Ship of the Dead (16 page)

And then, as quickly as the storm had blown up, in an instant it was gone.

The roar of the wind ceased and, with a sudden jarring lurch, the ship stopped spinning. Regaining his vision, Dane saw that the ship now rested upon a still, glassy sea enveloped in a thick, bone-chilling fog. The furious whirlpool had been frightening enough—but this sudden, unearthly calm struck a deeper note of dread. Dane felt the freezing tendrils of death and despair reach into his soul—the clawing fingers of dead souls—and he knew the ship had pushed through a membrane from one world to the other. From the uneasy looks on the faces of his friends, he saw they shared his thoughts.

“So this is it?” Drott asked, his voice trembling. “Hel's realm?”

Thidrek gestured grandly into the fog like a lord showing off his estate. “And let me be the first to welcome you!”

“Are we . . . dead?” asked Fulnir.

Everyone did a mental inventory, checking to see if they felt any different.

Drott smelled his armpits. “I don't
smell
dead.”

“If smell was an indicator, Fulnir would've been buried three years ago,” Jarl said.

Fulnir loudly expelled some gas. “I don't think the dead can pass wind.”

Thidrek sighed in annoyance. “So we don't waste
more
time testing dead versus not-dead theories—you are all
still
alive.”

“Wait,” said the draugr they called Alrick the Most Merciless. “Do you mean us?”

“No!” Thidrek yelled. “This group”—he pointed to Dane, his friends, and Grelf—“not dead.” He pointed to the draugrs. “This group—well, you're not dead, either. You're
un
dead. We've come all this way and you didn't
know
that?”

The downcast Alrick, wounded by Thidrek's sarcasm, said, “I just needed some clarity.”

Next there came a sound that chilled Dane's blood, a bestial wail eerily echoing through the blinding fog. The ship lurched forward and began gliding across the dead-calm water, the ghastly howl like a beacon calling the ship home.

“'Tis Garm, the gatekeeper of Niflheim!” wailed the face with the red mustache.

“Must you narrate every moment of our journey?” complained the black-bearded one.

“I'll narrate if I want to,” replied Red Mustache. “At least I'm adding aesthetic value to the experience. All you do is make snide remarks.”

Black Beard sighed in exasperation. “Of all the mouthy nitwits I had to be stitched to a sail with.”

The Ship of the Dead moved onward, and soon a clinking sound was heard, like the dragging of heavy chains. His heart pounding and breath fogging the air, Dane peered into the mist, wondering how much longer he would live. Piercing the pale vapors just ahead, a row of daggerlike spikes appeared, a dozen of them at least, impossibly long and thick and rising upward like the upper jaw of an immense monster that was about to swallow their ship. Jarl and Fulnir uttered an oath. Thidrek, however, said nothing, standing stock-still as they passed under the teeth. Dane expected soon to slide down the beast's gullet—until he looked up and saw that the “teeth” were but long spikes protruding from the bottom of a massive gate, and the gate was rising to let them pass.

“The gates of Niflheim,” Red Mustache solemnly intoned.

“Thank you for stating the obvious,” said Black Beard.

Once through the gates, Dane next saw the source of the clinking chains, and his heart near stopped. On a ledge alongside the water there stood a monstrous being as tall as the mast of their ship, and with its two massive forearms it was working an ancient chain-and-pulley mechanism that raised the gates with a grinding groan. Slow and lumbering and covered in dark, bristly fur, the thing stood upright on its hind legs. At first glance it appeared to be a giant wolf, but as they drew closer, Dane saw that in fact it was a nightmarish combination of canine and man, its leg joints like those of a wolf and its four-fingered paws more like human hands, although much hairier. Its head had the longish snout of a hound, with yellowed incisors and drool dripping from its half-opened jaws. Turning its head and staring with dull-witted eyes as the ship passed by, the beast gusted steam from its nostrils and unleashed an earsplitting howl that froze Dane to the marrow.

“Garm, gatekeeper of Niflheim,” said Black Beard, beating his sail-mate to the explanation. “But I'm sure you already
knew
that.”

The ship continued onward through the eerie fog. Dane looked back and saw the beast work the mechanism in reverse to lower the great gate. As the long black spikes descended into the water, Dane had the sick, doomed feeling that there would be no escape from this place.

He and the others were now trapped in Hel's domain forever.

Chapter 19
A Stolen Stallion

A
stray thought hit Astrid as she streaked through the night sky on her way to Asgard. It had been only a year since she had walked with Dane in the woods outside their little village and he had given her the Thor's Hammer locket to pledge his love. On that day her life had seemed set. Her destiny, she'd assumed, was to marry Dane and raise a family and forever live in this peaceful village on the bay.

But it was not to be. If only Skuld could write a different future in the book and sweep all of this away. However, the Norns had explained to her that their power did not reach into the unbeating heart of a draugr. The undead were like filth polluting the river of life, changing the destinies of whomever they touched. This, Skuld had explained, was why she had sent Dane to kill Thidrek in the first place. Her carefully wrought work of conjuring fate was in danger of being rewritten by someone else, which was an author's worst nightmare.

“So it's not that a horde of draugrs may wreak destruction and suffering upon humankind that distresses you,” Astrid had said to Skuld. “You're upset because your book faces revisions.”

“Exactly,” Skuld had said. “And it's up to you to stop such desecration of my creation.”

“And
this
is your plan to save the world?” Astrid had said. “I'm to steal Odin's prized steed?”

Skuld gave a dismissive wave of her hand like she was shooing away a fly, and said, “It's not like we're asking you to do the impossible.”

So now here she was, a newly christened corpse maiden on her way to the realm of the gods to try and pull off what was likely the most audacious theft of all time. Never mind that the Council of Sisters had already put a death warrant on her head, and if she were caught—the likeliest happenstance—she would be exiled forever to Niflheim's Lake of Fire. Even if she somehow eluded the whole corps of Valkyries bent on capturing her, she
still
had the hopeless task of slipping past the Einherjar, who guarded the animal she was to steal. Invisibility would not help her, since that trick worked only on humans who were
not
dead. Then, if she somehow miraculously escaped with the prize, there was her second and even more foolhardy task
—
which involved the magical object that now rested inside the canvas satchel slung over her shoulder, the prize Skuld herself had given her.

Astrid broke through the clouds and saw the grove of gold-leafed trees below. Vali started down, accustomed to landing where he always did. But Astrid knew that in the grove she was sure to be seen by her sisters, so she pulled up on the reins, halting Vali's descent, and flew on. She saw Valhalla in the distance, its roof shingled with countless warrior shields that shimmered in the moonlight. The massive mead hall was lit up like a blazing yule tree. Inside, the nightly feasting and drinking would be in full swing. If there was a right time to carry out her desperate plan, Astrid knew this was it.

Horse and rider glided down, alighting on a grassy plain laden with mist. Astrid knew this to be the Fields of Ida, the place where Odin's Einherjar engaged in furious battles every day to keep their warrior skills sharp.

Once or twice Astrid had watched the frenetic battles. Blood would flow and heads and limbs would be lost. When the dinner horn sounded, the warriors would immediately cease combat, find their body parts, and reattach them. Sometimes a combatant would mistakenly reattach a limb that wasn't his, and it would take a while to sort out the severed pieces, but it was all done in good humor.
Pardon me, Svein, but I think you have my left foot affixed to your right leg.
Then they would stride off like brothers for a night of boisterous song, food, and drink. After the nightly festivities, the inebriated heroes would sleep peacefully on their benches strewn with fresh hay. In the morning they would awake, don their coats of mail, strap on their weapons, and march out to the field to go at it again. Fight, eat, and drink. Fight, eat, and drink. Over and over. The heroic dead never seemed to tire of it—and being Vikings who reveled in gore and ale, they had nothing better to do.

She climbed down from Vali's back. “I will miss you, Vali,” she said, stroking and hugging his neck. “Time for you to go and for me to go on alone.”

He looked at her quizzically, as if he couldn't fathom why his maiden was giving him his leave. Tears welled in her eyes and she kissed the side of his face. “I know, I'll miss you too. . . . You're brave and headstrong and at times cranky . . . but I'll always love you, boy. Now go!” He still refused to move and she had to slap him hard on the rump. With a loud snort he took off in the direction of the Valkyrie stables, which were a long way across the plain and through the woods. She watched his pearly white form disappearing into the misty darkness and felt a pang in her heart, realizing that this was likely the last time she would ever see the willful, courageous beast.

She steeled herself for the task at hand. Through the mist she could see the faint glow of Valhalla far away, high up between two mountain peaks. Odin's precious treasure was housed not up there, but directly below it on the edge of the plain. Using Valhalla's glow to guide her, she set off at a fast clip, running with everything she had. On and on she ran, and it seemed as if she were in a dream, running toward the distant glow but never getting closer to it. The mist thinned; the first light of morning began to show in the east. Astrid started to panic, for soon the first warriors would straggle out for their daily combat. She quickened her pace, knowing she didn't have much time.

All at once there it was, looming in front of her, the length of two longships away, a tall structure made of massive oak logs on the edge of the plain. Astrid spied an Einherjar standing guard outside its main door, and she immediately hit the ground flat, landing on the satchel. The pointy thing inside poked her and she rolled off it into something wet. Lifting her hand, she saw it was coated in blood—and realized she now lay in a pool of drying gore from the prior day's combat. But lying in blood was better than being discovered, so there she remained, motionless, praying she hadn't been seen.

After a moment, she looked again. The guard had vanished. Had the Norns worked some magic to lure him away? No time to puzzle it out. She got to her feet—and just as she began to run, a heavy blow from behind knocked her face-first into the dewy grass. She rolled over to face her enemy and saw the flash of a broadsword whip down. She jerked away just as the tip of the blade buried in the ground an inch from her skull.

“Dirty trick, Thorstein!” said the guard. “Dressing as a maiden to fool me!”

Astrid found her voice. “I—I
am
a maiden.”

“Quit with the games, Thorstein. I'd know your voice anywhere.”

Astrid made a move and the blade whipped down again, a finger's width from her ear. She froze, deciding not to take any more chances. “Kind and handsome warrior, you are mistaken. I am
Valkyrja
, Chooser of the Slain.”

The guard squinted at her through his helmet eyeholes. He removed the helmet to get an unobstructed look at her. He was an ugly brute with beady eyes, a scarred face, and an unruly beard. The typical dim-witted Einherjar who made playful, drunken grabs at her from their ale benches up in Odin's hall. Convinced that the figure before him
was
female—and quite a beauty at that—he now grinned, showing his black teeth. Astrid had always wondered why the chosen dead who were miraculously healed of all the amputations and war wounds received on earth never got dental repair as well. It was like rotten, black teeth were some badge of honor or something.

“So you
are
a maiden!” He offered his hand; she grasped it and was pulled to her feet. “Thorstein and I have a game we play when on guard duty, you see. We each try to sneak up and behead the other. It's good fun.”

“Who's winning?” she asked, trying to make conversation.

“Me, of course,” he boasted. “I lead nineteen to twelve.” The morning sky was brightening. Astrid saw in the distance a few warriors had appeared and were heading down the long path leading from Valhalla to the Fields of Ida. Soon some of her sisters would arrive to watch the combat, and then she'd surely be spotted and captured. “Have you come to watch me in battle, fair maiden?” the guard asked, moving closer to her. “Afterward we shall sup together in Odin's hall.”

“Um, yes, yes, that's it,” said Astrid, letting his arm wind around her waist. “Your brave deeds! Absolutely, that's what I've come to see. In fact, if you don't mind, I'll give you a kiss for luck.” His face lit up, and he stabbed his sword tip first into the ground to hold it there. With both his meaty arms, he drew her into a bearlike embrace. As she kissed his foul mouth, her right hand slipped away and grabbed onto the handle of the sword. She quickly pulled away from his grasp and swung the heavy blade. For a moment he stood there, wearing a stupid, stunned look.

Then his head fell to the ground. It landed faceup, and his blinking eyes found Astrid. “By the gods, that's some kiss,” he uttered. The guard's body bent over, blindly groping for his head so he could reattach it, but Astrid snatched it up before he could and, by a hank of his greasy hair, whirled it high into the air. The head landed with a thud in the high grass a good distance away, spewing curses. Still groping around with his hands, the guard's body found his helmet and, mistaking it for its head, placed it on the bleeding stub of its neck. “No, you idiot!” the head bellowed from where it lay in the grass. “I'm over here!” Astrid took off running toward the stables, hoping it would take a while for the guard to put himself together.

Pushing open the main door with some effort and slipping through, Astrid was met by the many familiar stable odors. She had been in stables before, but none like this, for here was housed the most magnificent, magical horse in all creation. A sudden stab of fear seized her. To even
be
here desecrated the sanctity of the gods. She found herself asking Odin for strength, then realized the irony in this since she was here to steal what Odin prized the most, his heavenly steed, Sleipnir. There was
no
god she could beseech for help, which made her feel even more alone and desperate.

She hurried down the wide center aisle of the stable. Hung on the walls on either side were war shields and gleaming weapons of every kind, Odin's personal armory. As the god of war, he liked to keep his fighting skills sharp whenever he found the time. Astrid knew that Odin's most fabled weapon, Gungnir, a spear that never missed its mark, was not kept here; other gods were so covetous of it, the weapon was never far from Odin's grasp.

Rounding a corner, she gaped in awe. She had seen the beast before, but always from a distance. Now, so close up, the sheer size of the animal was shocking to behold. She'd thought Vali was big, but Sleipnir was two, three heads higher, and wider across the chest than an ox. His most impressive attribute, though, was his muscular legs—all
eight
of them—which gave him the speed and power no horse could match.

The gray steed lifted his sleepy head and peered at her imperiously from his stall as if to say,
Who dares awake me so early?
Astrid had no time to speak softly, stroke his mane, or give him a carrot—not that she had one to offer. She had dealt with willful horses before—Vali, for instance—and knew sweet talk wouldn't cut it.

Finding his tack next to his stall, she wasted no time affixing his saddle and bridle. The saddle was incredibly heavy, and it was a strain to throw it across his high, wide back, but on the third try she made it and began buckling the straps. As she bent down, she was terrified he would crush her against the side of the stall—which he quite easily could—but she showed no fear, and this, she realized later, was why Sleipnir let her live.

“You! Maiden!” She looked up. The guard—head now on his shoulders—came quickly toward her up the aisle, brandishing his sword. “That is Odin's sacred steed.”

“I'm just taking him for a little ride,” Astrid said. Grabbing Sleipnir's mane, she threw herself up and into the saddle. The horse whinnied, his nostrils flared, Astrid kicked his flanks, and Sleipnir shot from his stall. The guard leaped aside as the beast careened toward the stable doors.

Sleipnir burst from the stable with such force, the doors were ripped free and sent cartwheeling into a group of Einherjar who were limbering up for the day's battle. Astrid saw the shocked, bewildered looks of other arriving warriors, who pointed and yelled and grabbed for their weapons. A spear whistled past her head. Sleipnir gave an angry whinny, his instinct to protect his rider kicking in. Like a mad beast, the horse charged into the warriors, knocking some aside, crushing others beneath his hooves. Astrid fought for control, desperately wishing to escape, for a battle now against the many hundreds of Einherjar could not be won.

At last, as if sensing her wishes, Sleipnir turned away and galloped across the plain. Astrid pressed her knees into his sides, and his hooves left the ground and they soared at terrific speed skyward, his eight legs churning the air. Astrid looked down and saw a group of her sisters who had come to the field to watch the day's battle. And gazing up at her in utter stupefaction was none other than Aurora.