Sword of Doom

by James Jennewein

  Cresting an ice-crusted hillock, Dane signaled everyone to stop. From her place at the rear of the long line of horses, Astrid watched Dane conferring with Fulnir and Jarl. And the mere sight of Dane standing there in the wind only worsened her agitation. And what of the Norns? Although she dearly wanted to, she knew she could not tell him of the deal she had made with them. News of it would only weaken him at the very time he needed strength and confidence most. And what if she had to make good on her side of the bargain? The thought was too horrible, and she pushed it from her mind.

  The scrawk of Dane’s raven caught her attention. She saw that Dane had placed the bird atop his shoulder and was whispering to him, patting the bird’s head and fluffing his feathers. And she knew that he was bidding the bird goodbye, no doubt sending Klint on an important mission. The raven gave a squawk, and in a sudden flapping of wings, up and away he went, his flight so swift that in a matter of moments the bird was but a speck in the sky. Seeing the raven had gone in a northwesterly direction, toward the peak of Mount Neverest, she knew then what it meant. He had been sent to find an old and faithful friend. The only one who perhaps could help them get where they needed to go. She said a silent prayer, wishing Klint godspeed and good weather, for if he failed to find their friend, she feared they were certainly doomed.

  From the position of the sun hanging low in the winter sky, Geldrun saw they had subtly changed directions. Godrek had told her his birth village lay northwest of Skrellborg, over the ridge of mountains that bisected the land, and down to the opposite coast on the northern sea. But then they had taken a path that veered due north, toward the distant ice-locked mountains. She asked Godrek why they had changed course, and he assured her nothing was amiss, that the normal path to his village went through mountain passes that would be blocked by early-winter snow, so they must detour north around the mountains. “In a few days we’ll be in my village, snug round a fire,” he assured her with a kiss.

  On the following afternoon she overheard two of Godrek’s men grumbling about their provisions running low. “This keeps up,” one said, “we’ll soon be eating our horses.” Geldrun thought this strange. When helping to prepare dagmál that very morning, she had seen there was more than enough food to last the few days Godrek had said it would take to reach his village. Why then had the men complained of provisions running low? It was as if they knew their trek would be lasting much longer than Godrek had told her.

  Geldrun pondered this, staring into the nighttime campfire. Perhaps her thoughts were awry, and everything Godrek had told her was true—that he loved her and soon would take her to be his wife. Why would he lie and take her on this journey if it weren’t for that? What possible other purpose could her presence serve?

  Glancing up, she caught one of the men gazing at her from the other side of the fire. It was the liegeman, Ragnar the Ripper. He immediately looked away, self-consciously showing her the unscarred side of his face instead. For a moment he glanced back at her, holding her gaze, his eyes revealing a hint of intelligence and empathy. Then, as if feeling he had revealed too much, it was gone, replaced with the usual empty stare of a warrior. He rose and left the campfire.

  Godrek sat beside her and made pleasant conversation as he ate his meal, pausing from time to time to caress her cheek with the back of his hand. And though she smiled and returned his affection, her mind wandered to the words her son had spoken when last they were together: “You do not know this man.”

  Dane dipped the bucket into the river, filling it with water for the horses. And as he drew the bucket up again and turned to take it away, he was surprised to see who was standing before him. Godrek Whitecloak. Seemingly from out of nowhere. His smug grin gave Dane a chill in his vitals. Then another surprise—Godrek drew out a sheathed sword from beneath his cloak and threw it to Dane. Dane caught it, and putting his hand on the coiled serpent handgrip, he pulled it out of the sheath. It was the broken-off rune sword, the one Whitecloak had stolen from him. The one with the curse upon it. Godrek came at him, slashing hard with a blade of his own, unrelenting in his charge, and the fight was on. Clang! The cry of steel on steel rang out as the two swords came together, the force of Godrek’s attack pushing Dane backward. Losing his footing, down the embankment Dane stumbled, falling with a cold splash into the river, still holding the rune sword. He came up gasping for air, fully expecting to find Godrek crashing down upon him to finish him off.

  But Godrek, he was surprised to see, was gone. The riverbank was empty. He stood in the icy water, catching his breath. And then felt the sword move in his hand.

  He looked down at it, seeing that the entire sword had come alive. The steel had turned into a long, scaly-tailed serpent, cold and squirming in his hand. Next he noticed that indeed the thing was growing larger and longer—its tail end now wrapping itself round his wrist and its head dropping into the water, its body as thick as his thigh. He desperately tried to uncoil it from his arm, but to no avail. Suddenly the creature yanked him into the water, pulling him upriver. Faster and faster he went, the water choking him as it was forced down his throat, a panic rising as he realized he couldn’t breathe and in moments might drown. He saw the beast’s head rise up out of the water, growing ever larger, it seemed, its rough, pebbled hide like that of a lizard, and from behind he watched as two giant horns sharp as thorns grew out of the top of its head. He took in more water, choking violently. The beast turned. Dane saw its merciless reptile eyes, as big around as war shields, and—

  Dane awoke suddenly, much relieved to find he lay in his furs beside the cold fire of the camp. It was morning. Another nightmare about the serpent, this more horrific than the first. He would have to talk to Lut.

  “Cozy?” Astrid stood over him, holding a load of kindling she had gathered. Dane now saw that Kára had snuggled up next to him in the night for warmth. He immediately jumped up, looking sheepish.

  “I had no idea she was there,” he said to Astrid.

  “Right,” Astrid said, moving off to make a cook fire.

  Kára stirred, still half asleep. “Bring me warm stones to heat my blankets,” she mumbled, as if she were still at home and servants were standing by. An iron cooking pot landed on the ground near her head, abruptly waking her. Jarl had thrown it.

  “Oh, princess,” Jarl said mockingly. “Go fetch water from the stream.”

  Kára sat up, looking offended. “Fetch?” She tossed the pot back, and it landed near Jarl’s feet. “That is work for lowborn dogs like you.”

  “What is your function on this trek, m’lady?” Jarl inquired, barely controlling his temper. “We all contribute—what exactly do you do?”

  “I…make observations.”

  “Really. Well, here’s one. You’re a selfish child more spoiled than a basket of rotting fish!” With that Jarl kicked the pot back at her and walked away.

  “He favors you,” Dane said.

  “Of course he does,” she scoffed, as if it were impossible for any man not to and even less possible for her to care. But Dane noticed that her eyes stayed on Jarl as he strode away, and he saw on her face the faint but unmistakable stirrings of affection.

  That day the trail northward descended into a windswept mountain valley where only stunted trees and sparse scrub grass grew. Ahead of them lay the mountainous, foreboding realm of Jotunheim, the so-called Land of the Frost Giants, a land of mists, blizzards, and savage beasts—the largest and most fearsome of all being the frost giants themselves—or so Dane had heard from his father as a child during countless story times round the fire.

  Dane brought his horse alongside Lut’s mount. The old man’s eyes were closed. He looked to be dozing in his saddle. Dane rode for a few moments, not wanting to interrupt his nap, but then, without even opening an eye to see who was there, Lut asked, “You have a question, son?”

  Dane smiled and said, “Do I smell that bad?”

  “Your scent is vexed. Is it a girl who sparks your worries? When I was your age, t
hat’s all I thought about.”

  “I had a bad dream,” Dane said.

  “Ah, dreams,” said Lut, “the whispers of the gods. I don’t know about you, but sometimes I wish they’d just stop their whispering and leave us alone.”

  Dane told him of his nightmare, of the sword that turned into a serpent. It had all seemed so real, Dane said. The feel of the serpent asquirm in his hand, the water filling his lungs, the panic, the look in Godrek’s eye as he’d slashed down with his blade. What did it all mean? Was the rune sword talking to him in some way? Telling him something? And if so, what? He could have dismissed the dream as meaningless had it not been for the first dream he’d had—of the sword coming alive, trying to harm him.

  “First dream?” Lut asked in concern.

  Dane described the dream that he had had on the night he had first opened the chest. Lut listened in silence, his eyes narrowing. Dane finished and waited for Lut to speak, but the old one said nothing.

  “‘To lead you to the serpent’s doom,’” said Dane. “This was the last line from the runestone in the cave. The serpent on the stone, the serpent on the rune sword, the serpent in my dreams. What does it mean? There has to be some connection, doesn’t there? Is this a warning from the gods?” Again Dane waited, eager for Lut’s response. Lut’s eyes popped open.

  “I kissed a walrus once,” said Lut, his eyes atwinkle.

  “Really,” Dane said, having no clue what this had to do with his very pressing problem.

  “It was long ago in my youth,” Lut said, “when a man has his greatest dreams. Every night I dreamed I kissed a walrus that turned into a beautiful maiden, whom I then took as my wife.” Lut cocked an eye at Dane. “Have you tried kissing a walrus? Or just getting your arms around one? Not an easy feat. Crippling injuries can occur. But, being an impetuous youth, I believed in that dream so fully that finally I snuck up on a colony of walruses sunning themselves on a beach and kissed one right on its god-awful mouth.”

  “And then what happened?”

  “The dream came true, of course,” said Lut.

  “The walrus turned into a beautiful maiden?”

  “Well, not exactly. There were some village girls watching from a nearby bluff. The ridiculous sight of a grown man kissing a walrus made one of the girls laugh so hard, she tumbled off the bluff and fell down onto the colony of beasts below. They started barking and biting the girl, I came to her rescue, and she became my first wife.”

  “Was she beautiful?” asked Dane.

  “She was a good and loving wife, if only slightly better looking than the walrus.”

  “Oh,” said Dane, not sure what the story was meant to convey. Lut saw the puzzlement on his face.

  “Son, sometimes dreams aren’t exact foretellings of one’s fate. Perhaps this serpent from the rune sword represents an adversary you will one day face.”

  “You mean Godrek?”

  “Perhaps. Or an actual sea beast. Or perhaps merely some flaw within yourself. Maybe it’s all three.”

  “Well, thanks for clearing it up,” said Dane wryly.

  “Yes, well, the answers will come by living the questions. But one thing is certain: Whatever this is, you mustn’t shy away from it. For, like all inner truths, it will consume you if you don’t confront it.”

  Dane slowed his horse a bit, allowing Lut to ride on. It was amazing, Dane thought, how one conversation with the wrong person could really ruin your mood.

  17

  A GHOSTLY ATTACK

  The trail had narrowed treacherously, and staring down into the steep ravine, Dane wondered how he got into these increasingly dangerous situations.

  They had ridden through the windswept valley, climbed higher into the craggy mountains, their path soon narrowing into a thin ledge where a sheer ravine fell away to their right. A howling wind had blustered up, threatening to blow riders off their mounts, and Dane had ordered that everyone dismount and walk in single file. They had been walking like this, hugging closely to the mountainside, the horses skittish as they led them on. Dane had tried to push all thought of his mother out of his mind, but it hadn’t worked.

  Dane heard a shout. He spied Fulnir in lead position holding up his hand, calling for a halt. Leaving his horse for Drott to hold, Dane threaded his way to the front of the line to find Fulnir standing stock-still before a patch of snow soaked with what looked like blood.

  Dane pushed his gaze a bit farther up the trail and, through the falling curtain of snow, there saw a huge she-wolf lying on her side across the path. Nearly the size of a bear, the wolf lay stone dead, her snow-white fur streaked with blood from the arrows shot into her, fangs protruding from her half-open jaws.

  Coming forward, Lut took one look at the dead wolf and said gravely, “We must turn back.”

  “Turn back?” Dane asked. “Why?”

  “Draugurwulfn,” Lut said, now joining them. “Ghostwolves. They’ll come for revenge.” He scanned the craggy rocks above them. “They may be watching us now.”

  “But we didn’t kill it,” Dane said.

  “No, Godrek’s men obviously did—and left it here so we dared not cross its blood.”

  “What happens if we do?” Fulnir asked, sounding worried, his hands smeared in wolf blood.

  “We’ll be marked and the draugurwulfn will surely follow the scent,” Lut said. “It is said they are the bastard offspring of Odin, made partly of snow and partly of shadow. A Völuspá—a female seer I knew in my youth—warned me of their ways, of their thirst for blood.”

  There was a pause. “It’s a chance we’ll have to take,” Dane said. “I’m not turning back.”

  Jarl exchanged looks with Rik, Vik, Ulf, and the others, then turned to Dane and nodded. With no other trail into Jotunheim, they had to go forward.

  Dane pushed them onward, trying to lead their horses past the dead wolf on the trail. But the horses refused, shying away from the body of the she-wolf. Only after Jarl, Rik, and Vik dragged the wolf’s body from the path and threw it over the cliff would the horses finally proceed, though the scent of the beast’s blood made them greatly uneasy as they trod over it.

  Even with the trail darkening into night and a heavy snow beginning to fall, Dane led them onward along the ledge, desperately seeking a place wide enough to make camp. To Dane’s dismay, the wind became a roaring blizzard, with particles of whipping ice so sharp, it stung their faces and greatly limited visibility. For a time Kára whimpered in complaint, the poor pampered thing numbed by the freezing winds, and Dane worried they might have to carry her. But after Jarl had bundled her in more furs, she soldiered on in silence, much to everyone’s surprise.

  Dane saw that the trail was starting to broaden, and it seemed that perhaps soon there would be space enough to pitch tents and take refuge from the punishing storm. Over the howling wind Dane heard a sharp shriek behind him. Turning, he peered back into the whiteness, barely able to see anything in the blizzard. Moving closer down the trail, he caught sight of Drott’s horse furiously rearing and kicking, a vivid slash of blood on its neck. The terror-struck horse frenzied the other mounts. They reared, trying to jerk their reins free from their human leaders. One animal bolted, but the path was too narrow and it slammed into the two horses pulling the sled; all three panicked and lost their footing, and suddenly they were gone, sled and all, falling off into nothingness.

  Above the screaming wind Dane heard a chaos of shouts. But all he could do was grip the reins of his terrified horse to keep it from bolting too. Directly ahead, Jarl was doing the same with his mount. From behind him Dane heard a sudden sound—hoofbeats—and turned just in time to see the crazed eyes of another horse, its nostrils flared in terror, thundering up the path straight for him. It slammed him back against the rocky ledge, and he fell to the ground, dazed, as his horse and the other one ran off up the trail.

  Astrid tried not to panic. The ghostwolves had come out of the blizzard unseen, leaping from above, attacking the horses and creat
ing havoc on the narrow trail. In the chaos Astrid and her friends were forced to retreat as the wolves turned their attack upon them. She and Fulnir slashed blindly with swords, knives, and axes, but the white fur of the wolves was nearly invisible in the whiteout, and it was like fighting phantoms.

  Before their horses fled, Rik and Vik grabbed their shields from their saddles. Made of hard limewood and reinforced with iron, the shields were placed side by side across the path, edges overlapping to form a wall, and everyone took refuge behind them. The wolves leaped at the shield wall, battering it, but the Vicious Brothers dug in their heels, using all their muscle and size to hold back the onslaught. One wolf rammed his head and front legs between the shields and got his snarling, snapping jaws onto Fulnir’s arm, but Drott rushed forward, thrusting his sword straight down the beast’s throat, and the beast stumbled away, howling in retreat. The wolves repeatedly tried to smash through or leap over the shield wall, but each time, swords and knives drove them back. Finally the attack ceased; Rik and Vik peered over the shields and could see nothing but the blinding white ahead.