Sword of Doom (5 page)

A
t the far end of his cavernous lodge hall, King Eldred the Moody sat brooding on his oaken throne, his brow creased in worry. His long, unruly gray hair fell about his shoulders, and his face bore a most fretful scowl. He cast suspicious looks at the many servants and mead maids scurrying about, making ready for the grand banquet to honor Dane the Defiant, the young man who he hoped would prove himself worthy to inherit his kingdom. By any measure, this prospect should have given him reason to smile. But Eldred suffered such moody fits of melancholy, it was often said a team of oxen would be hard pressed to lift his spirits.

That morning he had conferred with his team of oracles. They had arrived wearing their filthy cowled robes, stinking of the various methods they employed to divine the future.
One of them read the omens found in the reeking entrails of chickens. Another counted the maggots on sun-baked slabs of rotting meat. A third seer, having long forsaken his former technique of studying squirts of ox urine, now read the irises of sheep's eyes floating in sour milk. Even though their prognostications often proved of dubious value, Eldred knew that a king's power and prestige was measured by how many paid consultants he had on staff. So he suffered the strange odors and gave ear to their pronouncements, if only to sustain his regal aura with the commonfolk. But the king himself was not without his superstitions. Once, believing the lumps in his oatmeal to be an omen that he would die of hiccups, he issued an edict requiring that all visitors to his court hop on one leg when in his presence. Another time, a wolverine appeared to him in a dream and told him to eat nothing but mud. This he did for an entire week until, tiring of his diet, he took a dozen bowmen into the forest and for months hunted nothing but wolverines. He put on weight that winter eating nothing but wolverine stew.

“Well, what have you divined?” the king asked the three seers gathered before him. “What have the fates foretold?”

The Chief Oracle, whose name was Sandarr the Seer, stepped forward. His gaunt visage, fiery green eyes, and forked beard gave him a daunting look. And as he prepared to speak, he angled his head backward in such a way as to make it seem as if the twin points of his beard were aimed directly at the king. The king found this habit highly
annoying, hating it almost as much as the sulfurous odors that followed the seer around, but he desperately needed the talents his seers possessed and so indulged their many eccentricities. “Lord,” said Sandarr, “we have labored day and night to read the signs, going without sleep or nourishment—”

“Yes, yes, I
know
predicting the future is
such
hard work,” Eldred said irritably. “Just give me the results!”

Sandarr turned to his subalterns, exchanging hushed whispers. Then he faced the king again and said, “It is as you wish. The party that nears the gates brings you promise of a worthy heir.”

“Brings me
promise
? What precisely does that mean? Is this Dane the Defiant the
one
or not?”

“My lord, the fates speak in obscurities. Perhaps he is. Then again—”

“Would you care to be roasted on a spit?”

The three exchanged whispers, and then Sandarr said, “No, my lord, we would not.”

“Spare me the weasel words.
Will
a worthy heir to my kingdom soon show himself?”

Again the oracles bowed their heads in conference. It irked Eldred no end that they never gave clear answers to his questions, always spouting convoluted pronouncements that were open to interpretation. And the king well knew why. In this way, if their prediction proved wrong, the oracle could blame his boss for the misinterpretation.
They believe
themselves so clever,
thought Eldred the Moody,
but I am the king and I can have each of their heads delivered to me on a pike if I so choose
, and he made a mental note to see about having it done someday soon. Or should he have them drawn and quartered? Hmm. Decisions, decisions.

At length the soothsayers ended their conference and Sandarr faced the king. “The answer to your question, my lord,” intoned the seer, raising his eyebrows, “will be written in blood.”

Further angered by the obfuscations, Eldred picked up a gold drinking cup to throw at them. They ducked and cowered, but then Eldred froze, suddenly grasping the oracle's words. “So, what you mean is…this Dane fellow will spark a fight among all those who aspire to be my heir…and the winner will be he who survives.”

“Brilliant, my lord!” mewed Sandarr. “Such rare wisdom you show! May we kiss the hem of your robe?” They all moved forward, but the king put up a hand to stop them, further repelled by their stench.

“I'd rather you didn't. I just had this cleaned.” Eldred abruptly dismissed them, and they scurried away like cockroaches, the king deciding then and there on decapitation.

Now Eldred sat alone on his throne, fretting over his oracles' pronouncements.
The answer will be written in blood?
If this was true, someone was sure to die soon. His unsuspecting guest of honor, Dane the Defiant, might even find his hero's welcome turn into a hero's demise. Well,
such was the way of kingdoms. They needed leaders. Unfortunately,
his
realm seemed sorely lacking in kingly vigor and virtue, all his trusted lords being too interested in possessing power for its own sake to wield it wisely. Even Godrek Whitecloak, his trusted friend for so many years, seemed distracted. Eldred's dreams of late, as well as his old man's aches and pains, had told him that his time on this earth was drawing to a close. Years? Months? Exactly how long he had he didn't know, but he had to get his house in order. He had to find someone worthy to wed his niece and take the reins of his kingdom. Preferably a younger man, someone he could still mold to his liking. Someone of fiery strength and firm character, a man whose virtues far outweighed his vices. But time was running out, and if he failed to soon find a candidate strong enough to fight and defeat all the other pretenders, he feared, his lands would then be plunged into civil war and chaos.

 

Upstairs in her dressing room in the royal lodge, Princess Kára, the king's niece, gazed into her hand mirror of polished silver, practicing her smile. She had to practice, because smiling was not something she often did. The pout she usually wore expressed how little she liked living in a frigid fortress so near a glacier. Having reached marriageable age, Kára desperately longed for romance and travel—and life in a place where she didn't have to crack the ice on her porridge to eat it. And who better to rescue her than this
brave and valiant Dane the Defiant? He
had
to have more going for him than the motley louts of Skrellborg, whose biggest excitement in this frozen wasteland was watching icicles melt.

Because her uncle the king had no heirs, she was being offered as bait to attract a man who would prove himself worthy to inherit the Skrellborg royal house. Thus she was to be regal and compliant and act in every way the fragile porcelain doll, protected and sheltered from the outside world. How tedious and tiresome! At times she felt like a prisoner.

So far, the candidate most likely to win her hand was Bothvar the Bold, the spoiled, humorless son of a powerful local lord. He wasn't bad to look at, but he wouldn't win any prizes for spouting poetry or even making conversation. To prove his worth, Bothvar had won several duels over her, some resulting in serious injury. But Kára cared little that blood had been spilled on her account. “You maimed
who
in a duel? Eirik Thordarsson?” she'd said to Bothvar. “
That's
supposed to impress me and make me want to marry you?” He could win a hundred duels for her, but it would never win her heart. The last thing she wanted was to be stuck in Skrellborg for the rest of her life, playing the compliant wife of a doltish brute.

As her ladies-in-waiting fussed over her hair and dress, she studied her smiles in the hand mirror and vowed she would escape the life they had planned for her. It was
her
life. She would live it the way she wished. A sudden blare of horns sounded the arrival of guests. Her pulse quickened. The famed young man who had returned Thor's Hammer had come to take her away, or so she hoped.

 

On the steps of the royal lodge hall, Princess Kára tingled with anticipation as she stood beside her uncle, waiting to receive the hero. Every commoner had turned out to cheer the arrival of Dane the Defiant, lining the lane that led from the fortress gate to the lodge hall steps. Young women wore their most alluring outfits, hoping to catch the hero's eye. Kára caught sight of Bothvar the Bold and two others, Espen the Loud and Ottar Threefingers, who had fought for her hand in marriage. Poor Ottar had come out the worst of it. During one duel he had lost one finger and acquired the name Fourfingers. After another he became Threefingers. Such was his swordsmanship, Kára feared, that sooner or later he'd be known as Ottar the Stump or, worse, Ottar the Dead and Buried.

Casting a sidelong glance their way, she saw her trio of jealous suitors standing together, glowering as the procession passed, for although they were rivals, they were united in their contempt for the one who had come to steal their princess.
Their
princess? Ha! She was about to meet the one who would put these boastful fools to shame.

Riding first in the procession was her uncle's chief liegeman, Lord Godrek Whitecloak. When Kára laid eyes on
the young man following him, her heart leaped. He was pleasingly, ruggedly,
impossibly
handsome! With rippling muscles, chiseled face, and glossy golden hair, he rode tall in the saddle, waving and smiling grandly to the cheering crowd. She clutched the king's hand and whispered, “Uncle, he's everything I imagined!”

The king nodded, equally impressed. “He certainly has the look of a hero, doesn't he?”

Kára reconsidered how best to present herself when greeting this Dane the Defiant.
Smile, yes, but keep it modest,
she thought.
Understated. Nothing too flashy or impassioned. Perhaps merely a half-interested nod his way, nothing more.
For a girl in her position should never give a man the idea that she could be too easily won.

As the procession neared, the blond one spurred his steed ahead of Godrek's so that he was first to reach the lodge hall steps. He jumped from his mount and went down on one knee, bowing his head before the king and Kára. “Lord King, greetings from Voldarstad. Your humble servant is most pleased to make your acquaintance. To be here in your radiant presence is indeed an honor.” The light reflecting off his golden mane was almost as dazzling as the gleam of his teeth, and Kára made a mental note to ask him if bear fat was his secret.

The king bade him rise. He came up the steps as cheers from the townspeople rose in intensity. He turned and waved to the crowd, drinking in the adulation, Kára thinking he
was more than a little full of himself.

The king cleared his throat, finally drawing his guest's attention away from the cheers. “Young man, I wish to introduce you to my niece, the Princess Kára.” When he turned to her, she expected the usual reaction she got from young men: instant adoration. Instead, with an air of self-admiration, he gave her a cocky, arrogant smile, as if
he
were the prize to be won here, not her. The impertinence!

Then, unseating himself from his horse, Godrek Whitecloak strode to the king, gave a bow, and uttered something in his ear. Eldred gaped in astonishment, then held up his hand to silence the crowd. “I call out Dane the Defiant,” the king shouted. “Show yourself!”

“Here!” a new voice rang out. Kára saw another horse trotting up the lane. Upon it was an altogether different-looking young man. A head of unruly red hair. A strong jaw. A manly smile. And wrapped round his waist was something that looked like—could it really be? Yes, it
was
—a horse blanket. Stopping at the lodge hall steps, he climbed down off his mount but failed to see that his horse had stepped on the trailing hem of his blanket. And as he strode forward, the blanket covering him was suddenly yanked off—and to Kára's shock, she saw he wasn't wearing pants! A gasp arose from the crowd as, for one shocking moment, the redhead stood in the altogether, his nether regions exposed to the world. But in the next instant, the embarrassed one quickly freed the blanket from beneath the horse's hoof and wrapped
it around himself again—but not before the townspeople exploded in laughter. The king gave Godrek a baffled look, as if to say, Who is
this
buffoon?

The red-haired one approached the king and went down on one knee in the mud. “I beg your forgiveness, sire,” he said with surprising dignity, “I am Dane the Defiant, your most humble and honored servant. No disrespect to your lordship is meant by my attire. You see, there was an incident on the trail and—”

The blond one with the jutting jaw interrupted, as if anxious to bring attention back to himself. “If I may explain, your majesty: I fear Dane disobeyed Lord Godrek's orders to stay on the path over the glacier.” He paused, allowing the frown to deepen on the king's face. “As you know, there are dangerous pitfalls, and he quite rashly and foolishly—”

“—saved my life!”

To everyone's surprise, another young man from the party came stumbling forward, a chubby but cheerful-looking sort who somewhat clumsily took a knee beside the one wearing the blanket.
Now what?
thought Kára.

“Uh, majesty,” said the clumsy one, “I mean,
your
majesty, your kingliness, your most royal, lordly highness—
I
was the dolt who strayed from the path. I would've fallen to my doom had Dane not sacrificed his own pants to pull me out. That's the kind of brave soul he is, lord. The kind who'd give up his breeches and freeze his backside to save a friend.”