Long ago, in the frost-rimmed reaches of the North, there lived three brothers: Völundr, Slagfiðr, and Egill. They were the sons of a king of the Finns, gifted with the strength of men and the grace of the spirits. One winter, as they skied through the deep snows of Úlfdalir—the Wolf-Dales—they came upon a secluded shore where three women sat spinning fine linen. Beside them lay their swan-skins, for they were Valkyries, maidens of battle who could take the form of birds. The brothers, captivated by their ethereal beauty, took the women as their wives. Völundr wed Hervör alvitr; Slagfiðr took Hlaðguðr svanhvít; and Egill took Ölrún. For seven years, they lived in harmony, the hearths of Úlfdalir burning bright with domestic joy. But in the eighth year, the Valkyries began to pine for the carnage of war and the freedom of the skies. In the ninth year, while the brothers were away hunting, the women retrieved their swan-plumage and flew away, leaving nothing but cold embers behind.
When the brothers returned to find their homes empty, Slagfiðr and Egill set out into the world to track their lost loves. But Völundr, the most patient and skilled of the three, chose to remain in the Wolf-Dales. He was a master smith, a craftsman whose hands could coax beauty from the hardest ores. He believed that if he stayed and forged treasures of incomparable beauty, his wife would eventually return to him. Day and night, the rhythmic clanging of his hammer echoed through the valleys. He took red gold and fashioned it into seven hundred rings, stringing them upon a rope of bast. He waited, growing older and more solitary, his heart hardened by longing but his skill sharpened to a razor’s edge.
Word of the solitary smith’s immense wealth eventually reached the ears of Niðuðr, the greedy king of the Njárar in Sweden. Niðuðr was a man whose ambition was matched only by his cruelty. Hearing of the seven hundred rings of gold, he became convinced that Völundr had hoarded a treasure that rightfully belonged to a monarch. Under the cover of a moonless night, Niðuðr dispatched a company of well-armed warriors to the Wolf-Dales. They moved like shadows through the pines, their shields glinting faintly in the starlight. When they reached Völundr’s hall, they found it empty, as the smith was out hunting. They entered and marveled at the golden rings. The captain of the guard, following the king's secret command, stole a single ring from the bast-rope—a ring of particular beauty that Völundr had intended for his returning wife.
Völundr returned from the hunt, weary and cold. He kindled a fire of withered brushwood and sat to roast the meat of a brown bear he had slain. As the meat hissed over the flames, he began to count his rings, as was his nightly ritual. When he reached the end of the line, his heart sank; one ring was missing. He believed for a fleeting, joyful moment that Hervör had returned and taken it as a token of her presence. Exhausted by the hope and the hunt, he fell into a deep sleep. But he did not wake to the touch of a Valkyrie. He woke to the cold bite of iron. Niðuðr’s men had fallen upon him in his slumber, binding his hands and feet with heavy chains. Völundr demanded to know why a peaceful craftsman was being treated like a common thief, but the soldiers only mocked him, dragging him back to the court of King Niðuðr.
When Völundr was brought before the king, Niðuðr sat upon his high throne, wearing the stolen ring on his own finger and girded with Völundr’s own master-crafted sword. The king accused Völundr of stealing the gold from the royal lands. Völundr, his eyes burning with fury, replied that the gold was his own, won by his craft in a land where Niðuðr had no claim. The King’s queen, a woman as cold and cunning as her husband, watched Völundr closely. She saw the lethal intelligence in his gaze and whispered a warning to the King: 'His eyes are like those of a flashing snake. He will seek vengeance if he is left with his strength. We must tame this beast if we wish to keep his skills.'
Following his wife’s malicious counsel, Niðuðr committed a heinous act of cruelty. He ordered his executioners to sever the hamstrings in Völundr’s knees, rendering him a permanent cripple. He then moved the smith to a small, desolate island called Sævarstaðr, located just off the coast. There, a forge was built, and Völundr was forced to work day and night, crafting exquisite jewelry, swords, and trinkets for the king and his family. No one was allowed to visit the island except the king himself. Völundr sat in his forge, his legs useless beneath him, his heart a furnace of resentment. He labored over the anvil, but while his hands created beauty for his captors, his mind fashioned a nightmare of retribution.
One day, the two young sons of Niðuðr, driven by a mixture of curiosity and greed, secretly took a boat to Sævarstaðr. They demanded to see the gold that the smith was working on. Völundr, seeing his opportunity, spoke to them with a voice like honey. He told them to return the next day, and he would give them each a gift of pure gold. The boys, foolish and young, returned the following morning. As they bent over a chest to look at the treasures within, Völundr struck. With a swiftness born of years of practice, he decapitated the princes. He hid their bodies under the bellows of his forge, but their remains he put to a more grisly use. He encased their skulls in silver and sent them to King Niðuðr as drinking bowls. He fashioned their eyes into precious gems for the Queen, and their teeth he turned into brooches for the king's daughter, Bövild.