Ship of the Dead (17 page)

Chapter 20
The Lake of Fire

T
he Ship of the Dead was far past the Niflheim gate, voyaging up a sluggish river that had the consistency of black molasses and the putrid smell of rotten eggs. The fog had thinned enough for the dim outline of another ship to be seen ahead on the starboard side. As they moved closer, the immense size of the craft became apparent. Dane had never seen a ship so vast; it appeared to be the length of ten Viking longships. But this was no warship. Its wide beam showed it to be a merchant craft, a knorr, designed to ferry cargo.

“A fresh shipment for the goddess Hel,” murmured Thidrek.

The knorr was docked at the river's edge, and as they floated past, Dane saw that along the gunwales were carved grotesque figures of grinning, laughing demons. And then he saw exactly
what
cargo the ship had brought. A long procession of grim souls—men, women, and even some children—was trudging wordlessly down the gangplank onto the rocky shore and continuing along the river's edge in the same direction the Ship of the Dead was heading. The faces of these souls were as gray and lifeless as a leaden winter sky, and even their clothes were devoid of color.

“There are so many,” Dane said, marveling at the shuffling tide.

“Wars, disease, starvation—the gods harvest us all,” Lut said.

“And the fortunate few see Valhalla,” Jarl said bitterly. “That was to be
my
fate, but then Dane had to go hand over the Blade of Oblivion to Thidrek—and here we are.”

Being in Hel's realm was bad enough, thought Dane, but being stuck here with Jarl and his ceaseless blaming was even worse. “How many times should I apologize for what's happened, Jarl?”

“How many times?”

“Give me a round figure so I'll know when you'll be satisfied.”

“Well, let's see . . . we'll be in Niflheim forever,” Jarl said, “so how about you apologize every day for the rest of eternity. Just for a start.”

“Sure that'll be enough?” Dane asked.

“While we're here you can also do my laundry.”

“Look!” cried Drott, pointing to one of the souls walking along the shore. “Isn't that Horvik the Virtuous? From our village?”

“You're right,” said Fulnir in surprise. He cupped hands to his mouth and called out, “Horvik the Virtuous! What are
you
doing here?”

Horvik peered back, equally astonished to see his village brethren in Hel's domain. “What am
I
doing here? What are
you
doing here? And why do you get to ride on a ship when I have to walk? My feet are killing me.”

“I guess that answers the question about the dead feeling pain,” Drott said to his shipmates.

Fulnir gave Horvik the short version of their plight: that they weren't really dead, at least not yet, and then Horvik explained why he was there. “I cheated Anders Thorgillsson at dice and he killed me with an axe.” Horvik pointed to the deep wound in his skull where the weapon had been buried.

“You cheated at dice?” Fulnir asked. “For
that
you're sent to Niflheim?”

“I . . . also stole a cask of smoked herring from him,” Horvik said. “And, well, his wife and I—”

“We get the picture,” said Fulnir. “But I shouldn't think those errant ways would warrant an eternity in Hel's domain.”

“That's the problem with having a name like mine,” Horvik the Virtuous moaned. “If you're not virtuous every day,
all
day, they really stick it to you in the end.”

“Sorry to hear it,” Drott said, “but nice seeing you anyway. You don't look too bad for being dead,” he added, trying to brighten Horvik's spirits.

“Kind of you to say,” said Horvik, “I think.”

The ship continued up the black, sulfurous waterway, leaving the grim tide of newly arriving dead behind. Here and there Dane began to see small spots of fire floating on the river's surface, and soon the spots grew alarmingly larger in size, as big across as the length of the ship. This reminded him of the house-size icebergs that had harassed them on their last adventure, ice floes the whalers had called “growlers” for the sounds they made when they were crunched together by the wind and the tides.

The Ship of the Dead made no effort to avoid these patches of floating fire, cutting right through them, and Dane shared looks of concern with the others, worried the ship's hull would burn and they'd all sink into the ooze.

“Fear not, my fellows,” said Thidrek, grinning madly, “where we go is infinitely worse.”

And they were soon to see he spoke the truth, for ahead lay the underworld's vast Lake of Fire.

As far as the eye could see in any direction, its vast surface was aglow with a bubbling stew of molten rock and flame, colored in the deepest oranges and reds and spitting up bursts of steam, the whole of it not unlike the embers of an immense campfire. Worse, the Lake gave off a stench of sulfur mixed with the nauseating smell of burning flesh. Burning human flesh, Dane was sickened to realize.

The Ship of the Dead plowed forward through the liquid rock, magically impervious to the torridity and eruptions of flames.

Dane thought he heard a whisper or a cry of some kind, coming straight from the fire below. Ghostly figures of the dead bobbed to the surface, engulfed in flames, their spindly arms reaching up, their mouths open in agonized screams. The figures rose to the surface, then just as suddenly were sucked under again, as if they were being pulled to the depths by the claws of an unseen demon.

“My parents always said I'd wind up here if I wasn't good,” Drott said between the hiccups he always got when he was afraid. “I never thought this place was real.”

“N-n-neither did I,” Fulnir said, his voice quaking. “I thought m-m-my folks were just making stuff up to keep me in line.”

Thidrek—clutching the handle of the Blade of Oblivion and standing coolly at the prow as if his dead draugr heart insulated him from the searing heat—gave a chuckle. “Parents are like that, aren't they? My father, Mirvik the Mild, filled my head with similar nonsense. He'd say, ‘Thidrek, if you insist on being unduly cruel to others, one day you will find yourself doing the breast stroke in a fiery lake.' Funny, isn't it? How wrong fathers can be about their children's destinies, eh, lad?” he said, looking at Drott.

“Uh, are you sure he was wrong about yours, my lord?” Drott was bold enough to ask.

“As sure as I know
your
father was right about
yours
,” Thidrek said with a sublime look. “For all too soon you will be drowning in the molten depths.”

“My lord,” said Alrick the Most Merciless, “you said
all.
Does that mean we're to be—”

“No! Not
you
!” Thidrek barked in exasperation. “
This
group? Tied to the mast? Our
prisoners
will be swimming in the molten depths! By the gods, why must I keep explaining myself? Is your brain full of maggots?”

“Um . . . yes.” Alrick shrugged.

Thidrek sighed in exasperation, turned to Grelf, and was heard to mutter, “Whose idea was it to recruit these dunderheads?”

Grelf had the good sense not to answer.

As the ship continued across the Lake of Fire, a pall of woe descended upon Dane and his friends. They had been in awful fixes before, but nothing like this, nothing so seemingly insurmountable. They all had faced death numerous times. But this was far, far worse, for death was merely a prelude to an eternity of torment.

Dane remembered a time a few short months before when he was held captive with his mother on another ship, commanded by the evil Godrek Whitecloak. They were doomed to die, but his mother had looked into his eyes with steadfast determination and had said, “I will not go like a lamb to slaughter.” Her tenacity had helped stiffen his backbone and spurred him to act.

But what could he do now?

Even if they got free from the ropes, they had no weapons against the armed draugrs or the Blade of Oblivion in Thidrek's hands. And they couldn't exactly jump overboard into a fiery lake and swim for shore. Even if they did miraculously make it to shore, they were
still
in Hel's realm, which was guarded by a bestial monster who Dane suspected would not open the gate, wish them luck, and hand them free sandwiches.

“Which souls are sent to the Lake of Fire?” William asked Lut. “Will Horvik be thrown in?”

“I believe the lake is reserved only for those whose crimes were the most heinous on earth,” Lut said.

“You mean someone like Thidrek.”

“He would fit the profile,” Lut said.

“If I may interject,” said Red Mustache on the sail, “it is the goddess Hel who decides the punishment for each soul. I believe the minor crimes of said Horvik would spare him from such fiery agony.”

“So then maybe she will spare us,” William said.

Having overheard this, Thidrek roared with laughter. “
Spare
you? Do you think I've brought you here for Hel's mercy? You'll find none of that! Your souls are the kind she's
most
hungry for.”

And with that, the towering black parapets of a fortress hewn from solid rock loomed before them. There were murmurs of awe from the draugrmen and stunned silence from everyone else as the ship drew ever nearer the dark, menacing palace. Even Dane's raven, Klint, reacted in fear, flapping his wings and squawking fiercely about the deck, until Lut took him in his arms and comforted him.

Dane looked hard at Lut, at the bits of gray he saw now streaking his hair and the tiny lines returning to his face. He wanted to tell him that he knew what was happening, that he had sensed it during the storm, could see a weakening of his energies. But he said nothing, for he knew that it was Lut's wisdom he prized most of all. It had gotten them through rough times before, and he was hoping it would once again.

Astrid had done as the Norns had ordered. She had slipped into Asgard, stolen Sleipnir, and made her miraculous getaway down the Bifrost rainbow to the earthly plane. Unfortunately, she had been seen by Aurora, which meant her traitorous sister most likely had deduced where she was heading—because no one would be mad enough to take Odin's prized eight-legged steed unless they desperately needed to get to one place and one place only.

Hel's underworld.

Sleipnir had once taken Odin's son to the underworld on a special mission. The steed knew the way in and out, so Skuld had instructed Astrid that all she needed do was command Sleipnir to take her there and the horse would do the rest. Once there she was to deliver the item in the canvas satchel to Hel and hope it would do the trick.

They had ridden all day and on into the night, Astrid feeling more alive than ever, despite the fear that raced through her. The land had given way to the shining surface of the sea, and still they rode on until the sun returned. And then, quite abruptly, the steed drew to a sudden halt. Below her was nothing but calm seas, and she thought that perhaps Sleipnir had stopped for a much-needed spell of rest.

Then, in the very blink of an eye, a dark cloud appeared on the horizon. A shrieking wind blew in. An angry tempest had them in its sudden grip, the sky around them bursting with lightning and booming with thunder. Surrounded as she was by the fury of it all, Astrid's only thought was that this had to be the work of the gods, a warning to return Sleipnir at once or suffer even more dire consequences.

But just as suddenly the steed bolted downward toward the raging waves. Panicked, she pulled back on the reins but was powerless to stop his steep dive. Down, down, he flew, determined to plunge headfirst into the water, and she shut her eyes and clung to his back as tightly as she could, hoping the force of the impact would not knock her free.

But she felt no splash at all. Opening her eyes, she saw she was enveloped in water yet wasn't the tiniest bit wet. Everything began to spin, and she realized that she and Sleipnir were caught in a gigantic swirling funnel of water. Round and round they went, furiously fast, sucked ever downward, deeper and deeper into darkness until—

Just as suddenly she and her steed burst through a wall of wind into a world of thick fog. She found they were hovering above the calmest of seas and enveloped by a dense white vapor so icy cold that it froze the hairs on her skin. She sat there a moment atop Sleipnir, getting her bearings, each of her exhaled breaths turning to frosted ice particles as it hit the air. So this was it, she thought. The Land of the Dead. She patted the steed's brawny neck for bringing her. “Thank you, mighty Sleipnir.” He turned his head and gave her an imperious look as if to say,
Foolish maiden, how could you have doubted me?

Somewhere off in the fog Astrid heard the sound of a ship cutting across the water. They set off to follow it through the Niflheim gate.

The Ship of the Dead came to rest on the shore of the Lake of Fire at the base of ancient stone steps cut into the rock. The steps zigzagged precariously up the sheer granite face to the pinnacle upon which Hel's dark fortress sat. Even from his vantage point far below, Dane saw that along the outer perimeter of the fortress there looked to be hordes of the doomed perched on scaffolding, laboring to repair walls that had fallen down. Driving them on were large brutes cracking whips over their backs.

Drott craned his neck, gazing up at the crumbling fortress. “This is where Hel lives? What happened to the place?”

“Those spared from the Lake of Fire are put to work on Hel's fortress,” said Red Mustache. “But doomed souls are notoriously poor workmen. Every time they repair a wall, it just falls down again.”

“Maybe Hel should try paying them better,” Drott suggested.

“Paying them
better
?” Jarl said. “What part of eternal suffering don't you get?”