Ship of the Dead (9 page)

Chapter 10
The Black Abyss

A
strid walked with Mist through the grove of gold-leafed trees in Asgard. She told her sister of her meeting with Dane and of his mission to kill the draugr Thidrek and free her from her Valkyrie servitude. “Pigheaded fool!” she said. “He is risking the lives of all his friends by going on.”

“His friends are risking their
own
lives,” Mist said, “for they love you too, and want you returned to the fold.”

“All right,” admitted Astrid, “it's a group effort in in- sanity. Damn that Skuld! First she conspires to make me join the sisterhood. Then she barters my freedom to get my village kin to do her bidding! I should register a complaint with Odin.”

“You'll do no such thing!” Mist gasped. “Our job is to ferry the dead, not mix ourselves in godly affairs. If Skuld learned you were going to the gods behind her back, she'd make you pay dearly. You'd be lucky to be a serving wench in Odin's hall.”

“What am I to do, then? I can't just look the other way while Dane and the others traipse into mortal danger.”

“Whatever you do, you must be careful,” Mist said. “If it were known you still loved a mortal—”

“I do
not
love him,” Astrid said with determination, as if trying to convince herself. But she saw that Mist knew the truth. Astrid sighed. “When I became a Valkyrie, why didn't they take away my feelings for him?”

“Even the gods can't do that.”

“They give us a horse that flies yet can't free us from loving someone?” Astrid complained. “Where's the logic in that?” They walked for a while, thinking of the predicament. A light breeze ruffled the golden leaves, making a sound much like music. Then Astrid halted, seized with an idea.

“I'll kill Thidrek myself!” she blurted.

Mist looked at Astrid as if her sister's winged helmet had somehow cut off circulation to her brain. “Kill Thidrek?
You
?”

“Once Dane has the draugr-killing blade, I'll steal it and behead Thidrek. Then Dane and the others will
have
to return home!”

“Should I tell you
again
what our job is?” Mist said. “We ferry dead; we don't
make
the dead! We're Shield Maidens, not killers.”

“But I'm not killing someone who's alive,” Astrid explained. “He's half alive, or half dead, or undead, whatever you call it. Besides, doesn't Skuld
herself
want Thidrek eliminated?”

Mist thought for a moment. “You're not dragging me into this.”

“I know. I'm doing this on my own.”

“Your own? Killing a draugr is a two-Valkyrie job.”

“Well, if you'd
like
to come along . . . ,” Astrid said, “I won't stop you.” They walked from the grove, Mist grumbling that when this was over
both
of them would most likely be lowered in rank to serving wench.

Dane and Lut threw down their shovels and ran in panic up the stone steps to the smith's forge. Dane glanced back and saw Gregor had already melted one leg chain and was working on the other.

Entering the forge, they saw that the dwarf and Jarl had already fled out the iron door that led to the bridge. As Dane and Lut emerged outside, the dwarf and Jarl were hurrying across it. Jarl carried the newly forged crescent axe.

Wasting no time, Dane and Lut hastened to follow them. As they looked back, they saw the giant had burst through the smithy doorway and now stood at the edge of the bridge, his translucent skin glowing a bright orange. The giant roared and tentatively placed one foot on the bridge, testing if it would hold him.

“No! Gregor, go back!” Dane yelled. “It won't hold you!”

The giant wasn't listening or didn't understand. His other foot stepped onto the bridge, causing one of the frayed suspension ropes to snap. The bridge swayed violently, and everyone was thrown off their feet. The handle of the draugr-killing axe slipped from Jarl's hands, falling onto the wooden planks. As Jarl grabbed for it, the giant took another step, jarring the bridge again. The handle of the blade fell through a gap between the planks. It hung there just by the edge of the blade. If the blade turned an inch, the axe would be gone.

Dane and Lut crawled on their hands and knees across the planks. Behind them, the giant kept coming. He was only three or four steps away. The bridge gave another shudder. Dane heard a grunt, looked back, and saw Gregor's foot had broken through the planks and was stuck. He bellowed in rage. Flames shot from his mouth into the suspension ropes.

Which immediately burst into flames.

The flames spread rapidly upward, as if the ropes were but dry grass. Dane and Lut gained their footing, moving as fast as they could—but again they were thrown off their feet and nearly over the side as the bridge shook and swayed from the giant's violent actions trying to free his trapped foot.

Ahead of him, Dane saw Jarl crawling toward the axe, one point of its blade caught on the edge of a plank, trying to reach it before it fell between the planks and was gone.

Gregor growled in frustration, flames shooting from his mouth, lighting the wooden planks between him and Dane on fire. The flames quickly ignited the rope holds on both sides of the bridge. Finally the giant jerked his foot free and was on the move again across the fiery planks.

Dane looked back and saw the giant coming on. “He's gaining!” he cried to Lut, who was crawling in front of him. Then one of the rope holds gave way and the bridge flipped completely over.

Everyone hung precariously in midair, including the giant, their hands grasping the remaining intact rope. Ahead of Dane and Lut, Jarl was hanging by one hand; in the other he held the crescent axe. Déttmárr had already made it to solid ground on the other side of the bridge.

“Don't drop the axe!” Dane yelled.

“Easy for you to say,” Jarl yelled back. “I can't hang here forever!”

“Throw me the axe!” the dwarf shouted.

“It's too far—I can't make it.”

“Do you want to die in bed an old man?” Dane yelled.

“You know I don't!”

“Then throw the axe!” Dane cried.

Jarl let the axe fly. It tumbled end over end; Déttmárr reached out as far as he could, his toes at the edge of the abyss. He caught the handle—then lost his balance, teetering on the edge. He pirouetted, desperately grabbing for a handhold. He fell backward and was going over when a tiny, gnarled hand grabbed a hank of his beard.

His ancient wife pulled him up to safety. “You're not leaving me!” she spat. “I don't care
how
young you are!”

Drott, Fulnir, and William now appeared on the other side, cheering their friends on. Dane and Lut pulled themselves along, hand over hand, trying to escape the flames that were rapidly spreading their way. With both hands free, Jarl did likewise.

Dane glanced back and saw the giant swinging hand over hand, gobbling up space between them—and on his face was that murderous look he had given them before. The look that said,
If I am to die, I am taking you with me.

Dane did the only thing he could do. He took one hand off the rope above and grabbed his knife from his belt. It was a pitiful weapon against a fire giant, but it was all he had. Gregor closed in and made a grab for Dane, who plunged his knife deep into the giant's hand. Gregor jerked his hand back and gave Dane an angry look. Dane knew a fireball from the giant's mouth would incinerate him in the next instant.

The bridge broke in two. Suddenly Dane felt weightless. He was falling . . . falling into the Pit of No Return. How long before he hit bottom? If there
was
a bottom. Then—surprise—his body jerked to a sudden stop, and he hung there in midair, watching a fireball below him go spinning down into the blackness of the abyss. It was Gregor, he realized. The firelight grew dimmer and dimmer until it was but a barely visible cinder . . . and then all was black.

Dane now noticed he was hanging upside down. His leg was caught in the bridge rigging. This was what had saved him. The bridge hung limply, its end still attached to the edge of the chasm above. Above him he saw Lut hanging on—and above Lut he saw Jarl crawling up the rope ladder to the top.

“The lesson to be learned here,” Lut said, “is
never
overfeed a fire giant.”

“I'll remember that,” Dane said.

Back in the smith's living quarters, Déttmárr sat laying the double-sided axe blade against a spinning whetstone, sharpening her up, or, as Déttmárr called it, “giving the lady her teeth.”

In an adjoining room, Lut consulted the runes. Now that they had the draugr-killing blade, they needed to know the location of the draugr they wished to kill. Lut drew out a leather pouch and upended the many runes—flat, coin-size pieces of bone—into his hand. On one side of each piece was scratched a different symbol of the runic alphabet. Dane and the others watched in silence as Lut closed his eyes and began to chant the names of his forefathers. He threw the runes into the air and let them fall to the floor. No one spoke. Some pieces fell rune side up, some rune side down. Lut studied the arrangement, trying to make sense of the message. Dane had seen Lut do this on countless occasions—but from Lut's quizzical expression, it seemed that this time he was stumped.

“What's the matter?” Dane asked. “Forgotten how to read the runes?”

“I've not forgotten,” Lut snapped. “One doesn't forget what's in his bones. The runes are the whispers of the gods. Maybe if you'd hush up I could
hear
them.” As Lut continued to peer at the rune pieces, trying to penetrate the mystery, Dane wondered if youth had perhaps robbed him of his venerable god sight. A long moment later, Lut's face lit up. “Aha. ‘Three brothers.'”

“‘Three brothers'?” Dane asked. “What's that mean?” Lut's eyes returned to the runes, peering at them with the same pained expression he got when constipated.

“Three . . . brothers . . .”

“You
said
that. What's it mean?”

Lut studied the pieces and shook his head. “It's not coming to me yet.”

“Well, weren't you the one boasting you had more wisdom in your left buttock than all of us combined? Oh—wait. That was
before
you traded in those hundred-year-old buttocks for new ones.”

“And these new ones still have more wisdom than you,” Lut said.

“I
know
what it means,” Drott said, trying to be heard, but they ignored him.

“Then tell me what
three brothers
means, Lut Wisebottom,” Dane said.

“The secrets of the runes cannot be rushed,” Lut said with annoyance.

“You never took this long before.”

“Will you two
listen
to me!” Drott shouted, springing to his feet. All eyes then turned to him. “Can't you remember I was the one who told you the earth revolves around the sun, and the square root of sixty-four is eight, and a hummingbird beats his wings eighty times a second?”

“Sure, we remember,” Jarl said. “You drank the water from the Well of Knowledge and got smart for about half a day.”

“Yes,” Drott said, “and when the effects wore off, I became dim again.”

“We
know
, Drott. What's your point?” Jarl said.

“My point . . .” Drott got a faraway look, as if his mind had run aground in thick fog. His eyes latched onto Lut's runes strewn on the floor and he grinned, for he was about to say something smart. “Three Brothers aren't people. They're a place.”

“Oh, really?” said Jarl. “And what makes you so sure?”

“Because my grandfather told me,” said Drott. His grandfather, he explained, had told him a story about how once he'd been piloting a ship through a passage known as the Three Brothers—three small rocky islets close to a northern shore. His grandfather, who went by the name Skapti the Capable, had misread a navigation chart and run the ship aground, sending all hands, save himself, to their deaths. After that he was known as Skapti the Confused, and thus the family tradition of idiocy was born.

Déttmárr entered, carrying the gleaming blade over his shoulder. “The job is done,” he said, and brought the axe down, setting its wooden handle end on the floor, the little man clearly relieved to be free of its weight. “Every weapon I craft must have a name. This one I call the Blade of Oblivion. Strike down the draugr and that is where you'll send him—to the cursed depths of the demon realm. Now, who do I give this to?”

Jarl jumped up and went to take the axe, but Déttmárr swung it behind his back. “First,” said Déttmárr, “we must determine who among you is most worthy.”

“I am,” Lut said. “For I am wise enough to carry it responsibly and carry out the killing too.”

“But I'm the best bladesman,” Jarl argued. “Ask anyone! Swordsmanship is my stock-in-trade.”

“But,” said Dane, “you already fought and lost to Thidrek the last time we met him in battle.”

“All the more reason I be given another chance now!”

“Oh, forget it,” said the dwarf. “Here,” he said, and he threw the axe up into the air. For the briefest moment the double-sided blade seemed to float there above their heads, a sheen of firelight shimmering along its crescent arc, there for the taking. As if driven by some divine purpose, Dane pushed past the others, jumped atop a table, and grabbed the handle before anyone else could. Lut and Jarl grumbled in protest, but Dane had been the quickest and thus the blade was his.

“My job is done,” said Déttmárr. “Good luck and fare ye well.”

“With Gregor gone, what'll you do?” Dane asked.

“The magic-weapon trade isn't what it used to be,” said the dwarf. “I can make more turning out horseshoes or fireplace pokers.” He lifted the poker his wife had used on their shins. “See my work? Good, huh?”