Sword of Doom (15 page)

G
eldrun knew it would be her end if they heard her crying, and so it took everything she had to hold in her tears.

It had happened quite by accident, as they were making camp at sunset in a wooded canyon. Geldrun had been idly watching Godrek, enjoying the gentle way he had with his stallion, talking to his horse as he removed his saddle and patting him on the head. And then, as he removed his pack, she'd seen it poke through the blanket. A flash of bronze caught the light for the briefest moment, but it was enough for her to recognize it.

The hilt of Dane's rune sword!

What was
he
doing with it? Godrek had quickly covered it up with a blanket and thrown a look to Geldrun, but she had given no sign that she had seen it. Though her heart
was pounding, she had simply smiled and calmly gone about cutting the dried deer meat into edible chunks and gone into the trees to gather wood for the fire. Only then, safely out of sight and out of earshot, did she finally break into great muffled sobs, knowing something had gone terribly wrong and fearing her son likely dead. Why else would Godrek not want her to see it? The very sword from the war chest? And why had he kept it hidden? Dane would never have freely parted with it, unless…Clearly, there was something Godrek did not want her knowing, and harking back to what she had heard while eavesdropping on the men—that they were running short of food—she knew that Godrek was no longer to be trusted.

She felt swallowed in darkness. She had lost her dear husband just last spring—and now her son? It was all too much to bear. She felt the urge to run and throw herself off the nearest precipice. And blinded with grief, she would have followed her impulse had not some hopeful inner voice reached out from the darkness and pulled her back from the abyss. Perhaps Whitecloak had only stolen it from Dane, she thought, or maybe something else had happened—a fight, a disagreement. Again the voice spoke to her, and she felt new strength arise within, the urge for self-preservation and revenge. She must save herself.

Her sobbing subsided. Regaining some clarity of mind, she recalled the moment Dane had opened the war chest. Godrek's eyes had flashed with covetous desire when he
snatched the scabbard from her son's hands and shown disappointment that the blade was broken. Had Godrek discovered some secret about the weapon? And, if not marriage, what did he want with
her
?

“Geldrun.”

Chilled by the voice, she turned to see him standing on the rise, looking down at her. For a moment his face was expressionless, and she could not tell if he had seen her crying. But then he smiled and in a playful, chiding tone said, “A fire will not make itself, my love.”

She affected a smile and said, “A woman can't have time to think?”

“That depends on where her thoughts might stray.”

“I pledge you my heart,” she said, returning his chiding tone. “But my thoughts remain my own.” She beamed him the brightest smile she could muster, turned her back, and continued her wood gathering. When she looked back, he was gone. It was then she decided that whatever purpose Godrek had for her, she would not wait to find out. The question now wasn't
if
she would flee, but
how
. She was one woman against thirteen hardened warriors. To get away unnoticed seemed impossible, but then a notion presented itself. It was daring and dangerous, yet she had to try it.

That night before
náttmál
Geldrun waited for her chance, and when Godrek was busy dressing down one of his men, she slipped unseen to his bundle and stole his bag of
wenderot
. She had remembered that he carried a supply of the dried herb to ease the pain of his “battle-weary bones.” He swore by its pain-easing properties; but would his medicinal cure work the way she hoped it would?

Later that evening Geldrun lay still in her bedroll, pretending to sleep. The fire had long since dwindled, and now the camp was still, everyone asleep, or so she hoped. Beside her, lying motionless beneath his great bear-fur bedroll, Godrek lay asnore. Still she waited. The venison and barley stew she had made in the big iron cook pot had been so enjoyed by the men, many had asked for second and third helpings, which had only given her scheme confidence. Goatskins of wine had also been passed round, and she had seen to it that the men had drunk to their heart's content. It hadn't taken long for the men to take to their blankets, and not much longer for them all to fall asleep. All save the sentry assigned first watch. And sneaking a look now, she could see that the guard, wrapped in a brown woolen blanket, sat with his back against a rock and was using his dagger to pick at stones on the ground. Would he ever fall asleep?

She hadn't been sure how much
wenderot
to put in the soup. What would be the proper dose for thirteen men? Worried she might not have enough and with no time to spare, she had hurriedly dumped the whole contents of the bag into the bubbling pot and just started stirring, quietly hoping her desperate plan would prove effective. Now,
lying there under the stars with a chill wind at her back, she knew that she would have to make her getaway soon. Again she cracked open an eye and looked across the camp at the sentry. He slept. It was time. She slipped from her blankets and crept toward the horses with the bundle of dried fish and flatbread she had packed, gaining more hope with every step.

 

Ragnar watched the woman as she saddled her horse, not knowing what to do. Had she decided Godrek was not good husband material and wanted out? Or had she discovered the plot against her? Perhaps one of the others had secretly told her of it and they were going to escape together. He glanced round the moon-shadowed camp, but all the others were fast asleep. So she was escaping on her own. This woman had fine looks
and
grit.

He lay watching, unable to take his eyes away from her. He had seen her crying in the woods. He had eyed her taking the pouch of
wenderot
from Godrek's bundle and had surmised what plans she had for it. And pretending to eat that evening, he had instead dumped his venison stew in the bushes. Much later, he saw her make her move after the sentry had fallen asleep.

Where would she go? A woman alone in this cold, harsh clime would be lucky to survive. And when Godrek discovered her missing in the morning, he'd go after her with a vengeance. She had no chance. But what could
he
do? Would
he not be risking his own life to aid her? Torn, he prayed that the
wenderot
was sufficiently potent.

Moments later Ragnar came up behind her and thrust a hand over her mouth. Instantly she swung around with a knife to plunge it into the unscarred half of his face. He caught her hand a hair before the blade broke skin and whispered, “Your son lives.”

She stared at him, her eyes afire. Ragnar was unsure whether she believed him.

“He's two days behind us,” he said, seeing her look soften.

“Why do you tell me this?”

“Because you're a good woman. Go now.”

She held his eyes for a moment, the way women used to in his youth, and said, “I was right about you.”

Watching her mount up and ride off into the night, he spied in alarm the handle of the rune sword poking out from the pack behind her saddle.
By the gods, she has taken it!
Godrek's vengeance, he now knew for certain, would be swift and merciless, and he was relieved to realize that he could easily escape his lordship's wrath by pretending to have been drugged like everyone else. But escape for Geldrun, he feared, would be far less likely.

 

As Kára rode on the pine-log sled pulled by the frost giant, she thought about something that had never concerned her
before. Jarl had said that everyone in the party had a role, everyone contributed in some way. Well, what did
she
do to help? The very idea of helping others was odd to her. Being noble born and accustomed to commanding others to help
her
, she had never had to perform a menial task. She had no notion of what it felt like to fetch or lift or mend or clean. She was never taught to do anything of a practical nature; she had servants to do those things. So why was she even remotely bothered by this?

After Thrym had agreed to lead them to Utgard, he went down into the ravine and retrieved the supplies from the poor dead horses. Five of them had been lost in the wolf attack, and it was decided that instead of riding tandem on the remaining horses and straining them further, they would build a new, much larger sled to carry people and provisions. Thrym strode away across the mountains and, in no time at all, returned with a bundle of pine trees he had uprooted. Everyone had set about stripping the trees of branches and lashing the logs together.

Everyone but Kára. She had done nothing but sit and watch, of course, physical labor of any kind being below her station. Jarl had actually dubbed her Kára the Idle, and she had stuck out her tongue at him as the others had laughed. Watching now, she began to notice how everyone actually enjoyed the communal effort. Even William, all of ten years old, eagerly pitched in. And she couldn't help but notice that
Astrid worked hardest of all, expertly chopping off branches with her axe and stripping off the bark. Kára had marveled at how quickly they had lashed together a sturdy-looking sled and was especially struck with the pride and pleasure they had taken in such backbreaking work. Even Jarl and Dane, not always the best of friends, she had noticed, heartily clapped each other on the back, as if brought closer by the cooperative work. Though it had been too cold for the men to go shirtless while wielding their axes, she had noticed, not to her displeasure, that Jarl seemed particularly well sinewed through his arms and chest.

Now, riding the sled with Astrid, Will, Lut, and Drott, Kára mused on what it might be like to have a role, or “function,” as she had heard it called. Perhaps she might find it amusing. She turned to Astrid and said, “I want you to teach me a skill.”

Astrid appeared surprised. “A skill?
You?
”

“Something I can excel at.”

“Other than being a royal pain?”

“I am
trying
to be civil. All I ask is for—”

“You
didn't
ask.”

Kára gave a petulant sigh. This was far too much trouble. She gathered her words, forcing them out with the utmost calm. “I want you to…I mean,
would
you teach me how to…
do
something?” Astrid just looked at her, expectantly. Through gritted teeth Kára said, “Please.”

“Was that so hard?”

“Yes.”

Astrid smiled. “What would you care to learn?”

Her eyes went to Astrid's sling of throwing axes. “Perhaps how to use one of those?”

“What for?”

“To kill obstinate commoners,” she said wryly.

Astrid drew forth an axe and placed Kára's hand on its handle, showing her how to employ her thumb for throwing leverage. The wood felt rough in her soft, dainty hand. As Astrid let go, Kára was surprised at how heavy the axe felt in her hands, yet there was an excitement to it, an anticipation of what the weapon was capable of, and what
she
might be capable of doing with it.

“Best to use both hands at first,” Astrid said.

Kára grasped the handle, hefting it with two hands. “I will keep this…I mean, may I keep it for a while—to practice?”

“You may keep it forever. It is yours.”

With a careful finger, Kára touched the edge of the blade, thrilled by its lethal power. She had received countless gifts before—furs, jewelry, once a full-grown dancing bear—but this one, she thought, was the best gift of all. She was reminded that there was a certain something one was supposed to say in these situations, but what was it? Oh, yes. The words came, but none too easily. “Thank you, Astrid.”

“You're most welcome, Kára.”

Kára? What cheek she had, addressing a royal by her first name! Kára had half a mind then to dress the girl down, but looking again at the axe, she decided to let it pass.

 

Later, as they stopped to rest and water the horses, Astrid noticed Lut eyeing her intently. Ever since the night she had surprised him in the brush after visiting the Norns, the old one seemed to be watching her, studying her more closely than ever. And every look he gave her reminded her of what the Norns had told her—of the offer they had made to her—and it made her sick with worry. Had it really happened? At the time it had seemed so real—the women, the pages of time in the book, her reflection in the pool, the waterfall.

Now, two days later, whenever she allowed herself to think of it, it seemed like a bad dream. Something her mind had fabricated to help her cope with her fear of Dane's death. But she knew it
was
real. It
had
happened. And in time, if she chose to, she would have to pay the consequences.

She turned to walk back, surprised to find Lut standing before her, blocking her path. The look on his face told her that they weren't going to talk about the weather.

“I think it's time you tell me,” he said. “About the ghosts.”

“Ghosts? I said I had seen
goats
,” she replied as blithely as
she could, hoping she could bluff her way out of this. But as she tried to walk past him, he caught her arm in his hand, his fingers surprisingly painful as they dug into her flesh.

“I know you, girl. I've known you all your life. I know how you look when some boy has irked you or you're so mad you want to chop off someone's arm or even when you're afraid for your life. This was worse. And it's haunted you ever since, hasn't it?”

She nodded, a single tear running down her cheek.

“Is it about Dane? I see the fearful way you look at him.”

“A Valkyrie was about to take him, but—but I couldn't let her.”