Ship of the Dead (20 page)

Chapter 23
A Magic Crown

W
illiam knew he didn't belong here. He belonged with the rest of the Rune Warriors—not with Grelf, Thidrek, and the monumentally repulsive goddess Hel. It had hurt when Dane had said that he lacked the courage to be a Rune Warrior, though he realized Dane had only said this so Hel would spare him from death. But would death be worse than being thrall to Thidrek? He wasn't rotting and full of maggots now, but his living state had not lessened his capacity for cruelty, William was sure. It helped that Grelf was with him. He thought he could even trust the man a little—but not to the point where Grelf would risk his own skin to save him from harm.

The four of them stood high up on a fortress parapet that afforded a view of the Lake of Fire. Hel raised her staff, pointed the orb end at the Ship of the Dead, which could be seen docked below, and proclaimed, “By my command, summon the cursed damned! Awake those who will venture forth to destroy the world of the living!”

William watched, transfixed, as the carved wooden creature on the prow of the ship came alive once more. The horn was brought to the creature's mouth and a thunderous, deep bellow echoed across the lake. Three such blasts followed the first, and after the last bellow sounded, William saw what looked to be the heads of dragons slowly rise from beneath the fiery muck. There were hundreds of them—no!—thousands spread across the lake! What ungodly horde was Hel unleashing? As the heads continued to rise, William saw they were but the figureheads on the prows of Viking warships, a vast armada, summoned from the cursed depths. The ships rose and settled upon the lake, and to William's horror he saw that at the oars were dead Viking warriors—those whose savage brutality had no doubt condemned them to reside in Hel's worst place of punishment.

Realizing they had been raised and given new purpose, the thousands of ship-bound warrior dead cheered and began to bang their oar shafts in unison against the gunwales, chanting a war chant as their drumming grew ever louder.

“There is your army, Thidrek,” Hel intoned. “I free them to make war on the fools who worship Odin. They will follow the Ship of the Dead wherever it doth go. The Niflheim gate is open. Take them and deliver earth to me!”

“Yes, your majesty,” Thidrek said. “I shall leave at once.”

“Excuse me, your majesty,” said another voice. Everyone turned to see that one of Hel's handmaidens had come onto the parapet. “A guard confiscated this from one of the Rune Warriors,” she said. “I thought I should bring it to you.” She came forward, and in her hand was a metal crown, tarnished and simply made.

Hel gave it a cursory glance. “Why do you bother me with such a crude trinket?”

“The one they took it from swears that he stole it from Skuld herself,” the handmaiden said.

This appeared to strike a chord of interest within the goddess. “Skuld, you say?” Hel took the crown in her hands, inspecting it. “That witch of fate has simple tastes. I'd never wear a thing so ugly.” She handed it back to the servant. “Away with you!”

The handmaiden started off, then hesitated. “May I keep it, then? The one who stole it says it has magic.”

“Magic?” said Hel, raising an eyebrow.

“It is said to enhance the beauty of one who wears it, your majesty. But since your, um, loveliness already has no equal, you would not need such help.” The handmaiden hurried away.

“Wait!” commanded Hel, and the handmaiden froze. “Bring it back.” She returned and Hel snatched the crown and placed it upon her head. Nothing changed. She was still as homely as a bullfrog's butt. “Fetch the mirror!” she ordered.

“I have it right here, your majesty.” The handmaiden produced the mirror and Hel eagerly grabbed it, brought it up to her face—and gasped. Tears glistened in her viperish eyes. “You were right!” she said breathlessly. “I—I am . . . resplendent.”

William whispered to Grelf, who stood next to him, “What's
resplendent
mean?”

Grelf whispered back, “It means dazzling.” They shared a confused shrug, for either Grelf was wrong about what resplendent meant or Hel had been bewitched to see beauty that wasn't there.

Just then, Alrick the Most Merciless rushed onto the parapet. “My lord, the prisoners have escaped!”

Dane held on tight to Astrid as they soared high into the gloom upon Sleipnir. Below he saw Jarl and the rest of the Rune Warriors running out of the gates of the fortress at the head of a mass tide of the dead, liberated from the moat of souls. Demon guards rushed to stop them, using their lightning whips, but the souls were armed as well with the whips they had taken off the dead guards. Bright flashes of lightning erupted here and there as the crowd of the dead skirmished with the outnumbered guards, overwhelming them and taking their weapons. In the confusion, Dane saw his friends make it to the steps leading down to the Ship of the Dead. Now all he and Astrid had to do was to find William, because he was not leaving without the boy.

When he had first seen his beloved Astrid sitting atop Odin's eight-legged steed hovering above them, his first thought was that it was a mirage spawned by Hel's trickery. But then Astrid had set the gigantic horse down among them, and he saw—as did the dumbfounded others—that it really
was
her. His first instinct was to pull her from the horse into his arms and shower her with kisses. But her sharp command had brought him to his senses.

“Quick!” she had said. “Climb on Sleipnir and I'll take you out of the moat. Drott, Fulnir, you two first!”

“You're leaving us to face Hel's wrath alone?” Gudmund had asked.

“Of course they are,” the thrall soul had said bitterly. “Why should the living care about us?”

“Go your merry way,” said another. “Give no thought to the suffering that is sure to be inflicted upon us when they discover two dead guards in our midst.”

“Which never would've happened if
you
hadn't shown up,” said yet another.

“They're really laying on the guilt,” Fulnir had said. “Isn't there something we can do?”

Lut had an idea. He pointed to the wall of the fortress that abutted the moat. “If the workmanship is as bad as we've been told, a couple of kicks from the horse should knock that wall down into the moat. Then we can
all
climb out over the blocks.”

Astrid flew Sleipnir to the wall. “Stand clear!” she had shouted. It took only a couple of kicks with his four massively powerful back legs and the wall collapsed. The living and dead gave a loud cheer and immediately started scrambling up the rubble and out of the moat—all except Lut, who was so weak, he had to be carried by Fulnir. Dane joined Astrid atop Sleipnir, and Jarl led everyone else to storm out the fortress gates.

William and Grelf stood at the ramparts, watching the furious battle below between the dead and the demon guards. “What's happening, Grelf?”

“I'd say young Dane and his friends have sparked a rebellion. Look! There they go!” He pointed beyond the fortress walls, where William saw the Rune Warriors escaping through the melee toward the steps that led down to the Ship of the Dead.

William's joy at seeing his friends escape was abruptly tempered by the knowledge that they were leaving him behind. But they
had
to, didn't they? They probably had one chance to save themselves, and that meant they could not come back to rescue him. Those were the hard facts, he knew, but he still felt the ache of abandonment. He wanted to cry, but that was what a little boy did, and he was not so little anymore. In his heart he
knew
he was a Rune Warrior—which meant he must be willing to sacrifice his life for the good of the others.

“There! Thidrek and the draugrs!” shouted Grelf, pointing. William saw the undead horde and Thidrek, Blade of Oblivion in hand, rush out the fortress gates in pursuit, battering their way through the mass of the dead fighting the demon guards. William looked ahead and saw Drott, the last of his friends, disappear down the steps.

William wished he had done something to stop Thidrek, or at least delay him. But, in truth, what
could
he have done—tackled Thidrek before he rushed out? That would have delayed him for only an instant.

When the draugr Alrick the Most Merciless had arrived and announced the escape, Thidrek had immediately asked Hel to close the Niflheim gate to trap them. But she did not seem to hear him, so beguiled was she by her reflection in the mirror. The transfixed goddess had then floated away into her abode, humming merrily to herself, never taking her eyes off the mirror. Aware that he could not
demand
that Hel act, Thidrek had taken matters in his own hands and rushed out with the draugr warriors.

Now, looking down upon the pandemonium, William said a prayer to Odin, asking him to help his fellow Rune Warriors escape. He felt Grelf's consoling hand on his shoulder. “You'll see your friends again, lad. I'm sure of it.”

“So am I,” William said with sudden joy, pointing up. A horse was streaking down at them—and on its back were Astrid and Dane!

Grelf's mouth shot open. “By Odin's beard! It's Sleipnir!”

The steed set down next to them. “What did you think?” asked a grinning Dane. “That I would leave a Rune Warrior behind?” He extended his hand. William jumped up to grasp it and was pulled onto the steed's back between Dane and Astrid.

“Thidrek and the draugrmen are probably to the steps by now,” Grelf said. “You must hurry.”

“Thank you, Grelf,” Dane said. “You're a better man than I thought. Good-bye.”

“Wait!” William said. He looked down at Grelf, who stood there, shoulders slumped in despair, a pleading, abandoned-puppy expression on his face. The man was not much good for anything and no one would miss him, but he had done his best to protect William. “There's room for him.”

“Oh, thank you! Thank you!” Grelf gushed. “I promise you won't regret taking me with you! Double pinkie promise!”

“
Four
on a horse?” Astrid said.

“He's a big horse. Besides, it's only three and a half,” argued William. “I don't weigh that much.”

Dane gave a grudging sigh, as if he
knew
he would regret this, but he extended his hand to Grelf, and after a brief struggle to arrange everyone on the steed's back, they were up and away.

They flew over the scene of battle, and Dane was glad to see that the dead were routing the demon guards. He wondered what would happen to the souls after their revolt. Would they have some manner of freedom without Hel's brutal demons to keep them in line? Dane had witnessed the glories of Valhalla and the grimness of Niflheim, and he was convinced there was gross injustice in the afterlife. He hoped that this revolt would show the gods that big changes were in order.

Soon they were flying over the steps. Thidrek and the draugrs were at the top and quickly descending. Dane saw that Jarl and Drott were now halfway down and had leaped across the void where the steps had fallen away. But Fulnir, carrying Lut, was hesitating, afraid his leap would come up short. Dane glanced at the shoreline below to be sure the Ship of the Dead was still there. It was—right where they had left it—but then Dane's eyes beheld a staggering sight. On the lake was poised a vast armada of Viking ships manned by dead warriors!

“Where did those ships come from?” Dane gasped. “And the men?”

“Hel's army of the dead raised from the lake,” Grelf said.

“But the good thing is,” William added, “the Niflheim gate is open for us.”

On the longships, Dane saw, the dead men sat still at the oars, as if waiting for a signal to start rowing. “Will they follow us?” Dane asked.

“Hel said they will follow the Ship of the Dead wherever it goes,” William said.

Astrid flew Sleipnir down to where Fulnir and Lut were halted. “Stay there! I'll come back for you!” she shouted to them. “Everyone else get to the ship!” Jarl and Drott raced down the steps. In moments Astrid had deposited Dane, William, and Grelf on the rocky shore next to the Ship of the Dead, and had headed back up to retrieve Fulnir and Lut.

Dane looked up, and his heart sank when he saw that Thidrek had almost reached them. One swipe with the Blade of Oblivion and they'd be dead. Sleipnir soared upward—and an instant before Thidrek was in reach of them, Fulnir, with Lut riding piggyback, leaped onto the steed's back. Thidrek swung the blade, barely missing them. Odin's horse, trained in manners of warfare, angrily kicked with his four back legs, crushing the stone steps Thidrek was standing upon. The steps fell away—and Thidrek would've gone too if Alrick the Most Merciless, standing on the steps above, hadn't grabbed the scruff of his coat. Thidrek dangled over the abyss, bellowing in rage while Astrid took Sleipnir away to the shore below. They landed and Fulnir hopped down with Lut still on his back. The old one was pale and frail looking, but he managed to complain, “Blast that Thidrek! I give him the strength to swing that blade and he nearly kills me with it. Damned unsporting of him!”

Above, Thidrek was already working to bridge the gap in the steps, which was now too wide to jump. He had ordered the draugrs to form a chain using their bodies—one grasping the next one's legs and so on—to form an undead span to the next intact step. Thidrek was climbing down this draugr bridge, holding the handle of the Blade of Oblivion in his teeth, and would soon be across the gap.

“One thing I'll say for him,” Fulnir commented. “The bastard never gives up.” He took Lut onto the ship, where the others were rapidly preparing to shove off.

Dane turned to Astrid, who sat high upon Sleipnir. “You never gave up either.”

She looked at him, her eyes holding the warmth he had known forever. “I never will.” She kicked Sleipnir's flanks, the horse shot upward, and she called out, “I'll follow you out the gate!”