Deep underground lay the kingdom of Svartalfheim, where the dark elves, also known as the dwarves, had their abode. There, summer and winter, the air held the same unchanging chill, save in the stifling forges and workshops where the great fires blazed and sweat dripped in streams from the smiths. Svartalfheim stretched for leagues beneath the surface of Midgard, a maze of tunnels, galleries, caverns, halls and chambers hewn from rock, filled with shadows and the glare of torches and the ceaseless ringing of hammers. The dark elves thronged the halls and caverns, busy with their work of mining, refining and working precious metals and stones. They were a squinting, misshapen, gnarled race, tough and twisted as the old roots of trees, hating the light of the sun that was poisonously bright to them; but their skill in metalwork was unsurpassed. Not even the Aesir with their enchanted powers could create such treasures as the dark elves.

  On a day like every other day, Albric the dwarf stood swinging his mattock moodily, biting into the crust of rock and tearing out chunks. His mind was not on his work, for his heart burned with discontent. He was an irascible, fanciful, sneaking creature, despised and sneered at by his fellows. His brother Mimir, the noted smith, was a different story; he was the most famous artisan the dark elves had yet produced. It was he who long ago had built the magical ship Skidbladnir for the Aesir, and Mjollnir, the hammer of Thor. But his brother Albric was a nobody, a grumbler, and none but he knew what fantastic airy dreams floated in his brain.

  Once he had delighted in the rhythmic effort of swinging his mattock and the chance that he might strike some rich vein of ore. But Svartalfheim had long grown too narrow and stifling for Albric. He was tormented by desires greater than he could contain, greater than all the narrow twisting tunnels of his ancestral home could contain.

  His world was dark, steeped in subterranean gloom. His heart was as dark and narrow as his world, but in his brain glowed one bright bubble. It was his dream: day by day, as he swung the mattock into rock, or hammered white-hot metal at the forge, or worked the bellows amid a cloud of smoke, he dreamed of a kingdom of his own. There he would not work; every creature would cringe in fear of him, and he would own caverns heaped with wealth. Slim white-armed maidens would caress and praise him. The more he brooded on it, the more certain he became that such a time would come. He had the temper to rule, and the luck to seize the chance when it came.

  He had often ruminated on the kingdom of death, Hela’s realm, where the harsh queen held bitter sway. He thought of burrowing down to that realm, deeper even than Svartalfheim, far from the painful light of the sun, and seizing power there.

  But more often his thoughts turned to Midgard, the home of mortal men. No one ruled Midgard. It was a hodgepodge of petty princedoms, where little kings struggled with one another for power like ants crawling over a lump of sugar; winning their little kingdoms, an acre here, a fiefdom there, a field in another place. They fought and plotted and quarreled among themselves, and seemed to Albric easy prey for one of his cunning. And it was said that their women were lovely, tall and slim, with hair that gleamed like ruddy gold poured from the furnace. They were not like the bearded, lumpish dwarf women in their shapeless sacks, scarcely distinguishable from the men; nor like the women of Hela’s realm, pale aloof princesses whom none in all the shadowy throng embraced. The women of Midgard were graceful, passionate creatures, clever enough to value power and worship the man who could wield it. So at least rumor had it in Svartalfheim.

  Albric loaded the last heavy bag onto his handcart, seized the handles and trundled it to the mouth of the tunnel, where he heaved it onto a pile of other bags. Wiping the sweat from his brow he trudged off to the forges, where his brother Mimir was at work.

  Flames cast vast leaping shadows on the walls, and the air in the smithy was breathlessly hot. Mimir was pulling a chunk of gold from the furnace with the tongs; at sight of Albric he grunted, “Come here and hold this.”

  Albric took the tongs from him and held the swiftly hardening chunk while his brother swung the hammer. His blows seemed careless, but beneath them the gold took rapid shape. It grew longer and thinner, was bent and shaped into a circlet dainty enough for one of the white-armed queens that haunted Albric’s dreams. Albric’s thoughts wandered. His attention drifted with them, and his hand loosened on the tongs; Mimir’s next blow jerked it from his grasp to fly ringing against the wall. Mimir flung down the hammer in disgust.

  “You worthless sot! Can’t you keep your mind on the job for one minute?”

  Albric gave him a venomous glance, but said nothing. No one would dare speak to him like that in his kingdom. One day Mimir would regret it.

  Mimir glared at him, his brows furrowed. Albric had never been winsome to look at: his nose was long and bulbous at the tip, his thin iron-gray hair straggled over his ears, his teeth were black and crooked, and his long sinewy arms hung down to his knees. But Mimir had noticed in these last weeks a change for the worse, a pale unnatural light in his brother’s eyes. He gnawed continually on his nether lip, and his features were pinched with unsatisfied cravings.

  “You never were much good in the forge,” grumbled Mimir, stooping to pick up his fallen circlet. “But lately you can’t even pick up a hammer without breaking something. What is bothering you?”

  “Nothing,” said Albric. He clenched his teeth in sudden bitterness. “Nothing that escaping from this rathole wouldn’t change.”

  “Oho!” Mimir paused to look at him. “Getting restless, are you? Svartalfheim’s not big enough for you? What you need, brother, is to settle down and take a wife. Like Skafith over there. Give you something to think about besides your sour stomach.” He nodded to a corner of the cavern, where a dwarf-woman was outlined in flaring light from the fires. Her sleeves were rolled up to her armpits, leaving bare her tough stringy arms. At the sound of her name she glanced up and smirked at Albric, showing yellow stumps of teeth.

  Albric turned his back with a hiss of disgust. “I can do better than that.”

  Mimir shrugged as he turned the circlet in the fire. “What about Vigg, then? She’s a fine strong figure of a woman. Or Fraega; though she does have an edge to her tongue, they say.”

  “Gah!” muttered Albric. “Lumps of dough, all of them! When I take a woman, it will be a real one, tall and slender, pale-skinned; none of these blear-eyed, scraggle-toothed hags for me.”

  Mimir gave a bark of laughter. “Look who’s talking! You were not forged in any hero’s mold yourself, brother. And where are you going to find this pale-skinned wench?” He gave Albric a speculative look. “You are not thinking of a mortal woman!”

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  “What if I am?” Albric stuck his thumbs in his belt. “Do you think they would be too good for me? Why should I wear out my days in Svartalfheim, digging out more ratholes and forging gifts for the Aesir? There are wider realms for my conquering.”

  “You!” Mimir almost choked. “Going to conquer Midgard, are you? That’s the funniest thing I’ve heard all year. Albric the Mighty, Lord of the Western Realm, King of the Nibelungs and the Volsungs . . .” He bent double with mirth.

  With a furious cry Albric sprang at him. The diadem fell from the tongs to the glowing coals and lay unnoticed, melting in the fire. Albric wound his sinewy fingers around Mimir’s neck; Mimir bellowed with rage and lifted knotted arms to tear the grip loose. They were both tough and hard-muscled, but Mimir was younger and bigger, full half a head taller than Albric. They crashed to the floor, rolling into stacked piles of treasure until Albric yelled with pain as prongs pierced his back. He kicked and gouged and bit, but Mimir rose, shaking his shaggy head like an enraged bear, and with a last solid blow sent Albric spinning into a corner.

  Albric crouched in the shadows, hugging his bruised elbows, while Mimir bent over with hands on knees to catch his breath. The glint of anger was in his eyes, but he wore a savage grin. “You pipsqueak!” he said with contempt. “How are you going to conquer Midgard if you cannot even hold your own against me? Get off with you! You puny excuse for a dwarf. You will be lucky if you can find a troll woman who will have you, much less a fine woman like Skafith.”

  The dwarves, huddled in the corner, buzzed among themselves. Skafith giggled with excitement. Albric threw them a venomous glance as he climbed to his feet and limped from the cavern. Their raucous jeers followed him.

  “Make way for the mighty lord of Midgard! Beware, you miners down there, Albric the Terrible is on his way!”

  He paid no heed to where he was going. He stumped along angrily, rubbing his jaw, still sore where Mimir’s blow had fallen, while bitter thoughts raced through his mind. He brushed past other dwarves, ignoring their grunts of annoyance, and did not look up until he found himself in a distant, uninhabited tunnel. Here the ring of hammers from the forge was muted to a distant musical tapping, and the endless rumble of voices was stilled.

  He paused, then moved by a sudden impulse turned down a corridor to the right, coming after a few paces to a steep narrow stairway. He started up, and now his steps grew slow and heavy, as if he drove himself against his own reluctance. At the top he reached a small landing, pitch dark; groping before him, his hands fell on an iron ring set into the rock. This was the door to the upper world, to Midgard where mortal men ruled.

  He drew a deep breath, standing in the dark with his fist on the cold iron, trying to think clearly; but his thoughts were in such an embittered tangle that he could think of nothing but escape. With a sudden reckless shrug, he jerked on the ring.

  The stone door opened. He emerged and found himself at the edge of a wood, under the shelter of pine trees, looking out across a steep rocky meadow that sloped down to the cliffs of a fjord. As he ventured out, brushing aside the stiff branches of a tree, his fury began to drain away, to be replaced by caution and a strange excitement. For the first time that he could remember he stood under the wide expanse of sky that his people called Fair Roof, and the Dripping Hall. He stood close under the boughs of a black fire and gazed around.

  Far beyond the water to the west the sun was setting, veiled with lowering gray clouds. Despite the clouds the light dazzled his eyes, accustomed only to darkness and the torchlight of the mines, so that he shrank from it, shielding his eyes with a hand. The wind tugged at his lank hair, drying the sweat on his brow. The scents that came to him on the wind were pungent and overpowering, the scent of decaying leaves, of pine resin, and the salty smell of the sea breeze. He sneezed, and raised his head to sniff with suspicion, for the odors seemed strange after the musty, dead smell of the underworld.

  After the clangor of the forge, the upper world seemed very quiet. His heart, which had been beating in time to his thunderous fury, slowed and quieted under the calming influence of the silence. Behind him a bird called. From somewhere, not far distant, he heard a musical ripple of water, a stream running down to the fjord.

  The sun sank below the horizon, leaving the blue air charged with the reflection of its glow. This dim light was better suited to his eyes. Leaving the security of the trees he ventured across the meadow to the cliff, where a moss-grown crevice seemed to invite him into deeper shadow. He scurried into it.

  He made his way down to the edge of the fjord and crouched there to stare into the blue depths. The water mesmerized him; it was so unlike the element he made his home in, fluid and ethereal compared to the solid rock of the caverns, yet with a solidity of its own. He could not see far into its depths, and he knew it had carved its way between these arms of rock to form the inlet. It moved with a gentle rippling motion under his gaze, filled with mysterious gleams, unaccountable lights and shadows. He peered into its depths and thought he saw a gliding form there, what he took to be a shoal of fish or a drifting log, yet fascinating by its resemblance to a human figure.

  He saw his mistake a moment later. Not far from where he crouched, a group of black rocks lifted their sleek sides from the water. As he watched a white arm twined around one, and with a lithe twist the whole creature emerged to sit on the narrow ridge. It was human in shape, its skin pale and glistening in the fading light of sunset, its long gold-green hair falling to its waist, clothed in scant stuff that flowed like waterweed.

  A woman! he thought, a mortal woman; and his heart beat faster. But it was not long before he realized he must be wrong. The creature was too much a part of the water; her gestures, as she lifted an arm and leaned back with a sigh of pleasure, too languid and graceful for any woman of mere earth. She was a sea nymph, some daughter of Aegir who had swum into the shelter of the bay to enjoy the fading of the evening light behind the mountains. It made no difference to him; he had never seen a being so unlike the coarse stumpy women of his race. His pulses thrilled as she raised her arm again to throw back the clinging strands of her hair. He crouched lower, struggling with himself. He had half a mind to venture out of hiding and speak to her, but he was terrified that she would take one look at him and flee. Before he could reach a decision, he saw a flash in the water, and another nymph climbed onto the rock beside the first. From the rippling water emerged the head and shoulders of a third.

  The first one rose in a sudden swift motion and stood a moment, her slim body limned against the dark cliffs, before she dove into the water. Her sisters scattered with stifled shrieks of laughter. Then began a game of hide and seek among the rocks, pale limbs appearing and vanishing in showers of spray, sudden silent dives, outbursts of laughter, while Albric watched clutching the rock, his wide eyes following them with desperate hunger, trembling in his agony. Never even in his dreams had he imagined such loveliness as those fleeting glimpses gave him, tantalizing in their swiftness and the uncertain light. Transfixed between hope and fear, terror and longing, he crouched hugging the rock until deep night fell.

  At length moonless night covered the land, steeping the fjord in shadow. He heard their last gay cries, then soft splashes as they dove and swam away, deep beyond the reach of eye or mind. Still he crouched beside his rock in the chill searching wind, shivering through long hours until the white moon rose over the steep hills to the east. Her luminous face reminded him of the nymphs’ pale beauty, though he could not gaze at the moon without blinking. By her light he gazed out wistfully over the fjord, dwelling with faint hope on every upthrust rock and tree branch. No living creature appeared; only the water lapped softly at the shore. Then at last he climbed to his doorway and crept back down to the tunnels of Svartalfheim. But the memory of beauty burned in his mind like a torch; he knew he would return.