Ship of the Dead (5 page)

Chapter 6
Ship of the Dead

G
relf the Gratuitous trudged along the mosquito-infested riverbank realizing that he had reached a new low in his career as bootlicking lackey. Once he had been one of the top practitioners of his profession, serving as brownnosing yes-man to the rich and powerful.
Now look at me!
he despaired. Toady to a rotting corpse, the stinking undead, a cursed draugr. He was a disgrace to the Loyal Order of Sycophants. Was there even such an order, he wondered? If not, he made a mental note that he would have to start one.

“How long must we walk?” asked the draugr Thidrek, riding piggyback atop Grelf. “I thought you said the falls were but a mile or two inland.”

“I'm sure that dull roar we hear
are
the falls, my lord,” Grelf replied, short of breath. “They must be just around the next turn in the river.”

A local villager had told Grelf how best to reach the falls. They were to journey along the coastline until they came to a spot where three small islands lay immediately offshore. There they would find a river that flowed through a narrow gap in the mountains and emptied into the sea. Once they had found the river, Grelf and Thidrek left their horses on the beach and set off on foot—rather, on Grelf's two feet—with Grelf carrying a torch to light their way. “Do you suppose we might stop and rest?” Grelf implored.

“When we're so close?” Thidrek said. “Push on—a little faster if you will.”

“Of course, my lord,” Grelf mewled, plodding along the muddy riverbank through swarms of mosquitoes. He was the only source of blood in the immediate vicinity, so the insects greedily bit him about the face and hands, not even landing on Thidrek, whose veins were as dry as dust. Grelf started to feel faint from the exertion and blood loss. “Is it possible, my lord, that you could walk on your own for a while?”

“And foul my boots in the mud?”

“Right, sire, what was I thinking?”

“You'd just have to lick them clean anyway,” joked Thidrek.

“Of course, sir,” Grelf said with a forced chuckle, “you're so kind to spare me that.”

Back when Thidrek lived his princely life, one of Grelf's many duties in his castle had been to be sure his master's wardrobe was smart and spotless. “A tyrant must look stylish while terrorizing the populace,” Prince Thidrek would say. “One smudge of dirt and my image of invincibility is ruined.”

Now that Thidrek was undead, keeping up appearances was proving even more difficult. The main problem was masking the aroma of his slowly rotting body—a stench that even Thidrek could not endure for long. Grelf, being practiced in the alchemic arts—learned while concocting poisons to eliminate Thidrek's rivals—had turned his skills to perfumery. After several tries, he'd hit upon a concoction of conifer resin oil, myrtle, and crushed flowers that was powerful enough to offset the smell of rotting tissue, at least for a while.

“There it is!” Thidrek cried. Ahead in the moonlight Grelf saw a magnificent cascade of water, perhaps a hundred feet high, that thundered down over a mountain cleft into a deep, wide pool. He felt a swat on the back of his head. “Hurry, Grelf!”

Hurry?
It wasn't like the dead were going anywhere, Grelf wanted to tell him. But he hastened onward, struggling along the riverbank, and soon, gasping for air, arrived alongside the falls at the base of the mountain. Thidrek climbed down from his back and Grelf fell to his knees, exhausted. “What's wrong, Grelf? A little hard work too much for you?”

“Just a moment—to catch my breath—my lord.”

“Now, now, I won't have you slacking—not with us on the brink of success.”

They had been “on the brink of success” many times before, trying to find Hel's Ship of the Dead. For a whole week now they had been trudging up the coastline, exploring every river that emptied into the sea. Seven times they had gone upriver and seven times they'd found nothing. Grelf secretly hoped they would fail again; the last thing he wanted to see was more horrific draugrs.

Along the way Grelf had learned all about the legend of the Ship of the Dead. Centuries ago, Thidrek told him, when the gods were warring, Odin had sent a giant wave to destroy Hel's ship. It was said that the wall of water had swept the craft and its draugr crew to shore and all the way up a river, where at last it had sunk beneath or near a waterfall, and there it lay to this day, its magical secrets there for the taking. Grelf no longer believed there was such a ship, and even if there was, it seemed doubtful that they would ever find it.

Thidrek took the torch from Grelf. “We mustn't dawdle.” Grelf followed his master, edging toward the falls along the treacherous rocks slick with wet moss.

Thidrek disappeared from view, and Grelf realized he had slipped through a narrow gap between the curtain of water and the vertical rock face. For a moment Grelf considered fleeing, jumping into the river and letting the current take him down to where the horses were tethered. He would gallop away, taking the other horse too, and be free of his rotting lord!

But he hesitated a moment too long, and Thidrek's skeletal hand grabbed his collar and pulled him through the passageway. When his eyes adjusted, he saw he was now
behind
the waterfall, standing at the entrance to a gaping black cave.

“Weren't thinking of escaping, were you, Grelfie?”

“No, my lord! Never would I leave the side of my master.”

Still grasping Grelf's coat, Thidrek pulled him close. The stench was overpowering and Grelf almost gagged. “Good. Because if you ever did
leave my
side
, you would regret it.
Most
painfully.” Thidrek released him and started into the cave. Grelf followed like a slouching, whipped dog.

Entering the chamber, Grelf saw its dimensions were enormous—certainly large enough to accommodate a marooned warship.

“Keep a sharp eye for anything protruding from the sand,” Thidrek said. “If the ship is here, most likely it's buried.”

Farther into the cave they went, the roar of the waterfall dying behind them. If the ship was here, Grelf thought, the wave carrying it this far inland and this deep into the cavern had to have been truly monumental.

Grelf tripped over something and fell into Thidrek. “Idiot! Watch your—” He froze, his gaze fixed on the floor. Poking through the sand, illuminated in torchlight, was a long, pointed piece of wood, the very thing Grelf had stumbled over. Thidrek dropped to his knees and brushed away the sand from around it. The carved head of a strange beast began to appear.

“It's the figurehead!” Thidrek shouted. “We've found it!” Thidrek rose to his feet, done with his part of the manual labor. “Start digging, Grelf. Hurry!”

Grelf started scooping away handfuls of sand. Thidrek struck him hard across the ear.

“Faster! Make the sand fly!”

And Grelf did. He not only felt like a whipped dog, he dug like one too.

Soaked by the cold, relentless rains and feeling the ache of death upon him, Lut struggled to keep up with the pack. Though night had fallen, Dane had driven them onward across a vast and treeless plain that fell away from the mountains to the east. When the rains came, as Lut had known they would, they were caught out on the flat and shelterless expanse with no place to hide. On they rode in the punishing rainstorm, the once-dry streambeds now raging torrents that threatened to sweep horse and rider away. The worst, Lut feared, was yet to come. He spied the flashes of lightning in the distance, and with the accompanying booms of thunder growing louder, he knew Thor's fury drew nearer. Their one hope was to reach the far side of the plateau and find refuge before lightning charred them all.

Lut cursed Skuld and her book. He had embarked on this journey expecting to survive it. But now it seemed she was just playing with him—and could snip his thread of life at any moment. He prayed to Thor for mercy.
Stop this storm so I may live the night!

But mercy was not to be his. As Lut's horse crossed a creek swollen with rushing water, Thor at last found his mark. The night exploded with sudden light and sound, and the flash of lightning struck so near, the force of its heat scorched Lut's face and he lost his sight completely. Beneath him his panicked horse shrieked and reared—and Lut fell backward, still blinded, and his whole body went cold as he plunged into the icy waters of the creek. Caught in the swift current, he tumbled upside down underwater as it swept him on.

When at last he struggled to the surface, gasping for air and coughing up water, he had regained his sight and saw the creek had merged with another, far larger one. He was in a much stronger current, twice as deep, with the banks too far to swim to. Fighting it would be futile. Best save his strength for keeping his head above water as long as he could.

Swallowed by the blackness of the night and the fury of the river, he thought of surrender, of just letting go. Had he not journeyed life's arduous path long enough? He had lived twice as long as most men, and lived it as fully as possible, filling his days with both the bitter and the sweet.

He heard a dull, distant roar. He wondered what the sound was—then remembered that the plain they'd been crossing ended in a precipitous drop to a valley far below. That was where the current was taking him, over a cliff and hundreds of feet down to a violent and painful death. His reaction was one of instant indignation.

By the gods, no!
he railed.
Of all the indignities! A man my age does not deserve to die crushed upon rocks!

Spying the stream bank in a flash of lightning, Lut fought his way toward it. The roar of the water grew louder and the current gained strength as it was funneled toward the precipice. Weakening now, the pain like a knife in his chest, blinded again by the battering rain, Lut fought on, thrashing and splashing, bent on this not being his journey's end.

Another boom of thunder, and the surging river smashed Lut against a rock, his face scraping along it as the current swept him on. He clawed at it trying to find a handhold. But the rain-slick rock gave him no grip and off he slid, rushing toward the cliff. In a frenzy he spied another rock, looming just ahead at the cliff's edge. He came rushing toward it and made a desperate grab. Sliding across the rock, Lut's fingers found a crack in the rock—and miraculously held on. Fearing the fierce current would tear him away, he reached up with his other hand and soon found another handhold. Half submerged in icy water, and having a tenuous hold on the cold rock, he prepared to do the difficult work of pulling himself up and out of the river. But with the little strength he had left, it seemed impossible. He couldn't hold himself here forever; the current would soon take him. Climb he must, or at least die in the trying. He looked up at the rain-slick rock. No, he wouldn't climb just yet. He would rest here awhile. Yes, rest and wait. Perhaps the strength would come to him. Just hold on, Lut, hold on.

The sand became harder packed the deeper Grelf dug. Thidrek had lent him his knife to loosen the soil. Grelf stabbed at the earth, wishing it was Thidrek's face. His nails broken, his fingertips rubbed raw, he scooped out the loosened soil until he had exposed most of the monstrous figurehead on the ship's prow.

All Viking ships bore carved prow heads—often a dog, a dragon, or a wolf—to ward off attackers and to beseech the gods for protection. But this head was unlike anything Grelf had ever seen. It seemed a cross between a serpent and a cat, with a long curved neck and a scaly hide. Although it was ancient, the burial in the sand seemed to have preserved each finely carved detail. The beastly thing had two ears that lay back flat on its head, a long snout, and, protruding from its half-opened jaws, two tusklike fangs. Its eyes, deep set beneath its brow, were shut tight under heavy lids—but though both eyes were closed, Grelf had the eerie feeling that they might pop open at any moment. Just under its lower jaw, clutched in its two taloned paws, was an ornate horn, and the detail of this too seemed carved by an unearthly hand.

Thidrek cried, “Stop!” and Grelf immediately collapsed in the hole he'd made, too drained to climb out, part of him wishing that Thidrek would heap the disturbed soil back on top of him and let him die in peace. He waited. When nothing happened, he turned his head and saw his master was standing above him on the edge of the hole, peering intently at the prow beast. “I suggest you vacate the dig, Grelf—she may be hungry.”

Hungry?
Grelf did not hesitate to ask what Thidrek meant. He scrambled out of the hole and a good distance away from it. Thidrek stared into the eyes of the prow beast and intoned an incantation.

Sound the horn!

Awake the dead!

Bring foulness forth

And to the living dread!

For slaughter and havoc

O'er the earth shall spread!

There was the sound of wood creaking, like that of a ship at sea. Grelf watched in horror and fascination as the prow beast's brow began to twitch, awakened from her centuries of slumber. The creature's eyes shot open, glowing red. Her head came alive, growling and hissing. Her clawed paws brought the horn to the beast's mouth, and from the horn's bell came a thunderous bellow, a sound of such force it knocked Grelf back and made him cover his ears.

The earth behind the prow creature started to churn. A rusted sword blade thrust up from the sand like an insect's antenna, testing the air. A shrieking figure exploded from out of the sand as if catapulted. The thing sprang up and landed on its feet, facing them. It held the sword in its skeletal hand, a shield in the other, and from its death's-head mouth came a horrifying war cry. More draugrs shot from the earth in rapid succession and within moments had formed a shield wall as if preparing to defend their buried ship against a score of warriors. Grelf, huddling in terror behind the seemingly unruffled Thidrek, saw that their round wooden shields were rotted, some only half intact, and their weapons and armor were corroded and decayed with rust.