Sword of Doom

by James Jennewein

  Godrek had gone on to tell of the many adventures he had shared with Voldar. He spoke of the time when, in their early twenties, by happenstance they had rescued the twin sons of a Gottlander king from kidnappers, and of how the grateful king had richly rewarded them with arm rings of silver and made them members of his own personal guard. For five years they had served as the king’s sworn liegemen, harrying the coastal villages to the east and the south, reaping kingly tribute, and guarding their lord king on his many trips abroad.

  There were good times and there were bad, said Godrek; a few narrow scrapes that, at the time, he’d feared might mean their end. Once, he and Voldar single-handedly stood off a score of Saxon warriors, killing them all. Another time they spent six months in a Frankish dungeon and dug their way to freedom using nothing but their bare hands. He also told of a fateful voyage to the north they had taken: Their ship had become wedged between two icebergs, and to survive they had had to kill and eat a giant polar bear before it killed and ate them—and it had been Voldar himself who had bravely dealt the beast the fatal knife blow. Through it all, Godrek said, Dane’s father had been ever true and trustworthy. “But then,” Godrek had told him, his face darkening as he stared into his ale jar, “we parted ways.”

  Dane had asked, innocently enough, what had caused their parting.

  “As I said, he met your mother.”

  “I have a feeling there is more to it,” Dane had said, pressing for an answer. And it was then that Godrek’s eyes went cold and he flashed Dane a savage look. An instant later he had composed himself, laughing it away, but that sudden ruthless look had stuck with Dane.

  In all words and actions, Godrek had proven himself honorable. He had rescued Dane’s mother from certain death and saved the village as well. But there was something about the man, lurking beneath the surface, Dane could not fathom.

  The man’s cloak had been another curiosity to Dane. Why did he wear it and how had he come to possess it? And one night, after Godrek caught Dane staring at the garment as it hung on the wall, he got his answer.

  “You wonder why I wear such a garment,” said Godrek. “What its meaning might be.” Godrek had then thrown the snow-white cloak over his shoulders, tying its leather cords at his neck, and given Dane a look. “Once, this very cloak saved my life, and so I wear it as a reminder.”

  “A reminder of what?” Dane had asked.

  “That death is always nearer than we think.”

  They crossed grouse moors thick with heather and hawthorn and late autumn grasses, and by the next afternoon they found themselves in a primeval forest so dense with massive, moss-covered trees that only an occasional shaft of sunlight reached the ground. They passed great granite stones the size of a longhouse, the circular patterns of pale green lichen that clung to the rock like nothing Dane had ever seen. Pale brown toadstools the size of cabbages nestled in the tree roots, and covering the ground were great clumpy patches of green moss, the moss in places so thick and hairy, it seemed to Dane like the fur of some forest-dwelling creature that might soon awaken to terrorize them. Later, after they had stopped to water their horses near a stream, Whitecloak stood among them and gave a warning as if he had read Dane’s mind.

  “Shadowlands like this one,” Godrek said loud enough for all to hear, “the thickest forests which never see the sun, are the dominion of wights.” And then, after a pause, “Creatures with a taste for human flesh.”

  Dane felt a cold lump form in his throat.

  A choking sound came from Drott. “Uh, did you just say what I think you said? These wights are…”

  “Man-eaters, son,” said Godrek, “savorers of human flesh. And once they’ve caught you, they don’t bother with cooking you over an open fire, either. They tear you limb from limb and suck the marrow right from your bones.”

  “Well,” said Fulnir, always one to look on the bright side, “at least it’s over quick.”

  “Actually,” said Godrek, “they usually start with your extremities and save the head and heart for last. So in truth, a man being devoured can stay alive for a good long time, for wights are known to be rather slow eaters who never hurry a meal.” As Godrek paused to drink from his goatskin, Dane spied the sickened faces of his friends. Drott and William seemed especially disturbed. He noticed that a deeper stillness had seemed to fall on the forest, the creak of the trees going unanswered by so much as a single twittering bird.

  Chief among these night creatures, Godrek went on to explain, were the shape-shifting varúlfur, men bitten by wolves, forever doomed to roam the forests as half man, half wolf, preying on anyone stupid or unlucky enough to be out alone in the dark. “At least that’s what my mother’s second father, Kelki Sharp Tooth, always told us,” said Godrek with a wry smile, “if one can believe a man who lived on nothing but ale and horsemeat.”

  “What of the svartr dvergar?” Drott said. “My father feared them most of all.”

  “The dark dwarves?” said Godrek. “The most vicious of all, they say. They live in caves and hunt in packs by night. They also say that if dark dwarves don’t take shelter by daybreak, they curl up on the ground and turn to stone. Come midnight, they regain creature form, and woe betide anyone caught in their midst.”

  Nothing else was said on the subject, and soon they remounted and rode on warily through the darkening forest, Dane’s friends talking louder and joking among themselves, trying to keep their moods light and their minds occupied by silly talk. Ulf the Whale mumbled old war chants to ward off the frights. Fulnir made a game of seeing who could count the most mushrooms. Drott and William, riding side by side just ahead of Dane, tried to comfort themselves with conversation.

  “You think it’s true, Drotty?” he heard William say. “Are there wights about?”

  “Of course not,” said Drott, waving his hand with a casual air. “It’s just talk.”

  The riders fell silent as they slowly passed a pair of squat, lichen-scarred boulders just to the left of the path, each about the size of a hunched-over child. Dane heard William whisper to Drott that he thought he’d seen faces appear on the surfaces of the boulders. Had his mind been playing tricks? Fulnir, overhearing, said it was nothing but the shadow play of the trees throwing shapes on the rocks, no reason to worry. But a moment later Dane heard Drott whisper in answer, “I saw them too, William. I saw them too.” And Dane would have found their superstitions amusing had he not felt a tinge of worry himself.

  Late in the day Godrek called a halt in a small clearing, announcing they would camp here for the night. His men gave orders to Dane and his friends, dispatching Jarl, Rik, and Vik into the forest to chop wood and telling Dane, Drott, and Fulnir to water and feed the horses. Dane bridled a bit at being so roughly ordered about, but did as he’d been told to please Lord Whitecloak. Ulf the Whale, being of serious heft, was put to work rolling a circle of stones together for a cook-fire pit. Not long after, a ring of fires was lit round the camp perimeter to ward off any wild beasts or wights, and Godrek gave the order to his men to take turns keeping watch during the night.

  “I’ll keep watch too,” the eager William said, drawing derisive snorts from the men.

  “Sentry duty is man’s work,” said Thorfinn, one of Godrek’s men. “Little boys need their sleep.” The other men guffawed at this, and Dane saw William’s face color in embarrassment and anger. William was small for his age, and Dane knew he resented being thought of as puny and helpless.

  The boy went off to sulk, and Dane found him sitting on a downed log at the edge of the clearing, sharpening his arrowpoints on a piece of granite.

  “Going hunting?”

  “Any of those wights attack, I’ll bring ’em down,” William said sullenly. “Then nobody will laugh at me.”

  Dane gave the boy a pat on the shoulder. “Those wights won’t stand a chance.” William looked up at Dane, managing a smile, then went back to work on his points.

  After the náttmál—the night meal, consisting usual
ly of hot stews and roasted meats—with the horses watered and fed, everyone sat round the large fire in the center of camp, grouped in friendly conversation. Jarl stood at the perimeter, watching Godrek’s warriors with a mixture of envy and admiration. They carried themselves with such sturdy and quiet confidence. He was fascinated by them, and a bit fearful as well. He not only wanted to be with them, he wanted to be them. He chose his moment and, with his boys Rik and Vik beside him, Jarl approached a particularly impressive-looking pair of Godrek’s warriors.

  The warriors were playing a board game called hnefa-tafl, or king’s table. They balanced the square game board on their knees and strategically moved carved pieces made of ivory from one square to the other, each trying to capture his opponent’s pieces. Addressing the one known as Ragnar the Ripper, who bore an ugly white knife scar from the corner of his mouth to his left ear that made him seem always to be wearing a sickeningly crooked grin, Jarl begged his pardon and asked how he might enlist in their company.

  Ragnar spat and studied the board.

  “Join us?” said Ragnar, not looking up. “What? And leave your nice little village?”

  “I want a life like yours,” said Jarl. “A warrior’s life. Full of adventure, bloodletting, and pillaging.”

  “We’re particularly keen on the pillaging part,” added Rik.

  “Pillaging, eh?” said Ragnar, warming to the subject. “Pillaging does have its diversions, but it’s not all a bed of lilies. For instance, take the taxes.”

  “Taxes?” said Jarl.

  “Yeah. Say I plunder a merchant ship and find a nice fat cache of silver. I can’t just pocket it all and call it a day!”

  “You can’t?”

  “No! A third must be paid in tribute to our sovereign King Eldred, another third to our liege lord Whitecloak, and me, I’m left with a pittance for my trouble. Then I have to pay all my personal costs out of that. Like feed for my horse, new boots for my feet, or ale for me and any lady companions I might entertain. Then there’s repair costs to my armor, costs for keeping my weapons sharpened. And if I fall ill or get cut open in battle, do I get to use the services of the king’s surgeon? No! I must pay for my own healer. And in my old age, when I am no longer able to plunder, will the king give me as much as a comfy bed to rest my weary bones? No! So, believe me, the plundering life isn’t all it’s cracked up to be—”

  “Are you playing or talking?” asked his opponent, Svein One Brow, a pock-faced brute with one giant eyebrow above his nose. “Quit griping and move already, ya piss-hole.” Ragnar grumbled and looked back at the board. Svein grinned up at Jarl and said to pay no mind to Ragnar’s nitpicking. The warrior life had it all. “Freedom. Travel. Women. Fresh air. Excitement. Did I say women?” One Brow admitted it wasn’t perfect. The hours were often too long, the food undercooked, and most were lucky if they saw their twenty-fifth year.

  “Yes,” said Vik, “but what’s the downside?”

  After the others had eaten and left Dane and Godrek alone by the fire, Dane again asked about his father. What was his best quality? His worst? His finest moment in battle? Godrek was slow to speak on these things, preferring one-word answers and cryptic smiles. Still, Dane felt honored to be having this private time with his lordship, and even brief glimpses of his father were better than none at all. Curious then about another matter, he asked what had happened between them to end their friendship.

  For a long moment Godrek drank from his ale jar and said nothing, contemplating the past. “Your father could have been a great man,” he said at last, his eyes on the fire. “A man of wealth and distinction beyond measure. He stood on the threshold of a life few can imagine. He could have grasped the stars.” Godrek fell silent. “But he threw it all away. Turned his back on greatness and retired to your sleepy little backwater village to live a dullard’s life.”

  The words hurt Dane, and noticing this, Godrek softened his tone.

  “I’m sorry, son,” he said. “I don’t mean to belittle you or your people. But you must understand there is a life beyond the one you know. One of limitless glory. Since I last saw your father, I’ve lived ten whole lifetimes, become a lord of my own lands. Tested myself in ways few men ever do. Seen and done things that change a man forever, that make you change your view of life itself. Suffice to say, son, I’ve had my share of adventures….”

  Adventures! The very word was so tantalizing to Dane, it seemed as though a new doorway was opening right before his eyes.

  “The question is,” said Godrek with a glint of fatherly wisdom, “do you want to stay in your little village of farmers and fishwives and while away your days in indolent domesticity? Or do you want to see the world? Maybe even conquer a piece of it?”

  Dane couldn’t speak; his heart swelled with yearning. Was this what he wanted? Was this his true destiny? Godrek rose, stretched his limbs, and said, “Some men keep their heads in holes all their lives and never even know it; others lift their eyes to the stars.” And it was these words most of all that Dane lay in his bedroll thinking about deep into the night.

  William lay in his bedroll, determined to stay awake and prove his worth in the event thieves or godless wights chanced attack. For a time he heard distant hoots and night calls, and imagined the beasts of prey both furred and feathered that might be stalking the teeming forest. He heard the snuffles and snores of his comrades, as well as nocturnal rumblings from Fulnir, who lay nearby. Even Klint the raven, perched in a nearby birch tree, slept soundly, his head tucked under a wing. The only other one awake, William saw, was the sentry on duty, who sat in a crouch on the far edge of camp, stoking a fire and drinking from an ale jar. It was Thorfinn, the one who had laughed and ridiculed him for being a little boy. Oh! How William wanted to show him he was wrong.

  But it would have to wait. Perhaps, he thought, he should get some sleep before daybreak. He turned over in his blankets—and spied something that had escaped his attention before. Two squat boulders, similar to the ones they had passed on the trail that day, sat together just within the perimeter of the camp. There was nothing strange about these rocks, except for the fact they looked identical, like twins. Their surfaces were weathered and pitted just like ordinary stones. And, of course, that’s just what they were. Harmless, ordinary rocks. And this was why he hadn’t noticed them before.

  He burrowed snugly in his blankets to ward off the cold and closed his eyes. Soon, very soon, he vowed to prove his mettle and show what he was made of. Fading into slumber, the boy conjured images of the day Godrek and Dane would grip his arm warrior style and tell him he’d done well….

  An eerie whisper jolted him awake. He sat up. How long had he been asleep? He darted looks around the camp. All was quiet. Even the sentry appeared to be dozing. Then he saw something that sent an icy shiver down his neck.

  The twin boulders were gone.

  He started to shout an alarm but caught himself. What if he was mistaken? What if the boulders he’d seen earlier were not where he thought they were but somewhere else along the perimeter? If he awoke everyone on a false alarm, he’d be yelled at, if not laughed at again. No, he would do the right thing and first make certain.

  He quietly pulled on his boots, strung an arrow on his bow, and crept off to the spot where he thought the twin boulders had vanished from near a thicket of brambles. He stopped. Listened. On the wind came that eerie sound again…faint whispers, rising and falling as if in chorus, the sounds just short of being words. The night, it seemed, was speaking a strange language he had never heard before…a language that seemed to be calling to him.

  He crept closer to the thicket, to where the forest merged into blackness. That’s when he saw them: eyes staring out at him. Six pairs of tiny ovals ashine in the darkness. William wanted to run, but he seemed rooted to the ground. And then he saw deathly white claws tipped with sharp talons reaching out from the darkness toward him—and something grabbed him from behind. He let out a piercing scream, whirled away from the gras
p, and fell to the ground.

  Dane was staring down at him. “William—what are you doing!”

  “I—I saw them!” William sputtered. “They—they—they were here!”

  His scream had roused the camp. Godrek and his men came running, weapons in hand, followed by Jarl, Astrid, and the others.

  “What is it, boy?” Godrek demanded. “Why do you wake us?”

  William excitedly pointed to where the rocks had been. “The rocks—they moved! So I went to see and—” He gestured to the woods. “They were there! I saw them! I heard their voices! The dark dwarves!”

  Godrek turned to Thorfinn, the man on sentry. “Did you see or hear anything?”

  “No, my lord. I saw the boy go to the perimeter, I thought to relieve himself. But nothing more.”

  “He saw nothing, my lord,” William responded, “because he was sleeping.”

  “He lies!” Thorfinn bellowed. He came at the boy, hand raised. Dane stepped in front of William, catching Thorfinn’s wrist before he could strike. With his other hand Thorfinn went for his knife, and Godrek shouted, “Enough!” The liegeman froze, hand on knife handle, glaring at Dane. He was older than Dane, a good five years his senior, but both seemed evenly matched.

  Thorfinn jerked his wrist from Dane’s grasp and let the knife handle go with the other, still staring hard at Dane. “The boy lies. I demand satisfaction from his protector.”

  “We’ll have none of that,” Godrek said. “As for the boy, I’m sure it was a dream he had.”

  “No! It wasn’t!” William protested.

  “Quiet!” Godrek barked, his glare turning William mute. For an instant William felt Godrek himself was going to strike him, but the man collected himself and turned to Dane. “Inform your charge about the dangers of a loose tongue.” With that, Godrek and his men went back to their bedrolls. Thorfinn followed, but not before he gave Dane a final sneering look that said, This is not over.