Trapped

resident of our realm, and announced he brought a message from Hel, she having no other way to speak to us in safety.
    » Speak, « King Aurvang said, his fury palpable, » and then begone from my realm! We will have no traffic with Svartálfheim henceforth for this betryal! «
    » My people should not be punished for bearing you a message, « the ambassador said, » especially since it may save the lives of many dwarfs. Will you hear me in patience, rashness reined, ire checked with prudence? «
    Our king made no promises. » Speak your part, Svartálf, « he said.
    The dark elf simpered and bowed again. » Hel wishes me to say she has no designs on your realm and wishes no more harm to the noble dwarfs of Nidavellir. She simply searches for her father, Loki, whom she has heard is currently visiting. Her army will not attack dwarfs except in self-defense or if their progress is impeded. «
    » And when she finds her father, what then? « King Aurvang roared, wrath awakened, patience fled. » Will she reduce my tunnels to rubble, set my caverns aflame, slaughter my people? «
    » Nay, noble king, « the Svartálf replied. » She will leave with him if she can, containing his madness so far as she is able. Her quarrel is with Asgard and Vanaheim, not the honorable people of Nidavellir. «
    » Have you aught else to say? « the king asked.
    » My message is complete, sire. «
    » Then remove yourself from my presence and my realm! I never wish to see you more! «
    When the Svartálf had gone, chastised yet unrepentant, the king sent for me. I rushed to answer his summons on bended knee.
    » Runeskald Fjalar, « he said, » long have you labored for our greater good as a poet and enchanter of armor. Now I must ask of you a service befitting a hero. Retrieve the Deadman’s Shroud and wear it yourself. Follow Hel’s hordes and discover what they intend, then report back to me. Slay none except in the utmost extremity. You must live to return the shroud and speak of her plans. «
    » It shall be done, sire, « I said, and wept as I bowed deeply to him. Never had I been asked for so weighty a service.
    The Deadman’s Shroud was crafted centuries before my time by the greatest of all Runeskalds, Mjotvangir son of Rathsvith, nimble-fingered, honey-throated, unmatched scion of clever craft. The shroud may be worn only by Runeskalds, but, once worn, it convinces the dead that the wearer is also dead. There is no copy, for none have ever duplicated the skald of Mjotvangir; his runes exist for all to see, but the dread words he sang while crafting the shroud are forever lost.
    Orders given, I was led to the king’s treasury and presented the Deadman’s Shroud, sacred relic of my forebear’s skill. I collected my skaldic shield, fire-tested, then was ushered to the front lines of the Shield Brothers, where battle still raged. Rather than try to break through the wall, where I would be exposed to gunfire, I was vaulted bodily over it on the premise that I would draw no fire once I landed, shroud-wrapped, disguised from dead eyes.
    I landed heavily but intact, drew stares but no fire. Identity concealed, purpose hidden, I joined the stream of dead forward through my own realm, an invader of my own home.
    What a wonder Runeskald Mjotvangir had made! I marched unremarked in the midst of putrefaction, cold malice, and unknown intention. Past warrens and neighborhoods and then past mines and pockets of wealth, I followed the stream of dead ever downward. And then, after seemingly interminable hours of this journey, so far down I knew not where I was, the draugar before and behind me stopped and pressed themselves against the wall of the tunnel we traversed. I did likewise, waiting, breath heaving in a passage where no other breath heaved, until a giant of a dog rushed past: Hel’s own hound, named Garm, of yellow eyes and unmatched determination, nose following a trail I could not smell, doubtless made of malignance and the acrid trace of sulfur.
    The dead, and I as well, continued after him, always coursing down, into the unlit depths where no dwarf had roamed for years. When the darkness became too much for my eyes to pierce, the shroud did me a service and lit my way, alarming none in the process.
    After another hour of peregrination, I entered a vast chamber already full of draugar . There, high up on a ledge, glowed the resting form of Loki Firebreath, supine on the rocks, slumbering in peace, only his bare skin revealing a