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Weyland remembers little before he walked the pattern in Amber. Even that event he cannot fully recall. A shadowy figure near the door, perhaps someone who accompanied him, urged him to attempt it now, even wounded as he was? Maybe. He stepped onto the Pattern itself, forcing himself through the veils, feeling the pressure build, his wound poured blue fire and much of his energy into the air about him. At last, only steps from the centre, he faltered, nearly fell. A creature of pure will, his wounds were no longer important, only the task, the most important thing in his life, in the universe. Then he stepped forward, once, again.

Blackness all about. Was he in the center? Where was the blue glowing swirl, the door, the shadow who had stood near it throughout his ordeal? Gone as was he, but where. It was then that Weyland realised he was not standing. Rather, he was face down, gritty dirt in his teeth. Eventually, he learned to call this place home. For it was all that he knew for many years.

Weyland's Saga

Weyland's Trumps

Out of Character

Weylandís Saga

Weyland is he called, though we call him Troll-breaker, Giant-kin, Crafter, War-bringer, God-fostered, Wanderer. He came from the North, through the mountains of Hrymís bones. Hrymís children bade him pass once he wrestled their strongest and snapped his arms like twigs.

Wandering he was, searching for something or simply for joy of travel. He came to Wolf Lake. There he stopped and drank, pausing to rest, and saw three beautiful women, scale-clad sword-bearers, climb off their mist-grey horses and stride to the waterís edge. Unaware of the watcher who lay out of sight behind the crest of a hill, they removed their shimmering byrnies to bathe. All three were fair, but Weyland was smitten by one sisterís beauty, who outshone the others. And when the three maidens touched the water, he could not repress a shocked outcry, for where there had stood three fair women, there now swam three graceful black swans.

The swans must have heard his cry, for they flew off the lake, circling back to their war-gear, where they settled and became women once more. Each took up brand and shield, not pausing to gird themselves further, and sought the threat. Weyland stepped forward and declared his love for the fairest of the three. From that day, and for seven years, Herewar, for that was that lovelyís name, lived with Weyland in a hall that he built there in Wolfdales.

But in the eighth year, Herewar heard the war-horn of the All-Father. In the ninth year, she could bear to ignore it no longer. She took up her war-harness, all cunningly-wrought gifts from her lover, whistled up her corpse-mist mount, and rode to battle and blood.

Weyland lived on there for some time, crafting rings and treasure, weapons and war-gear, for the joy of it. His smith-fame became widely known and his treasures coveted by kings all over Middangeard, but his might and war-craft were also reknowned, and few came to take what they could more safely buy. Those who did fed the wolves and ravens and are remembered only in the songs sung by their wind-picked bones.

One king, Nithad, was undaunted by the tales of Weylandís prowess, and was spurred by greed to dare the hospitality the Banemaker reserved for such villains. He sent his sons to steal what they could, or to overcome Weyland if the opportunity presented. He also sent powerful sorcery to aid them - a ring, which if taken freely, could bind the holder in bonds stronger than steel, bonds of the soul. When Nithadís sons came to the Wolfdales, Weyland was travelling. At first, the young men thought to make away with all the glimmering rings and beaming weapons, embossed armour and adorned sheilds that they saw when they entered the hall. But instead, they took their fatherís ring and slipped it onto the coil of gold rings of Weylandís work. Then they took themselves off and awaited the Wandererís return. Weyland returned to his house, and as was his custom when he had been away, checked the coil of rings to ensure that none had been stolen. He saw the golden ring of Nithad and did not recognize it. When he gripped the ring, his curse seized him.

While Weyland fought the bonds of the ring, the Nithings strode into the hall, and, following their fatherís instructions, slit Weylandís hamstrings. By the time the Forgeking overcame the power of the ring, he was bound by his crippled legs and on a wagon heading towards Nitharos.

Nithad gave Weyland as grand a welcome as a prisoner could expect. He was feasted well, and his wounds seen to, to prevent them festering. Songs were sung to honour the guest. Weyland bore it with grim humour.

Nithad spoke: "I offer you the hospitality of Nitharos. I have had a hall built in your honour, and have had your smithy carried from the Wolfdales. And I will make you my honoured guest in the highest seat below my own for the time you are visiting Nitharos. In return, I ask only that you share your wundercraft with us. So long as you do, I will fete you and feast you and grant you any honour in my power save one, which you know. But if you will not return my hospitality and good will, I will shut you up in your hall until the flesh has fallen from your bones. Ravens will hunger from without as you wither and grow weak. Your might will fade along with your fame. Your name will go unspoken in this realm or any other. Your deeds will go unsung. You will die unknown, unloved and unremembered. And you will lay unburied until your "Hall" falls and scatters your bones. What say you to my generous offer?"

Weyland stayed silent for so long that Nithad was about to have him cast in the "guesthall" to stay. Then a grim smile lit his face like forge fire. "I welcome your offer and am only too glad to repay your guesting with the products of my smith-craft. I will make you wonders such as you cannot dream. I will turn my favours not only upon you, but upon your whole house."

Nithad, though he knew he could not trust the Smith, was well pleased with this speech, secure in his infamy.

For long years, Weyland plied his smithcraft for the Nithings, plotting his vengeance, biding the time til his greatest work could be completed unsuspected. For Weyland did not know of his heritage in those days. It is said that the All-Father cursed the Wanderer by taking from him his memories of his time in Asgard and his godling heritage. Nor did Weyland know of his own blood-magic, the greatest power of the Gods, its capacity unknown by non-Aesir. All he could trust in was his smithcraft.

While he was making unsurpassed items of beauty and skill for Nithad, extending the fame of that grim king, Weylandís secret work began. For three years, hidden from all eyes, Weylandís vengeance came into being. A cunning network of straps, clasps, spars and braces, all wondrously gilded, engraved and rune-worked. Finally, all was enchanted, powered to work of its own volition, bound to the will of its wearer. With these leg-fetters, Weyland would be able to walk, to fight, to bring war to Nitharos.

It was at this time that Weylandís ancestry began to show itself, a miracle undreamt of by the smith. Perhaps, the use of the leg fetters spurred his legs into healing; perhaps his bodyís own might had done the work. As Weyland wore the leg fetters, in the silent night hours when he was undisturbed by his hosts, he found he needed the braces less and less.

One cold, white day, When Weylandís own strength had all but returned, the sons of Nithad came to the smithy, eager for treasures their greedy father denied them. They had put it about that they would go hunting as they had grown bored with the plain winter fare of Nithadís hall.Weyland gave them as warm a welcame as he always had, smiled as they marvelled over his smithcraft, flattered by the attention of these two great heroes. Forgotten was the time that they had trapped and maimed him. He showed them great bejeweled golden bowls that he yearned to give them, should their father allow it. And when they bent over the treasures to drink in the glittering wonder, Weyland took up Bane, his most wonderous creation, and struck the boys heads from their shoulders, their blood pooling in the bowls they had admired.

Hiding the bodies beneath his forge, Weyland took the heads and crafted gilded cups from the skulls, richly inlaid with scenes of vengeance and beheadings. The eyes he forged into bright gems to adorn the bosom of Nithadís wife. From the boys teeth he created brooches to frame the gems. When he was next feasted in Nithadís hall, he presented these gifts in rare good humour. He asked after Nithadís sons. Nithad said, "They have gone hunting. They were tired of stock fish and wintergrain bread."

"A pity," said Weyland, "for I have treats for all your offspring, grim king."

Turning to Beaduhild, Nithadís daughter, Weyland spoke, "If your father will send you to my hall, with an appropriate guard to ensure my behavior of course, I will seek to praise your beauty with my craft. Surely Nithadís fame will be known across Middangeard if his daughter bears the treasure I have wrought in her honour." Thus Nithad was persuaded to allow his daughter this treasure.

Under heavy guard, Beaduhild came to Weylandís stead, eager to see what awaited her. When she and her escort had entered the hall, Weyland rose from his low seat, rushed to the door and slammed it shut behind the girlís protectors. He raised Bane, a broad-bladed great ax, and slaughtered the chosen guardians of Beaduhild as though they were lambs. At the end, Beaduhild stood alone, a bright blade bared to ward the bloody ax. She struck swiftly and desperately, but the ax flashed redly in the hellish light of the trenchfire and the sword flew from her hand. Weyland took her there, amid the corpses of her protectors. Then, dragging her outside he set fire to the hall. They watched the carved pillars and beams brighten from within, then flames began to eat at the roof beams. Fires appeared in several places, grew until the whole hall was ablaze. The heat forced them back, but Weyland held them there until his prison crumbled, blackened amid the approaching dawn. All the work of his imprisonment, lay within, fused and unforged by its maker. All save the instrument of his vengeance, bloody Bane.

Weyland left Nithadís daughter to give her father the full tale, for he had told her of the fate of her beloved brothers the night they watched the hall burn. When Nithad heard of it, he cursed his tormentor to Helís embrace, raged over the loss of his sons, the rape of his daughter. His armies searched for Weyland without success all through that year.

The next spring they found him at the head of a nightmarish host of Mirkwood trolls, with their great scaled warmounts and gruesome hunting beasts. The slaughter was horrible. Nithad and Nitharos were destroyed. Only Beaduhild was spared, and it may be that Weylandís vengeance would have taken her as well, but she was with child by her kinslayer. Weyland had the gold brought from the ashes of his old prison, twisted lumps of fused and flashing ore. Weyland spoke, "I have treated you far more poorly than you deserve, my inadequate excuse the madness of vengeance which held me. I am sorry, though I do not blame if you scorn my apology. If you will accept this as bloodprice to end the feud, you and your line will have my protection as long as you wish it. From your fatherís greed and my pain I will craft you the treasure I promised you before." It is said that when the gold was piled over Nithadís corpse, the mound covered him completely and was the height of a tall horse. Beaduhild received the offer with mute acceptance.

From that mound of gold and bitterness, Weyland forged his greatest treasure, smelting out the pain and loss, the anger and vengeance. That mountain of gold he forged to a thinly twisted rope of purity, rich with runework and spellcraft. It is said, however, that some of the greed remains, for few can look upon that prize and not covet it. Its name is Brisingamen - Brightest Gem.

Now free and whole, Weyland asked his friend, Blodmodh, king of the Mirkwood trolls, what he should do. Blodmodh spoke, "To the east and south of Nitharos, among a people called the Waelmings, I have heard it said that it is their custom to offer the kingship to any man who can carry their coronation seat from its place overlooking the sea to the temple of the All-Father. I think you are the one to do that. It is right that one such as you should be a king."

Thinking the advice good, Weyland bade his grusome allies goodbye and journeyed to the seacoast land of the Waelmings. Then he was treated well, given the guestseat opposite an empty throne. When he inquired after the custom of kingship among them, he was shown to the seashore immediately. There he saw the high seat of the Waelmings, a great chair-shaped stone that towered over him. Sigalf, first among the Wise, the council that ruled that people, said, "No man has borne the throne to the All-Fatherís place, and we have ruled as Council of the Wise for As far back as is known. Before I was born, a man came called Heremodh. He hefted the seat like a bauble, but he tired before leaving the strand. Many of our strongest laboured together to return it to this place, where is has stood since. Yet, you may succeed where Heremodh failed. I have skill in runes and they have shown me something of what you are. I sense great might in you.

So Weyland hefted the throne of stone, heavy as a warship, and staggered toward the hall of the All-High. Often he paused to rest, and three time he stumbled, but never did the throne touch the earth. He left the strand behind, and a crowd began to gather. Few had taken Weyland seriously when he announced that he would be their king. Only a handful accompanied him and Wise as they walked to the beach. Now word passed that the newcomer had crossed Heremodís mark. Weyland left the strand behind, entering the fields which sloped up toward the temple. Straining and sweat-covered, he toiled up the hill, till he stopped outside the temple. A rocky outcrop held a depression obviously made for the throne, but Weyland halted before the great door to the temple. Panting and groaning with effort, he spoke, "Will someone not get the door? My hands are full.""

The Wise men surged forward to open the way and Weyland staggered across the threshold and up to the altar. He set the throne down facing the altar and the figure of the All-Wise. After he caught his breath, he said, " Now the king must be crowned in the guest seat of the All-High. The king must remember that he rules by the sufferance of the All-High." It was this piece of bravado that won the hearts of the Waelmings to their new king, and they gave up their fellowship of equals to follow him eagerly, the Wise were first among them to do so, and remained the council of the king thereafter.

The next day, Weyland was crowned in the All-Fatherís guest seat. Then, the new king carried the throne to the sight he had chosen for his new hall, which he called Hrymfaxi - Frost-maned. The throne remains the high seat of that hall. There too he created one of the wonders of his reign, Baelegye, the Living Forge. This is what has been told of Baelegye by the skald Thedamir the Seafarer.

Weyland ruled the Waelmings well and the people prospered. He made treaties with many peoples of Middangeard, but was unafraid of battle when it was offered to him. Under his lordship the Waelmings were undefeated, and it was only because he did not attempt it that he did not conquer the whole world. Many peoples appealed to him for the protection of the Waelmings from pirates, monsters and raiders, and he fulfilled every oath of wardship he made, save for one, which wounded him sorely in spirit. That is a tale of its own.

Many horrid beasts and fearsome monsters roamed the land in those days, and Weyland raised up heroes able to turn them back. His court was the light of bravery in those days and many heroes came to stay there in the kingís service. Yet there are times when the king himself strove against great beasts that had slain heroes aplenty.

Inland and north of Isengard, seat of the kingís rule, tales began to spread of a huge troll beast ravaging the land, slaying its people, holding the land of Frostheim in a grip of terror. Larrger than a horse, formed like a panther, with fangs as long as swords, swathed not in fur but in the gleaming black scales of a wyrm. Even the monster of Frostheim had quit the region in fear of it.

Weyand armed himself with Bane and girded himself with warshirt and bright, boar-crested helm. Of that great struggle, the poet Hretheric Trollborn, made these lines.

It was Weylandís greatest pleasure that he saved the beast, but his deepest failure that so much of Ymir was lost in the forging. From that day to this, Ymir served Weyland well, explaining many mysteries of existence to which he was privy, things which Weyland once knew, but which were stolen from him in Asaheim. Weyland learned of the beastís home beyond creation, of worlds beyond those of Middangeard where fabulous beasts and peoples were to be found. This stirred things buried in Weylandís mind, mmories from before he arrived in this world. He had seen some of what Ymir told him, other things filled him with wanderlust. His friend promised to show Weyland these wonders. So after forging Bane anew and bidding the Folk of Isengard farewell for a time, he climbed astride the great back of Ymir and they wandered to the rim of the world. They had many adventures on that journey, but that is no concern of this tale. Finally they could travel no further, having come to the endless burning wastes that lie south of vast Mirkwood. But when Ymir tried to take them into the worlds beyond, he could not.

"My death at your hands cost me much more than it seemed," said Ymir in a growling cough.

But Weyland understood what Ymir had attempted and resolved to try the journey with his own power and Ymir as his guide. The way was perilous, great fissures appeared as they travelled through the wastes into hills, then mountains and beyond. Somehow the king knew that to be caught by these fissures was sure death.

Little is know of what Weyland and Ymir encountered beyond the world, but they did see other people, places, creatures. They travelled widely the many worlds beyond, saw many marvels which Weyland has retold in verse in his hall. And they returned.