Before William could speak, Dane turned on him, his eyes livid. “Never challenge a liegeman unless you’re man enough to fight him. He’ll kill you—and be within his rights!” Dane strode away, leaving William standing alone. He peered into the woods where he thought he had seen the eerie, glowing eyes. There was nothing there but darkness.
5
DAYLIGHT BRINGS NEW DANGERS
By midmorning the following day the party emerged from the woods into an alpine meadow. In the summer it would be alive with bright flowers and lush grasses, but the winter freeze had turned everything brown and dead. No one cared that the landscape was so lifeless or the air biting cold; they were all thankful to be out in the bright sunshine and away from the gloomy, dreaded forest. Dane noticed that everyone’s mood had brightened and there was laughter now among his friends.
“Think there’ll be many girls in Skrellborg?” asked Fulnir as he rode beside Dane.
“Lots,” Dane replied. “You’ll have your pick.”
“Our pick?” asked Drott the Dim. “You mean if I try to kiss one, she won’t hit me with a rock?”
“You can’t kiss her right off,” Dane said. “You have to make conversation first. Girls in Skrellborg are more refined.”
“More refined than who?” Astrid chimed in as she rode up alongside them. “We simple girls from Voldarstad?”
Dane blushed. “Uh, I like simple girls from Voldarstad.”
“Sure of that, Dane?” she chided. “And when all those Skrellborg maidens throw themselves at your feet? What then?” She pulled her hair and wailed in comic exaggeration. “‘Oh, Dane! Dane the Defiant, you have stolen my refined heart!’”
His friends hooted in laughter, and Dane noticed it even drew a smile from Ragnar the Ripper.
Dane grinned. “Astrid, you needn’t worry.”
“Worry? Why would I worry?” she asked. “I’ll be too busy with the refined boys.”
There were more guffaws, the laughter free and easy, the kind shared among good friends, and Dane couldn’t remember when he had last felt so carefree and happy.
The path continued to climb through the woods; an unruly wind arose, and it grew colder. Dane noticed that Lut the Bent had turned pale, so he took his woolen scarf and wrapped it round the old man’s face and neck. Lut nodded in gratitude, but there seemed something weighty on the old one’s mind, something more than just the chilly weather.
“I was thinking about how wolves choose their leader,” Lut said. Dane sensed another life lesson coming. “Did you know the lead wolf is born to its place? Just as those who trot behind are born to theirs?” Lut nodded toward the front of the procession, and Dane saw Jarl on his mount ahead, leading the party up the trail as if he were the lord of the troop.
“So you’re saying men are the same? They’re born to their position? I thought you said a man could choose his own destiny.”
Lut sighed. “Did I say that? I’m old and I forget things.”
Dane knew Lut’s mind was as sharp as ever. He only feigned forgetfulness to win arguments. “I have a choice, Lut. I can lead farmers and fishwives, or I can strike out on my own and see the world. Godrek says some men keep their heads in holes all their lives, others lift their eyes to the stars.”
“Hmm” was all Lut said for a while as their horses trod on. Dane thought perhaps the life lesson was over. Then Lut said, “Your father took a wife, raised a son, and led farmers and fishwives. Find out why he made that choice, and you will know what your destiny should be.”
Dane thought for a moment. “Could the answer lie in the chest, Lut? The secret that will change my life?”
“A distinct possibility, son. A distinct possibility.”
The party climbed ever higher up the mountain, the vegetation growing sparse and the footing treacherous as the path led them across the blue ice of a glacier. Deep crevasses in the ice could be hidden by thin snow bridges, so two of Godrek’s men went ahead on foot to probe the ice with pikes and spears to be sure it was solid. Godrek ordered all to stay in single file and not stray from the path, for if anyone were to stumble into a chasm, death was certain.
The riders guided their mounts with care up the icy path to where the glacier reached its highest point between two mountain peaks. They crested the ridge and made their way down the gently sloping path. Dane spied a fortress far in the distance at the glacier’s southernmost edge. He had never seen such an impressive structure. The timbered walls encircling the city stood at least five times the height of a man. He glimpsed, within the walls, more huts and a high-roofed lodge of wood and stone that surely was the lair of the king.
“Behold Skrellborg,” Godrek announced with pride. “King Eldred’s abode.”
Dane exchanged looks of awe with Drott and Fulnir. The fortress was far grander than they had ever imagined. Dane envisioned himself passing triumphantly between its massive front gates, sitting before the king’s roaring fire, a cup of hot mead in his hand, and servants attending his every need as he regaled the king with stories of his exploits. He could hardly wait.
“It’ll be nightfall before we make it down,” Dane heard Drott say. And looking over, he saw Drott was thinking the same thing that he was thinking: Let’s get there already! Drott raised his eyebrows and said, “There is a faster way.”
Drott eagerly jumped off his horse and sank to his knees on the downward-sloping ice.
“Don’t be a muckhead,” Fulnir said, realizing what he was about to do. But Drott wasn’t listening. “Last one down’s a moldy maggot pie!” he shouted as he launched himself face-first down the icy slope, gleefully screaming at the top of his lungs.
Not to be outdone, Dane leaped from his saddle, and soon he too was shooting down the ice slope, deaf to his mother’s cries of alarm. What a thrill to be going so fast, the exhilaration of wind whipping his hair, making him feel free and unfettered. The slope abruptly dropped away, he went airborne—and in a sickening moment of clarity he realized this perhaps had not been such a wise idea. Flying in midair, he saw dark, jagged shapes fast approaching. Rocks. Huge slabs of granite jutting up out of the ice. In one panicked moment, he cursed himself for forgetting that his friend was named Drott the Dim for a very good reason: He was an idiot!
Missing a jutting rock by a hair, Dane crashed hard onto the ice slope again, tumbling ass over ale cups down the ever-steeper slope. Again he went airborne, flew over Drott, who lay spread-eagled, and slammed down on a crusty stretch of snow. At last he came to an abrupt halt, crashing hard into a snowdrift piled against a boulder.
He was still breathing, at least. That was good. But when he rose to his feet, he saw Drott wasn’t moving. He hurried back toward where his friend lay, but before he could reach him, Drott cried, “Stop!” Dane froze. He heard deep cracking sounds coming from somewhere beneath them. Evidently this was one of the snow bridges Godrek had warned them about. Any sudden moves and the bridge could collapse, sending Drott falling hundreds of feet to the bottom of the crevasse.
“Get away, Dane! It’s gonna fall!”
“Don’t move! I’ll reach you!”
“Stay back!” Drott yelled again.
Dane hushed him and put an ear to the ground. Faintly he could hear a creaking, cracking sound coming, it seemed, from deep within the glacier, traveling up through the fissure in the ice. He crawled forward on his belly, inching closer to Drott. The cracking sound grew louder. Dane knew he was right at the fissure’s edge but not nearly within reach of his friend. Any farther, and his added weight might collapse the bridge, and then he, too, would never be found until the earth warmed and the glaciers melted. Like that could ever happen.
There was only one thing for Dane to do—he took off his pants. Grasping the end of one pant leg, he tossed the other one over to Drott, who grabbed it. “Hold tight, Drotty.” Slowly Dane pulled Drott forward.
Then the snow bridge collapsed.
Drott disappeared, nearly pulling Dane down with him. But Dane held
tight to the ice cliff, keeping a firm grip on his end of the pants as Drott dangled over the chasm, holding tight to the other leg.
“Hold on, Drotty!”
Dane pulled with everything he had. Drott rose a bit—until the deerskin pants began to rip at the crotch, the threads giving way. Dane made a wild grab for the scruff of Drott’s coat. The pants fell into the chasm. With a final heave, Dane pulled his pal up and over the edge to safety.
They scrambled away a short distance and slumped down, exhausted, Dane’s bare buttocks freezing as they touched the snow.
“You’re a fool, boy!” Godrek’s voice rang out as he pulled up his horse, having raced down the glacier to Dane’s aid. “You!” he said, angrily stabbing a finger at Drott. “You are a half-wit! But you,” he said, glaring at Dane, “you are the son of Voldar the Vile and should have more sense!”
The others rode up, and when Dane saw Astrid, he sheep-ishly cupped his hands in front of his privates. Jarl let out a guffaw. “Well, won’t you be em-bare-assed when you meet the king.” Godrek’s men laughed heartily.
“I’m just wondering how he’s going to wave to the crowd,” Astrid said.
“All right, all right, I guess I deserve that,” Dane said.
“You deserve a good birching, that’s what you deserve,” Geldrun scolded.
“I have a spare skirt if you need it,” Astrid said. Her sense of humor was often as sharp as her axes. Right now, as he stood freezing, this was not one of the qualities Dane loved most about her.
“Thank you, Mistress of the Jest, but I packed another pair of pants. Why don’t you all ride on and I’ll catch up.”
“Maybe you could point us in the right direction,” she added.
Dane gave her a scowl.
After the others had ridden ahead, Dane went to his horse to retrieve his pack. He untied it and found an undershirt, a tunic, two pairs of leggings…but no trousers. Frantically he dug through the pack, tossing his things willy-nilly trying to find the missing garment…but with no luck. Sickened, he realized that in the excitement of leaving for the trek, he must have forgotten to pack his deerskin dress trousers.
Now what was he to do?
Alone on the freezing glacier, his bared buttocks turning to ice, Dane spied his loyal raven, Klint, circling overhead.
“Klinty!” Dane called. “At least you won’t abandon me, eh, boy?” But as soon as the cry had left his lips, the bird took wing toward the fortress, letting out a scrawk! that to Dane sounded every bit like mocking laughter.
6
A FOREBODING IN THE FORTRESS
At the far end of his cavernous lodge hall, King Eldred the Moody sat brooding on his oaken throne, his brow creased in worry. His long, unruly gray hair fell about his shoulders, and his face bore a most fretful scowl. He cast suspicious looks at the many servants and mead maids scurrying about, making ready for the grand banquet to honor Dane the Defiant, the young man who he hoped would prove himself worthy to inherit his kingdom. By any measure, this prospect should have given him reason to smile. But Eldred suffered such moody fits of melancholy, it was often said a team of oxen would be hard pressed to lift his spirits.
That morning he had conferred with his team of oracles. They had arrived wearing their filthy cowled robes, stinking of the various methods they employed to divine the future. One of them read the omens found in the reeking entrails of chickens. Another counted the maggots on sun-baked slabs of rotting meat. A third seer, having long forsaken his former technique of studying squirts of ox urine, now read the irises of sheep’s eyes floating in sour milk. Even though their prognostications often proved of dubious value, Eldred knew that a king’s power and prestige was measured by how many paid consultants he had on staff. So he suffered the strange odors and gave ear to their pronouncements, if only to sustain his regal aura with the commonfolk. But the king himself was not without his superstitions. Once, believing the lumps in his oatmeal to be an omen that he would die of hiccups, he issued an edict requiring that all visitors to his court hop on one leg when in his presence. Another time, a wolverine appeared to him in a dream and told him to eat nothing but mud. This he did for an entire week until, tiring of his diet, he took a dozen bowmen into the forest and for months hunted nothing but wolverines. He put on weight that winter eating nothing but wolverine stew.
“Well, what have you divined?” the king asked the three seers gathered before him. “What have the fates foretold?”
The Chief Oracle, whose name was Sandarr the Seer, stepped forward. His gaunt visage, fiery green eyes, and forked beard gave him a daunting look. And as he prepared to speak, he angled his head backward in such a way as to make it seem as if the twin points of his beard were aimed directly at the king. The king found this habit highly annoying, hating it almost as much as the sulfurous odors that followed the seer around, but he desperately needed the talents his seers possessed and so indulged their many eccentricities. “Lord,” said Sandarr, “we have labored day and night to read the signs, going without sleep or nourishment—”
“Yes, yes, I know predicting the future is such hard work,” Eldred said irritably. “Just give me the results!”
Sandarr turned to his subalterns, exchanging hushed whispers. Then he faced the king again and said, “It is as you wish. The party that nears the gates brings you promise of a worthy heir.”
“Brings me promise? What precisely does that mean? Is this Dane the Defiant the one or not?”
“My lord, the fates speak in obscurities. Perhaps he is. Then again—”
“Would you care to be roasted on a spit?”
The three exchanged whispers, and then Sandarr said, “No, my lord, we would not.”
“Spare me the weasel words. Will a worthy heir to my kingdom soon show himself?”
Again the oracles bowed their heads in conference. It irked Eldred no end that they never gave clear answers to his questions, always spouting convoluted pronouncements that were open to interpretation. And the king well knew why. In this way, if their prediction proved wrong, the oracle could blame his boss for the misinterpretation. They believe themselves so clever, thought Eldred the Moody, but I am the king and I can have each of their heads delivered to me on a pike if I so choose, and he made a mental note to see about having it done someday soon. Or should he have them drawn and quartered? Hmm. Decisions, decisions.
At length the soothsayers ended their conference and Sandarr faced the king. “The answer to your question, my lord,” intoned the seer, raising his eyebrows, “will be written in blood.”
Further angered by the obfuscations, Eldred picked up a gold drinking cup to throw at them. They ducked and cowered, but then Eldred froze, suddenly grasping the oracle’s words. “So, what you mean is…this Dane fellow will spark a fight among all those who aspire to be my heir…and the winner will be he who survives.”
“Brilliant, my lord!” mewed Sandarr. “Such rare wisdom you show! May we kiss the hem of your robe?” They all moved forward, but the king put up a hand to stop them, further repelled by their stench.
“I’d rather you didn’t. I just had this cleaned.” Eldred abruptly dismissed them, and they scurried away like cockroaches, the king deciding then and there on decapitation.
Now Eldred sat alone on his throne, fretting over his oracles’ pronouncements. The answer will be written in blood? If this was true, someone was sure to die soon. His unsuspecting guest of honor, Dane the Defiant, might even find his hero’s welcome turn into a hero’s demise. Well, such was the way of kingdoms. They needed leaders. Unfortunately, his realm seemed sorely lacking in kingly vigor and virtue, all his trusted lords being too interested in possessing power for its own sake to wield it wisely. Even Godrek Whitecloak, his trusted friend for so many years, seemed distracted. Eldred’s dreams of late, as well as his old man’s aches and pains, had told him that his time on this earth was drawing to a close. Years? Months? Exactly how long he had he didn’t know, but he had to get his house in o
rder. He had to find someone worthy to wed his niece and take the reins of his kingdom. Preferably a younger man, someone he could still mold to his liking. Someone of fiery strength and firm character, a man whose virtues far outweighed his vices. But time was running out, and if he failed to soon find a candidate strong enough to fight and defeat all the other pretenders, he feared, his lands would then be plunged into civil war and chaos.
Upstairs in her dressing room in the royal lodge, Princess Kára, the king’s niece, gazed into her hand mirror of polished silver, practicing her smile. She had to practice, because smiling was not something she often did. The pout she usually wore expressed how little she liked living in a frigid fortress so near a glacier. Having reached marriageable age, Kára desperately longed for romance and travel—and life in a place where she didn’t have to crack the ice on her porridge to eat it. And who better to rescue her than this brave and valiant Dane the Defiant? He had to have more going for him than the motley louts of Skrellborg, whose biggest excitement in this frozen wasteland was watching icicles melt.
Because her uncle the king had no heirs, she was being offered as bait to attract a man who would prove himself worthy to inherit the Skrellborg royal house. Thus she was to be regal and compliant and act in every way the fragile porcelain doll, protected and sheltered from the outside world. How tedious and tiresome! At times she felt like a prisoner.
So far, the candidate most likely to win her hand was Bothvar the Bold, the spoiled, humorless son of a powerful local lord. He wasn’t bad to look at, but he wouldn’t win any prizes for spouting poetry or even making conversation. To prove his worth, Bothvar had won several duels over her, some resulting in serious injury. But Kára cared little that blood had been spilled on her account. “You maimed who in a duel? Eirik Thordarsson?” she’d said to Bothvar. “That’s supposed to impress me and make me want to marry you?” He could win a hundred duels for her, but it would never win her heart. The last thing she wanted was to be stuck in Skrellborg for the rest of her life, playing the compliant wife of a doltish brute.
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