o the story goes:      Glámis, the bride
	of Olaf Great Blade,
had a daughter      called Nadlan The Rus’
	who sailed east to Byzantion.

Nadlan journeyed      and travelled some more.
	And, because she craved adventure,
went as far as      The Land of Seljuks
	to trade in silk and silver.

Because she was brave,      bold and the tallest
	of any Viking maid —
with jet black hair      and silver lashes —
	she was welcomed wherever she went.  

Or this was so       till roving Hús-bands,
	saw her south of Fatimid.
There she was taken      to Togrul’s men,
	but bought her freedom with gems.

It was fleeing the Ghuzz      that she found Gladsheimr —
	for it seemed to her Óðinn’s plains.
The sun glided      off dew-jewelled trees
	and people there wore little clothes.

Being fond of jewels      Nadlan would join them
	in this place of pleasures waiting.
She had gone in fact      to Ginnungagap
	and could lie around as long as she liked.

On the outer shores      of Ymir’s Pool,
	shining with singing stones,
she lay for weeks —       wounds from Hús-barbs
	bristling beneath her ringshirt.

She was found by chance      by strange dwarfs,
	subjects of a powerful queen.
The Whizzer-stormer      welcomed their faces
	the shade of night itself.

Their leader, Alf Queen —      let us call her that —
	ordered Gardril, her medicine woman,
to tend the wounds      of Silver Brows
	(the name they gave to Nadlan.)

The Black Queen had seen      such ravaged women
	on her northern shores.
Lately they surfaced      in great numbers,
	but none like Nadlan.

She ordered the Archer      robed in bright red,
	 in the finest beaten and woven reeds
boiled in richest dyes      from red-parched earth
	and from crimson berries.

Nadlan’s Rus’-black locks      and fine white-haired face
	glowed under Gardril’s touch.
When the Alf Queen      looked at Nadlan now
	she saw the sea as she did in her dreams.

To the Alfar Dís      Silver Brows made deserts
	into cool oceans of green
as she told stories,      strange and sonorous,
	of Arran and Atli’s desolate cities.

Alf Queen ate and drank      to tales of the Hús.
	‘They are poor bowmen.
‘They make good targets,’      smiled the Turkoman-feller
	‘and their shields love the torch.’

She taught Silver Brows      the secret ways
	of desert hunting, well- fishing
and of signs to mark      the highland rocks.
	No bond could break the two.

The Gusir’s Terror      taught the Queen
	star-maps and iron smelting.
They charted caves      and hidden islands
	where fruit and minerals flourished.

While hunting for gems      in the Radak Dunes,
	leagues from the Queendom,
a Hús-band trader      crossed their journey
	with a wicked scheme.

He was a midget      with hands to his knees,
	of a foul and fiendish manner,
with rapier toes      and amulet eyes —
	one who gained ore for service.

‘Water for ware,’      he called to them.
	‘These dunes are known
for their precious stones.      I starve without them
	and you are a long way from home.

‘Give me your takings      and I will give you
	water of the mineral springs
from Gardabon Lakes.      You are too far south
	to make the trip in one day.

‘You would not wish      to travel wearied,
	burdened by dust and thirst,
when you could give me      your rubies and gold
	for this crystal spring.’

‘We do not trade      with those who treat
	their women like animals.
Stoop lower with shame      when you face me,’
	said the Alf Queen.

‘Surely you deserve      every respect,’
	said the midget.
‘And for your bag      of brilliant stones,
	I would stoop lower if I could.’

‘You neither provide      diversion nor distaste.
	You have broken our rest
in the worst heat,’      said the Alf Queen.
	‘You bore us with your begging.’

‘You will not last      too many more days.
	I hear that wind-storms wait
behind the Laak Dune      and your bag is full,’
	the ore-slave needled.

‘Leave us to ourselves,’     said the Soot-Elves Queen.
	‘We ride and die together.
You have not cared      for Alf-trade till now.
	You will not have our bag!’

Because they refused      to return his offer
	of water for ore,
he now made demands      to divide the two,
	challenging one, then the other.

He saw how much      the Rus’ loved the Alf
	and set out to test them,
to break their bond,      for news of the pair
	had reached the Seljuk chiefs.

Nadlan spoke up      for her lip-stream-diver,
	to spare her the trouble of treachery —
this trader’s malice:      ‘Bring me your chief’s heart
	and take my life for my Queen.’

But the midget hated      haughty women
	and cast a curse on them:
‘While either lives,      neither loves another.’
	Still, the Queen was pleased.

This was a safe curse      as they made no claim
	to find another to fill their dreams.
The Queen had found      all there was to love
	in the feller of the finder-and-Gusir’s-work.

As the months went by      it was found out
	that Nadlan was to have a child
for the man-beast      of the Hús-band tribe
	who left her on Ginnungagap’s shores.

The Desert Rus’ so loved     her loyal mistress
	that she killed herself after the birth
according to Rus’-code —      not to break a bond
	by sharing its joys with a third.

The child grew up      bold and strong.
	The dwarfs named him Silver’s Son.
The lonesome Alf Queen      could not love him —
	her heart frozen by Nadlan’s death.

Under the guise      of proving the man,
	she sent him against the Ribat’s clan —
to doubtful wars,      his death assured.
	But Hel’s Boat won battle after battle.

As his fame grew,      the Alf-Queen’s faded.
	Before long she died a lonely death.
Soon, the legend      of Silver’s Son
	spread to Harðraði’s camps.

Loveless and unloved      Silver’s Son led wars
	that drove ore-mongers
from the Radak Dunes      before he rode north
	through the edge of Ginnungagap.

He followed wars      as far as Navarre,
	and, later, as a trader
in Port Adulis      on the Red Sea,
	made his fortune in slaves.

Yet some say of him      that Silver’s Son
	lost all he gained;
that a single stone      stands in Balerica
	to the Son of Togrul Beg’s flight-bright Slayer.

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