Sword of Doom (6 page)

After a long silence, with all awaiting his response, the
king broke into a chuckle. The king laughing? Kára couldn't believe it; it was as if they'd just heard a donkey tell a joke or a beaver break into song. Never had such sounds of jollity come from Eldred the Moody. People were even more taken aback when his low chortle soon became a loud, braying guffaw that grew into great waves of full-throated, belly-shaking laughter. His mirth contagious, Kára and the crowd joined in with the king.

The only one
not
laughing was the young redhead in the blanket. He was still kneeling in the mud, Kára saw, looking shamed and hurt, apparently believing they were all laughing at him. So this was the real Dane the Defiant, the true hero who would steal her heart away? Well, if he was found wanting, there was always the blond one. Even though he seemed awfully stuck on himself, she knew she could tame him. She had never met a man she couldn't. She would play the redhead off the blond and let the best man win.

She caught Dane's eye with the coyest of smiles, then whispered to her uncle that they should do the hospitable thing and help him look his best for the banquet.

The king signaled to a pair of personal assistants, and they whisked Dane away to be bathed and garbed by the royal tailors. Dane smiled at her as he passed, but Kára caught a look from the pretty girl in his party, the tall, athletic one in braids and furred vest who radiated a warrior's strength. The look she gave Kára was one of mild contempt, as if she were
well aware of Kára's romantic schemes. But Kára, coolly realizing this was her rival for Dane's affections, gave the girl a haughty smirk in return, a look that said, Silly girl, no one bests a princess at her own game.

S
oon after the visitors from Voldarstad had arrived, the king gave them a formal welcome, greeting them by grasping their arms in turn, warrior style, as was Viking custom, and presenting them each with their own personal drinking horns with pewter-embossed rims and hand-tooled leather shoulder straps, which he had had made just for the occasion. Geldrun raised an eyebrow when William too was handed his own drinking horn, but a look from Godrek told her that rejecting the gift of a king was not at all wise, and so she later whispered to one of the serving wenches to bring the boy only nonalcoholic drink.

Dane was led in by the king's assistants, and the sight of him took Geldrun's breath away. Gone were the mud-spattered horse blanket and torn coat. His hair washed and brushed, he now looked resplendent in a whole new
wardrobe—brown breeches of the finest wool, a linen undertunic, a green and white silk overtunic with silver clasps at the chest, a gold-buckled leather belt, and brand-new brushed-suede boots. “A wardrobe fit for a prince,” said King Eldred in compliment as he greeted Dane warmly, and Geldrun's heart swelled with pride.

The king bade everyone eat. Cheers of “Hail, Eldred!” went up and the feast began.

Seated at the king's table, Geldrun and Godrek were treated like royalty, with servant girls attending to their every wish. It was soon explained to her that King Eldred had invited all the nobles and liegemen from Skrellborg and the surrounding countryside to join in the feast and honor his guests from Voldarstad. There was Thorkelin the Chin, whose massive jaw gave women pause until they heard the off-color oaths that flew from his mouth. There was Arndórr the Clever, a poet who spoke only in rhymed couplets, even when ordering more mead, and his simpleton brother, Gnúpr the Happy, who laughed for no reason and spoke only to the pet piglet he kept in his lap. Geldrun had also made the acquaintance of Sandarr the Seer, the king's fork-bearded soothsayer, who was going from table to table telling fortunes for gratuities.

The invitations had stipulated that this would be a polite affair and not the typical Viking banquet where knife fights were common and men ate and drank to the point of vomiting, then continued to eat and drink to
the point of more vomiting. Since there were to be women of refinement present, weapons were to be surrendered at the door, and if people wanted to vomit, they would have to do it outside and not in the traditional tableside bucket.

Despite these severe restrictions and the insistence on table manners, it seemed to Geldrun that all in attendance—the lords, the ladies, and the few commonfolk who had wangled an invite—were enjoying themselves immensely. The king's poets-in-residence—they were called skalds—entertained the gathering, declaiming in voices rich and sonorous the epic song-poems of wars and warriors, of love and the death of love, stories they had spent their entire lives learning and perfecting, as was the oral tradition. And, oh, the music! A quartet—a father and his three sons named Kvígr and the Kinsmen, all smartly attired in matching forest-green tunics, playing a flute, lyre, cow horn, and hand drum—had begun to fill the hall with the most pleasing music. She felt the gentle caress of Godrek's hand on hers and turned to find him holding out a juicy morsel of ox steak for her to eat. She opened her mouth and took it in, the adoring look in his eye making it taste all the more delicious.

 

Lut the Bent had never seen such an abundance of food and drink. There were salted whale and ox steaks, roast pork and reindeer, whole chickens stewed in beer. There were giant lamb shanks, meat pies, and—the king's favorite, he was told—boiled squirrel. Table upon table was piled high with
plates of smoked trout, pickled herring, sliced turnips, barley flatbread, honeyed nuts and bilberries, cheeses mild and sharp. Even more appetizing, he thought, were the shapely serving wenches who circulated through the hall with endless pitchers of ale and mead, and he eyed them with interest, admiring their every billow and bulge.

He watched in amusement as Svein One Brow challenged Ulf the Whale to an eating contest—and Ulf lived up to his name and amazed the crowd by eating twenty-six squirrels at one sitting, seven more than Svein had managed to put away. When William went missing, Ulf was accused of eating
him
, and everyone had a laugh when the boy, exhausted by the day's ride, was found asleep in the corner.

One of the king's jesters then delighted the gathering by putting on a display of strength, lifting an entire seating bench over his head—while
three
of the plumpest women were sitting on it. The room exploded in cheers, the women most appreciative, and the jester, yearning for more laurels, further impressed the crowd by juggling torches. Two, three, four, five at a time he had going, until his cloak caught fire and someone had to drench him with a bucket of water, which, of course, only drew more laughter.

Seated beside Lut, Drott and Fulnir were so agog at the grandiosity of the feast and so busy craning their necks at the girls, they barely touched their food. Fulnir noticed two local maidens eyeing them from an adjoining table. “Those girls are staring.”

“What, I got a booger?” Drott asked, wiping his nose clean of any unsightly material.

“No, I think they want to meet you,” Lut said.

“
Meet
us? Why?”

“You're heroes,” said Lut. “Young men of courage. They have no notion of your, uh, limitations.” The boys looked at each other, realizing that here perhaps they could escape their reputations.

“Lut's right.
They
don't know we're dim and stinking.” Fulnir finger combed his hair and got up to go over to the girls.

Drott stopped him. “So what do we call ourselves if we're
not
dim and stinking?”

Fulnir shrugged, not having any idea.

“Well,” offered Lut, “how about Drott the Dangerous and Fulnir the Fierce?” The boys considered this for a moment, then grinned.

“Dangerous and Fierce we are,” Drott proudly proclaimed, and off they went to try out their new, improved personas at the girls' table.

A serving wench drew near to refill Lut's ale jar, and any lingering concern he had about what lay within Voldar's war chest instantly left his head.

 

Though the hall was alive with gaiety and laughter, Jarl sat brooding, glowering over his ale horn. “I can't believe it,” he grumbled. Beside him, Rik and Vik were deep into
their drink and vigorously trying to outbelch each other. Rik paused long enough to ask Jarl what exactly he couldn't believe.

“Dane!” said Jarl. “He walks into town dressed like a buffoon—and now look at him!” Jarl gestured to the king's table, where the newly refurbished Dane sat with King Eldred on one side of him and the king's radiant niece on the other.

“Looks right princely, he does,” said Rik admiringly, and his brother Vik agreed, which only drew more oaths from Jarl. Vik wondered aloud how much Dane's outfit might cost on the open market if one lacked the services of a king's tailor, and they agreed it would cost upward of ten pieces of silver or a score of goats at least. Rik said that if he had that much silver or that many goats, he would rather spend them on a new steel fighting sword or casks of his favorite ale, and his brother told him that that was why he would never be seated beside a woman as beautiful as the one seated beside Dane. Rik said he was probably right, and Jarl exploded in rage.

“It's not
fair
!” he fumed. “He loses his trousers and everyone makes him out to be a hero! Even when he does something
stupid
, he lands on his feet!”

Rik finished his hornful of mead and belched loudly. “Would you give up your pants to save
my
life?”

Jarl thought for a moment. “If I had a spare pair, I would.”

 

Astrid watched Dane in the seat of honor, drinking from the king's own silver goblet. Seated beside him, the princess seemed utterly entranced by Dane, hanging on his every word, her eyes never leaving his face, as if he were the only person in the room. There was no denying it: Princess Kára was a rare beauty. Delicate boned, with dark brown tresses framing her creamy, pale skin, Kára radiated the kind of girlish vulnerability that made men want to protect her. She had Dane in her sights, and he didn't appear to be resisting.

Astrid touched the Thor's Hammer locket that hung around her neck. It had been only months since she had walked in the woods near their village with Dane and he had given her the locket as a symbol of his love, pledging that they would be together forever. But now, she feared, he was falling under the spell of another. Astrid caught a brief glance from the princess, a self-satisfied smirk that said, See? I have turned his head and there's nothing you can do about it.

 

Dane's head was spinning. Everyone was so polite, so accommodating. The food. The drink. The music. The regal setting. And the attentions of Princess Kára! She was so interested in everything he had to say. To be drinking mead from the king's own silver goblet and to have so many
people—noblemen, no less—treating him as the center of attention. It felt wonderful to be freed from the needy complaints of the villagers of Voldarstad. For the first time in months he had begun to feel like his old self again. Talkative and self-assured, funny and free.

For a moment or two he had thought of Astrid and his friends, and felt guilty he hadn't come down off his regal throne and spent any time with them. But with Kára and Eldred asking him so many questions, his attention was drawn back to them again and again. Plus his friends did seem to be enjoying themselves.

“So you actually
saw
Thor's Hammer?” Kára was saying, her eyes wide with admiration. “How fascinating!” And then a young man pushed his way forward, intent on introducing himself. His name, he said, was Bothvar the Bold, and Dane quickly surmised he was a suitor of Kára's. Bothvar began to belligerently pepper Dane with questions, insisting on knowing which weapon Dane preferred in hand-to-hand combat. Kára deftly extricated them from this embarrassing moment by turning to the king and blithely asking, “Oh, Uncle, is it not time for our guest of honor to speak?”

“Indeed!” said the king. Clapping his hands to silence the music, Eldred stood and proclaimed in a booming voice, “Dane the Defiant will now present his heroic tale!”

The hall fell silent. With all eyes suddenly on him, Dane was at a loss.
His
tale? He was totally unprepared. His mind went blank, his mouth dry. The princess gave his hand a
little squeeze, and seeing her reassuring smile, Dane nervously stood, searching his mind for a good place to start.

“It was a struggle of good against evil—”

“We can't hear you!” said a voice in the back of the hall.

Dane cleared his throat and began anew, his voice louder but still shaky. “Good against evil! Of honest, hardworking people fighting a despotic ruler with—with little regard for…for—”

“Get to the bloody parts!” a new voice shouted.

Dane heard the crowd growing restless. His friends began to shout suggestions.

“Tell them about the storm at sea,” cried Fulnir, “and the frost giant!”

“The ice rat!” yelled Rik. “Tell them about that!”

“And how I drank the water and got wisdom!” shouted Drott.

“Don't forget the doomfish!” yelled Ulf. Klint too gave an encouraging
crawk!

Now Dane was even more confused. A dagger look from Bothvar rattled him further.

“It was a quest for justice and revenge!” Jarl suddenly said in a booming voice, climbing atop his table and commanding the attention of the room. “Decreed by the gods! We sought to find wind, wisdom, and thunder! And indeed, we not only found the thunder in our hearts, for bravery did abound—!”

“But we found the thunder of Thor's Hammer!” cried
Dane from atop his chair, now spurred into action by Jarl's attempt to steal all the attention. “The greatest power on earth!”

“But first we braved the labyrinth of the legendary Well of Knowledge!” said Jarl, not to be outdone. “Facing down an evil troll and a giant ice rat with jaws as big as a whale's!”

“Successfully retrieving one goatskin of precious wisdom water and one of idiot water,” said Dane. “And I don't have to tell you which of us was the idiot!” Dane grinned and swelled his chest, and the crowd roared in delight. They saw Jarl's deflated frown and knew he had been the loser. Dane pressed his advantage, delighting the crowd further by jumping atop the king's table itself and telling the story of how Drott the Dim had been touched by the gods and made smart by the wisdom water, the hushed crowd awed by the gems of wisdom Dane brought forth. Now filled with confidence, there was no stopping him, and Dane proceeded to further entertain the king and his guests with their escape from the Aegirdóttir sea demonesses during the storm in the Shallow Shoals of Peril. Then Jarl got back into the act, telling of their escapade with the deadly flesh-eating doomfish
and
their escape from a real live frost giant. And so back and forth it went, Jarl telling one part and Dane another, each interrupting and trying to outdo the other, exaggerating and embellishing the details each to his own advantage. But as they neared the end, Jarl made it seem as though he and he
alone had freed Dane and his friends from the executioner's axe—and as though when fighting Thidrek and his men atop the ramparts, he had fearlessly fought and killed twenty men single-handedly. According to Jarl,
he
was the sole hero. Dane bristled. It was a ridiculous bald-faced lie, he knew, but the crowd was eating it up, cheering and chanting, “Jar-rl! Jar-rl! Jar-rl!”

“But then you
failed
!” cried Dane, seizing back the spotlight. “Thidrek overpowered you and pushed you off the ramparts—and he launched Thor's Hammer at our village!” And knowing then he had them in the palm of his hand, Dane launched into his own dramatic reenactment of the final battle between him and Thidrek, his heroics every bit as overblown and bigheaded as Jarl's had been, wowing the crowd even more by using a carving knife like a sword and leaping from tabletop to tabletop, bringing to life every thrust and parry. Dane caught flashes of his friends' faces falling in dismay as they heard him taking all the credit, yet on he went. And in a moment most inspired, he fell upon a whole roast pig that still lay uncarved, an apple in its mouth, and pretended the pig itself was Thidrek, moving its mouth up and down while mimicking Thidrek's frightened voice.