Ship of the Dead (3 page)

For what seemed hours he lay against the rock, listening to the ghostly echo of raucous songs and laughter coming from the hall.
The dead really know how to celebrate,
he thought. And why not? They no longer had to worry about earthly responsibilities like feeding their families, protecting their homesteads, or picking lice from their children's hair. Valhalla was one big holiday, with father Odin providing the never-ending food and drink.

Was Astrid joining in, enjoying herself too? Possibly lounging beside the handsome young warrior—or sitting on his lap!—quaffing hornfuls of mead?

At last he heard the gates squeak open, and peering out from his hiding place, he saw a figure emerge alone. It was Astrid. The gate closed behind her and she started down the path. His heart pounding, he waited until she passed him by, then leaped out from behind, clamped a hand over her mouth, and pulled her into the shadows. She fought him, easily breaking free of his grasp and throwing him to the ground. She drew her knife, ready to plunge it into him.

“It's me! Dane!” he said.

She froze, struck speechless, gazing on him like he were some kind of horrifying apparition. He rose to embrace her. She recoiled, raising her hands as if to ward off evil.

“Astrid, what's wrong? I've come for you.”

“You—how did you—”

“I stole Mist's horse.”

“You what?”

“I was at a battle and she came—and I tried to get her to carry a message for me to Odin, but she refused and so the only way I could come here was—” This wasn't going the way Dane had imagined it would. Instead of the hugs and kisses he had expected, she was giving him looks of dread and backing away like he was a rabid weasel. “Astrid, aren't you glad to see me?”

A sharp look of pain leaped into her eyes and she quickly turned her back and hurried down the path away from him. Dane followed, calling her name, but on she went, and when he finally caught up to her and whirled her around to face him, he noticed tears in her eyes.

“Astrid! I have to see Odin. I'll do anything he asks to get you back. You have to take me to him.”

“Oh, Dane,” she said, putting her head in her hands. “That's impossible. You have to go back. You have to go back now!”

“Don't you want to be free—and be with me again?”

“
Be
with you?” she said. “I am no longer mortal! I have given my oath to serve Odin.”

“Oaths can be broken!”

She slashed at the air in front of her, as if Dane had said the unspeakable. “Not this one. Not unless I wish to find myself in Niflheim. Do you wish that?”

Dane stared at her for a moment. “If you can't join me on earth, then there's another way we can be together. Here. If I die in battle—”

“No. You will
not
, Dane,” she said.

“You have no control over that.”

“None of my sisters will take you,” she warned. “Nor will I.”

Her words struck him like a hammer. “Are you saying . . . you don't
want
us to be together?”

“I am saying . . . dying bravely is one thing. But
choosing
to die is cowardly.” She paused and Dane saw she was close to tears. He noticed that hanging on a chain around her neck was the Thor's Hammer locket that he had once given her to cement their devotion to each other. “If you love me, then go live your life . . . with courage and without self-pity. That is the only way we will meet again.”

Then she left him, hurrying down the path. He stood and watched her go, the cold finality of her words like knives in his heart.

Chapter 3
A Frightful Appearance

H
ow lucky I am!
thought Grelf the Gratuitous as he sipped his warm brandy and put his feet to the fire, wiggling his toes. Oh, how kingly were his comforts! And to think, only months before he had been a fugitive on the run, barely escaping the executioner's axe. And now look at him! Ensconced in soft-furred luxury in the service of a fat, rich, and undemanding lord—a far, far cry from his last employer, Thidrek the Terrifying.

Not that life with Lord Thidrek had been unendurable. The man had had wit and a fair degree of charm, considering he was a ruthless, murdering tyrant. As his man-in-waiting, Grelf had served his every need, from picking out his wardrobe to making sure he had an unobstructed view at the weekly beheadings.

But if Grelf ever slipped up or forgot the tiniest detail, if Thidrek's demands were not met promptly and to the maximum effect, punishment—as the lash scars on Grelf's back attested—could be severe.

Which was why Grelf had not mourned when—many months before, during his fight with Dane the Defiant—a Thor-sent whirlwind had sucked Thidrek off the face of the earth, never to be seen again. Realizing that the villagers who had hated Thidrek would be looking to kill him, too, Grelf had stolen a horse and ridden away as fast as he could. He hadn't stopped until he reached a faraway place where no one had ever heard of Thidrek the Terrifying. Just to be safe, he had changed his name to Gudrid the Servile, so that no one from his checkered past would ever find him.

And now, here he was, in his own spacious cottage on his new master's estate, warming himself before a great fire. In the main house, his generous lord had retired early and Grelf had his night free to do as he wished. And so, as was his habit, he sipped his brandy, dreaming of the many servant maids he would one day have, as he drifted off to sleep before the fire.

What was
that
? His eyes fluttered open. Again he had heard it. The
clip-clop
of something—someone—approaching. Was it his lordship? Unlikely. A log then collapsed into ash, and seeing that the fire needed tending, Grelf came down off his chair and knelt before the stone hearth. A chill swept through the room. He laid a birch log on the fire, stirring it ablaze once again, waving the woodsmoke from his eyes. He rose to return to his chair, shocked to find he had a visitor in his chamber.

Draped in shadow, a tall silhouetted figure, black as night itself, stood across the room just inside the doorway.

“W-who are you?” Grelf squeaked, backing away to the far side of the room. “What do you want?”

The figure gave an icy chuckle. “Not exactly the welcome I was expecting.”

“If it's food you want, go on and take it. There's a stew on the fire and—and flatbread in the food box.”

“Food?” came the voice from the shadows. “I've come for something far more nourishing than food.”

“It's silver you're after, is it? Well, I'm afraid my coffers are bare. But if you take it up with my master—”

“Bah!” flared the ghostly figure. “I care nothing for foodstuffs or silver! I've come for you, Grelf. I'm here to renew our friendship.”

At the sound of his own name spoken by the stranger, Grelf felt his vitals shrivel. Something about the voice. The figure stepped forward and the firelight caught the features of the visitor's face. Grelf was for a moment without breath. He tried to speak but found himself lacking a voice as well; all he could issue were pitiful little choking sounds.

“Ah. It
is
you,” the figure said.

Impossible! Grelf could scarce believe his eyes. Before him stood the very image of his old master, Thidrek the Terrifying. The same haughty voice, the same chilling smile. Every bit alive, or so it seemed. But how could it be? Grelf had seen his master sucked into the heavens in a god-sent windstorm. Surely he
had
to have died. Grelf rubbed his eyes, believing this a dream. Yes, of course, he must have drifted off while warming himself by the fire. That had to be it. But when again he opened his eyes, the figure was still there, leering from beneath his oilskin cloak.

“Come into the light and let me look at you, Grelf.”

“G-Grelf? Who is Grelf? I—I am Gudrid the-the-the Servile—”

“Come, Grelf! I know it is you!” the voice commanded, and the apparition slid back its hood.

Grelf stepped forward, trying not to show how badly he was shaken. Drawing nearer, he saw Thidrek's face fully illuminated in the firelight—and oh, what a sickening sight he was. Gaunt and emaciated, his face was half eaten by rot. A maggot wiggled out of a hideous gash on his cheek. Part of his upper lip had been torn away, revealing blackened and decayed teeth.

“Lord Thidrek . . . is it really you?”

“Of course it's me, man! Are you not glad to see me?”

“Of course I am, my lord, I'm just—well, you surprised me.”

“I see you've put on some weight since I last saw you.”

“M-m-my lord,” said Grelf, his voice quavering in fear. “You're l-l-looking a bit—how shall I put this—under the weather?”

“I should say so, Grelf. I've caught a nasty dose of being undead.”

“Un . . . dead, sir?” said Grelf, not altogether grasping his meaning.

“Yes, Grelf, un
dead
! Need I explain everything?”

“Well, you being so much more knowing than me, sir,” Grelf said wisely, “how can it be otherwise?”

A smile of supreme pleasure appeared on his master's face. “Ah, Grelf, how I have missed you.”

“And I you, sire,” said Grelf, laying it on ever thicker. “And I certainly would care to hear your explanation of your new—uh, undeadness.”

“Well, you see, there's being alive, like you—laughing and singing and being in the pink of good health. There's dead, as in stiff as a stump. Long gone. Expired. Extinct. Bereft of any animating spirit. And then there is a curious state of being somewhere
between
those two. It is rather fascinating, actually. Though one's body is dried up and devoid of any vital fluids, it is able to move about rather well and perform most of the daily tasks necessary to carry on the work at hand. One feels powered by a strange kind of potency. A devilish pep, let's call it. One doesn't
feel
, exactly; the undead have no feelings. We have urges. Brute impulses. Which we can satisfy only by performing the deeds she who has sent me wishes performed.”

Despite his fear, Grelf was aching to ask his master how it was that he had died and become undead. And who, he was curious to know, was this “she” he was referring to? But though he was ever curious, he was crafty as well, and said only what would appeal to Thidrek's selfish conceits.

“It's certainly wonderful to see you again, my lord. What is this ‘work at hand' you are involved in? It certainly does sound interesting. It must be nice to have something to occupy your time with—in your condition.”

But Thidrek was in no mood for small talk as Grelf felt the heat of his gaze.

“Get your things, Grelf. We've work to do.”

A cold panic crept up Grelf's spine.

“W-work, sir? I'd be delighted to serve you again, your lordship, really I would—nothing would please me more. But you see, I have a new master now, a rather nice one at that. Not as nice as you, of course—who could ever replace you? What I mean is, I'm
his
now. It wouldn't be fair to just jump ship and leave. Besides, he has big plans for me, sire, big plans. I'm to write his memoirs, the story of his life, and he'd be lost without me, really he would. He's become quite attached to me, sir, quite attached, and so you see that's why I can't possibly go with you.”

Thidrek's hand shot forth, seizing Grelf by the neck and, with inhuman strength, lifted him straight off the floor until they were face-to-face.

Grelf gulped. “I'll get my things.”

Chapter 4
A Daring Decision

D
ane made his way down the mountain path in a daze of despair. All hope of reuniting with Astrid was dead. She could not break her oath to Odin, and he could not pass through the gates of Valhalla as a coward who chose to die. Only by accepting their fates to be apart would he ever see her again.

Astrid said that if he lived his life with courage, he would pass into Valhalla. Courage, he knew, was not just on battlefields. It was displayed daily by ordinary people who lived decent lives, facing hardship, providing for family and friends. His father, once a warrior, had become one of these people, finding true happiness in the simple pleasures of a peaceful village life. Until Thidrek the Terrifying had come and murdered him.

Dane awakened from these thoughts to find he had returned to the meadow near the golden grove. The trees were engulfed in fog, and drawing near, he spied Mist's horse, still feeding on the high grass. But every time he came close, the horse trotted farther away, leaving the grove of golden-leafed trees and moving into an adjoining one. Dane followed the horse, calling to him as he gave chase, but the animal seemed not to hear him as he moved on, disappearing altogether in the fog. Quickly tiring of this game and anxious to get home, Dane cursed and ran after the horse, determined not to lose sight of him. He ran through brush and briar and down another long pathway, bound on either side by high thorny brambles, growing more irritable as he went.

At last, in a small clearing, he spied the horse again. From out of the white swirling mist he appeared to him as a pale apparition, his head bent to the ground, lapping water from a small pool.

Dane approached with caution, stepping slowly. This time the horse stayed put, seeming by his manner to have arrived at the place he had intended. Dane drew up beside him and patted his neck, trying not to show any spite to the animal. He heard the murmur of falling water and noticed fish darting in the pond and birds flitting about on the floating flowers. A white swan swam into view. The horse lifted his head and whinnied, and as he did so, the mists began to lift. Something then caught Dane's eye and, peering upward, he saw a waterfall appear and then behind that something that literally took his breath away.

Could it really be?

There, like some giant towering sentinel, stood a tree of indescribable size. The storied Tree of Life. Yggdrasil! Rooted just a short distance away. Dane stared dumbstruck at the majesty of it. Legend said it was the most massive living thing in all creation, that its uppermost branches encircled the heavens and that its roots stretched down into the very underworld of Niflheim itself. Dane's father had once claimed that ten thousand longships could be built from its trunk, with enough wood left over to build a roomy hut with attached outhouse for every man and woman on earth. Gazing in wonder at the tree, Dane was sure his father had not exaggerated, for he guessed its trunk was at least five hundred paces around—and its height could not even be measured, for it disappeared into the heavenly mists above.

Then Dane remembered something
else
about this tree . . . something of great significance. According to legend, this was the dwelling place of the Norns, the Goddesses of Time—the keepers of the Book of Fate.
Everyone's
fate.

Peering across the pond, his gaze fell upon a stone altar at the base of the tree, and atop the altar lay a large, squarish object. The largest book Dane had ever laid eyes on. As he looked through the thinning wisps of fog, the book appeared to be many centuries old, its ancient leather cover cracked and worn and cloaked in mystery. Dane stood for a time gazing at the enchanted thing, afraid to even touch it. Flicking a nervous look around, he wondered where the Norns might be. Were they watching him at this very moment, preparing to leap out and smite him with their godly powers?

Just as quickly he found himself cursing the Norns and the powers they had over humans.
Who are they to sit and write our fates, as if we were but clay figures to play with, only to crush us on a whim? The witches! They're probably off with the gods right now, planning more ways to torture us!

Dane remembered what his father had said about the Norns and their fate making: “It's a bad system, but we humans are stuck with it.”

“But are we?” Dane asked himself, struck with a new thought so daring it scared him to think it. He knew he had been fated to die months before—and that the Norns had changed his fate when Astrid agreed to serve Odin. That meant that, in some circumstances, fate could be changed. It was
negotiable
. If
that
was true, the only thing he lacked was bargaining power. Something to trade. If he could not strike a deal with Odin, perhaps he could bargain with the very goddesses who ruled fate. A surge of anger arose in him, quickly overtaken by an even more powerful feeling: the return of hope.

In the early morning chill, Lut the Bent and the boy William the Brave trudged up to Thor's Hill, the small treeless hillock that lay between the village of Voldarstad and the woodland that ran up the side of the mountain nearby.

The ten-year-old boy had come to Lut's hut at dawn, terribly worried about the fate of Dane the Defiant. Four days before, Dane and his friends had set out on their foolish quest to find a battle where Valkyries swarmed. Lut had tried talking Dane out of going, saying that his plan to bargain with Odin was insane. “A bear will not haggle with a gnat,” Lut had told him. “Astrid is gone. Be a man and accept it.” But Dane, blinded by his love for her, had gone off on his absurd, dangerous errand.

He still had not returned and William was frantic with despair. Dane had rescued the boy from a life of thralldom in the service of the cruel Thidrek the Terrifying. He had defeated Thidrek with the boy's help, and thus William was freed from slavery and dubbed “William the Brave.” Since then, he had come to idolize Dane like an older brother who could do no wrong.

“What if he never comes back, Lut?” William whimpered as they crested the hill.

The lad had suffered greatly during his brief life, Lut knew. When Thidrek's armies attacked his Saxon village looking for plunder and slaves, Thidrek himself had murdered William's mother and father, right in front of the boy's eyes. Now the prospect of losing Dane as well was too much to bear. Lut put his arm around William's shoulder, trying to calm his worries. “We will pray the gods bring him home safely,” said Lut.

It was a short walk to the giant granite runestone that had been erected the season before to honor the exploits of Dane and his friends, including William. They had all been named Rune Warriors for the courage they had shown in defeating the foul Godrek Whitecloak.

Lut stared at the words hewn in the stone: “Dane the Defiant, son of Voldar the Vile, grandson of Vlar the Courageous . . .” Lut had been well into his forties when Vlar was just a boy, he remembered. So long ago. Bah! It was not good to think of the past—it made him feel so decrepit. He was soon to be one hundred and four years old, for Odin's sake, and no matter what the ladies might say about the fineness of his beard or the shine in his eyes, the ceaseless aches in his joints told him that death was knocking at his door.

Lut looked out over the village to the waters of the bay beyond. The morning fog was beginning to lift. There were no ships in sight. He turned his gaze to the rutted path that led away from the village to the east—the path Dane and his pals had taken four days ago.
Why must every new generation bring me fresh troubles?
he fumed. As the village wise man he had the burden of worrying about each and every young man and woman, offering guidance that would help them survive into adulthood. And what was his reward? They got married and produced
more
children who robbed him of sleep!

“Shouldn't you begin beseeching the gods?” William asked.

“Of course, of course,” Lut said. “O mighty and benevolent gods, hear my plea. . . .” Lut went on, working up a ripping good appeal to the heavenly powers. When he gave it his all, he was pretty good at this beseeching business, even though he sometimes doubted the gods were paying attention. For a big ending, he thrust his hands to the skies and raised his voice, saying, “O lenient and merciful powers! Spare our four sons! They are each good and courageous souls—foolish, sure, as all humans may be—”

“Lut, listen!” William blurted.

Lut stopped and heard a dull thunder, building in intensity. Could it be? They both turned to look down the hill, to the rutted path. Four horses and riders emerged from the trees, riding as swiftly as if Thor were throwing lightning bolts at their backsides.

Dane's horse, slick with sweat, was tethered outside Lut's hut when Lut and William arrived breathlessly on foot. They entered and saw that Dane had helped himself to some bread and cheese. He gave them a boyish grin and said, “What's the matter—think I wouldn't make it back?”

“Never doubted it,” William said. Then they laughed and vigorously greeted each other warrior style, grasping each other by the forearms.

“Where are the others?” Lut asked.

“We were starving,” Dane said between bites. “We rode all night without stopping. Jarl, Drott, and Fulnir went home to eat, but I came directly here with that.” He nodded to the table where something was wrapped up in his cloak. Something large.

“A present for me?” Lut inquired.

Dane went to the table and gently unwrapped it. “I found it beneath Yggdrasil.”

Lut came forward and with growing awe gazed at the massive book, covered in leather that looked as old as the gods themselves. “Are you mad, boy?” he gasped, once he had regained his powers of speech.

William's eyes popped. “Yggdrasil? You took a book from the Norns?”

“Not
a
book,” Lut said. “
The
book.”

Lut had beheld many incredible sights in all his years, but nothing quite like this, nothing that filled him with such curiosity and dread. Dane had stolen the Norns' Book of Fate! And it was here in his hut, right in front of him.

Dane quickly spilled out the whole story, ending with how he'd returned to earth with the book concealed in his cloak. He had found Mist and his friends where he had left them. She had exploded in fury and, wasting no time, had mounted her sky horse and flown off, cursing the human race—and particularly Dane—for all the trouble they caused.

The old man ran his fingers lightly over the book's cover, worn smooth by centuries of handling. All his adult life he had been a famed seer, a reader of the mystical runes, interpreting the divine messages or, as he called them, the “whispers of the gods
.
” Rarely were messages as clear as “Don't marry Bjorn Thorgilsson,” or “If you go fishing today, you'll drown.” Often they were confusing, and it would take a runemaster like Lut to make sense of it. Sometimes even
he
could not deduce the meaning of it, such were the perplexities and mysteries of his craft, and in these few cases he would cheerfully refund his fee.

But now before him lay the future straight from the Fates themselves. How curious he was about the secrets it held. Nearing the end of his life's thread, he still yearned to know what surprises lay ahead. He could feel his feeble heart thumping.

“They'll pay plenty to get this back,” Dane said.

“And your price is Astrid's freedom,” Lut concluded. “The Norns may not take kindly to bartering with a trifling human.”

“Maybe it's time we stood up to them,” Dane said. “They make our lives miserable and we're supposed to pray to them so they won't make our lives
more
miserable? Well, now
I
have the upper hand, and they either give me what I want or . . .” Dane hesitated, weighing a dreadful option.

“Or what?” Lut asked.

“Or I'll burn the book.”

Lut rose, aghast. “
Burn
it? You'll do no such thing!”

“It would break their control over us!”

“We don't
know
what it would do,” Lut said. “Destroying the book could destroy the future of humankind. I want Astrid back as much as you do, but I will not allow you to take such a risk.”

“All right,” Dane said, adopting a more reasonable tone. “But if we don't make the Norns
believe
we'll destroy it, they won't take us seriously.”

The young man had a point. No doubt the Norns would threaten to rain down scorpions and fill their insides with putrid fish guts unless the book was returned. But if they held firm and made the Norns truly
believe
that their power over humans was threatened, there was a slim chance the ploy would work. Of course, once Astrid was returned and the Norns got their book back, they could easily do the scorpion-and-fish-guts trick anyway.

“Can I finally take a look inside that thing?” Jarl said, entering. He came to the book and Dane put his hand on the cover so Jarl couldn't open it.

Dane turned to Lut. “I told the others we shouldn't look inside without talking with you first.”

“That was wise,” Lut said. “No one should look.”

“I just want to see my fate,” Jarl said. “What's wrong with
that
?”

“You may see that your story ends badly,” Lut said.

“Badly?” Jarl said, bristling. “Like I don't die bravely? Impossible.”

“Even brave men die by accident,” Lut said. “Remember Erling the Lucky? No better warrior in the village. He choked to death on a pork rib.”

“That's right,” Dane said. “And his son, Erling the Not-So-Lucky, was struck by one of Thor's lightning bolts.”

“If those two knew
how
they were to die,” Lut said, “do you think they'd ever want to eat pork or go outside ever again?”