Ship of the Dead (7 page)

Dane knew those eyes; he had looked into them countless times before.

“Lut?”

The man nodded but then broke into a smile, eager to share his secret. “Dane, it was amazing! I was so weary of my frailties and fearing death, I couldn't resist. From the first bite of the apple I felt so alive again, the vitality of youth flowing through me, my aches and pains vanishing. I grew straighter. Taller. My hair grew back. And look, I've got teeth now!” He grinned to show his rows of strong white teeth. “And muscles everywhere!” Lut pulled back his sleeve, showing his arm bulging with hard sinew. He picked up a stone and threw it over the pond out of sight. “I could brain a squirrel from two hundred paces—I could outrun a deer! And fighting? Well, you saw how I handled myself. When you came at me I didn't know it was you at first. And when I saw it
was
you, I had to end it before you were hurt. Again, forgive the kick.”

Dane lay stupefied, unable to speak. Lut a young man again? To see him standing before him, broad shouldered and brimming with youth and vitality—it was amazingly . . .
awful
! How could his most trusted friend be so monumentally selfish? How could he eat the apple that was meant for Déttmárr? Unbelievable! “You delight in your youth—but what of Astrid? Now we have nothing to revive the smith with!”

“I didn't eat the
whole
apple. Just a nibble. There should be more than enough for Déttmárr.” Lut turned to the pond, gazing with appreciation at his reflection.

“Just what we need, another Jarl,” Dane said with venom.

Lut swiveled his gaze to meet Dane's. “How long have I listened to your woes, soothed your troubles? Advised you, consoled you?
Once
I wish to relieve
my
pain—soothe
my
fears—and you have nothing but contempt for me.”

Dane jumped to his feet. “Don't try and turn this around and make
me
the selfish one. You had this planned since Skuld gave me the apple. That's why you wanted to carry it!” Lut waved his hand as if replying to this accusation was beneath his dignity. “Show me the apple,” Dane ordered.

“Very well,” Lut said with a sigh. He patted his cloak and pockets. “I had it somewhere . . .”

“Where is it!”

“It must've fallen out while we were tussling.” They looked around on the ground but saw nothing. Then came a rustling in the nearby bush. Dane motioned for silence and crept toward it. Out sprang a hissing badger, the core of the apple clenched in its jaws. The ferocious beast held its ground, not about to relinquish its newfound booty. Hearing Lut cry his name, Dane turned in time to see Lut tossing him his sword. Dane caught the hilt of the sword and turned back to the badger, meaning to make short work of it, but the animal had the good sense to flee, scampering away with the precious fruit in its mouth.

“After him!” Dane cried. They gave chase across the forest floor, the low-slung badger darting to and fro, barely avoiding swipes from Dane's blade. Lut threw his knife and missed. Dane made a desperate throw with his sword but hit a tree. Dane saw the beast move toward its burrow hole and knew if it went underground, the apple was lost. He made a last-ditch dive, grabbing the badger by its hind legs as it plunged into the hole.

Dane yanked the beast out and it attacked with its legendary fury, biting and slashing him with its razor-sharp claws and teeth. In its rage the animal dropped the apple, and Dane grabbed it and rolled it away. A well-aimed rock thrown by Lut struck the beast a glancing blow. It hissed and snarled, but then, deciding the prize wasn't worth the fight, the badger whipped round and disappeared down its burrow hole.

His face scratched, his hand bleeding from the badger's vicious bites, Dane examined the apple, wiping off the badger spit. All that was left was the core and a little part near the stem. “There's not enough here to revive an elderly dung beetle,” Dane bemoaned.

“But the core is most potent,” Lut said. “Besides, Déttmárr, being of diminutive stature, will require less.”

Dane fixed Lut with an accusatory eye. “How much exactly did
you
eat?”

“As I said, a nibble.”

“And the badger ate the rest,” Dane said skeptically.

“No wonder he was so ferocious,” Lut reasoned.

“As opposed to other badgers that are shy and meek,” said Dane. He heard footsteps, turned, and saw Jarl, Fulnir, and Drott approaching. They stopped a few feet away and warily eyed the black-haired stranger.

“Who is that?” Jarl asked Dane.

“Someone I thought I knew,” Dane said, walking away.

A moment later he heard Drott exclaim, “Lut! Is that you? You're—you're un-bent!”

Dane returned to the cave, cursing this new complication. As he approached, he saw something glinting in the grass. He stopped and reached down for it and saw the Thor's Hammer locket upon the broken chain. His heart began to pound. Could it be true? His dream of Astrid hadn't been a dream at all.

Chapter 8
Dwarfed by a Mystery

D
ane was glad to be on the move again. The air was warm, the skies were bright with promise, and an encouraging wind blew at their backs as they headed to their rendezvous with the ancient swordsmith.

Lut was elated. So excited was he to be once again in the full flower of youth, Lut could not stop talking. The man had the vigor of a roaring river as he jogged alongside the horses, insisting he felt too good to ride. Lut's memory had returned to him as well, and he hooted with glee, remembering the name of the first girl he'd ever kissed—Hlífey the Quiet—and the favorite insult of his older brother, Freybjörn the Foulmouth: “You dog-livered dung heap!”

For his entire life, Dane had only known Lut to be gray of hair and bent of frame, his voice a thin rasp. And now there he was, erect, feisty, his voice booming with the command of an energetic man of twenty, and Dane still felt it strange to see.

At midmorning, reaching the northern edge of the plain, Dane gazed down into the dry, rock-strewn valley below and halted everyone. He heard the murmurs of his friends as they too now sighted what he had seen cut into the cliffside on the far side of the valley floor: a narrow black crevice, cut like a long jagged scar from the ground to the sky.

“Well, there it is,” said Lut. “The Passage of Mystery.”

“Doesn't look too mysterious to me,” Jarl said. “Sure this is it, Lut?”

“In my sixty-fifth year,” Lut said, “my third wife and I journeyed past here on the way to her home village. I remember it clearly.”

“How can you remember forty years back when you're only in your twenties now?” Jarl shook his head in disbelief. “Am I the only one boggled by that?”

“Just because I
appear
young like you,” Lut said, “does not mean I am equally brainless. My wisdom is intact. Perhaps, if you stop being so damned sure of yourself—impulsively leaping into every fight without a thought—you may live long enough to acquire some.” Dane laughed and Lut turned on him. “That goes for you, too.” He looked back at Drott, Fulnir, and William. “
And
you.” Lut moved off down the trail.

“He may look young, but he's still a cranky old fart,” Jarl said. No one disagreed.

Soon they had crossed the valley floor and now stood at the doorstep of the crevice. The rock walls soared up in a V shape, and the trail at the bottom was so narrow that they had to picket the horses and proceed single file on foot. An eerie, moaning wind blew through the crevice, and the deeper into it they went, the more dread Dane felt. The looks of unease on his friends' faces told him they shared his fears. Klint also seemed to be spooked. Riding atop Dane's shoulder, he took wing, flying back toward where they had left the horses. Lut, though, seemed not to have a care in the world, and he led them at a good clip, whistling merrily.

They came to where the passage forked into two deep, tight channels. Without hesitation, Lut took the right one and everyone dutifully followed. Then they came to another fork, then another, and each time without so much as a pause, Lut chose which way to go. Dane started to sense that they were going in circles, first north, then west, then south, going
back
the way they had started. It was as if they were caught in a high-walled maze, an endless loop they would never escape. They came to where the trail forked off into another channel again, and Dane ordered everyone to halt.

“We've already come past here,” Dane said. “We're lost, Lut, admit it.”

Lut sighed in exasperation, like a parent growing weary of his complaining children. “Would you doubt me if I still looked like the old Lut?”

“That's just it. You're not the old Lut,” Dane said. “And now
you're
the one who's so damn sure of himself. In case you haven't noticed, we've been walking in circles.”

“Do you see that?” Lut pointed to a spot on the rock wall, two feet from the ground.

Dane looked; there was nothing but bare rock. “What?”

“If you were familiar with dwarfish symbology, you would see a sign that directs us to Déttmárr's lair.”

Dane and Jarl bent down and saw faint scratchings in the rock. Jarl asked, “Why is it so low to the—oh, right. Dwarves are short.”

“Any more questions?” Lut asked. “Or can we continue—quiet!” Lut tensed, listening. There was a tinkling sound. They looked up and saw a few pebbles cascading down the rock wall. The pebbles showered down, a few of them bouncing painfully off heads, coming to rest on the ground. The round little stones unfurled like sow bugs and scurried away on tiny legs.

“What in Odin's name is that?” Fulnir exclaimed.

“An unknown species of hard-shelled insect, I'd say,” replied Lut. “I'd like to grab one for my collection.”

A high, shrieking cackle echoed throughout the crevice. It seemed to come from above. Dane glimpsed a tiny, wrinkled face fringed with a wild fuzz of hair peering down at them from atop the crevice.

Then
boom—boom—boom!
came another cascade of spherical rocks. These were much larger, maybe half the size of a Viking shield—capable of crushing a human head. “Run!” Lut cried. They did, dashing for their lives up the tight passageway as the hail of deadly stones crashed down upon them, and only by sheer luck were they saved. Dane looked back and saw the “rocks” unfurl like the pebbles had and scurry away down the crevice floor, disappearing around a turn.

Another shrieking cackle came from above. “Care for another round of my roly-polies?” They could now see the wrinkled visage of an ancient she-dwarf leaning over the edge.

Lut cupped his hands and yelled up, “We come in peace to see Déttmárr the Smith!”

“He is close to death and will see no one. Go away!” Another of the “roly-polies” careened down, barely missing Dane, who leaped out of the way.

“I'm tired of these things!” Jarl said, drawing his sword. He hacked at its shell, but his blade just bounced off, and the mammoth insect unfurled and scurried away.

“If he is near death, let us pay our respects,” Lut yelled up. “We bring a special gift.”

“A gift? Is it gold?” said the she-dwarf eagerly, her interest piqued.

“Yes! We bring gold!” Lut lied. “Lots of it!”

“Well, why didn't you say that before? Come forward!”

They hurried up the crevice, and before long they came to where it dead-ended at an ancient, massive door. Jarl pounded on it with the pommel of his sword. A small hatch opened at knee height and the she-dwarf barked from it, “Show me the gold!”

“I'll be happy to if you open the door,” Lut said.

The she-dwarf paused like she was thinking it over. “This better not be a trick.” They heard a scrape. Slowly the door opened, revealing the face of the very tiny and very weathered old woman.

“Well? Produce the gold!” she rasped. Lut pushed in past her, as did everyone else, entering a low-ceilinged rock chamber lit by torches. It was a cozy-size living area about half the size of Dane's own hut. It had pictures on the rock walls, a hearth fire, a table and chairs—albeit tiny ones—and ancient wooden shelves holding dozens of soapstone pots and jars filled with what Dane surmised were herbs and root vegetables and dried flowers and such. The place had a rather ripe odor, and looking around for the source of the smell, Dane saw a dozen or more roly-polies of various sizes penned off in an adjoining room.

“Trespass! Trespass!” she screeched. “Who gave you permission to enter?”

“Madam, we mean you no harm,” Lut said. “We must see Déttmárr immediately.”

“Not until I see the gold you have brought!”

“Very well,” said Lut. “But what we bring is infinitely more valuable than the shiny metal you seek.” He nodded to Dane, who then brought out the apple core, showing it to her lying in the palm of his hand as if it were a precious jewel.

She gazed at it, her wrinkled brow becoming even more wrinkled, which Dane had thought impossible. “You have to be joking.”

“Madam, I assure you I am not,” Lut said. “If you'll just lead us to—”

The she-dwarf grabbed a fireplace poker and smacked Lut in the shin. He let out a yell, hopping in pain. She then smacked Dane with it, and the apple core flew from his hand into the fire. Screeching at the top of her voice, she chased Jarl, Drott, Fulnir, and William around the room. They tried to hide behind the furniture, but it was so tiny it didn't afford much cover. Meanwhile, Dane crawled to the fireplace and grabbed the apple core off a burning log, singeing his hand.

Amid the pandemonium, a voice sharper and deeper than the others in the room pierced the din like a knife.

“Give me
SILENCE
!” Everyone froze, falling quiet. “Can a dying man not have
peace
!”

“Oh, be quiet, you old fool,” the she-dwarf cried. She sighed in exaggerated defeat, then shot a look at Dane. “Well, go on! What are you waiting for, an invitation from Odin? You came for him—there he is!” She pointed behind him. Dane turned and saw a beaded curtain hung against the wall. Stepping closer, he drew the curtain aside to find that behind it was the narrowest of passageways leading up a steep, curving stairway.

With Dane in the lead, Lut and Jarl climbed the stairway. Soon they reached what Dane took to be a bedchamber, a conclusion he drew from the fact that there was a giant bed in the room. It was nothing but a straw-stuffed dirty mattress covered with a thick woolen blanket. The room itself was covered floor to ceiling with handmade wooden shelves holding hundreds of shining trinkets, and there were half a dozen lighted candles surrounding the bed. As Dane's eyes adjusted to the candlelight, he saw that a body lay beneath the blanket, its head propped on a pillow. A bare twig of a man, it was a dwarf not much larger than the old she-dwarf. The candlelight glimmered off the dome of his round, bald head and lit the outline of his ginger-colored beard that grew like a bush long past his knees.

“Have you come to watch me die?” said the diminutive figure, his voice deep and sonorous despite his obvious illness. For such a small man, he had a very big voice. Feeling more welcome now, they drew nearer to the bed. The sight of the smith's centuries-old face nearly took Dane's breath away. So shriveled and shrunken was he, his pale skin mottled with age spots and falling in folds from his face and arms, it seemed he was more a dried-up piece of fruit than a man. His head was large for his body, and tufts of white hair grew from his protruding ears. Beneath an unruly thatch of eyebrows were his deep-set eyes, one green and the other blue. Though their sparkle was near spent, they were the kindest eyes Dane had ever seen.

“Déttmárr,” Lut softly said. “We have come to help save you.”

“Big words, for one so young,” said Déttmárr.

“We have come from the village of Voldarstad to ask you a favor,” Lut said.

Déttmárr waved his hand weakly in the air. “I'm six hundred and nineteen years old. Give or take. Too old to be doing any favors.”

“But it's gravely important that you make us a weapon,” Dane said. He told him of Skuld and how they had been dispatched to kill the draugr Thidrek the Terrifying.

“A draugr-killing blade, you say? Try another smith. I am but a wasted shell waiting to die.”

The old dwarf gave a pained groan. He lay there motionless. For a moment Dane feared he might be dead. He shook him lightly by the shoulders. “Please! Skuld said you alone are the one to make our blade!”

Déttmárr's eyes snapped open. “Did you not
hear
me? I'm too old and tired!”

“But that's why we're here,” Lut said. “I, too, was ancient. Death was on my doorstep. But I ate a magic apple that restored me to—”

Jarl broke in. “We don't have time for this.”

“
You
don't have time?” said the dwarf. “
I'm
the one who's dying.”

“But that's what I'm trying to tell you—we have a remedy!”

“Hah! There is no remedy for old age. Potions! Lotions! Spells! Bewitchments! I've tried them all. I even fasted on nothing but berry juice and ox vomit for an entire month. Nothing works! Nothing stops the ravages of time—neither man nor dwarf nor gods above.”

“Listen, dwarf, if you don't make the weapon and we don't kill Thidrek,” Jarl explained, “then I'm doomed to die in bed like you. And that's
not
going to happen. Give him the apple, Dane.”

Jarl had a way of getting to the point. Dane held up what was left of the apple core, the last remnants of the partially blackened golden skin around the top and bottom gleaming in the candlelight. “An apple from the tree of Idunn. Or what's
left
of it,” said Dane, glancing then at Lut.

Déttmárr stared intently at the apple core, his eyes shining brighter. “It is told,” he whispered with new gravity, “that Idunn's apple holds the power to restore life. And if a man were to eat one, he would be magically rejuvenated in mind and body, perhaps even made young again.”

Lut said, “So what are you waiting for? Look at me! I went from a man over a century old to one of merely twenty!”

“That may be so,” said the dwarf, soberly absorbing Lut's words. “But with so little of it left to eat, I doubt it would have much effect on one as old as me.”

“But you're a dwarf!” said Dane. “You won't need as much. We have to try!”

“I don't
have
to do anything,” Déttmárr snapped. “It is my life. I will choose whether to eat of it or not to eat of it.”

“But why wouldn't you?”

“Because I'm done with life, that's why. The wars, the treachery, the cruelty, the tears. Do you know how many times someone has come and told me that the world was ending and I just
had
to forge a weapon to kill a demon or draugr or some other denizen of the underworld? Too many times, that's how many!”