king’s jaw and unmoored his throat from his spine. The gush of blood showered the elf in gore, but he turned to mist again and the blood fell like rain as the king’s corpse tumbled down the stairs to meet his bodyguards, a silent testimonial to their utter failure. This, then, was Sigr af Reykr , Victory from Smoke.
The stunned court of the Álfar noticed two things as the Svartálfar retreated: One, the dark elves never kept their incorporeal form for more than five seconds—they always solidified for at least a full second before dissolving again to mist—and, two, they could be killed. The latter was discovered just before the Svartálfar exited the audience chamber. An archer, high on the balcony surrounding the court, had been closely observing the changes and movements of the dark elves. It was he who realized their smoke form could last no longer than five seconds. He nocked an arrow and carefully followed the movements of a single dark elf. Once the villain turned to smoke, the archer counted to five and released his arrow at the center of the mist when it was but ten paces from the door. The dark elf became flesh a split second before the arrow lanced into the space between his shoulder and neck, spearing his vitals and ending his life.
He collapsed before the door and the champions bore down on him, stabbing him again and again for surety, but in all likelihood he was already dead. Within seconds the body began to crumble in on itself, smoke rose from the corpse, and inside of a minute all that was left was carbon mixed with fluid, a wet puddle of tar with the archer’s arrow in the middle of it. The blade, too, dissolved into the mess.
From that day to this, the Svartálfar and Ljósálfar have hated each other. The dark elves have held peaceful if rather tense talks with the Æsir and Vanir, and they have traded well with the dwarfs of Nidavellir and with the denizens of Jötunheim. On Midgard, as you might imagine, they have found employment as assassins. But in Álfheim they are forever attacked on sight for their unforgivable treason and regicide.
When Manannan fell silent, I prompted him to continue. » Go on, « I said.
» That’s it. «
» What? That can’t be it! «
» That’s all I was told. I can tell ye it’s more than most people know about them. «
» There has to be more though. Centuries of war and rivers of elfin blood, battles that lasted for three months—come on! «
The sea god shook his head. » No. The Álfar despise the Svartálfar as traitors but refuse to go to war on their own kind. Between you and me, I think they fear entering Svartálfheim and being corrupted in the same way. The turning-to-mist trick seems like a fabulous plus, but they make awfully messy corpses. The Álfar think it unwholesome somehow and a high price to pay to exterminate traitors who are otherwise doin’ no harm to the realm. «
» Which realm? «
» I misspoke. No harm to Álfheim. «
» Yeah. Tell me more about that trick of theirs. What is the ‘Gift of Smoke,’ precisely? «
Manannan shrugged. » Some kind of mutagen. «
» Hey, look at you busting out the modern words! «
He scowled at me. » Not all o’ the Tuatha Dé Danann believe the mortals have nothin’ to offer us. «
» I’m of your mind, Manannan, and have been for a long time. I approve. No one knows what this mutagen might be? «
» Theories abound, but the Svartálfar refuse to discuss it and no one has delved deep enough into their realm to see it. They meet envoys and conduct trade in a couple o’ large chambers not far down from that dark stair they built. What’s going on deeper inside, no one knows. «
» Sounds like North Korea. Can’t believe one of the Álfar told you this though. It wasn’t exactly flattering to their king. «
Manannan nodded. » They are nothing if not an honest people. «
» So if this story is true, it means the dark elves aren’t inherently evil. «
» No. They are a proud
The stunned court of the Álfar noticed two things as the Svartálfar retreated: One, the dark elves never kept their incorporeal form for more than five seconds—they always solidified for at least a full second before dissolving again to mist—and, two, they could be killed. The latter was discovered just before the Svartálfar exited the audience chamber. An archer, high on the balcony surrounding the court, had been closely observing the changes and movements of the dark elves. It was he who realized their smoke form could last no longer than five seconds. He nocked an arrow and carefully followed the movements of a single dark elf. Once the villain turned to smoke, the archer counted to five and released his arrow at the center of the mist when it was but ten paces from the door. The dark elf became flesh a split second before the arrow lanced into the space between his shoulder and neck, spearing his vitals and ending his life.
He collapsed before the door and the champions bore down on him, stabbing him again and again for surety, but in all likelihood he was already dead. Within seconds the body began to crumble in on itself, smoke rose from the corpse, and inside of a minute all that was left was carbon mixed with fluid, a wet puddle of tar with the archer’s arrow in the middle of it. The blade, too, dissolved into the mess.
From that day to this, the Svartálfar and Ljósálfar have hated each other. The dark elves have held peaceful if rather tense talks with the Æsir and Vanir, and they have traded well with the dwarfs of Nidavellir and with the denizens of Jötunheim. On Midgard, as you might imagine, they have found employment as assassins. But in Álfheim they are forever attacked on sight for their unforgivable treason and regicide.
When Manannan fell silent, I prompted him to continue. » Go on, « I said.
» That’s it. «
» What? That can’t be it! «
» That’s all I was told. I can tell ye it’s more than most people know about them. «
» There has to be more though. Centuries of war and rivers of elfin blood, battles that lasted for three months—come on! «
The sea god shook his head. » No. The Álfar despise the Svartálfar as traitors but refuse to go to war on their own kind. Between you and me, I think they fear entering Svartálfheim and being corrupted in the same way. The turning-to-mist trick seems like a fabulous plus, but they make awfully messy corpses. The Álfar think it unwholesome somehow and a high price to pay to exterminate traitors who are otherwise doin’ no harm to the realm. «
» Which realm? «
» I misspoke. No harm to Álfheim. «
» Yeah. Tell me more about that trick of theirs. What is the ‘Gift of Smoke,’ precisely? «
Manannan shrugged. » Some kind of mutagen. «
» Hey, look at you busting out the modern words! «
He scowled at me. » Not all o’ the Tuatha Dé Danann believe the mortals have nothin’ to offer us. «
» I’m of your mind, Manannan, and have been for a long time. I approve. No one knows what this mutagen might be? «
» Theories abound, but the Svartálfar refuse to discuss it and no one has delved deep enough into their realm to see it. They meet envoys and conduct trade in a couple o’ large chambers not far down from that dark stair they built. What’s going on deeper inside, no one knows. «
» Sounds like North Korea. Can’t believe one of the Álfar told you this though. It wasn’t exactly flattering to their king. «
Manannan nodded. » They are nothing if not an honest people. «
» So if this story is true, it means the dark elves aren’t inherently evil. «
» No. They are a proud
Similar Books
