Sword of Doom (7 page)

“Please don't kill me, Dane, sir—please spare me!”

“
Spare
you?” Dane cried in his own voice, throwing back his head in exaggerated laughter. “But you're swine! And swine like you have but one fate—to be slaughtered!” And with both hands, he thrust the carving knife down through
the roof of the pig's head, the apple popping out and rolling away as Dane stabbed again and again, the crowd on its feet in ecstasy, cheering wildly. Dane sawed off the head at the neck, impaling it on the carving knife and raising it over his head for all to see, and the place exploded. “Dane! Dane! Dane!” they cheered, and pounded the table. Dane felt himself lifted upon the shoulders of a dozen strangers, men and women alike, and they paraded him round the hall, chanting his name, everyone on their feet and reaching up to touch him, Dane feeling every bit on top of the world.

When Dane was deposited back at the king's table, Godrek gave him a proud smile. The king himself patted his shoulder and said he'd done well indeed. He heard the music start again and looked around, eager to find Astrid for a dance. He felt a tug on his hand and, turning, found it was Kára, staring dreamily up at him with her princess smile. She raised herself on tiptoes and gently kissed his cheek.

“Honor me with a dance?” she said, batting her lashes, and all thought of Astrid emptied from Dane's head.

 

“He used our real names!” complained Fulnir.

“He called me dim!” said Drott.

“And me stinking!” said Fulnir.

Astrid listened to them grouse, feeling bad for her friends. There had been snickers of laughter at their expense, and the girls they'd been sitting with had promptly deserted them, not wanting to be seen with boys so idiotic and odiferous.

“The way he told it,” Fulnir continued, “it seemed he alone was the heroic one—and all we did was hold his coat.”

“Well,” said Drott, “I did hold his coat that one time, remember? When we were—”

“I
meant
he belittled us,” said an irritated Fulnir.

“Oh, right,” said Drott.

“And you, Astrid,” Fulnir said between gulps of ale, “he never mentioned you by name even once.”

“Yes, I noticed,” she told him, trying to appear unhurt. “I'm sure it was just an innocent mistake. When you're that excited, it's easy to forget the details sometimes.”

“I guess you're right,” Drott said, not convinced.

“It's bad enough being made fun of by strangers,” said Fulnir, still upset. “But your best friend?” Saying that the feast was no longer to his liking, Fulnir walked off, followed by Drott.

Astrid noticed that her friends weren't the only ones annoyed by Dane's tales. Another young man in the crowd was giving Dane dagger looks. She asked a passing mead maid the young man's name. “He is Bothvar the Bold. He presumes the princess is his bride-to-be,” she said with a grin, “but it seems another has laid claim.”

This put an entirely new face on the matter. Was the princess merely using Dane to make Bothvar jealous? Or was she throwing herself at Dane to escape an unwanted marriage? Astrid considered warning Dane—but what would she say? If she began tossing around accusations, she herself
would appear a schemer, the wounded sweetheart who'd say anything to discredit her rival. Oh, how Astrid hated these stupid games. If the little vixen's attentions had blinded Dane, so be it. He deserved to suffer the consequences. Just as his stupidity on the glacier had lost him his pants.

Oh! Her head was pounding now. She slipped from the mead hall, going to her quarters to sleep. Maybe by morning, she thought, things would be a whole lot clearer.

T
he time had come for Dane to peer into the mysterious past of his father.

The king had waited until the feast had ended and most of the guests had tottered off and gone home. As she bade him good night, Princess Kára had surprised Dane with a kiss, saying that her dreams would be sweeter because she knew they would be spending
many
more nights like this together. And as she swept away, all Dane could think to say was “Good night, my princess.” Because truth be told, he had enjoyed her company and for a time had even fallen under her spell. But as the evening had worn on, he had begun to sense there was a practiced calculation in her attentive charms, as if she were a hunter stalking prey. He'd even tried to break away during the evening to be with his friends, but Kára
had started to pout, and Dane knew it unwise to upset the niece of his host.

Now that he was free of her, he sought out his village mates. He called out to Fulnir and Drott just as they were leaving the hall. They turned, their faces cold and sullen.

“What's wrong?” Dane asked.

“We're tired,” said Drott, his eyes on the ground. “We thought we'd turn in early.”

“But you mustn't leave,” Dane said. “I'm about to open my father's chest. Don't you want to see what's inside?”

“Why should that interest
us
?” Fulnir asked flatly.

“Because if there's treasure, I want to share it with you.”

“
You
want to share it?” Fulnir said. “Just as you shared your heroism tonight, I suppose? You should go buy a hat.”

“A hat?”

“Your head's so swollen, I'm sure you'll need a new one,” Fulnir said. He and Drott turned to leave but Dane stopped them.

“I'm sorry. I got a little caught up in the telling of the tale and—”

“Why'd you have to call us by our names?” Drott asked. “We have new names now. I'm Drott the Dangerous and he's Fulnir the Ferocious.”

“Uh, it's Fulnir the Fierce,” Fulnir corrected him.

“Since when?” Dane asked.

“Since two girls smiled at us. At
us
!” railed Fulnir. “And they were pretty!”

“Mine had all her teeth. And seemed free of lice.” Drott sighed dreamily.

“But then you had to call us
dim
and
stinking
, and they ran from us like pigs on fire!”

“How did
I
know you weren't dim and stinking anymore?” Dane shot back.

“And what about Astrid? You didn't even
mention
her,” Fulnir said. “You were too busy playing up your part and making eyes at the princess.”

Dane felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned and saw Godrek, who said, “The king bids you to come.” When Dane turned back, Fulnir and Drott were out the door and gone. For a moment he wanted to catch up to them and somehow make things right. He wanted to find Astrid and tell her his feelings for her had never wavered. But Godrek was giving him an insistent look, and he knew that a king like Eldred the Moody was not to be kept waiting.

 

Dane, Geldrun, Lut, and Godrek were led by two of the king's guardsmen up a winding staircase and into the king's private chambers. The king waited for everyone to enter. The guardsmen closed the door and stood watch beside it.

“Son,” said the king, “we gather here to remember your father, Voldar the Vile, a great man by any measure. We knew him well, Godrek and I did. We rode with him. We ate
and drank with him. We spilled blood with him. And, Odin knows, we chased skirts with him! I remember a time—”

There was a loud cough from Lut, and the king changed the subject.

“Uh, what I mean to say is,” continued the king, “he entrusted me with some of his most personal items, namely the contents of his sacred war chest. Something I have kept under lock and key these many years, awaiting the day when I might meet him again. Sadly, he has been taken. But now it's my honor to reunite you, his only son, with a piece of your father. To give you his war chest, your birthright, as your proud father would have wanted.” He gestured then to his men, and they drew back a gray velvet curtain. And there on the floor, lit by a shaft of moonlight from the window, lay the war chest of Voldar the Vile.

Dane saw it was rather small and ancient-looking, caked in dust, its scarred and weathered pine planks reinforced with rusted iron bands. There was a musty odor about it that made Dane wrinkle his nose. He had expected something more majestic, a chest made of fine hardwoods, decorated with silver and gold, perhaps plundered from a wealthy lord and spattered with bloodstains. But then it came to him that this modest pine chest perfectly matched his father's true nature—simple and sturdy, bearing the scars of many campaigns. That was the man Dane had known and loved, and standing there before it, he found that the sudden closeness of it made his father come alive in his mind: memories
of his hearty laughter and colorful curses, and most of all the mystery in his eyes. Dared he open the chest and see what dark secrets lay within? He caught a look from Lut and knew that it was time. The king and Godrek seemed excited by the sight of it, too.

Atop the chest lay a key, milk white in the moonlight. Dane knelt before the chest and lifted the key. Tense with anticipation, he inserted it into the rusted lock. He paused, suddenly fearing the truth of his father's past, a past perhaps better left buried. Once the chest was opened, there was no turning back; he would have to face whatever he found. Dane turned the key. He heard a
click.
He raised the lid, its aged hinges creaking in complaint. Dust rose. He stared down into the chest. For a long moment he didn't move; the chest appeared to be empty.

“What? What is it?” he heard Godrek asking impatiently from behind.

Dane reached into the chest, for a moment finding nothing at all. Feeling around, his fingers bumped something. An object cold to the touch. Slowly he lifted it into the light. It was a sword, sheathed in a scarred leather scabbard marked with burns and bloodstains. And coiled in bas-relief round the hilt was the snakelike figure of a sea serpent, its bronze scales gleaming in the moonlight, its tongue becoming the sword itself.

“This is all there is,” Dane said, holding up the sword for all to see.

Godrek rushed to the chest and peered inside. “That's it?” he said in pained disbelief. “What mischief is this?” Taking the sword from Dane, he grabbed the hilt and pulled it free of its scabbard. To everyone's surprise, the sword was broken off halfway down the blade, the piece from middle to tip completely missing. Godrek gave a bitter smile and handed the sword back to Dane. “I can nearly hear your father's laughter,” Godrek said, staring up into the moonlight, as if up into Valhalla's corpse hall.

Dane looked at the broken sword in his hand.
This
was his inheritance? His legacy?
This
was the thing that was to change his life? Why had his father kept such a useless weapon? Had it been a keepsake of some kind? Did it somehow represent the reason he had turned away from the warrior life? Or perhaps it had no meaning at all. Perhaps, as Godrek said, his father was just having a wink and a laugh. Dane had come all this way hoping the chest would contain insight into his father, or, if not that, something of monetary value he could use to help his village. But now he had neither—just a broken, worthless sword that revealed nothing.

“Lut, I guess you were right about my father never wanting to open this chest again,” Dane said, unable to hide his disappointment. “Why would he, since he knew the only thing inside was a useless sword?”

“It
is
a mystery, I'll give you that,” Lut said.

“Perhaps not,” said Geldrun. “Your father rejected the
warrior's path. A broken sword could mean he hopes you will, too.” His mother left the room with Godrek. The king approached.

“I wouldn't read too much into this,” the king said, nodding at the sword. “And besides, you're young—you've plenty of time to make your fortune.” And then, leaning in closer, the king whispered, “I'd suggest a new seer as well—yours is a bit dotty.” The king hurried out followed by his men, and Dane was alone with Lut. As the boy held the blade, the old man bent down to examine it, paying especially close attention to the serpent-coiled handle. A look of concern crossed his face.

“What?” Dane asked.

“It's just a feeling.” Lut shrugged. “The answers will come by living the questions.”

“I hate when you say that,” said Dane.

“If there is one constant in this life,” Lut said, “it is uncertainty. Best get used to it, son, for it will be your ever-present companion.” Lut bade him good night and tottered away, mumbling that it was late, he was tired, and he feared he had had one too many plates of creamed herring.

 

Outside, snow had begun to fall, and the frigid night air fogged his breath as Dane walked away from the lodge hall. A dim shine from the partly clouded-over moon silvered the frozen footprints in the mud. Despite the late hour, Dane couldn't sleep, and he had decided to find Astrid and
tell her that the promises he'd made when he gave her the locket were still held in his heart. Then a figure darted out and stopped in front of him, a small boy looking up at Dane with eager eyes, no doubt another worshipful urchin wanting to touch a real live hero.

“Are you Dane the Defiant?” the boy asked.

Dane said he was.

“You are to follow me to the princess.”

Dane gave a weary sigh. He had had enough of the princess that evening and wanted nothing more than to be with Astrid. “Tell her I will see her in the morning.”

“Her ladyship says it's urgent,” the boy said. “She says your life is in danger.”

Dane tried to get the boy to say more, but he started away, bidding Dane to follow. Snow flurried thicker now, and the boy led Dane to the far side of the lodge hall, around to a building that housed the royal stables. “In there,” the boy said.

“She's in the stables?”

“Her secret meeting place.” The boy held open the door, and Dane saw light inside. Passing the boy, he moved through the open doorway—and suddenly the door slammed shut behind him. Dane spun round to see two youngish brutes brandishing swords, the tips just a hand's length from his face.

“What is this?” Dane demanded. “Who are you?”

“They're my seconds,” a voice said behind him. He
turned, and there, stepping from the shadows, was Bothvar, the glowering suitor he had met at the feast, wearing a haughty sneer. “I, Bothvar the Bold, challenge you to a duel.” He drew his broadsword, whipped the air with it, and did deep knee bends to limber up. “Do you wish the rules of
Hólmgang
or
Einvigi
?”

Dane just stared at him. “You can't be serious,” he said.

Bothvar slashed at Dane's tunic, cutting a neat swath through the silk. “Bow to me, you maggoty cur!” Dane felt a sword tip thrust onto the back of his head. He pitched forward, landing on his knees in front of Bothvar, who pressed his sword into Dane's neck, using the blade to lift Dane's chin. Pinned between two swords, front and back, Dane decided any sudden moves were out of the question.

“I'm afraid you have me at a loss,” Dane said, trying to keep a reasonable, nonthreatening tone, “since I've no idea why I have caused offense.”

“I take offense to rank, ill-bred scum who don't know their place. Who think because they sit at a king's table, they have rights to the king's niece as well.”

Now Dane knew what this was about. This swell-headed he-goat—or
brusi
, as his father would have called him—was in love with the princess and feared Dane was encroaching on his territory. “Bothvar, you are wrong to think I have designs on the princess.”

Bothvar pressed his sword tip deeper into Dane's neck. “I care not what
your
designs are. Only that her eyes reveal
what her heart feels for you.” Bothvar abruptly pulled back his sword tip, and Dane felt the sword pressed to the back of his head release, too. “Since you will not choose the rules of our duel, I will,” he announced. “I choose
Einvigi.
Which means there
are
no rules.”

“And I choose not to duel,” Dane said, rising. “Whatever you're trying to prove, I want no part of it.”

“Draw your weapon, coward,” said Bothvar, pointing his sword at Dane, “or I will slay you where you stand.”

Dane saw there was no reasoning with this fool; and if he tried to escape, the man's seconds would hack him down for sure. He picked up the scabbard from his father's war chest and drew out the sword. Bothvar grinned, seeing the blade was broken off and therefore only half as long as his. “The fool brings a dagger to a sword fight.”

“The blade is broken,” Dane said. “If I'm to fight, at least let me have a proper sword.”

“'Tis only fair, Bothvar,” said one of his seconds. “He can have mine.”

The second moved to give Dane his sword, but Bothvar shouted, “Stay where you are! In
Einvigi
the man fights with the weapons he brings.” Bothvar brought his sword around in a mighty stroke to decapitate Dane and end the contest promptly. But Dane ducked it, feeling the whoosh of air over his head. Dane thrust his broken sword upward, aimed at his opponent's belly, but Bothvar easily parried it. Now Bothvar came hard at Dane, slashing powerfully,
using the advantage of his sword's length over Dane's pitifully short weapon. All Dane could do was backpedal and deflect the blows, unable to fight back. His only hope was to stay beyond the deadly arc of Bothvar's sword and pray his opponent's attack would fatigue him. But Bothvar was well practiced with his weapon, and his strength unrelenting. Dane realized he was severely outmatched, and would have been even if he had a full sword. Bothvar pinned Dane against a wall—and raised his sword to cleave Dane's head in two. Dane lurched sideways, and his enemy's blade embedded in the log wall. He smashed the pommel of his own broken sword across Bothvar's face, the blow bloodying his nose and stunning him, but just for an instant. Bellowing in fury, he yanked his sword free from the log and swiped at Dane, slicing through his left sleeve, drawing blood. The two circled each other, their heavy breaths frosting the air, Dane recalling a piece of advice he'd once gleaned from his father.