Sword of Doom (9 page)

R
udely shaken awake by Drott, Fulnir gave a snort and turned over, trying to return to his blissful dream of being kissed by the girl in the king's lodge hall. But Drott gave him another insistent nudge. “It's Klint! He—he might be dead!”

Moments later they were rushing across the iced-over snow to Lut's lodgings. They bustled in the door, and a lump came to Fulnir's throat when he first saw the bird's limp, lifeless body. Lut had the raven wrapped in a blue woolen blanket and was cradling him in his arms beside a toasty fire. Ulf and Astrid were standing solemnly by.

“Is he…?” Fulnir asked, his voice cracking.

“He lives, barely,” answered Lut. “Odin loves the raven, and I have prayed he spare this one.”

Lut told them that that morning he had gone to find
Dane, only to be told by Geldrun about the circumstances of his hasty departure. She had also told him about her decision to marry Godrek and leave that morning with him for his home village. “You can imagine my surprise when I heard it,” Lut said. “Walking back to my room, I was in such a fog that I almost didn't see poor Klint lying in the snow. I put a thumb to his breast and felt his heart still beating.”

“What befell him?” Fulnir asked.

Lut shook his head. “He was perhaps made ill by spoiled meat.”

“He had his fill of roast pork at the feast like everyone else,” Astrid said. “We'd all be sick too, wouldn't we?”

“Or perhaps he just has a bellyache from too much eating,” Drott volunteered.

“Ravens never eat more than their bellies can hold,” Lut said.

“Unlike some people,” Fulnir added, casting a glance at Ulf, whose gurgling stomach was still digesting the twenty-six squirrels he had gorged on the previous evening.

Klint's head moved feebly. His beak closed and opened, but no sound came forth. “I've sent William for curatives,” said Lut. “Perhaps they will purge him of the poison.”

“Poison? Who'd poison Klinty?” Fulnir asked, his eyes welling.

Lut shook his head, stroking the bird's feathers. “I'll do my best to save him.”

William hurried in holding the small canvas pouches of
herbs he'd been sent to buy, and Lut went immediately to work, mixing a concoction of blackberry-root bark and rue. Fulnir took the raven, cradling him gently by the fire, whispering to the beloved bird, “Klinty, you're going to make it, you hear me? 'Cause if you don't, it would kill Dane. It would just kill him.”

 

Dane could no longer feel his feet. He could scarce feel his fingers either, for that matter, being so cold he could barely think. His whole body shaking, he lay curled in a ball with his greatcoat pulled over his head, trying to keep his body warmth as contained as possible. There was a fierce throbbing in his head and a shooting pain in the elbow of his right arm that rendered it near useless—both injuries from his fall down the crevasse. He remembered the fight with Godrek, getting pushed, and then the long, sudden slide into the heart of the chasm. He dimly remembered awakening some time later to find himself in eerie darkness, completely disoriented. When he'd tried to crawl toward the light, all he had done was slip backward, sliding farther down the ice slope to the place he now lay, in utter blackness.

For a long time he had yelled for help, screaming as loud as he could, hoping that by sheer chance, someone might pass by close enough to the mouth of the crevasse above to hear his cries. Though he feared it was folly, it was the only chance he had for getting saved. Godrek wouldn't tell anyone what had happened; Godrek
wanted
him dead. And
it was only Dane's burning hatred of Whitecloak that was keeping him alive. He imagined doing all sorts of violence to Godrek and his precious white cloak, things that he never would have wished on anyone before. But now things were different; his innocence had left him vulnerable to the cunning scheme, and it looked like he would pay for this mistake with his life.

He had wept for a time, for all the things he would never live to see. A life with Astrid. Children. And then he had stopped thinking much of anything. Too tired and numb with the cold, he had just given up and lain there shivering and shaking, listening to the strange kind of silence that surrounded him, his every groan and whimper echoing through the ice chamber and even the sound of his own shallow gasps for air coming back to him. And then, fumbling blindly through his pockets, he had found an old friend to help keep him company.

 

Caw! Caw!
Klint's call echoed across the glacier. The raven poked his head up from within a fur-lined box that was tied atop Fulnir's horse behind the saddle. Fulnir turned and held out a berry, and the bird snatched it in his beak and gobbled it down. “You're not well enough to fly yet, so just lie back and enjoy the ride.” Fulnir gave him another berry, and Klint settled down into his luxurious nest and went to sleep.

It had been less than a full day since Lut had found the
bird in the snow. His herbal brew had miraculously purged whatever poisons had afflicted Klint, bringing the hardy raven back to life. Fulnir fashioned the travel box, and soon he, Drott, Astrid, William, Lut, and Ulf set out to catch up with Dane. Jarl and his cohorts Rik and Vik stayed behind in Skrellborg. For when Princess Kára learned that Dane had deserted her, she threw her interest Jarl's way, and he was glad to bask in her attentions.

The horses passed the crevasse where Dane had lost his pants and followed the trail up the sloping glacier. Fulnir marveled at the many shades of white there were out on the ice field and at how the clopping sounds of the hooves on the ice seemed to echo back and forth across the frozen hillocks. There seemed to be a different kind of quiet out here on the glacier, each place in nature having its own kind of sounds and its own kind of quiet as well.

Fulnir felt excited to be going home. The trek to Skrellborg had not been without its excitements, but he missed his family. And he knew if they rode hard, they should catch up with Dane before dark and they could all camp together for the night. He hoped they could all put their hurt feelings about the banquet behind them.

The raven suddenly poked his head up from his box and gave a call. “Hungry again, boy?” Fulnir got another berry from his pocket and turned to feed the bird. He was gone. He had hopped from the box onto the horse's rear end and down onto the snow. “Klint! Come back!”

The raven hopped away across the snow, flapping up snowflakes with his wings. Calling after Klint in exasperation, Fulnir dismounted and went trudging after the raven, the others now curiously watching this comic spectacle.

“Why's he running from Fulnir?” asked Drott.

“Maybe the fumes got to him,” replied Ulf.

Klint had stopped, Fulnir saw, and was hopping up and down, squawking furiously. Finally catching up with the bird, Fulnir himself stopped when he saw where the bird was: on the edge of the deep crevasse. What was more, to his alarm, he saw there were two furrows in the snow and footprints on both sides of the furrows leading to the edge of the crevasse. He spied an object glinting in the bird's beak and bent down to examine it. He put out his palm, and into it the bird dropped a brass button, a button Fulnir was certain had come from Dane's coat.

 

The ice beneath him and air around him was so bitterly, bone-chillingly cold, Dane had found the only escape was to occupy his mind by playing songs on the wooden pipe. He had found it in his pocket and had played for so long, he could not remember when he had started. Now it seemed that just gathering the strength to blow a single note was beyond him, each breath a mammoth task.

Then a voice told him to keep playing.

Dane looked across the chasm to see the dim outline of a familiar figure. The Valkyrie was perched on an icy ledge.
“Hello…figment,” he croaked, too cold and weak to be surprised. “We must stop meeting like this.”

“And you must stop falling into trouble,” she said crossly. “I weary of watching you hover near death all the time.”

“You have something better to do?” he moaned.

“I am
not
your personal corpse maiden! Right now there are bloody battles taking place, dead souls waiting to be ferried. I can't take time out of every busy day to deal with
your
mortality. I should let you freeze to death and finally be done with you!”

Again his eyes fell shut as he gave in to sleep. He felt a rap on his head and cracked an eye open to see the befeathered image of his Valkyrie hovering before him. “Keep playing!” she ordered. Too weak to argue, he put the pipe to his cold lips and blew.

 

“Dane! Daaane!”
Astrid stood at the rim of the chasm, beside herself with anxiety. Had Dane fallen in? Or worse, been
pushed
? If so, was he already dead? Astrid didn't want to believe it. He
had
to be alive! But she knew that crevasses such as these could be hundreds of fathoms deep. And then, wafting up from the icy depths, came music…was it the wind? No!

“Dane's pipe!” she cried to the others. “He's alive!” She cupped her hands to her mouth and called down into the blackness. “Dane! Daaane! We're here!”

Immediately a rescue effort was launched. One end of a
rope was tied to the saddle of Drott's horse, the other end to Fulnir, and he was lowered into the mouth of the crevasse. “Careful, Drotty,” said Fulnir, holding a lit torch. “Drop me and I'll never forgive you!”

Drott pulled on the reins and his horse began backing up. Astrid watched as the last of Fulnir disappeared down into the mouth of the crevasse. “Dane!” Fulnir's voice boomed. “Dane, you
down
there?” They all fell silent, aching to hear a reply. None came. Just the snuffling of Drott's horse and the sound of Fulnir's voice echoing into silence.

 

Dane heard his name being called, but he could barely muster a response. Once, twice, he tried, his voice but a whisper. Where was the Valkyrie? Had it really been her, or just his imagination? Oh, to be so close to rescue now, but too weak to speak! He even recognized the voice. It was his good friend Fulnir, the warmth and closeness of him filling Dane with hope. And then he heard the voice of Astrid again.

“Dane! Daaane!”

Ah, so sweet it was to hear her again. And then—

“…if you're down there, ANSWER me!”

The urgent command in her voice—the iron strength of her plea—struck a similar chord inside him. Roused anew, he filled his lungs with air and gave out the greatest cry he could….

He waited, hearing nothing. Had it been but a dream? He saw a light descending toward him, the warmth of its
glow as comforting as if it were the hand of Thor himself reaching down to him. And then the sight of Fulnir's own face came into view. Dane felt such a surge of love and gratitude, it was all he could do to croak a greeting to his friend and listen to the comforting talk Fulnir made as he busied himself in tying Dane's body securely with a rope. Next thing he knew, he felt himself pulled upward, the blaze of sunlight above growing brighter, and within him grew the hope that he would soon see Astrid and his friends—and that one day soon he might have the chance to take the life of the one who had tried and failed to take his.

I
n the king's lodge hall, Dane was laid beside a roaring fire and covered with furs to restore his body heat. For most of that day and into the evening he was in and out of consciousness, and Astrid never left his side. She thought for certain he would die, and she found herself saying prayer after prayer for the gods above to spare his life. Lut made a curative of bog myrtle and mulled wine and forced a good bit of it down the boy's throat to give him strength. For hours Dane was out of his head, mumbling nonsensical things about magic runes and slithering serpents. Astrid sat up with him the whole time, holding his hand and mopping his feverish brow, never so in distress as the hours when death hovered over him.

She asked Lut if Dane would live, and the old one rasped, “If the gods so decree it.”

“But why wouldn't they?” she asked. “Surely they should look upon him with favor.”

“There is no ‘should' when it comes to the will of the gods, girl. 'Tis only their wishes that decide our fate.”

“But Dane said that
you
said, ‘Perhaps a man could change his fate.' That what the gods willed could sometimes be overcome.”

Lut paused, deciding how best to answer. “Yes,” he said, recalling the events of the recent past with a rueful smile. “I
did
say that, and I believe it still to be true. Perhaps.”

Early the following morning, Jarl, Rik, and Vik came in to check on Dane's condition, and it touched Astrid to see the genuine concern on their faces. For although Jarl and Dane had been rivals for years, engaged in a constant game of one-upmanship, in truth she knew neither wished real harm on the other.

The door burst open and in came Princess Kára. Seeing Dane lying there, pale and motionless, she threw herself upon him, weeping and wailing and pleading to the gods to spare her beloved hero. Astrid could easily see from the hurt look on Jarl's face that he thought
he
had secured the position of her beloved hero. Apparently, having heard of Dane's return, Her Fickleness had given her affections back to him, showing less loyalty, Astrid thought, than a praying mantis shows its doomed mate.

Jarl stalked out in a huff, followed by Rik and Vik. As soon as Jarl had gone, the princess abruptly stopped crying,
pointed at Dane, and matter-of-factly asked Lut, “Uh, this one
is
going to live, right?”

“If not, you always have the blond one,” Astrid said tartly.

“Right. Well, keep me posted.” She made a face at Astrid, gave Dane a peck on the forehead, and was out the door.

“I could strangle that little minx,” Astrid heard herself say.

“Never thought she'd leave,” whispered another voice.

The words, she realized, came from Dane. He was awake now, his eyes wide open, color returning to his cheeks. Astrid gave a cry of delight and embraced him.

 

At the sound of Dane's voice, Lut's heart leaped. He joined Astrid and the others now, gathering round his bedside in celebration. From his perch on the bedpost, Klint gave a
crawk!
of his own.

“Klint!” Dane croaked. “You're alive!”

“Good thing, too,” said Lut. “We never would've found you had he not heard you piping.”

Dane's face clouded with alarm, and he struggled to sit up, looking round the room. “My mother! Where is she? Is she safe?”

Lut laid a calming hand on his shoulder. “Did you not know, son? I'm afraid she has gone away with Godrek.”

“We must go after them!” he cried, struggling again to rise. “Her life is in danger!”

Lut admonished him that he was in no condition to travel yet and gently pushed him back down. Astrid lifted a cup of warm mead to Dane's lips. Lut waited for him to take a few swallows, and then he asked what had happened out on the glacier. Dane told them everything, his eyes burning in anger. “He means to kill her, Lut,” said Dane, and again he tried to rise. “Let me go! We must go after him!”

“We
will
, son,” said Lut, “once we know where he is going.”

Dane slumped back on his bed, exhausted. “He is following the runes.”

“What runes?” Lut asked.

Dane told of his fight in the stables with Bothvar and what had happened when the boy's blood had touched the broken blade. “Runes appeared, as if by magic….”

“It's a
rune sword
?” Lut said, jolted. For a moment he couldn't speak. Lut had heard of such things, of the great magic that lay within these blades, but in all his years he had never seen one himself.

Dane nodded and said, “There, in my greatcoat. I made a drawing after my fight with Bothvar.” Fulnir quickly brought Dane's cloak to the seer. With shaking hands, Lut drew open the cloak and ran his eyes along the calfskin lining. His gaze fell on a series of runic symbols that Dane had scratched into the leather. Lut couldn't believe his eyes. Reading them, he felt his heart race.

“So what's it mean?” he heard Dane ask with impatience,
and the old one brought his gaze back to Fulnir and Dane.

“From your look, I'm guessing it's not good,” Drott said.

“I'm afraid,” Lut uttered gravely, “we are all in terrible danger.”

“For once,” Drott moaned, “I wish I hadn't been right.”

 

Later that afternoon, Dane stood with his entourage before the king in the smoky lodge hall, Dane barely strong enough to stand.

“The rune sword,” Lut told the king, “is a map that leads to nothing less than the greatest treasure known to humankind, the legendary Draupnir….”

Cloaked in gloom, King Eldred sat motionless on his oaken throne, gazing at the floor. At length he spoke, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Are you certain?” Eldred's voice quavered. “Odin's magic ring?”

“Yes, my lord,” Lut answered. “It is said the arm ring was made for Odin himself, but its magic was so great, it caused jealousy among the gods. So Odin hid the ring somewhere on earth, and it was said that if any man be so brave and bold as to find it, he will hold the key to riches greater than any man can imagine.”

The king's face paled in dread as he contemplated Lut's words. “Seer, have you any notion what power Godrek would have if…?”

“He found Draupnir?” Lut said gravely. “I can well imagine. The massive ring is said to be fashioned of solid gold. And every ninth day it drips eight
more
gold rings large enough to encircle a man's arm.”

“You mean…it actually
makes
gold?” asked an astonished Drott. “Like a cow makes milk?”

“Something like that,” said Lut.

“Sounds good so far,” said Jarl with a cocky grin, drawing smiles from Rik and Vik.

“Except,” said Lut, now raising his voice and silencing Jarl with a look, “there is a curse upon it.”

Drott threw up his hands. “Well, of course! Anything
really
good, there's
always
a curse on it!”

“If it sounds too good to be true, it usually is,” said Ulf.

“It is said,” Lut continued, “that he who possesses Draupnir goes mad with jealousy, for he suspects that everyone is plotting to take his treasure away.”

“I wouldn't be mad. I'd be happy,” said Drott. “I'd share my gold with everyone.” Drott caught a doubting look from Fulnir. “Did I
not
share my hunk of cheese with you last week?”

“The moldy part,” Fulnir griped.

“I'm sure Godrek has no plans to share the gold with anyone,” Eldred snapped. “With such wealth in hand he'll raise an army. No earthly person or kingdom will be safe from his tyranny.”

“So the rune sword leads to this lost treasure. What was my father doing with it?” Dane asked, almost afraid to hear the king's answer.

The king looked at Lut, gathering his words. “Years ago Voldar was a far different man from the one you knew as your father. We had heard talk that he had found a map to riches of some kind and had left to seek it. And after a long absence he returned here, entrusted his war chest to me, and left, saying only that he had found love and was bent on keeping it. ‘There is no greater treasure than love.' Those were the last words he ever spoke to me. I released him from service, and that was the last I saw of him.”

“Why did he not throw away the rune sword, instead of leaving it in the chest?” Dane asked. “I mean, if the treasure is cursed and whoever possesses it goes mad—”

“Perhaps he never knew of its magic,” Eldred answered. “Or if he did, perhaps he wisely resisted its call. Or maybe lacked the courage to seek out the treasure to which it led. Godrek, however, is not a man given to fear. He will stop at nothing to seek this Draupnir. And if he succeeds”—the king's face went pale—“it will mean the ruin of my realm and all others.”

“My lord, we must speak!” Dane heard a voice say. He turned to see a man in a dirty cowled robe, staff in hand, leading two other men in similar robes across the floor. As they approached, Dane's nose was assaulted by an awful smell, and he shot a look at Fulnir, thinking he might be
the culprit. But Fulnir also wore a sour look—which meant even
he
was repulsed. The robed men, who Dane now realized were the source of the smell, came and bowed before the king. “We have read the omens, lord king!” the one with the staff proclaimed.

“Have you now, Sandarr?” the king said in irritation, roused from his moroseness. “Yet you gave me no warning of Whitecloak's treachery. Is that not your job description, to foresee the future?”

“My lord, I beg you remember our admonition,” mewled the one called Sandarr. “We said, ‘The answer will be written in blood.'”

“Bah!” the king spat. “You could have just as easily said, ‘Beware Godrek!'
That
would have been more helpful!”

Lut stepped forward, crinkling his nose from the stink. “My lord, we waste precious time. You must send men after Godrek now.”

Sandarr looked indignantly at Lut. “Heed not this rustic charlatan, lord king. I'm sure his methods of divination are laughably primitive.” Sandarr pointed the end of his staff at Lut. “Begone, you feckless fool! Or I shall visit you with great boils and pustules!”

Lut just looked at him for a moment, then turned to the king. “You're actually
paying
this man?”

“Him
and
his assistants,” the king grumbled. “But it strikes me that a change might be in order.”

Sandarr indignantly jutted his chin toward Lut and
harrumphed. “Perhaps you'd like to tell us
your
methods of prognostication.”

Lut said simply, “I read the runes.”

The cowled ones hooted in laughter. “The runes, you say!” mocked Sandarr. “How quaint!”

“Let me guess,” Lut said. “You consult pig innards?”

“
Chicken
entrails,” one assistant said with a snooty air.

“And I, maggots on rotting meat,” sniffed the other.

“And I,” added Sandarr, waving his staff in Lut's face, “have had enormous success with sheep's eyes floating in sour milk—a technique far beyond your silly runes.”

Having had enough, Lut grabbed the staff and thumped Sandarr across the skull. It made a sound like an axe handle striking a hollow log. Sandarr just stood there, too shocked to move. “Begone, the lot of you!” Lut thundered. “Your fakery delays us! Begone!” Within moments the cowled figures and their odors were sent fleeing like rats before a flood.

“I should have done that long ago,” Eldred said with a slightly amused smile. “Now, where was I?”

“Dispatching men after Godrek,” Lut said.

The king thought for a moment, his brow knitting. “Godrek is cunning and ruthless. I would have to send fivefold the men that he has to have a chance against him. Even then he would probably kill them all or recruit them against me. No, Godrek will return, and I must keep
every
man within these walls to defend my kingdom.”

Dane approached the king, flaring in anger. “Your kingdom? What of my mother's
life
!” Two of the king's household troops came forward, thrusting lances at Dane's chest.

“Emotion has clouded his judgment, sire,” said Lut quickly, pulling Dane away. “He means no disrespect.”

“But your majesty, we are here at your behest, are we not?” Dane said. “And so it seems only right that you then share blame for my mother's capture!”

Two more guards advanced on Dane, seizing him, but Eldred waved his hand and ordered them to stand down. There was a tense moment, the king gathering his words. “I pity your mother's plight, son,” he said at last, “but it is as I said: Every man I send after Whitecloak will either join him or be killed. What would you have me do?”

Dane nodded, respecting the king's sincerity. And so what he said next he said with the utmost calm and control. “My lord, if you will provision us, I will hunt down and kill Godrek Whitecloak.” Dane caught jeering looks from two guardsmen; clearly they believed him too callow for such a daunting task.

“
Kill
him?” the king said. “I don't think you understand, son. Godrek and his men are death merchants. Masters of warcraft and weaponry. He has butchered more men in a single day than most men ever do in a lifetime. I've seen him in many a duel and—”

“What will you offer for his head?” Jarl stepped forward
with his usual swagger, flanked by Rik and Vik. Catching his eye for an instant, Dane surmised that Jarl wasn't about to let Dane get all the glory by going on a suicide mission alone.

“Very well,” the king said with a sigh, realizing his admonitions were useless. “I will pay one hundred silver pieces for Godrek's head.”

William stepped from behind Ulf. “B-begging your p-pardon, my lord,” he said, his voice quavering. “But I was the thrall of Thidrek the Terrifying, and I saw him offer
five hundred
pieces for a one-armed horse thief.”