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.
“Know what Princess Kára thinks?” Dane sneered. “That you’re a churlish lout with hair lice and foul breath.” Enraged, Bothvar lunged wildly. Gripping his sword in his right hand, Dane parried Bothvar’s blade and with his left smashed Bothvar’s nose again, crunching bone. “‘Bothvar the Boar-Pig’ she calls you, because that’s what you smell like.” Blood gushed from Bothvar’s broken nose, turning his tunic crimson. “And now you look like a stuck pig,” Dane mocked.
“Motherless bastard!” Screaming in fury, Bothvar came at Dane like a madman, both hands on his sword, swiping wildly, blind with rage. Again Dane heard his father’s words—He who fights blindly will be defeated—and though he had no shield for protection, in a blink Dane saw his opportunity. When Bothvar swung his heavy blade in a wide arc, it took him an instant to stop its momentum and swing it back. Dane leaped forward and thrust the tip of his broken sword into Bothvar’s side under his ribs. Bothvar screamed and stiffened, but Dane held his sword fast, watching the blood streaming from Bothvar’s wound over the blade. Their eyes met, and Bothvar knew he soon might die, for a further thrust of the blade was sure to kill him.
But Dane buried the sword no deeper. Instead, he withdrew it, and Bothvar collapsed to the ground.
Dane heard a sound and whirled to face Bothvar’s seconds, expecting an attack—and would have gotten one if Godrek hadn’t barged through the door. Godrek’s eyes went from the wounded boy to the bloodied sword in Dane’s hand. “Perhaps your father’s sword is of some use,” he said dryly.
The seconds rushed to attend to their friend, and Dane began to tell Godrek what had happened. “No need to explain,” Godrek said. “I know a duel when I see one. Lucky I heard the ruckus as I was passing. His seconds would’ve killed you if—” Godrek abruptly froze, his gaze fixed on Dane’s sword in amazement. “The blade!”
His hands feeling suddenly hot, Dane looked at the broken sword—amazed too by what he saw. Along the surface of the blood-smeared blade, forming a mysterious inscription, a long row of rune figures had appeared, a dozen or more, each glowing a pale orange as if lit by a fire from within the blade itself. Awed by the sight of it, Dane knew not what to think. It had to be magic of some kind. Godrek touched a finger to the blade and smeared the blood down the rest of the sword—and on whichever part the blood touched, more glowing rune marks appeared. Dane saw a fevered look come into Godrek’s eyes as he stared transfixed at the blade. Under his breath, Godrek mumbled a few disjointed words, as if he were trying to decipher the runes.
“Can you read it?” Dane asked. “What does it say?” Godrek appeared not to hear him, so lost he was in the glowing runes. He reached for the sword handle, but Dane pulled it back, alarmed by Godrek’s possessive manner.
“My friend Lut is a runemaster, m’lord,” Dane said firmly. “I shall take it to him in the morning.” The runic figures began to fade and disappear. And as they did, the fervid look in Godrek’s eyes faded too.
“Indeed,” said Godrek, nodding. “It’s your sword—do as you wish with it.” He nodded at the wounded boy being attended to by his friends. “I’m guessing the duel was his idea, not yours. But this Bothvar comes from a powerful family. Give me time to talk with his father, to let him know his son was the instigator. I’ll come for you in the morning. Until then, stay out of sight and talk to no one.”
Agreeing to do as Godrek said, Dane shoved the sword into its scabbard and left the stables, hurrying through the falling snow to his room in the royal lodge hall. Along the way he suddenly found that his hands were shaking, less from the cold, he realized, than from the fact that he had just narrowly escaped death. A broken sword bequeathed him by his father, a weapon Dane had thought worthless, had saved his life. Then blood—whether by godly magic or some darker curse—had revealed its runic message. This alone had been thrilling. And when Godrek had caught sight of the runic figures, he had taken on the look of a man possessed; clearly he must have some clue to their import. Dane was now determined that, until he learned its secrets, the blade was not leaving his sight.
9
THE SERPENT AWAKES
It wasn’t yet dawn when Dane found himself awake and unable to sleep. He lay in bed, adrift on thoughts of his father. He pictured a time in his youth when Voldar had first taught him how to “bring fire.” For that indeed was what his father had said as he struck his flint rock against his axe blade, sending sparks down into the tinder brush he had collected. “Man cannot make fire; only the gods do that.” The tallow c
andle near Dane’s bed was still aglow, and the candlelight shone on the sword that lay beside him on the bed. He watched it gleaming there in the light, its blade edge dulled and dented by time, yet still capable of delivering a deathblow if dealt correctly. How many men had been killed with this ancient blade? How had his father come to possess it? And who now possessed the other half of the sword?
His eyes fell on the bronze serpent’s tail coiled round the handgrip, the beast’s horned head forming the pommel at the end of the handle itself, the two gems set in its eyeholes seeming to glow redder. Something within it seemed to be whispering to him. And then he saw it move! Slowly the serpent’s tail uncoiled, unwrapping itself from the handle, the whole sword then becoming the serpent itself! Unable to move or cry out, Dane watched in growing horror as the thing slithered onto his leg and began to coil around his calf, his knee, and then his thigh, tightening itself ever tighter. Why couldn’t he move? Had the snake—or whatever it was—bitten him with some paralyzing poison? Fearing for his life, he braved another look at the awful creature, its head now sliding slowly up his belly, coming straight for him. Its ruby eyes glowing like hot coals, the serpent’s mouth yawned open, and instead of a tongue, Dane saw his very own head emerge from its mouth, and on his face a look of utter terror—
—Dane awoke with a start, bolting up in the bed, his heart hammering. His breathing calmed as he realized it had only been a nightmare. But what a horror! The serpent come to life? His own head? What did it mean? His eyes went to the sword, which still lay where he had left it, sheathed in its scabbard beside him, its serpent’s-head pommel intact and unmoving just as before.
Was the sword telling him something? Warning him? Was it a portent, an omen of danger to come? Whatever it was, it had begun.
Dane quickly rose to get dressed and go see Lut. The old one would know what to make of it all, he thought, and he anxiously pulled on his breeches. But before he could open the door to leave, he heard footsteps out in the hall and a loud knock. He opened it to find his mother, looking very much upset.
“You must leave at once,” she said urgently. “The boy you wounded still lives. But Godrek says his father is just as hotheaded as his son and fears he’ll come after you. Hurry now—dress yourself! Your horse is being readied. Godrek and his men will get you out the gates and safely away.”
Dane started to throw on the rest of his clothes. “But what about my friends?”
“There’s no time to rouse them. They’ll catch up with you later.”
“You’ll be coming with me, won’t you?”
She looked at him for a moment, gathering her words. “After you’re safely away, I’m going with Godrek to his village. I’ve decided to marry him.” All he could do was stare at her, openmouthed, shocked to the core. “Godrek is a good man. And he has power and influence. He offers to make Voldarstad a trading port. Our village will be under his protection, it will grow and prosper—”
“Don’t do this, Mother. You do not know this man.”
“I’ve known him for as long as I knew your father.”
“Do not compare him to my father. That insults his memory!”
“I will never stop loving your father. But neither will I grieve forever. It is time I set aside that pain.”
“But you do not love him!”
“Love is a luxury, son,” she said gently. “Perhaps one day I’ll feel it again. This tie will be good for our people…. It will be good for me, too, for I’m not so young anymore.”
Dane felt his world collapsing. His father was gone and now his mother was leaving as well, marrying a man not for love but for—what was the term? Practical reasons? She was trading herself to further the safety and prosperity of her people. It was equally true she was also insuring her future, for Godrek was a man of means and property who could support her in comfort. Did it matter that Dane felt no kinship for the man? Or that Dane felt there was something within Godrek that could not be trusted? Perhaps he would feel like this toward any man who was taking away his mother. But the thought that she would no doubt live far away from him in Godrek’s village was almost too much for him to bear. For he knew he would never again enter his hut at home and be greeted by her warm smile and hug. Or feel his mother’s gentle kiss when she tucked him into his blankets at night. Just as never again would he hear the stories his father would tell or the booming laugh that often accompanied Voldar’s favorite expression, “Well, I’ll be dipped in weasel spit.” He had taken all of it for granted when he was growing up, all those moments with the two people who loved him more than anyone else could. He would give anything to have just one more night with them together at home, eating, talking, and laughing before the fire. But it was all lost. Everything was changing, his life falling apart.
He came out of the lodge hall to his waiting horse. Godrek and three of his men were mounted and eager to be off. Dane stowed the broken sword in the pack behind his saddle and mounted up without even a look Godrek’s way. If the man was expecting approval of his upcoming betrothal, Dane just couldn’t find the words. He knew he was being sullen and selfish, but he was not about to smile falsely and say good luck and congratulations to the thief who was stealing his remaining parent. He wanted to go and get Lut’s counsel about the sword, but with new danger pressing, he knew that would have to wait until they were all back safe in their village.
Dane looked to the skies for his raven, Klint, hoping to have at least one friend with him on his flight away. “We’ve no time to wait for your raven,” said Godrek, “but I’m sure he’ll catch up. Nesting with a new lady friend, no doubt.”
They rode out between the gates of Skrellborg as the first rays of morning sun peeked over the eastern mountains. They rode hard and fast, which suited Dane, for he wanted to put distance between his newly hardened heart and the tearful boy who bade his mother good-bye.
Leagues from the Skrellborg gates, on the icy path leading up across the glacier, Godrek ordered the riders to stop. Looking back now at the distant fortress, they could see no riders in pursuit, and Dane knew this was where he and Godrek would part company. Dane turned in his saddle to face the man who had saved his mother and now, it seemed, had saved him. “I want to thank you, Lord Godrek, for all that you’ve done.”
“I do what is honorable,” said Godrek, “whenever I can.”
“Then you will honor my mother. Or I will—”
“What? Come to wreak vengeance?” Godrek grinned. “I rather doubt that, boy.”
Thorfinn reached down and grabbed the reins of Dane’s horse, jerking them from his hands. Another man came alongside and pulled Dane from his saddle. He fell to the ground onto the carpet of new-fallen snow. In an instant the three men were on him, pinning his arms. And it was then Dane saw they were near the same crevasse into which Drott had nearly fallen.
“What’re you doing? What is this?” But his words just echoed off the ice hills.
Godrek calmly dismounted and went to Dane’s horse, finding the scabbard and sword from Voldar’s war chest. He drew out the sword, gazing in worship at the broken blade. “You wish to know why your father and I parted company? He was a coward.”
“No!” Dane said, struggling against the men who held him.
“He found this—a talisman that would lead to the greatest treasure on earth. But he lacked the courage to follow its path. I didn’t know what form this thing took, and he said it didn’t exist, but I knew he was lying. I knew I would have to torture him to get the truth. But he disappeared—to a place I never found. Until Eldred revealed he had left a chest and that I was to fetch his son.” Godrek chuckled, and Dane once again saw the cold emptiness of his character. “If you hadn’t been such a hero, boy, I never would’ve found you—that’s the amusing part.” With a flick of his wrist he gestured to his men.
Dane struggled to fight his way free, but Godrek’s men were too strong to overcome. Thorfinn drew his knife and, putting it to Dane’s throat, said, “Defy this.”
“No,” said Godrek, looking up from the sword, “too much blood.” He gestured to the gaping crevasse. “There.”
“Godrek, you’re the coward!” screamed Dane as they dragged him across the snow to the mouth of the chasm. “Face me, you bastard! Face me!”
The men pushed Dane to his knees. Godrek came and stood before him. He nodded to his men, and they released Dane’s arms. “Last words, boy?”
Dane looked into Godrek’s pitiless eyes. “You had it planned all along. Saving my mother’s life, pretending to love her so she would want me to trust you!” Dane started at Godrek, but Thorfinn thrust the knife against his throat, stopping him.
“I had to deliver you alive to Eldred,” Godrek said, “so the chest would be opened and I could see the contents.”
“You’ll not succeed with this treachery!”
“No one will find you, boy, not even that winged wretch you call a pet. I saw to that.” Godrek’s smirk told Dane that Klint was dead. The shock of it left him bereft, shrunken. Yet a spark of yearning, his desire to live, made him attempt one last bargain.
“The blade is yours. Take it, I don’t care. Take it and let my mother and me…let all of us return home, and I swear I will never see you again.”
“Let you live? You’d come after me. You’re Voldar’s son.”
Dane realized it was true; he would pursue him to the ends of the earth. There was nothing more he could say to save his own life, but perhaps he could save another’s. “Swear you’ll not harm my mother.”
Godrek thought for a moment, and a sickening smile came to his lips. “Harm her? But dear boy, that’s exactly what I must do.” There was the thrust of Godrek’s boot as it hit his face, a brief, backward stumble, and then a sudden plunge downward into darkness.
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