Deep below the surface of the fjord, sunlight stippled Vellgunda’s body as she glided through the water. Ice-cold, it caressed her like a second skin, but she did not feel the chill. Fluid and languorous as a fish, she dove through the shadows of undersea grottos out into pale wavering sun-patterns fretting the seafloor. Her cloudy hair drifted behind her, and from her lips floated a stream of fine bubbles. She was searching for her sisters, but her search was unhurried for she believed she knew where they were to be found.

  She came at last over a ridge where dark-leaved plants waved graceful fronds in the currents. There where the wall of the fjord was undercut to form a natural cavern, lay an ancient treasure. Long years ago on the eve of a battle a great king had gathered together all his wealth and sunk it in the fjord to preserve it from his enemies. He had intended to return and reclaim it, but he had long been dust, and now even his name was forgotten. The treasure was Aegir’s now. Only the lord of the sea knew of it, and the cold nymphs whom he had appointed its guardians.

  She glided into the shadow of the cleft, and there saw her two sisters. Voglinda was twining lengths of pearls through the drifting masses of her hair, and Flosshild was admiring the fire of an emerald necklace against her pale skin. All about them lay the scattered hoard, some of it locked in iron-bound chests half buried in the ground, some spilling from sea-rotted coffers. Discolored gold coins carpeted the seafloor; tarnished gems winked fitfully. Flosshild dropped the necklace, picked up a jewel-crusted mirror, its surface dark with age, and flung it down with a gesture of distaste.

  Vellgunda glided to her, touched her arm, and with a mischievous smile gestured toward the surface. Flosshild’s eyes lighted with curiosity. Brushing a pile of jeweled brooches from her lap, she rose and swam after her sister. Voglinda followed them, the pearls still twined gleaming in her hair.

  They emerged dripping into sunlight among the steep black rocks. Vellgunda glanced toward the shore with a finger to her lips, then climbed lightly up to her favorite rocky seat.

  “What is it?” called Voglinda.

  “Hush,” said Vellgunda. “He might hear you.”

  “Who might?” Flosshild asked, swimming to the rock with lazy strokes. “There is no one here but us.”

  “Have you not seen the twisted little creature that haunts the shore at twilight?” said Vellgunda. “He skulks from rock to rock, peering at us and leering. He is some mushroomy creature, one of the dwarf kind, I think.”

  “I have not seen anyone,” said Flosshild with a grimace.

  “I think I have noticed him once or twice,” Voglinda said. “Clutching at the rocks, with his little wet eyes gleaming.”

  “One can almost pity him,” said Flosshild tenderly, leaning her cheek against the cold rock and looking up at her sister. “He sounds forlorn.”

  Voglinda laughed. “As you pitied the seamen at Stornagast? You were the most eager to lure them from the safety of their high ships.”

  “That is true,” said Flosshild. “And did they not look foolish once they jumped in after us, with their gaping mouths and white faces, trying to breathe water? They were so amusing.” She laughed her delightful, breathless laugh, with its brittle edge of cruelty.

  “But what shall we do with this wretched dwarf?” asked Vellgunda. “I do not like to be spied on; and to tell the truth, guarding the sea-father’s treasure is growing tiresome.”

  “Perhaps he also might prove amusing,” suggested Voglinda.

  Flosshild shuddered. “Ugh! A maggotman, how disgusting.”

  “All the more reason to pity him.” said Vellgunda. “No doubt he has seen nothing but women of his own ugly race until now, so he is spellbound by the sight of real beauty.” She swung her shapely foot complacently in the water. “But who shall speak first to him?”

  “You are the eldest,” Flosshild said. “You may have the privilege.”

  “I hope you enjoy it,” said Voglinda, swinging her arm in a sudden arc to splash Vellgunda. She dove laughing below the surface. But her voice floated back from a watery distance. “But do not reveal the sea-father’s treasure. That must remain a secret.”

  “Of course,” Vellgunda retorted sharply. She glanced down into a cleft in the rock, where hidden by the ebb and flow of the fjord’s waters lodged Aegir’s chief treasure, veiled now in shadow, and her voice softened with awe. “Of course.” Then she too plunged from the rock to join her sisters in darting through the deeps until the sun should set.

  Albric crept warily down the cliffside to the rocks at the water’s edge. He was earlier than usual, for the sun had just fallen behind the mountains at his back, leaving the mountains still glowing with rich color, but he was too impatient to wait longer. Each time he came he was afraid that the sea nymphs would not appear again; he could not bear to wait until it grew darker, even though the light made him squint.

  There was no sign of them yet this evening. He pushed through the reeds, his heart beating painfully, and peered out into the fjord from behind a stone. There was the tumble of black rocks rising from the depths, the water eddying around them; there were the first faint stars reflected on the surface; there was the silence of dusk broken only by a bittern’s lonely cry. He could see nothing human, hear no echo of a voice. Grinding his teeth in anguish, he clutched the rock as if he could will them to appear.

  “Good evening.”

  He spun around with a gasp of terror. The silken voice had been almost in his ear. Just beyond his rock was another, rising from the water; there perched a lithe form, the nymph whose name he had learned was Vellgunda. She swung herself around behind the rock and laughed down at him, her chin pillowed on her hands. In her pointed, elfin face her eyes were big and liquid.

  This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

  “Did I frighten you?” she asked. “I hope you will forgive me. But we have noticed you here before, my sisters and I, and we thought it would be friendlier if you would speak to us.”

  Her ears were pointed, he saw, beneath the waves of her hair. “You startled me,” he said hoarsely. “I was just taking a stroll. Admiring the —ah, the stars.”

  “Yes,” she said, her eyes gleaming. “The stars are lovely.”

  They admired the stars together for a solemn moment; his glance strayed to the curve of her throat against the sky. “You are called Vellgunda,” he said.

  “You know my name?” She seemed delighted. All her words were uttered with little gasps of mirth, as if she were suppressing an attack of laughter; the effect was charming but disconcerting. “I am flattered.”

  “I heard your sisters calling you,” he said. His tongue felt clumsy in his mouth. He wondered if she would disappear if he moved closer.

  She nodded wisely. “Of course. And what is your name?”

  “Albric. I come from Svartalfheim.”

  “You are one of the dark elves,” she said. “You mine precious stones and gold and silver from under the earth. You must be very strong, to do such work.” Her gaze slid over his shoulders in admiration.

  He felt his face growing hot; he was proud of his wiry strength. “Strong enough.”

  “I wonder,” she said softly, “if you can catch me.”

  She slid down and vanished behind the rock. With a shout he sprang after her, clutched the slippery surface and clung to it, scrabbling for a foothold. She had been so near; he could not bear to have her disappear. With a great effort he reached the top of the rock and hauled himself up. She was nowhere in sight. Ripples widened at the base of the rock. “Vellgunda!” he called. “Where are you?”

  “Here,” came a mocking voice from below; to right or left, he could not be sure. “Come,” she called. “Dive and find me.”

  He drew closer to the rock. He was not a strong swimmer, and the black water looked deep and dangerous from his high precarious perch. “N-no,” he stammered. “Come out.”

  “Goodbye,” came the long-drawn, laughing answer, fading into the distance.

  He pressed closer to the rock, tears springing to his eyes. She had been so near, almost within his grasp, her slender arms and piquant, mocking mouth; he could not believe she was gone again so soon. Silence rose around him but for the ripple of water at the base of the rock. At last he let himself down on the landward side, holding desperately to the rock for it was deep even there, and splashed back to the shore, flopping down among the reeds like a dying fish, muddy and soaking wet.

  “That was rude of her,” said a voice behind him.

  He did not start this time, He rolled over and stared up at this second apparition, the one named Voglinda. Her hair was paler, more golden than her sister’s; she had the same heart-shaped face and pointed chin, but her eyes slanted up at the corners.

  “It was,” he said grimly. He narrowed his eyes in suspicion, not moving from where he sat.

  She slid down the rock, closer to him, but still a space of water lay between them. “I am sorry,” she said. “She is a vain thoughtless tease, not worthy of such a powerful man as you. My name is Voglinda.”

  He climbed to his feet, trying clumsily to wring out his shirt, keeping a wary eye on her. “I am Albric.”

  “So I heard you say.” She shook her head sadly. “It is a shame you got wet; but you know, that means nothing to us. We spend all our lives in the water.”

  He grunted, mollified.

  “Did she tell you we are guarding the sea king’s treasure?” she asked. “Perhaps not; we are supposed to keep it a secret from strangers. But I am sure you can be trusted. After all, such a treasure would mean nothing to you, who must dig as much wealth from the earth every day.”

  “Treasure?” he asked, his interest whetted. “What treasure is that?”

  “It is one that a king of old buried here, to be safe from his enemies. It is safe enough; no man has seen it for these many centuries. It is Father Aegir’s now, and we are its guardians.”

  “It must be tedious work, having to sit guard on a heap of rusting odds-and-ends, day in and day out.” He edged nearer to her, until only the water lay between them. She was regarding him with an odd gleam in her strange slanted eyes, whether of invitation or amusement he could not tell.

  “Lord Aegir would not be pleased to hear such a description of his great treasure,” she said, her lips curving in a smile that hinted of promises. “And it is not all trash, I assure you. Some things there are of immense value.”

  “Is that so?” he said, measuring the distance between them. “If it is treasure you admire, I could show you things in my kingdom underground that would make you gasp. No battered, sea-rotted goods, but gifts of incredible workmanship, crafted of the finest precious metals and gems. Do you never feel a desire to visit the land?”

  “Not I,” she said with a teasing laugh. “Do you never feel a desire to go for a swim?”

  He shuddered, looking at the black lapping water. “Too cold.”

  “Do you tell me that a great, strong creature like you is afraid of a little chill?” she said. “Come, I dare you. Come to me.” She held out a slim white hand, sliding backwards between the rocks, her smile glimmering palely.

  “I am not afraid,” he said, swelling out his chest. “Come back! Don’t go.”

  “Come and catch me,” she murmured from behind the rock. “Am I not beautiful enough for you?”

  He bit his lip, lunged and caught hold of the rock. The footing was slippery; he scrambled around to the other side. She was above him, beside him, her slim arm lingering for a moment in a damp caress around his neck, then gone before he could seize her. He whirled, confused in the dark and the starlit phosphorescence of the wavelets.

  She was smiling above him, her eyes shining like soft stars, her arms held out invitingly. “Come to me,” she cried softly. “Come, mightiest of miners, most courageous of dwarves.”

  He snatched at her, caught only air, and overbalanced into the water. As he spluttered and thrashed wildly for a handhold, panicking in the cold dark that squeezed his chest like a vise, he caught snatches of her words. Her voice had changed cruelly, to a mocking cadence. “Not such a good swimmer, are you? What a pity. Moldy old dirt-grubber! What makes you think you are good enough for us? Goat-ears! Scraggle-beard! How do you like the water? That is as close as you will get to me!”

  He struggled and spat water, gasping for breath, and one of his reaching hands touched rock, fell away, then grasped it again. He pulled himself close to the rock, clutching it with a lover’s fervent clasp. Pushing himself from rock to rock he maneuvered to the shore, and pulled himself up among the reeds and pebbles to lie gasping on his stomach.

  Her voice had died away, mingling with the ripples. He sat up after a long time and stared with bleak eyes into the night. The wind that touched him was chill; he began to shake with cold. At last he rose and crept back into the hole in the hillside.

  He did not intend to go back the next night. “Once is enough,” he told himself bitterly. “Twice is more than enough! What do you expect from those cold-hearted sea women, anyway? What would they see in a bow-legged wretch of a dwarf?” So he argued with himself, and it made good sense. But when night fell, he found himself wandering as if by chance up through the tunnels to the exit. “Maybe they were only joking,” he mused. “Maybe she only wanted to see if I would come back. A little dunking never hurt anyone.” He had not forgotten the cold terror of those moments in the water, struggling and trying to breathe; he had merely pushed it to the back of his mind. He knotted a hairy fist and stared at it. “I’m not so bad looking. A little skinny, maybe, but strong enough. What woman can resist strength? I should not give up so easily.”