Ship of the Dead (8 page)

Dane tried to comment, but Déttmárr barreled on.

“And did you get a look at that she-witch of a wife I have downstairs? Answer me truthfully. Would you really want to live even a
day
with that woman? Can you imagine how I feel? Six hundred
years
I've been with her. I can't imagine another day with that creature, much less another ten years.”

“I heard that!” came the woman's voice from below.

“And I
meant
for you to hear it!” cried Déttmárr. And exploding in a fit of coughing, he collapsed back on the bed. “Go now. Let me die in peace.”

“No,” Dane insisted. “I'm not leaving without that weapon. Eat!” Dane took the dwarf's hand and placed the apple core in it.

The dwarf stared down at the core in his palm, then up at Dane and his friends. “You're not leaving till I try this, right?”

Dane nodded firmly. Déttmárr lifted the apple core to his nose and sniffed, making a face.

“It's just a little badger spit you're smelling—perfectly harmless,” said Lut.

“Go on,” said Dane. “Eat it.”

Déttmárr gave it a long look, then put it in his mouth and nibbled off a tiny piece of the golden peel. He chewed and swallowed, waiting for it to take effect. Nothing happened.

He took another bite. Still nothing.

“So much for your magic apple,” said Déttmárr. Dane saw the disappointment on the faces of Lut and Jarl, but he refused to give up. He gave a hard stare to the dwarf and watched as this time Déttmárr opened wide and bit off the whole top half of the apple core, stem and all. He chewed it all up and swallowed. Again they waited. Nothing. Dane felt his vitals go cold. Was this really the end of it? A failure before they even started? Déttmárr opened his mouth to eat the rest of the core—and suddenly froze. The core fell from his fingers to the bed, his mouth still stuck wide open.

The dwarf began changing right before their eyes. His white pallor disappeared and a new glow came into his cheeks, his skin turning rosy pink. The deep creases and wrinkles on his face and arms began to disappear as his flesh took on new firmness. The snow-white eyebrows turned dark gray, and fine shafts of new hair began to sprout atop his head. His eyes burned brighter and his beard too took on new color and shine. Dane couldn't find his tongue; what he was seeing was truly an act of the gods.

“
Now
do you believe me?” Lut asked the dwarf.

Déttmárr looked up in wonderment. “By Odin, I can feel it!” he cried, throwing off his blanket and jumping to his feet on the floor, gazing at his newly revitalized limbs. “I'm young again! I can breathe! I can walk! I can dance!”

Déttmárr danced about the room, hooting and shouting with glee and flinging his beard back and forth in front of him as if it were a dance partner.

“Quiet up there!” his wife shouted from below. “You're upsetting my roly-polies!”

This made Déttmárr laugh all the more. He suddenly patted the top of his head, elated to feel he was no longer bald. “Hair! I've
hair
again! Whoo-hoo!” Sent into new squeals of laughter, Déttmárr leaped into Dane's arms and planted a big wet kiss on his cheek. He then jumped to the floor and went scrambling down the stairs.

“Where's he going?” Jarl asked.

“Probably out to find a younger wife,” Lut said.

Chapter 9
A Burning Desire

D
éttmárr was itching to get to work again. Leaving Drott, Fulnir, and William behind with the she-dwarf, Dane, Lut, and Jarl followed Déttmárr down a passageway deeper into the subterranean depths until at last it opened into a vast, cavernous pit spanned by a crude suspension bridge. On the edge of the precipice was a sign that ominously read
pit of no return
.

“Um, Déttmárr? What's this sign mean?” Jarl asked.

The dwarf pointed down into the seemingly bottomless chasm. “
That's
the pit. And if you fall into it—”

“There's ‘
no return
'?” asked Jarl, grimacing.

The dwarf nodded and continued across the bridge. With this frightening thought in mind, Dane and his friends now followed him, stepping carefully on the wobbly wooden planks, edging around the gaps where some were missing. Adding to Dane's anxiety was the fact that the suspension ropes holding up the whole thing seemed to be frayed in places. It wasn't until they were halfway across it that he dared to look down.

His insides went cold. He was staring into a bottomless abyss, a blackness so dark and limitless, it made him feel dizzy.
Don't look down—you'll be all right,
he told himself. He took a deep breath, steadied himself, and continued on.

Crossing the chasm seemed to take forever, but when at last they reached the far side and were on solid footing again, Dane found himself breathing easily once more.

“Glad that's over with,” he heard Jarl say.

Déttmárr then led them to a gigantic iron door that he quickly unlatched and pushed open. “Behold,” said Déttmárr, “the Smithy of Yore.”

The spacious three-sided room had a smoke hole in the ceiling, and rising from the center of a stone floor was a round forge pit. On the walls hung various tools of the smith's trade—hammers, pokers, pincers, tongs—all blackened with soot and showing centuries of use. Shelves were jammed with jars and lidded pots filled with various clays, powders, and brightly colored metallic nuggets. Three anvils sat atop small stone platforms, and the air was thick with the smell of leather and smoke and exotic odors both pleasing and unpleasant. On the far wall was the stoking furnace itself, its large iron doors darkened with age.

The little man found a piece of chalk and squatted in front of them. “A draugr-killing blade must be of special design,” he said as he began drawing on the floor. “The undead are a unique breed of hellion. They're no easy prey. They're fast and ferociously strong. You'll need something with a long handle and a good-size killing surface. Something like this.” He pointed to the chalk drawing he'd finished..

“What is it?” asked Jarl.

“A double-sided crescent axe,” said Déttmárr. “Heavier than the usual war axes, but far deadlier if you know how to use it. The long handle lets you swing it around like this so you can put the power of your whole body behind it. And the elongated blade increases the chances for decapitation in just one stroke. Remember, a draugr is wicked quick. You'll have one chance to cut off his head. Miss him and you're likely to lose your own head in the bargain.”

Lut and Jarl swung the mold stone out of the now hot furnace and down onto the floor beside the forge pit. The mold was in the shape of a large, double-bladed crescent axe, and there within it lay the liquefied steel, gleaming bright orange, still a-bubble and smoking and destined to deliver death to the undead.

Déttmárr stood over the molten metal, dropping items one by one into it. “The wing feather of a sparrow hawk for speed . . . wolverine claws for ferocity . . . a bear's belly hair for strength . . . the eye of an eaglet for true aim . . . .” As each item hit the bubbling liquid and was incinerated, it gave a hiss and sent up a tiny puff of smoke, its essence fusing with the molten mixture.

“And ten droplets of elk's milk for . . . for . . . oh, I forget what it's for but I know it's necessary for some reason.” Déttmárr uncorked a tiny blue glass vial and dribbled out ten drops of pale liquid into the mold. Although he had never tasted any himself, Dane had heard tales of trollfolk curatives that called for the milk of a mother elk, and so the sight of it here only made him marvel at the mysteries of life even more.

“And now for the real magic,” Déttmárr said, and hopping up onto the rim of the forge pit hole, he yelled down into it. “Gregor! I've a blade for your fire!”

The sound they heard chilled Dane's blood. It was a cross between an angry grumble and a beastly roar, and it shook the very ground on which they stood.

“Wha-what's that?” Jarl asked.

“That's Gregor, my fire giant,” said Déttmárr with a sly smile. “My secret to forging magic weapons. Gregor was a gift from Odin for my crafting Gungnir, his spear that never misses. This was, oh, three, four hundred years ago, if memory serves.”

“
Fire
giant?” said Dane, sounding only slightly less nervous than Jarl. “Dangerous, aren't they?”

“Not if you do as you're told—
exactly
as you're told. Now, who is going down to feed him?”

Dane followed Lut down the stone steps into the dimly lighted chamber. He caught sight of the giant and he felt the hairs on his neck stand on end. The thing was ghastly to behold, and for a moment all Dane could do was stand and stare, letting his eyes adjust to the light. The fire giant had been curled up in the corner, but now he stood and stretched and stared down at them with a mixture of curiosity and vexation.

The height of two grown men, the creature had long hairy arms that ended with hands nearly as large as his head, and his whole body was dusted in soot. His squarish head seemed to be set right into his shoulders with no neck whatsoever, and his large, heavily lidded eyes took a long moment to focus. He was thickset around the middle, but all of it muscle, and the tattered animal skins that were tied around his waist did little to cover his sinewy thighs and haunches.

The giant opened his mouth to yawn, and out between his thick, rubbery lips oozed a stream of black drool that dribbled down into the dark hair on his chin, and when the creature lifted his arm to wipe it away, Dane saw a black smear appear on the back of the fire giant's hand. It was then he noticed that certain parts of the giant's skin were translucent—you could see tiny bursts of flame shoot through his limbs and flare up in his belly, then vanish as fast as they appeared.

The sight of it thrilled him but frightened him too. Dane had seen frost giants before—had fought them and been fascinated by the sight of behemoths made entirely of ice. But this was entirely new to him—a creature made of flesh that ate and breathed fire? Déttmárr had told them that the giant's fiery breath could produce a flame three times hotter than that of any earthbound fire, and that it was this magic potency that would imbue the blade with its killing power.

Above, there came a cry from Déttmárr. “Start feeding him! But not too much at a time!”

“Hungry, big boy?” Lut asked the giant, grinning with ease and showing no fear. The giant gave a growl and eagerly watched as Lut went to the grate in the wall. He yanked open the metal door, and out spilled hot coals. The sight of the glowing embers excited the fire giant, and he lunged forward, straining against the chains that bound his arms and legs.

Getting down on his haunches, Gregor pushed his head toward them as far as it would go and opened his mouth, showing his blackened and half-broken teeth, the black drool again dripping. It was spit filled with soot and ash, Dane realized, no doubt due to his diet, and as disgusting as it was to look at, Dane knew to the giant it was as natural as oats to a horse.

Lut lifted a shovelful of glowing coals and, stepping closer to the giant's open maw, flung it upward into his mouth. The giant snapped his jaws shut, chewing with obvious delight, wisps of smoke escaping his lips as he crunched loudly on the coals and moaned in pleasure. He gulped down the whole mouthful in one swallow, and Dane was amazed to see a faint orange glow under his skin as the coals slid down his throat and into his belly. The giant licked his lips and again opened his mouth wide, eager for more. Lut tossed up another shovelful, and again the giant ate and swallowed, a small fire growing more visible in his belly.

Dane took a shovel, and he too began to feed the fire giant, marveling at the speed with which the giant could chew and swallow and even more amazed by the simple fact that it didn't burn his mouth! The more he ate, the brighter the glow from his innards, and tendrils of black smoke were now pouring from his mouth and his nostrils. Five, six, seven shovelfuls of coal he consumed and
still
the fire giant wanted more.

Dane gave him an eighth, and the giant patted his belly to see if he was hot enough yet. Deciding he was, Gregor tilted back his head and blew a great fireball of flame straight up the flue.

“Yes, Gregor!” Dane heard Déttmárr cry from above. “Keep it coming!” Again and again the giant roared, and up shot more columns of flame, each one higher and hotter than the last. And with each flame he blew, the giant's eyes bulged a bit bigger and turned a brighter shade of orange and the smoke poured from him in greater abundance. The room was so hot, Dane was sweating from every pore. Beside himself, Lut hooted and hollered, cheering the giant on, and when the creature finally stopped blowing fire, it was Lut who called to Gregor and instantly offered him another shovelful of coals, as if daring him to continue just for Lut's own entertainment.

Déttmárr yelled down to stop feeding him—that the blade had reached its desired heat and it was time to go—but Dane and Lut were no longer listening. They were locked in a contest to see who could shovel faster and who could endure the heat longer. Coughing on the sooty smoke that filled the room, his arms tiring in the overpowering heat, Dane was having trouble keeping up, but Lut seemed driven to dominate, determined to prove himself the better man, and his cocksureness was starting to irritate Dane.

And then it happened.

While trying to swallow, the giant choked and grabbed his throat. He issued a strangled cry of pain and all the hair on his face and head ignited, flaring up in a flash. His eyeballs too burst into flame, and at this the giant flew into a rage, stamping his feet on the stone floor. He roared in anger and shot a column of flame straight at Lut and Dane, which they just managed to duck. But this flame, Dane was disturbed to notice, was nearly all white with a tinge of yellow round the edges, and Dane sensed this was trouble.

The next thing he and Lut knew, by accident the fire giant blew the searing-white flame at the rusted iron chain that held his right arm. The iron instantly melted, soft as butter, the flame being so unearthly hot, and in a blink the giant had yanked the chain off his wrist. Puzzled by the sight of his arm now free, he stared at it, unsure of what to do. But soon, his reason got hold of him, and quick as lightning he reared back and blew fire over the chain on his left wrist. That too melted away. With both arms free, he turned to Dane and Lut with a terrifying look that said:
I want to kill you.