Jarl was clearly flummoxed. Silence settled over the room. The elders who had been earlier so roused by the prospect of mindless violence wore furrowed brows, now seeing the foolishness of the endeavor.
As support for his attack drifted away like the smoke through the roof hole, Jarl did the only thing a good Viking could do when logic and good sense were against him. He swept his sword heavenward, struck a heroic pose, and shouted, “Who will follow me to the gates of Valhalla?”
The only ones stupid enough to fall for this ploy were Rik and Vik, who raised swords and cried in unison, “Valhalla!” Everyone else either quietly eyed the floor or worked on hangnails. As the embarrassing silence grew, even Dane pitied Jarl. Finally, mercifully, Fulnir the Stinking emitted a roof-raising thunderclap of flatulence that cleared the room quite handily. Preferring to stand in the pouring rain rather than stay inside breathing in Fulnir’s stench bomb, everyone including Dane rushed for the exits. Everyone except Fulnir, that is. He alone stayed behind, relaxed and relieved, giving truth to the old Norse proverb: “Every man loves the smell of his own wind.”
Later on that gray morning, in the hut he shared with his mother, Dane sat morosely by the fire, picking out the same mournful tune on his wooden pipe. His mood was dark, for he knew that although he and Lut had stayed the cries to go a-viking, soon his hand would be forced. If the village food stores continued to dwindle, the elders would side with Jarl, and then everyone would have to strap on swords, take to their boats, and go steal grain from their neighbors.
Everyone but the elders, of course. While the young men oared off to do the dirty business of pillage and plunder, the graybeards would warm themselves before their home fires, waiting for the boats to return with booty.
Outside, the torrential rains continued lashing the hut’s sodden roof, sending rivulets of water dripping down the inside log walls. If only this ceaseless storm would stop! Dane thought. Then perhaps the fish and game would return before the snows came. Peals of thunder shook the hut, further darkening Dane’s mood, and he cursed the elders. “Like it’s my fault Thor’s throwing a fit! They can all go drown in pig slop!” His raven, Klint, gave an agreeing crawk! from his perch in the rafters.
Dane’s mother, Geldrun, a handsome, fiery woman still in her early thirties, gave her opinion on the subject. “Remember what your father said about our people?”
“I believe he said, ‘They can all go drown in pig slop.’”
“That,” agreed his mother, “and that a leader’s life is thankless. No matter how well you keep the people fed, their children safe, and their pets free of ticks, a village will always find reasons to complain. It’s always ‘What have you done for us lately?’”
“So why even be a leader then? All they do is blame you when things go wrong.” Dane’s eyes went to the Shield of Odin hanging on the wall. In its center was a many-faceted jewel, the Eye of Odin, which was said to magically protect the shield holder against every hack and thrust of enemy axe and sword. Whoever possessed the shield was entrusted with great responsibility and honor, for it was his sacred duty to protect the village and its people. Voldar had held the shield with distinction and valor, and when he had fallen, it had been passed to Dane, the people hoping that he had inherited his father’s greatness. But wearied by the burden of such an inheritance, Dane now took the shield from its peg on the wall and told his mother he was going to turn it over to the village council. They could decide who now best deserved it.
“Perhaps Jarl should carry it now,” he said.
“You will put that back,” said Geldrun with iron in her voice. “Giving up so easily does dishonor to your father. I didn’t raise a son to be a whimpering, whipped dog.” She took the shield from his hands. “All men get beaten, son; life does that. But the strong risk failure again and again, refusing to remain beaten.”
The icy rain pelted his cheeks as he sloshed through the river of mud, leaving the village behind and ascending Thor’s Hill, seeking some peace from his torment. This was the spot where Thor’s Hammer had last touched earth before being blown heavenward by a mighty godsent wind, and it was the one place where Dane would go to think.
Reaching the top of the hill, he gazed down at the deep impression still visible in the earth, the sizeable imprint Thor’s Hammer had made when it had fallen. To be here on this hallowed ground never failed to fill him with awe. But now, with the impression filled with rainwater and nearly gone from sight, it only filled him with sadness, for soon all proof that he had once been a hero would be gone.
He stood alone under the soot-gray sky, gazing out over the village to the bay waters beyond, thinking on what could have been. On this very spot, he remembered, his people had planned to erect a great granite runestone in his honor. Upon the stone there was to be carved the tale of his grand triumph over Thidrek the Terrifying, thereby commemorating for all time the heroism of the Rune Warriors of Voldarstad. What glory might have been his! But now, Dane knew with bitter certainty, the runestone would never be erected. The unceasing rains had washed away that plan and killed so many other hopes and dreams as well.
Clutching his Thor’s Hammer amulet at his neck, Dane lifted his face skyward. “Mighty Thor, I beg forgiveness!” he cried to the heavens. “You see before you a man fully chastened, disgraced, and made humble by your supreme omnipotence! I get the message! Now if you could just show some mercy and stop the deluge, I do think we’ve suffered enough!” For a moment Dane heard nothing but the rain. Then a sudden KA-BOOM of thunder sounded, as if Thor were saying, “I’ll decide when you humans have suffered enough!” And adding further insult, the rain instantly turned to hail, the iceballs pummeling Dane’s upturned face.
Dane dropped to his knees and closed his eyes, this time beseeching someone he hoped was listening from his ale bench in Valhalla. “Father! If you hear me…I’ve done my best to fill your boots…but I’ve made a mess of things, if truth be told, and, well…maybe my destiny is not to be a leader of men after all…which would suit me fine, really it would. Perhaps Jarl is better suited for it. I know he’s a fool at times…well, most of the time, but perhaps he’ll have better luck than I have. He wants to go raiding for food, but…is that the right thing to do? If you could just give me a sign…a thunderclap? A bird call? A chirping of crickets? Anything!”
The hail ceased, the rain eased a bit, and a moment later Dane felt a warm glow upon his face. He opened his eyes and saw a bright, shimmering light hovering above him, as if the thunderclouds had suddenly parted and the sun maid Sol had shown herself. The light filled him with tranquility, until it dawned on Dane that it wasn’t the sun warming him but an entity of an altogether different nature. He rose unsteadily to his feet and reached up to touch the thing within the dazzle of light, when a female voice cried, “Behind you!”
And turning too late, all Dane saw in his last moments of consciousness was the blur of a swiftly advancing stranger bringing a club down upon his head.
2
A DEADLY ARRIVAL
In the woods beyond the village the ten-year-old quietly stalked the enemy. There! A mere hundred paces away he spied him. The boy ducked behind a tree and drew an arrow to his bow, knowing this would be a difficult shot in the rain. Pulling back the bowstring as far as strength would allow, he let the arrow fly.
It landed a good thirty paces shy of his target—an ancient pine.
William the Brave swore at how badly he had missed. He had been sneaking off to the woods every day to practice against imaginary enemies, gradually building his arm strength to hit targets farther and farther away. From seventy paces or less he was deadly, but he lacked the muscle to launch an arrow accurately beyond that. Until the day he could kill reliably from at least a hundred paces, he would not be deemed a warrior worthy to stand in battle beside Dane the Defiant, the young man whom he had come to idolize in the short time he had known him.
William had been a Saxon orphan whom Dane had rescued from slavery just mont
hs before. William had shown a particular act of courage—an act inspired by Dane himself—and Dane then had dubbed him William the Brave, a name the boy longed to live up to. And so daily he visited these woods in secret to practice his art, even in the pouring rain.
He strung another arrow, envisioning an attacker skulking up behind him. He whirled to shoot—and was surprised to see a strange man standing there wearing a chain-mail shirt and helmet, brandishing a shield and war axe. Behind this stranger stood a dozen others. William had been so intent on his imaginary invaders, he hadn’t heard the real ones creep up. Thwack! An arrow hit the tree behind him, just missing his shoulder.
William ran. He heard the hiss of arrows as they shot past into the trees and brush. Behind him he heard the attackers crashing through the woods in pursuit. He knew he had to alert the village but was too far away to be heard. Emerging from the trees, he raced like a hare across the open field toward the village perimeter, expecting any moment to feel the impact of an arrow shaft. As he ran, he threw a quick look over his shoulder. The attackers were just reaching the tree line and were coming fast. But not being weighed down by chain mail as they were, William knew he had the advantage. And thus he ran, and gave a blood-curdling cry so high and loud, it scared even him to hear it.
“Attack! ATTAAACK!”
Geldrun rose from the goat pen to see her village under assault. Villagers, including Astrid and Jarl, Rik, Vik, Fulnir, and Drott, had quickly found weapons and engaged the invaders but were being pushed back by the onslaught. Immediately Geldrun thought of the children. In a blink she was racing through the village, taking control of the panicked women and wee ones, herding them away from the fighting to the ships beached on shore. If the village was overrun, she knew, the only escape route would be over water.
Hearing a familiar voice, she turned to see Lut the Bent emerging from his doorway, dragging a sword. The frail one planned to do battle, though he could barely lift the war blade. Geldrun grabbed the weapon from his hands, saying, “Get to the boats!”
“No!” Lut barked. “I will defend the village!” And he grabbed the sword back from her with surprising swiftness, iron resolution in his watery blue eyes.
“But the women and children!” she urged. “You must get them to the ships and away!” Geldrun knew he would give his life to see that no harm came to the children. He nodded briskly and started off, then suddenly stopped.
“My dagger,” he said, patting his cloak. “It’s inside.” He started back toward his hut, but Geldrun rushed in to retrieve it instead, knowing she could find it faster. Inside she rooted around and soon found his sheathed dagger beneath his furs. Rising again to her feet, she heard a scuffle. A cry of pain. Moving to the door, she saw Lut now sprawled facedown in the mud. Three attackers stood over him, holding the sword they had seized from him, and Geldrun heard their derisive laughter.
“Your blade weighs more than you, old man!” she heard the tallest one say. This drew more chuckles, and he lifted the sword over his head to plunge it into Lut the Bent. But before the laughter died in their throats, Geldrun flew out the door and thrust the dagger up under the tall one’s arm, the one place she knew a man in mail would be most vulnerable. He bellowed in pained surprise, falling to his knees. One of his cohorts whirled and slashed at her with his sword, knocking the dagger from her grasp. “Kill her!” the wounded one shrieked.
Geldrun backed away as the other two came toward her, swords drawn. But her back hit the wall of the hut. Her throat tightened. With nowhere to run, she knew it was over but still refused to cower. As they neared, she girded herself for the killing blow, too proud to look away from their blood-spattered faces, a brief thought of her son flashing through her mind. Both men raised swords to strike. Then the nearest one gave a sudden grunt, Geldrun just as shocked as he was to see a bloody arrowhead sticking out of his chest. The arrow had gone right through his chain mail. And her attackers barely had enough time to exchange looks of shock when—thhhummmp!—another arrow skewered the other man through his neck. Both men tipped over like stone statues, dead before they hit the ground.
Too stunned to speak, Geldrun was further struck to see, emerging from the smoke, a strange but striking figure in a white cloak, stringing his bow with a new arrow as he walked. Behind him strode twelve more hard and battle-scarred men loaded with spears, knives, and swords, the business of killing clearly their chief stock-in-trade.
Geldrun rushed to help Lut to his feet, relieved to find the old one shaken but unhurt. And when she heard a voice asking how the old man was, she lifted her eyes to find the one becloaked in white standing before her. There seemed a great grandeur in his bearing, his smoky brown eyes and broad smile giving off a warmth that somehow seemed faintly familiar. A moment passed as she studied his face and he hers. She felt her knees go weak.
“Oh, Odin be praised,” she said, “is it really you, Godrek?”
His face lit up as he nodded and said, “The years have been good to you, Geldrun. It seems I have arrived just in time.” But this was all they could say to each other, for the enemy came charging in and Godrek and his men went to work with ruthless efficiency.
Oh, how it hurt her to see the boy clubbed from behind. Because he had turned suddenly, the blow had been only a glancing one but still enough to send him spilling down the hillside, disappearing down the embankment, perhaps to his death. How awful it had felt to watch, and how surprised she had been by the intensity of her emotion. And when she caught sight of the horde of attackers pouring over the hill toward the tiny village beyond, it felt even more horrid.
She sent her horse splashing down into the shallow stream, stopping beside the body, which lay motionless. This was all so new to her, this dark business of seeing people die. And this one was just a young man, she judged, and quite easy on the eyes. Not at all like the other warriors she had ferried during her brief apprenticeship. Most had been hairy, louse-ridden brutes who smelled like the wrong end of a bear. But this one—this one was so sweet and kind-looking, so regal and ripe with potential.
Why had she tried to warn him when he was about to be clubbed? Had she…feelings for him? No! Perish the thought! The vows of the sisterhood strictly forbade any interference in the fate of a human. Her duty was to select and ferry the bravest of the war dead to Valhalla, not to protect them from death! She had to keep her feelings out of it! She had a duty to perform, and perform it she would.
Her eyes again fell upon the young one’s mud-spattered form lying unmoving in the stream. Such a pity. He was dead and that’s all there was to it. She might as well accept it and get on with it. She bent to take his spirit-body, but a sudden moan escaped his lips and she jumped back, startled. His eyelids cracked open, peering up with a dazed, glassy stare. “Who are you?”
Momentarily tongue-tied, she considered fleeing but had to be sure. “So…you’re not dead?”
The young man felt his body. “I…don’t think so.” Suddenly eager to leave, she started to walk away. “Wait!” said the young man. He sat up, wincing in pain as he felt the side of his head. There was no blood, she saw, and the wound appeared not to be serious, no doubt due to her ill-advised warning about the blow.
“Who are you?” he asked again.
“No one, really. Forget we even met.”
“Your voice…I heard you warn me.”
“No, no! I didn’t!”
“Yes…it was you. You said—”
“Wrong! I said nothing. I just happened to be in the area, saw you lying here, and—” Mist realized she was only making matters worse. First she saves his life, now she’s standing here having a chat with him. Exactly how many rules of the sisterhood was she going to break today? She should just knock him senseless with a rock so he’d forget he’d ever seen her, but she couldn’t bring herself to cause him any more pain.
His vision, she noticed, seemed to be returning. He was gazing at her in growing astonishment, as if only now noticing her feathered cloak, bro
nze chest armor, and golden winged helmet. Turning his head, he spied her majestic steed grazing nearby, and she saw his eyes widen further in disbelief.
“By the gods…,” gasped the young man, “you’re a Valkyrja?”
“Your village is under attack!” she blurted out, gesturing to the plumes of gray smoke rising above the trees, and hurried away.
At the sight of smoke Dane got to his feet, his head still too dizzy and aching for him to get his legs working. But then, as his mind cleared, he was struck by another bewildering sight: The maiden and her mount had vanished. Had he been dreaming? Had she indeed been a phantasm of his mind brought on by the knock on his head? He had no time to puzzle it out. Looking again at the rising plumes of smoke, he roused himself and dashed off.
Crashing through the forest, Dane had no idea who or how many were attacking. He had no weapon, so he’d have to improvise when he got there. But when he emerged from the trees and rushed headlong into the village, he saw he was too late. The battle was over and the invaders had already been routed. He saw Blek and Prasarr the Quarreler lifting a half dozen bodies of enemy dead onto an oxcart. Moving past them, he saw that the remaining attackers, a good twenty of them by his rough count, had been rounded up and put in one of the livestock pens. They had been tied together in pairs and forced to lie facedown in the mud and the muck, the hogs and chickens running about them, snorting and squawking. Guarding them were men Dane had never seen before, men who sported the fine weaponry and polished armor of warriors in service to a lord. He watched them for a moment as they stood round the pen perimeter, poking and prodding their captives with their spearpoints and chuckling at each cry of pain. They stopped and stared at Dane, and as the liegemen met his gaze, he saw in them a coldness, an emptiness in their eyes, and it struck him that the guards seemed more vicious than the prisoners they were guarding. But this thought soon passed, as Astrid ran up to welcome him back.
Sword of Doom Page 2
