by this declaration, he was encouraged to continue with his tale by the likes of Dagfinnr, "I, too, have lost friends and brothers in the battle against the night. Aithlin, none of us questions your valour. At times, there is naught that one may do to reverse the tide; at present, all that you can do is to tell us more."

Aithlin bowed before the wisdom of the elder King and, with a hiss of irritation, did as prompted, "We journeyed from Eaglos to the castle of Miklafjord, where we hoped to find shelter. It was, however, there that we discovered something most unsettling; the inhabitants seemed at first in good cheer, but upon closer inspection, they were not truly alive. This we discovered just before we sat down to enjoy a feast, with the lot of them having long since had their throats slit or suffered other sorts of injuries. Upon recognising them as dead, we were made to fight our way out from the castle in question, whereupon we continued our journey, fearful of the dead and of the not dead. It was some time after this that we were to find our way south-east, wherefore we arrived hither to present ourselves before you as we do now."

"I arrived in advance of Aithlin, who fought his way back to retrieve the body of another of our companions, genial Eirik, whom he cremated whilst I saw to the rescue of the likes of Sigrún and her friends," Skalmöld added with a smile in the direction of the Elf-warrior who was to nod with nary any hint of joy or satisfaction on his face.

There was such a weight to him, such seriousness that none dared speak for some time whilst they waited for someone to carry forth with the presentation of facts to the mighty ruler of the Dwarves of Fránnstein. None could doubt the sincerity of Aithlin when he spoke of those they had lost in the days prior to their arrival in the underground fort.

Seeing the depths of his sorrow made Guðleifr glance to his son, who stiffly looked away, visibly discomfited by the display of stoic grief on the part of the Elf and his companion, and his father's own sentimentality. It was perhaps the first time that he resembled his stepsister so completely and utterly that few doubted that they were kin.

*****

Nodding his head now that they had all heard the stories of those who had ridden from the northern lands, where the tundra still ruled, Dagfinnr was to once more address those present himself. "Now that we have heard of how Densharr the Tigrun has come to find his way hither into my halls, I would ask of him what it is that drove him to seek my protection. Densharr, son of Gilgalthar, I do believe you have always lived within the Tower that Fránir has taken up occupancy of some decades ago. That like thy father before thee, you have always served him and have never known a free hour, nor did ye desire it, yet here you stand; a free feline, one who seeks to in some small way undo the madness that has come to grip him. I think I speak for all gathered here when I ask why."

Densharr was hardly the tallest of his species, middling in height so that he was nearer to Sigrún's own than that of, say, Wolffish. Slender as much by nature's doing as by his prior master's Densharr was dressed in a bright green wool tunic with a red cloak with silver trimmings and the Dwarvish rune of vok (the rune for an oak tree) woven into the edges with silver threads. Doubtless a gift from the house of Dagfinnr, he wore simple, heavily worn wool trousers and boots that Sigrún was later to learn Densharr had made himself.

In all, he did not truly command attention, nor did he seem overtly impressive as an individual, especially with the nervous air that clung to him more tightly than the cat-shaped brooch that tied his cloak to his shoulders. Picking at his claws apprehensively, he glanced about all around him, only for his eyes to settle at last upon Thormundr, whom he stared at for some time. It was as though he was attempting to place him in his memory, yet could not quite do so.

Yet it was when he, with a glance to Skalmöld, drew himself up fully, squared his shoulders, and began his tale, which drew gasps and gaping mouths from all. "Yes, your Grace, I was indeed slave to Fránir and will freely admit that I was brought up serving him just as my father had been. What he did not realize, though, was that my father was a clever fellow who taught himself to read and write, and that he had some contact with a local Tigrun tribe that occasionally visited the nearby forest. They were my mother's people, and were to leave after her death for the south at my father's insistence that they might not catch our master's ire. It was through them that he learnt, though Fránir never knew it, the tales of our people, and learnt much of the traditions of we Tigruns, and that I came to consider myself more a Tigthlin, that is to say, a member of my mother's tribe, rather than a slave.

In the years that stretched on from my childhood up to this current year, I have learnt a great deal by reading in secret, as my father taught me to do. I love books as much as the sorcerer Auðun does, especially those that recount the history of Norvech and her neighbours along with poetry and geography."

It was now that Densharr threw a smile in Auðun's direction, who flushed red a little at the attention shown him. Hardly accustomed to being the centre of attention, he was to lower his gaze as Dagfinnr, Thormundr, and all the rest of those gathered chuckled at his expense.

"It was thus that I perused the library of Fránir in search of all that might pertain to not only my people but the kingdoms, and thus I learnt of all things from the Orange Plague, from the First Wars of Darkness, to the bloodshed connected to that war, along with all that one could learn about the Collubar. If I may, what I have discovered in the weeks since my arrival here is that though your library is far larger than his, it does not contain the same number of scrolls and books on dark matters that his does. What is more is that while I was in his Tower, I observed for a number of years the carefulness with which he wove together his manipulations and schemes, relying heavily on a number of allies from all throughout the six kingdoms."

"Could you name some of those allies he has come to possess? It might be useful knowledge for all to know at this time," remarked the grandson of Dagfinnr, Darin, speaking for the first time since the beginning of these councils.

"I could, if I had to name the most prominent, it would have to be the likes of Hrefna of the Kalthéan Knights; she is the chief squire of the Head-Knight of the Order. There are also Regin, Hrǿríkr, and Ivarr, along with Ragnarr, all of them wealthy and well-to-do Jarls who once had positions of prestige and honour at court during the reign of Agmunðr." Densharr explained at once, whereupon he was to sip from his drinking-horn before answering, "But there are more than just these men and lady. There is also the lord Haraldr of Vjarglandr of Swethin, there is Prince Agnarr of that same Kingdom-"

"Impossible!" Thormundr interrupted, stunned by this revelation, "He is heir to the kingdom, why should he join such a conspiracy?"

"I believe he has read of the beauty of the lady Guðrun and has expressed the desire to be wed to her due to her rumoured beauty." Densharr replied with a shrug of his shoulders, only to add, "I am not entirely certain. I do know it has to do with a lady. I heard Fránir speak of him and saw him join them in one of their rituals. I also know that there are Steinarr and Sverrir the Jarl brothers who have come to dominate affairs in Arnrige, where they have imprisoned the rightful Queen of that realm. But that is not all, as the King of Friskalia has fallen to the conspiracy, coming to believe their lies, and has, I have heard Fránir boast, imprisoned his own son and heir, Prince Yngvarr. All while the legitimate King Bastian of the line of Jarvinen has been displaced and struggles to find allies for his revolt against Þróndr."

"Wait, I am not familiar with King Þróndr or Bastian, or any other names from that distant kingdom. Who are they?" This interruption came from Wolffish, who, visibly sheepish, looked away for fear of seeming foolish.

"A fair statement, if ever there was one," Auðun remarked mildly, "We cannot expect all to know everything, or to know as much as some of us do about Friskalia."

"Last I had heard, Friskalia had much like Norvech and Swethin lost her ruler when the last of the line of Agmunðr had gone south," Wolffish said, confused and frustrated at his own lack of knowledge.

"Such folly, of course. Not all the kingdoms fell into the same sort of infighting that Arnrige and Norvech have," Aithlin grunted, exasperated with the Wolffram, who, flushing scarlet, was prepared to snap back at the haughty Elf.

Intervening before there could be any significant quarrel between the two of them, Skalmöld reprimanded her peer, "Calm yourself, Aithlin, not all are so widely travelled as thee. Allow me to explain this matter, wise Wolffish, that is, if you will permit it, Dagfinnr." Both Wolfram and Dwarf nodded their heads, one with a glower towards the Elf and the other with a sigh of relief at her intervention. "After the fall of the imperial line founded by Agmunðr, the kingdoms did for a time, as all know, fall into chaos, with the lineage losing sway first in Arnrige, then in Swethin, so that in these places new royal lines took their place. Friskalia was an unusual realm in that there were three lineages: that of Þróndr, Agmunðr, and the old lineage displaced by Agmunðr, that of Jarvinen, who founded the dynasty nigh one hundred and fifty years ago. This, in spite of the fact that there was still Agmunðr's niece, the lady Ragna, and Agmunðr's last remaining grand-nephew alive in Swethin."

"It is exactly as Skalmöld has said," Densharr agreed at once, wherefore he carried on with his story, "The old King has chased out the princess from his realm, and imprisoned his own son."

"He has far greater noble and royal support across the northern kingdoms than any of us could have possibly predicted," Dagfinnr said, worried, showing the first crack in the armour that was his confidence in not only himself, but their ability to resist the tide. "How could we possibly hope to combat Fránir and his conspiracy if we are to face such a thoroughly organized league within Norvech, and almost every royal or organized resistance in the neighbouring kingdoms?"

"What is more," Grumbled the old King's grandson, Darin, no less disheartened by the revelation of how deep the conspiracy's ties ran within the north-lands, "Is that Fránir has evidently had years to prepare against us! It might well be that he has infiltrated our ranks, without us being the wiser!"

"I would not quite go so far as to assume that," Thorgils objected at once, his voice tinged with worry and caution. "Certainly, he is better prepared; however, we are now aware of his plans, are we not? Is that not enough to begin preparations to resist him and to turn the tide against him?"

"He is right," Aithlin agreed, the Elf sat up straighter as he spoke, "Just as the Ilians discovered millennia ago, and many of my own people long before they in their own wars against the Queen of Darkness; the first sign on the road to defeat is the belief that the enemy is more formidable than what they truly are. If you wish to surrender, you may yet do so; however, some of us would prefer to fight on, to our last breath, even if it is futile."

"Agreed!" Guðleifr shouted, smashing his fist onto the stone table, "Now what are we going to do to keep Fránir from the victory he craves so ardently?"

"It might not be so simple as all that, stepfather," Sigrún remarked coldly, never one to agree with him even as she fretted over the future that stretched out before them in a glum tone. "We do not fully know yet what it is that Fránir hopes to accomplish."

At those words, Thormundr looked at her, puzzled, "He hopes to revive the old Witch Guðrun that he might have a taste of the power she once wielded."

"It shan't be entirely so simple as all that," Sigrún disagreed, sincerely puzzled by his words, "Did you not once describe Fránir as brilliant? He is clever and gluttonous to be sure; however, I cannot imagine that he desires power and naught else. He must have some other desire that haunts him; he must have something he seeks to accomplish with all that power. Men who desire power always desire it for some other purpose, or so they tell themselves, especially one with as complex and devious a mind as Fránir."

Impressed by how she had described the once respected Archmage, Auðun studied her at some length before he delivered his own verdict. "Well put, Sigrún, though if I may," So quietly did he speak that few present heard him, with several speaking over. The youth attempted to speak over them, yet could not quite succeed in this venture, that is, until at last Völmung intervened on his behalf.

"Quiet all of you! Are you children? Let Auðun speak!" The prince barked to the surprise and embarrassment of all those around him, turning once more, once the large hall had quieted, to address his friend. "Speak, Auðun, and bless us with the wisdom I have found of so much use on the road and that has never failed to steer your friends away from bad roads and back onto good ones."

Flushing a little, feeling all the more overwhelmed when he saw how pleased Sigrún was at those words, and how they irritated his Master, the apprentice continued his speech after struggling to clear his throat, only to sip from his drinking-horn. Once he had swallowed and the wine had done its work by restoring a little more colour to his cheeks, with renewed courage, he spoke up. "It seems apparent, or so I think, that what Fránir seeks to do is unite the kingdoms together, in defiance of the Order's decrees regarding direct interference and kingship, and to arrange for himself to become Agmunðr's successor as High-King or Emperor."

"Is that not the same thing as wishing for power?" Thormundr demanded impatiently of his apprentice.

"I do not think it is, but do believe it is," Auðun explained at some length, wherefore when he saw the interest in Dagfinnr's eyes, he continued. "I must ask Densharr, Thormundr, about this conspiracy; did Fránir found this conspiracy, or did he inherit it?"

This question startled both men, so that they blinked their eyes uncertainly and exchanged a look. It was not to be either of them who answered the question, but Vegarðr who responded, "I do believe if I had to wager a guess, Master Auðun, Fránir likely inherited the conspiracy. We must recall the existence of the Collubar; they are as much his servants as they are his masters, I imagine. Thus far, everyone has assumed that he is the master of this conspiracy, when we do not know this for certain."

"What do you mean? How could he not be the master of the conspiracy?" Thorgils demanded, shocked by this suggestion, while Thormundr stared on intently at the dark-haired warrior.

"There is the possibility that he is, or that he thinks he is, but that others have their own intentions," Auðun stated, only to add, "I fear that he desires something such as order or that from his perspective sets things aright with the kingdoms, or some such nonsense."

"What would be the difference between these different motivations? Why should we take an interest in such semantics?" Thorgils asked discomfited, "I do not see why we should worry over such things."

"I think it might be important to bear in mind, as it may help us to defeat him and his co-conspirators, especially should we learn what it is that they desire also," Auðun replied sharply, looking from his friend as he spoke to others who sat before him at the table.

Some, such as Guðleifr, did not appear terribly convinced, while others, such as Aithlin and Dunneyrr, looked on him with newfound respect. Sigrún herself swiftly found herself chewing on this possibility alongside the hard bread that they had been served, and that she had dipped in her wine.

While she ate, she went over in her mind all that Thormundr had said of Fránir and of his peers, and found herself only able to discern that there was something missing. Certainly, it seemed as though they had all begun to consider his perspective just as she had.

It was to be Dagfinnr, though, who declared wearily, "I think that is enough for now, on the morrow we shall reconvene to discuss the matter of the enemy's various aims and what is to be done."

*****

"I do wish these proceedings could be hurried; I feel as though we have spent too much time tarrying here within the halls of Dagfinnr," Auðun complained when at last they found themselves once more within Sigrún's bedchambers.

The great doors were closed behind them so that the four of them might have some measure of privacy, with Sigrún going straight to the bed. Whereupon she was to take from it the great many tomes and scrolls and maps that they had lain over it hours prior, in an effort to reclaim it that she might rest herself at once.

Chortling at her efforts, Thorgils was to assist her even as Auðun complained that they were wrinkling this or that scroll or map, all while Wolffish slid to the ground by the doors. No less wearied than she, he was to offer a considerably greater number of complaints, though.

"I shan't believe how long the proceedings were, this day was the longest of the lot of them." He was to say, with a dog-like growl, before he ran his paws through his mane of dark tresses. "I cannot believe that Tigruns could say so much! He could have explained his story in half the time it took him to do so!"

"Now Wolffish, if any should sympathise with one who speaks his mind far too much for others' taste, it ought to be yourself," Thorgils remarked with a chortle that was soon carried up by Auðun.

Irritated the Wolffram snorted his nose at the two of them, "Really now, I do naught more than tell the truth." He might have complained at greater length were it not for someone having seized at that exact moment the door knocker to make their presence known to those within. "What in the name of the One-Eye?"

Throwing the doors open, before he could do much more than regain his aching feet, Skalmöld entered briskly with a cheery mien on her face, wherefore she chirped in a melodious voice. "Come along, the lot of you, there is still much to accomplish on so bright a day, my friends!"

"How so?" Thorgils asked, confused, "Milady, it is late and we are all tired."

"Then why stand about, in thy stepsister's bedchambers?" Skalmöld demanded in turn, with a snigger, "Never you mind answering, I am quite aware it is more out of habit. Now do cease tarrying, there is much to do and much more to say further down the halls, nearer to the entrance of this over-large city."

"Milady, I am quite honestly utterly wearied, and would prefer to rest now, and this also holds itself to be true for the rest of those here," Sigrún said sharply to those around her who shrugged in response to her harsh words.

"A shame, since I had thought you might wish to greet Helgi, who has come a long way and has only just arrived. He has also heard strange doings all about the land, and shall speak on the morrow just as the likes of the newly arrived Knights of Gallia and the lady Azalea of the Kalthéan Knights will also do so." Skalmöld remarked lightly, almost mockingly.

Leaping to her feet at the mention of Helgi's name, Sigrún was to leap to action with the eagerness of a child, which in turn surprised those around her. Thorgils and Auðun knew exactly of whom the flaxen-haired maiden spoke, where Wolffish remained steadfastly ignorant. Babbling about whom this Helgi was, and how he had thought that Helgi had passed months ago, it was soon clarified to him that this was Helgi's grandson.

Hardly listening to them and their efforts to clarify the matter for him, Sigrún dashed from her bedchambers, past the open doorway, and down the halls of Dagfinnr's palace. Passing her stepfather, who was in the midst of a discussion regarding the road that stretched ahead, with Aithlin the Iron-Elf, she hardly noticed them.

After this, she passed through the large feast hall, which Dagfinnr had set aside for speaking with them of all the dangers that menaced the six kingdoms of the north. By this time, having had something of a tour of the ancient palace, Sigrún made for one of the attendant hallways that ran from this feast hall to another hall used for a similar purpose, then from that one to a network of hallways that circled about the throne-room. She was to go around the throne room, for it was not her destination, and was to turn away to the left, then go down a flight of stairs, then down another series of hallways to at last reach the entrance to the palace.

Helgi was indeed present near the entrance to the city. The city itself was separated between the noble quarter and the main city, with the once dirty and ill-maintained lower city being the largest part of the city. It had, since the beginning of the reign of Dagfinnr, been revised, expanded, and cleaned, with the city now consisting of two primary parts, both of them well-maintained with large stone bridges, sewage, and wells. The wells themselves were fed via pipes a regular supply of clean mountain water, which the Dwarves took great pride in and care in the cleaning of. It was thus that their city, which had been carefully planned and organized along a grid shape many millennia ago, with the fountains and merchant square at the centre. Then there was the guild-centre as all the Dwarves called it, which lay to the west and was also two hundred and fifty meters long and wide, further away from that was where the residences of the miners' were to be found. It was there that they often descended down into the bottomless pits where they mined for unimaginable wealth. The blacksmiths lived between their residence square and the central square of the city. The merchants-residences were directly east of the miners and blacksmiths and to the north of the central square of the city. And to the south-east of their own residences was where the grand cathedrals and temples were to be found.

The most noteworthy was that of Oðin, which loomed higher and larger than even the enormous palace of Dagfinnr, which was south-east of it, and directly east of the central city square. The nobility's many estates and homes were to be found all around that of their King, with each of them considerably smaller than his.

The entrance itself was a grand hall, a quarter of the size of the city itself, with enormous statues that decorated the walls, standing to either side so that there was the impression that they were ominous watchmen. The rest of the hall was barren, save for the gemstones embedded into the ceiling in imitation of the stars (which was no different from the rest of the cavernous halls of the Dwarves).

Thick were the stone doors, and it was with a panting urgency that Helgi, along with a small escort, bustled their way into the keep.

Helgi, some noticed, had been escorted by not only Nordic guards, but also by two men who did not appear as though they belonged, one being an Ogre with him and one of the men dressed in armour that some, such as the heir of Sigurðr, at once knew to belong to Gallia. There was even one of the guards, a woman dressed in foreign-looking blue armour, who was in the midst of pulling her steed inwards, in an act of desperation with the aid of three other men. Her mount, though, resisted as best it could until at last it was inside, with some shrieking at the guards.

"Hurry! Hurry! Close the gates! Close them!"

Hardly any of this was noticed by Sigrún, who saw only the wound Helgi bore to his shoulder, and the blood that flowed from it, as he slumped to the ground.