Ship of the Dead (4 page)

“But if the book says
how
you die, it must say when, too,” Jarl said. “If they knew the day—”

“That's even worse,” interrupted Lut. “If you know it's your fate to be crushed by a falling tree in five years—you won't be crushed just once, but a thousand times in your dreams. You'll become a sniveling, mad husk of a man, praying for the actual day to come so your misery will finally end.” Jarl looked askance at the book as if it were filled with poison. “But if you're really that curious . . .” Lut made a move to open the book.

“No!” Jarl exclaimed. “I mean . . . why should I read of my death . . . when, in my heart I
know
it will come bravely?”

Lut gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “I'm sure it will, son, I'm sure it will. Now, leave me alone to think. I'll hide the book where it is safe.”

“Why should
you
hide it?” Dane asked. “I'm the one who stole it.”

“And when the Norns come,” Lut said, “it's best you don't know where it is.”

“Their threats won't sway me,” Dane said.

“But perhaps their enticements will,” Lut said. “Remember, in the godly realm the Fates are the cleverest of all. Go and rest now.” Dane hesitated, eyeing the book uncertainly. “It is safe with me,” Lut assured him.

As he, William, and Jarl moved to leave, Dane paused at the door. “If the Norns are so clever, why would they leave the book unguarded?”

Lut ruminated. “I can think of only one reason. They thought it inconceivable that anyone would be so bravely audacious or spectacularly asinine as to steal it.”

“Good of you to clear that up,” Dane said.

After the young men had left, Lut sat before the book, staring at it a very long time. How was it possible that the book held the fate of every human being within it? he wondered. The longer he gazed at it, the more the temptation grew. He had always believed that a man could fool his fate, but now he wasn't so sure. If he opened the book and read his fate, would he be able to alter it? Or would the words be as if they were set in stone and unchangeable? What if he read, “Lut the Bent sat in his hut pondering the mysteries of fate when he suddenly fell over dead”? He knew that those words would probably so terrify him that he
would
fall over dead. It would be a self-fulfilling prophecy, hatched by the clever Norns themselves.

Why
had
the Norns left the book unguarded? Was it as Lut had said, that they never suspected it would be stolen? Or was there something more devious afoot?

Lut stared at the book in a kind of delicious agony. If he opened it, his questions would be answered. As a master seer, he reasoned, he above all was equipped to deal with such knowledge. The whispers of the gods had passed through him countless times; the book before him was just a more detailed version of those godly pronouncements. So what was the harm in taking a peek? He knew full well what the harm would be. And yet . . .

With a trembling hand he reached for the book—and all at once its cover flew open and a sudden wind blew up, howling and whipping at the pages, turning them from front to back. Staring agape, Lut was further amazed to see that the wind seemed to be blowing only over the book and nowhere else in the room. His own robe, so close to the funnel of wind, was completely unruffled. Then the pages abruptly stopped turning and the book lay open before him, beckoning, a shaft of golden light shining on a certain spot in the center of the right-side page. Drawing a breath, Lut moved nearer and peered down at the book . . . and what he saw so astonished him, he nearly fell over dead.

His mother had gone on a visit to a neighboring village, so Dane found his own house empty and quiet, and after stoking the hearth fire, he fell deeply asleep, the perilous events of the past few days having physically and mentally drained him.

When next he awoke, the room was bathed in light. He turned over and was thrilled to see Astrid floating there above the floor, her body luminescent, her hair and feathered cloak rippling in a breeze that Dane could not feel. “It was you who took the book, wasn't it, Dane?” Her voice was eerily flat, emotionless, and for a moment Dane thought he was dreaming. “Where is the book, Dane? You must give it to me.”

“First you must be freed from your oath. That's why I took it—so the Norns would change your fate.”

He saw her face flash in anger, but just as quickly she softened. “If you give me the book, I will return it. This will so please the Norns, I'm sure they will free me from my oath.”

“Do you still love me?”

“Dane, there will be time later for all that,” she said with impatience. “If you love
me
, you will do as I ask.”

“Astrid, why aren't you wearing the locket?”

Her hand shot to her neck, feeling it missing. “I . . . am not permitted to wear such ornaments—”

“You were wearing it in Asgard.”

Her eyes narrowed into slits. “Do you know how I will suffer if the book is not returned?” A thick black worm, squirming and glistening with slime, coiled around her ghostly-white neck. “Niflheim is the lair of all that is corrupt and foul. And you will dwell there with me!” A writhing mass of the beslimed worms coiled around her arms and legs, her face erupting in boils, bursting with pus.

Dane bolted for the door, but the floor gave way and suddenly he was sunk knee-deep in sand—and it was moving, for a hole had opened beneath Astrid and the sand was being sucked down into it as if his house was the top half of an hourglass. “Our time is running out, Dane!” the figure screeched, her mouth a gaping hole of black, rotten stumps. “Give me the book!”

Dane desperately clawed against the moving tide of sand, fighting to keep from getting pulled under. “Never! You are
not
Astrid!”

There was a splintering crash. He looked up to see Jarl and Lut standing in the open doorway. Jarl held the book and Lut held a lighted oil lamp. “Enough trickery, Skuld!” Lut thundered. “Dane will not submit!” Jarl dropped the book and Lut stood over it, ready to pour oil from the lamp onto it. “Stop or the book burns.”

“You wouldn't dare!” she screeched.

Lut let drop a trickle of oil onto the cover, lowering the flame to it. “Reveal yourself now!” In an instant the sand was gone and the earthen hut floor had reappeared. Looking again at her, Dane was shocked to find the horrific, suppurating creature had become a regal-looking woman, garbed in flowing robes and wearing a crimson headdress. Hovering in the air, frowning, she then deigned to lower herself to stand upon the floor with the mere mortals.

“Was all that really necessary, your worship?” Lut said.

“It's all you humans understand,” she said with contempt.

“Allow me to introduce the goddess Skuld,” Lut said to Dane and Jarl, “so named for ‘that which shall be.'”

Skuld jabbed a finger at Jarl. “You—Jarl the Fair.” Her voice dripped with scorn. “Your fate is worst of all.” Jarl was too shocked to speak. “You will never sup at Odin's table. No! For you are to die in bed of old age.” Jarl grabbed his chest as if stricken. She cackled with glee and turned to face Dane. “Your theft of my property was all for naught—for you will never see your beloved Astrid again.”

“Don't listen to her,” Lut said. “She bluffs.”

Skuld looked at Lut with a haughty air. “Truth is not a bluff.”

“You left the book unguarded for a reason,” Lut said. “
That
is the truth.”

“You know nothing,” she said, eyeing a fingernail as if to see if she had broken it during her overblown, shape-shifting performance.

“I do,” Lut said, “because I read the book.”

For an instant her face showed surprise, but her arrogance returned. “Impossible. Only I can comprehend what is writ.”

“Your eminence, it is time to drop the pretense,” Lut said. “I know a man can have many fates, for there are many roads his life can take.”

For a moment she was silent, and Dane saw anger welling up inside her. “Yes!” she spat, as if Lut had struck at a secret she hated to reveal. “But each road has a distinct and inexorable fate created by me!”

Dane was rocked by this revelation. “So it's up to
us
to
choose
the road?”

“Yes, son,” Lut said. “That's why she left the book unguarded—to see if you would be so . . . audaciously brave as to steal it.

“Well, your eminence, the road you laid out has been chosen,” he continued. “And your threats and frightful transmogrifications have been met with courage and cleverness. The test has been passed. Tell them of the task at hand.”

Dane threw Lut a questioning look. “Task? My only task is to free Astrid.”

“My conditions are that
if
and
when
you are successful,” Skuld said airily, “
I
will decide if she warrants freedom.”

Dane would not be at the whim of the Fates once more. “No,” he insisted. “You will
promise
to free her if I do what you ask. Those are
my
conditions.”

“And I'm not dying in bed of old age,” Jarl added. “You have to promise I'll die heroically with a sword in my hand, or the deal's off.”

“It appears they have you over a barrel, your eminence,” Lut said, barely suppressing a grin.

Skuld glared at Dane with such fierceness he could feel the heat. “Very well, I promise to offer her freedom. But if you fail to kill Thidrek the Terrifying, the road for all three of you leads straight to Niflheim.”

Chapter 5
Dane Makes a Deal

K
ill Thidrek?” said Dane. “I thought I already did.”

“He seems to have become
un
dead,” Skuld said, “courtesy of our distant and despised cousin, the goddess Hel. When we snip a man's thread of life, it should stay snipped—and we severely disapprove of Hel interfering with our work by making the dead walk again. It sets a bad example.”

“Do you mean Thidrek has become . . . a draugr?” Lut inquired.

“He has. And he is in league with Niflheim's hag in some sort of nefarious business. He must be stopped.”

“Why can't you just snip Thidrek's thread of life again?” Jarl asked.

Skuld looked at Jarl as if that were the stupidest question she had ever heard, but she answered anyway. “Once a man has met his mortal fate, he is outside of our dominion. That is why Hel uses draugrs—the
un
dead—to sow her mischief on earth.”

“So basically, all you want is Thidrek dead for good,” Jarl said, interlocking his fingers, casually cracking his knuckles. “You've come to the right man. Because I will
personally
dispatch the draugr Thidrek. Tell me where he is and the deed is all but done.”

Again Skuld gave Jarl a withering glare. “Do you have any idea
how
to kill a draugr? Your weapons are useless against the undead. Draugrs are an altogether different animal, and to kill them you must use this.” From the folds of her robe Skuld produced a plump and shiny golden yellow apple, holding it aloft in the palm of her hand as if it were something of awesome magic.

“We hit him with fruit?” Jarl asked.

Skuld sighed in exasperation and said to Jarl, “I'm so glad
you're
not the brains of this outfit.” She turned to Dane and Lut, continuing. “Ordinary steel will not cut a draugr. Only an enchanted blade of otherworldly strength and sharpness will. There is but one man alive with the wile to craft such a blade. Déttmárr the Smith is his name. He is an aged dwarf who hovers near death. Bring him this apple of youth from Goddess Idunn's tree. Once he eats it, his youth will be restored and he will have strength again to forge your weapon. But you must not delay; his days dwindle.”

From Norse myth, Dane knew that Idunn's apples of youth were what kept the gods perpetually young. “Where do we find this Déttmárr?” he asked.

“Go to the Passage of Mystery,” she said. Before Dane could say another word, her image shimmered and became blindingly brilliant, forcing them to shield their eyes. An ear-shattering crack of thunder sounded, accompanied by a sudden rush of wind that almost knocked them off their feet. The light faded, and when they looked back she was gone—and so was the Book of Fate. For a moment all of them just stood there, bedazzled by the effects.

“She couldn't just disappear quietly?” said Jarl.

“Gods have to make big exits,” Lut explained, “so as to leave us puny humans in awe.” Dane looked down and saw he was holding the apple in his hand. Lut crossed to him, reaching for it. “Give it to me.”

Dane pulled it back from Lut's grasp. “Why?”

“Because our mission depends on its safe delivery to Déttmárr, and you will have enough on your hands leading us.”

“Who says
he's
leading us?” Jarl said.

“
I
do,” Dane said. “Because Astrid's fate depends on us killing Thidrek.”

“And if we
don't
kill him, I'm doomed to die of old age,” Jarl countered. “I have bigger stakes—
I'm
leading.”

This was the same argument they'd had since they were boys, vying for dominance, and Dane knew nothing would be solved until they were actually out on the quest and his leadership skills proved superior, as always was the case. So he proposed they share the command and Jarl grudgingly accepted. That settled, Dane said to Lut, “Where is this Passage of Mystery?”

“It is north of here, a week's ride.” Lut regarded the apple, and for an instant Dane saw a look of hunger flash across his face. “It would be safer in my custody,” Lut repeated.

“She put the apple in
my
hands,” Dane said. “Besides, we have to move fast. Which means, I'm afraid, you're not coming, Lut.”

“But I'm the only one who knows the way.”

“You'll draw us a map,” Dane said.

“A map? Hah! You'll need more than directions. You'll need wisdom,” Lut said. “And I have more of it in my left buttock than both your brains combined!”

“He has a point,” Jarl said.

Lut's wisdom had saved their skins more than a few times. But there was something worrisome about the old man's insistence on coming—like he had some other motive for being on the journey. “All right, Lut. But the first time you slow us up, you're going home.”

Lut told Dane and Jarl not to tell their fellow villagers the reason for their impending trip. Everyone in the village hated Thidrek, which meant they all would like a crack at killing him again. The elders would insist on a special meeting to elect who would go—and by the time the nominations and speeches and votes were finished, Déttmárr the Smith would probably be dead.

So it was kept secret, sort of. Two more men were needed to round out the party. The towering twins Rik and Vik Vicious were ideal candidates, but they were off representing the village at the semiannual bear-wrestling matches. Ulf the Whale was also unavailable, still sick from eating a vat of spoiled pickled herring. Although they weren't the first choice, Drott the Dim and Fulnir the Stinking eagerly agreed to come along. Dane figured that if Lut faltered along the way—which Dane thought highly likely—either Drott or Fulnir could make sure the old man returned home safely.

Thus, it would be a party of five, with Dane's pet raven, Klint, scouting the skies. Next morning the horses were saddled and they were set to leave when William appeared on foot, his bow and quiver of arrows slung over his back. Somehow he had discovered their plans. “Thidrek killed my parents and made me a slave. Of all of you,
I'm
the one who's suffered most at his hands. I'm coming—and if you don't agree, I'll steal a horse and follow you anyway.”

Knowing that the boy would make good on his threat, Dane gave in.

Right from the start, Lut knew they were in for trouble. He suggested they take the safer trail north that hugged the coast over flat terrain, then veered inland. Dane disagreed, saying, “Skuld insisted we not delay. We'll take the more direct route into the mountains.” Lut's warnings about the mountain route proved accurate. The trail was full of hard climbs and steep descents, yet Dane pushed the party on relentlessly.

Each morning he roused everyone before dawn to break camp and take to the trail, where he set a fast pace all day, refusing to stop and make camp until long after the sun had disappeared from view. Jarl did not challenge Dane to slacken the pace. Indeed, he was more insistent to quicken it to reach Déttmárr before the smith expired. And as the trek wore on and Dane drove everyone to the point of exhaustion, tempers began to fray. Even Dane's best friends, Fulnir and Drott, began to question his decisions, and at noon on the sixth day it all came to a head.

They stopped in the shelter of tall pines to water the tired horses and Lut dismounted, saying he felt the call of nature. Though perfectly true—the old man's bladder wasn't what it used to be—it was the burning sensation in his chest that had him worried, and he needed a private place in which to take his potion of powdered willow bark.

His chest pains had been growing ever more acute for days, and now his potion offered only limited relief. On the morning prior, Fulnir had spied Lut taking the bitter powder and out of curiosity asked what it was. “Oh, just something for the usual aches and pains,” Lut had assured him nonchalantly. Had Fulnir believed the lie? Lut didn't know. He hoped he had. With so much uncertainty now fraying their group, the last thing they needed was news of Lut's deteriorating health.

Because then Dane would leave him behind. Which would force Lut to reveal what he had read in the book. If he told them the
real
reason they were on this road, would they continue, knowing the horrible place it led? As Skuld had said, a person chooses his road of fate. And Lut had to make sure they kept to the road they were on. Or the world, and everyone they loved in it, would meet a very nasty end.

Once safely out of sight behind a tree, Lut took a pinch of powder from his leather pouch and swallowed it with water. The taste of it was wicked and he choked a bit getting it down. Strange how something so awful could have such power to do good. Thoughts of death stole over him, but he chased them away, forcing into his mind images of all his favorite foods and every woman he had ever loved, including all six of his wives.

Upon his return, he found Dane and Fulnir having heated words.

“We should make camp here,” Fulnir said. “The horses need rest—
we
need rest.”

“We're going on,” Dane said. “I want to reach the smith's by tomorrow.”

“Fulnir's right—we should camp here,” Drott said. “An extra day won't hurt us.”

Dane looked at his friends as if they had suddenly become his enemies. “An extra day? We delay for one
hour
and by the time we reach Déttmárr he could be dead. And thus any chance we have to bring Astrid back. So if you even care about that—”

“Of course we care,” Fulnir snapped. “We care for Astrid as much as you or we wouldn't be with you. But I say we camp here and get an early start in the morning.”

“
You
say? Has your stink-breeze gone to your brain?” mocked Dane, poking Fulnir in the chest. “Since when did you assume leadership?”

Lut saw Fulnir's jaw tighten in anger. “Maybe someone else has to, Dane. You'd ride us all over a cliff if it meant easing your guilt over Astrid.”

“Guilt—?”

Lut rushed forward and grabbed both of them by the arms before the fists started flying.

“The ache in my hip bone tells me a storm approaches,” Lut advised. “Here among the trees would be a fine place to shelter.”

Dane looked up at the blue sky, where nary a cloud was seen. “My eyes tell me your aching bones are wrong, old man. If you and the others are too tired to follow, then stay here. I'm going ahead.”

“So am I,” Jarl said. Without another word they mounted up and set off up the trail. William was gone, too, in a cloud of dust.

“Let them go,” Fulnir said. “I'm tired of being ordered around by Dane anyway.”

“If we don't go now, we'll never catch them,” Lut said. “Hurry, help me onto my horse.”

“Don't you understand? He doesn't
want
you along,” Fulnir said. “I think the only reason he asked me and Drott to come . . . was to take care of you.”

Of course Fulnir was right. But Lut knew the party
had
to stay together because all their fates were intertwined. Dane
needed
Lut, even if he didn't know it. Lut demanded to be put atop his horse, Fulnir reluctantly complied, and the three went galloping up the trail.

A light breeze from the west suddenly blew up, and as Lut rode on, the ache in his bones worsened, accompanied by a disturbing thought. He had read in the Book of Fate
how
and
when
he was going to die. But what if Skuld wished to punish him for reading his fate? A flick of her quill could easily change everything. He could die tonight, tomorrow, or even in the next moment. He felt a chill of terror at the awful realization that everything he'd thought was certain could now be anything but.

Distant thunder rumbled.
Oh, help me, Odin, for I fear I ride to catastrophe!