Gateway to Nifleheim by Unknown Page A

fixed you up with my cousin Bork—best smith this side of Heimdall. So who made these?”
    “McDuff forged the steel,” said Gabriel, “and a tower wizard ensorcelled them.”
    “Good ole McDuff,” said Ob. “Wears a lot of hats, he does. That old dwarf has some skills, there is no doubt, but genuine gnomish blades are better than anything dwarvish by a good stretch. It’s all in the heat, you know. You’ve got to get the blade hot enough, but not too hot, and then fold the metal enough—a hundred times or more for a blade of quality. Dwarves don't understand that—they’re all about sticking jewels in the pommel, getting some wizard to magic them up so that they glow in the dark, and smearing silver pigment on them so they can tell folks they’re made of mithril or some other mythical gunk. No real talent in that, if you ask me. Bunch of frauds and cheats, they are. Stinking dwarves.” Ob looked down at the blades and shook his head. “Well, I suppose, these will have to suffice.”
    “I look forward to hearing the tale of how you acquired the Asgardian blades,” said Claradon.
    “And I will gladly tell it to you and Aradon both, on our return,” said Gabriel.
    “I'll be hearing that tale too,” said Ob, “as long as it comes with mead or good gnomish ale—the best that Portland Vale has to offer.”
    “I will need an entire keg, no doubt,” said Gabriel.
    “Only one, assuming it will be just us four,” said Ob. “Any more than that, and you had best get two.”
     
     

VIII
    SHADES
     
    To be ready to leave for the Vermion at dawn, Claradon needed to retrieve armor and gear from his chambers before retiring for the night to the makeshift accommodations that the servants prepared in the citadel's lower levels. He could have sent his manservant, Humphrey. Humph always knew what to pack, and with the help of another servant or two, he could have hauled down everything Claradon needed. But Claradon wanted to go himself. There were one or two things he wouldn't trust to anyone else, not even Humph. Besides, he was too worked up to sleep just yet. Perhaps the long walk up the stair would tire him enough to get a couple of hours sleep before dawn. At least he hoped it would.
    Humphrey and a House guard called Gorned silently shadowed Claradon as he trudged up the stairs, lanterns in hand. Normally, he wouldn’t task a House guard with porter duties, but Ob insisted that Claradon take a guardsman with him, “just in case”. Ob feared that the Dor might come under attack at any moment, and he wasn’t taking any chances, even within the citadel.
    Rare it was that Claradon walked through the Dor's halls and found them empty and silent. There was always some family member or retainer going about their business, and servants cleaning, scrubbing, and polishing everything in sight, and guards guarding whatever Ob or his father thought needed guarding. But not that night. That night the halls of Dor Eotrus were deserted, everyone having fled to the lower levels to escape the bizarre wailing sounds that demanded entry through every window, crack, crevice, and door, and even through the stout walls themselves. The emptiness and noise made the place feel odd in a way that Claradon couldn't explain, except to say that it just didn't feel like home. Not any longer. Not until he found his father and things returned to normal.
    He walked slowly up the long flights of stairs, much more slowly than was his custom. Tapestries lined the walls and regal carpet runners woven in far-off places called Ferd, Bourntown, Dyvers, and Lent were perfectly aligned down the center of the stairs and the connecting halls; they minimized the hollow echoing sounds that plagued most keeps.
    For 1200 years, the Eotrus called the Dor home, but over the centuries, the core bloodline dwindled. The last three generations saw no more than one son born to the lord of the House, despite some reportedly vigorous efforts by Claradon’s