Undaunted, Fjalar dropped his first axe and drew another one. While he reached back, the point man solidified, nude, and stabbed at him with the black knife that all Svartálfar carried. This weapon rebounded as well. And when Fjalar hacked at him with his new axe, the villain evaded it again by turning incorporeal.
Some of the dark elves moved beyond Fjalar, reformed a smaller wedge, and charged up the slope at me, their true target. They all still had gleaming steel in their hands. Seeing this, one of the Ljósálfar barked a command in Old Norse and the elves raised their weapons, but no one ordered me to get down. I readied Fragarach and cast a final worried glance at Fjalar. He was drawing his third axe, bellowing his skald and snarling at his opponents, who continued to rain down blows as useless as his own—until he swung at them with the third axe.
As before, the dark elves dissolved to coal-black smoke in advance of his blow, but this time, when the axe passed through, it seemed to pull and rip them into solid form as it moved through the air, the way a zipper will part and reveal something hidden in its journey downward. And the dark elves who had been so torn back into the world were split by the axe, and inky innards slithered out of their torsos onto the earth.
“Victory!” Fjalar shouted, and the Ljósálfar leader behind me commanded that I get down. The dark elves in front of me were awfully close, but I dropped to the earth in curiosity—and so did Fjalar.
The elves began to shoot their flechettes in a prescribed pattern at the dark elves, in set intervals—once every half second, though it took me a couple of seconds to realize it and understand the strategy. The first volley caught some of the dark elves unawares, but most saw it coming and dissolved, dropping their steel in the process. The subsequent shots passed above my head and through them without harm—but that wouldn’t continue. The dark elves could maintain their incorporeal forms for only five seconds, so the Ljósálfar just needed to spray the field with flechettes for six, and they would catch all of them solid at some point.
Four seconds in, one of the Svartálfar materialized at my side with his black knife held high. He was blown away before he could bring it down. Others saw that the Ljósálfar were a threat and took shape behind them, but when the dark elves lunged in for the kill, the runes on the glass armor activated and repulsed them with a blue shock wave that sent them staggering backward. And then, in the fifth second, the ones below in the field all had to beef up, and they were hit by a double volley of flechettes: The first rocked them and anchored them to flesh, and the second mowed them down.
The stragglers behind the line of Glass Knights—only three—melted away and fled.
<I want to see that again in slow motion!>
Fjalar and I rose from the ground and stepped away from the mess of dark-elf corpses, before their inherent instability caused them to melt and turn to an oily goo.
“Did you see that, Druid?” the Runeskald crowed. “The order of runes triumphs over evil!”
“Well, yeah, I guess. What happened there?”
“The third axe worked! Now that I know the proper runes and skald to use, I can create more such weapons and arm the Glass Knights for their mission, honor-bathed and glory-steeped.”
“I’m sorry? What mission?”
“Our kings, Aurvang and Gedelglinn, have decreed it should be so. Deep into Svartálfheim the Glass Knights shall delve, wreaking ruin and smiting those who would oppose us during Ragnarok.”
Something didn’t compute. “Hold on. How do you know who will oppose you during Ragnarok? Have the Svartálfar said they would fight with Hel?”
“Is this not proof enough, Druid?” Fjalar said, gesturing at the field where the dark elves were dissolving into tar.
“No, it’s not. These are clearly assassins or mercenaries in someone’s employ, but they do not represent the hearts of all the Svartálfar. There may be some who would oppose Hel, and, if so, they would be valuable allies.”
Fjalar growled and yanked off his helmet with his left hand. His chin was still bald and his hair in braids, in accordance with his culture’s mourning practices. He stepped up to me. “Are you such a good judge of character now? You who sent Loki Fire Hands to Nidavellir to kill thousands of my Shield Brothers?”
“I didn’t send him there to kill anyone. He did that without my urging and you know it. But what does Odin say about this plan to invade Svartálfheim?”
“Did he not tell you to wait for our arrival? Did he not send us here on the Bifrost Bridge? Is that not Bifrost, even now, waiting to take us back to Asgard?” he said, pointing behind me. The rainbow bridge shimmered in the late-afternoon sun. “What am I doing, arguing with a nude man?” he groused, stalking past me and attempting to stalk on the rainbow too, except that it wasn’t the sort of surface that allowed stalking. The Glass Knights turned and followed, denying me any more time to discuss the matter. I frowned after them, because it was a disturbing development. I wasn’t a particular fan of dark elves, but that was only because I hadn’t met any nice ones yet. From what Manannan Mac Lir had told me, some of the Svartálfar had nobility in their nature. They tended to be the ones who didn’t take mercenary contracts.
“Odin, are you on board with this?” I shouted. The bridge retracted without an answer, though I hardly expected one.
<Atticus, those last three dark elves didn’t really go away for good.>
Interesting. Where are they?
<Behind you, picking up steel swords from the ground.>
Thanks. Tell Granuaile she can fire at will.
I turned around and raised Fragarach in time to see three dark elves with scimitars loping my way, wearing grim expressions and nothing else. I winced when one of Granuaile’s knives sank into the groin of the leader and he went down screaming and clutching the ruins of his junk.
I’m going to have nightmares.
<Word.>
The remaining two Svartálfar whiffed into the air, anticipating more knives from an invisible assailant, but Granuaile stayed her hand. Their steel dropped to the ground and I pursued one of the clouds, swishing Fragarach through it, thinking I would catch him as he turned solid. I missed high. Sensing what I was up to, his substance dropped to the ground and he solidified, where he promptly swept my legs and blocked the wild swing I made, with his forearm staying my wrist. His right hand poked me in quick sequence along pressure points across my chest and froze up my muscles—where the hell had he learned that? But then it was easy for him to pin my sword arm and wrap his other hand around my throat. His buddy came back, retrieved a scimitar, and took two steps with a mind to finish me, before a throwing knife abruptly sprouted from his chest. It didn’t kill him, but its appearance caused him to focus on prolonging his own life rather than ending mine. Oberon jumped on him and ended it—at least, that’s what I think happened, judging by the growl and the takedown. Granuaile wouldn’t have growled; she would have clocked him upside the head with her staff, which is what she did to the fellow choking me. She put a whole lot of energy behind that swing, because his head exploded like a melon and he slumped on me, leaking black blood.