In the tumultuous confusion of the attack, no one had noticed those missing.
“Dane and Jarl,” said Astrid, realizing, “they’re still out there!” She made a move forward to get past the shield wall, but Rik stopped her.
“So are the ghostwolves,” he said. “Stay behind the shields.”
“But we can move forward together, behind the shields,” she said.
“Ahead the trail widens and our shields won’t give full cover,” Vik said. “We’ll be vulnerable to a side attack.”
“He’s right, Astrid,” Lut said. “Until the snow blindness lifts, here we must stay…and pray they made it away.” She would have to hope that, for once in their lives, Dane and Jarl had let drop their rivalry to look out for each other.
And then the voice of Kára broke the silence. “Uh, are we stopping for food anytime soon? I am absolutely famished. Nothing too elaborate, mind you. Some big juicy elk steaks might be nice, with roasted beets. Or perhaps cold poached salmon and a nice stew of leeks and potatoes.”
The looks the others gave her said they might cook her for dinner.
“On second thought,” said Kára, “I’m really not that hungry. Later is fine.”
18
TALL, FROSTY, AND HANDSOME
Dane lay in the snow, trying to regain his bearings. His head throbbing, the shrieking gale filled his ears and he saw nothing but a wall of white. He called out, first up the trail where he’d last seen Jarl, and then behind him to where he thought the others were.
His words died on the wind, and no one called back.
He drew his sword and started back up the trail when two ghostwolves came loping toward him, halting in their tracks. They were even larger than the dead she-wolf, Dane was chilled to see, with fur so white, their eyes and blood-smeared jaws seemed to hover before him, disembodied. The wolves began to circle him, heads slung low, baring their canines, watching Dane’s eyes. His sword in his right hand, Dane drew his knife with his left and turned with them, trying to keep both wolves in view, for he knew the moment he lost sight of one, it would attack.
Then the one on the left, the female, made a quick, sudden feint at Dane and he slashed at her, missing. He felt teeth ripping into his boot heel as her mate attacked him from behind. He stabbed wildly backward with his knife, the blade hitting fur, and he heard a yelp of pain. The female now lunged forward, locking her jaws on Dane’s left arm, sinking her teeth into the stiff, padded sleeve of his sealskin coat. His knife hand now unusable, Dane smashed the pommel of his sword into the wolf’s snout. The enraged beast shook him like a dog shakes a rat, Dane’s sword flew from his grasp, and he felt himself slammed to the ground. The she-wolf held him there, jaws clamped tightly on Dane’s arm to prevent escape, waiting for the other wolf, the one Dane had wounded with his knife, to come and kill his prey. He came into Dane’s view, and he felt the wolf’s hot breath as he opened his jaws to rip out his throat.
And then a sudden chill came over him. Dane felt himself rising up off the ground. Am I dead? he thought. Am I being taken to Valhalla? But where was Mist, his Valkyrie? Shouldn’t she be here to ferry him? He realized that both the wolves were airborne too, and that he was still dangling from the jaws of the one that refused to release him. He saw them: the massive, ice-frosted fingers that were wrapped around their necks, and Dane’s spirits rose as he was lifted higher and higher and soon found himself looking into the pale blue eyes of a dear old friend.
It was the frost giant Thrym, the same friendly grin on his face, his beard of icicles even longer and frostier than the last time he’d seen him.
Dane heard a scrawk! and saw Klint perched on the frost giant’s shoulder.
“Klint found you!” Dane said.
Thrym nodded, smiling, and his eyes went to the bird.
Just then Jarl trotted up, returning from the path ahead. He saw Thrym holding the white wolves by the scruffs of their necks, and Dane dangling helplessly from the mouth of one of them. “Look who’s almost náttmál,” Jarl cracked.
“Ha, ha,” said Dane dryly. “Where were you?”
“Retrieving the horses. Hey, Thrym.”
“Jarl. Looking good. Put on some weight?”
Jarl slapped a hand to his chest. “Muscle. All muscle.”
“I thought your head was all muscle,” said Thrym.
“Thrym,” said Dane impatiently, “a little help here…?”
“Oh, sorry,” said Thrym. He lowered his head to eye the wolf in question. “Drop it!” the frost giant said, exhaling a huge cloud of icy vapor that instantly frosted the wolf’s entire fur coat. Whimpering like a scolded puppy, the wolf got the message and opened her jaws, releasing Dane. He dropped, landing with a painful thud on the hard ground.
“Bad wolves! Bad!” scolded Thrym. And Dane watched as Thrym turned to a ridge line on a lower elevation all the way across the ravine, and there he set down the wolves where they could no longer do any harm, further shaking his finger at them. Dane could hear the wolves bark and snarl; and then, realizing they had been beaten, the ghostwolves slipped away, disappearing into the snowy whiteness.
Kára knew that frost giants existed. She’d heard Dane tell the story of how Prince Thidrek had traded Astrid to Thrym in return for Thor’s Hammer, and how Dane and his villagers had rescued her from Thrym’s cave atop Mount Neverest. And finally how Thrym had bravely come to their aid and stopped an avalanche from destroying Voldarstad. Hearing it had been one thing; but actually laying eyes on the towering creature, and trying to make sense of what she was seeing—a living, breathing man of ice? Her senses were so overwhelmed, all she could do was sit and stare in wonderment, having lost all power of speech.
This delighted Jarl no end, of course, and he joked that at last his prayers had been answered. “Thrym, you did the impossible,” he said, laughing. “You shut her up!”
“I seem to have that effect on people.” Thrym sighed, his breath forming a giant cloud of frost that settled over the icicles of his beard, making them grow even longer.
When William saw the frostkjempe, he too stared up in awe and disbelief. So the stories were true! The creatures did exist! He marveled at the frost-encrusted giant, amazed that all that ice could be alive. The others welcomed their friend and thanked him for coming to their aid, no one happier to see him than Astrid.
“Thrym, I could kiss you!” she said.
Grinning, the giant bent down and offered his cheek. Astrid coquettishly kissed it—and instantly her lips froze to the spot. Not realizing she was stuck fast, everyone was made uncomfortable by the lengthy show of emotion.
“She really likes the guy,” she heard Drott whisper to Fulnir. Even Dane looked askance at their seeming display of affection.
Finally Astrid managed to free herself with a cry of pain, leaving a piece of skin from her lip still stuck to Thrym’s cheek. The giant grimaced in sympathy.
Last spring, when Astrid had first arrived in his lonely ice cave, Thrym had been so taken by her that he’d hoped they could get over their size and temperature differences to become man and wife. Astrid told him that he was a nice giant, but girls who preferred cozy nights by the fire and guys who melted whenever they even drew near one were not exactly the ideal match. Thrym had been angered by her rejection—he’d pouted, stamped his feet, punched holes in the walls—but in time he had realized she was right. They could never be mated. Yet he had never stopped loving her, and this, Astrid knew, was what Dane had been counting on when he had sent Klint to find him.
“When I saw the bird,” Thrym told her, “I knew you needed me.” The summons had worked the first time, and so it had once again.
It was night and the blizzard had subsided. Thanks to Thrym, making camp had been amazingly easy. They had watched Thrym scoop a large handful of snow from the mountainside and form a cave shelter for them all, marveling that he could do in mere moments what it would take them several hours of labor to accomplish. Then everyone—the people and the
ir horses—had climbed into the snow cave, and Thrym had lain across the top of it, instantly blocking out the freezing winds. Thus shielded, they had felt a cozy feeling come into the cave, the combined heat of everyone’s bodies helping to keep them all so warm and toasty that Astrid had said they probably wouldn’t even need a fire, and she had been right. Nor would they have made one, out of respect to what it might do to Thrym.
Now Dane sat comfortably atop his furs, glad to have some warmth back in his bones. Ulf was snoring away, and Kára seemed fast asleep beneath her furs, wearied but unhurt by the day’s ordeal. Drott was teaching William a game of dice, and from what Dane could tell from Drott’s frequently muttered oaths, the boy was beating him handily. With great interest Vik and Rik the Vicious Brothers were watching Jarl comb his hair, and even from across the cave, Dane could easily see the long, glossy strands agleam in the few shafts of moonlight that fell past Thrym’s massive body.
Fulnir, he noticed, seemed rather irritable and unable to sleep, and lay rolling around in his bedroll, vigorously scratching at his arms and legs and even his privates, as if he had been bitten by a load of fleas. But Dane’s attention was drawn away as he heard the shifting of an even larger body—Thrym’s. Dane saw that the giant had moved so that his face was peering down at them in the cave, the moon visible just over his left shoulder, a look of deep affection on the frost giant’s face.
“Now you are safe,” Thrym said in his soothing rumble, his voice sounding to Dane like air blown through a giant flute.
“This is the second time you’ve saved our lives,” Dane said.
“I can count,” the frost giant said with a growing smile.
Dane had something of a ticklish favor to ask of Thrym, and he looked to Astrid and Lut, who sat beside him, partly hoping that one of them would ask it. They had discussed it earlier and agreed that one of them would have to do it. Astrid gave him a “so ask him already” look. Lut just looked down and began to pick at his fingernails. Dane knew that it was up to him, and he tried to come straight to the point.
“Thrym, I have to ask a favor….” Dane saw Thrym’s giant brows arch upward in anticipation of his question. “I was wondering if you could, I mean if you had nothing better to do…”
“Yes…?” asked the frost giant, looking as if nothing Dane could say would change his happy mood.
A look from Astrid made Dane get right to it. “I wondered if you could lead us to Utgard.”
Thrym’s glacial blue eyes went white. His prodigious brow knitted in anger. Hairline fractures of ice spiderwebbed across his face and neck. “You want WHAT?” he roared, his frosted breath blowing into the cozy cave, blasting everyone instantly awake. “No! Never!” He stood and crashed his fist into the mountainside, causing a small avalanche, then stalked away into the night, his footsteps shaking the ground. With Thrym gone and thus exposed to the elements, everyone sat up, pulling their furs around them for warmth and giving Dane annoyed looks. Now they’d never get to sleep.
“Good job, Dane,” said Jarl.
“Yeah, way to sweet-talk him,” said Fulnir.
“You know how hesitant he is about returning home,” said Astrid.
“All right, I get it,” Dane flared in frustration. “I should have eased my way into it. Bad strategy on my part.” But then they heard the heavy footfalls returning. Dane traded looks with his friends. “Or not. Maybe he’s thought it over and will agree to—”
Thrym thrust his massive hand into the cave. Dane suddenly felt himself being plucked up and pulled out into the freezing cold wind. For the second time that day Dane was brought face-to-face with the frost giant, and this time Thrym was anything but cordial.
“You DARE ask me to take you there? To Utgard?” boomed the giant, his breath frosting Dane’s face and hair, turning them white. “Have you no heart? No compassion? Have you forgotten I am hated there? That they’ll kill me if I ever show my face? Utgard is a death sentence! I save your life and you now ask me to risk mine?” The giant’s icy fingers gripped Dane tighter. “Tell me why I should do this! Tell me!”
Dane was so cold, he could barely think, much less speak. He stared up at the irate frost giant, his teeth chattering, searching for the one answer that wouldn’t get him hurt. “Because, uh…because she wants you to!” Dane pointed down to where Astrid stood on the ledge just outside the ice cave. Astrid gave Dane a look, as if to say, “Thanks for throwing the problem in my lap.”
“Well, Thrym,” she said, cautiously choosing her words, “we all know that with your prodigious strength, you could easily kill Dane with your teensiest little finger, or just rip his head off if you so chose, and I can certainly see why you might like to. Dane can be awfully full of himself at times, fully deserving of such treatment, and there’s been many times I’ve wanted to rip his head off, too.”
Not helping my case, girl, Dane thought in panic.
“But,” Astrid went on, “that would be too easy, now, wouldn’t it, Thrym? Because those of giant-size power crave giant-size challenges, something great and noble and worthy of their stature. Something like, well, the one that awaits you back in Utgard.” Dane held his breath, waiting to see how the giant would react. To his relief, he saw warmth returning to the giant’s eyes as Astrid continued. “For though we all have fears from time to time—terrifying, paralyzing fears—those like you, Thrym, those with true strength of character, are strong enough to face those fears head-on, because they know they are capable of great things if only they try. And that is why we look up to you, Thrym, and revere you, and yes, even love you, now and forever, whether you choose to lead us to Utgard or not….”
Thrym was so affected by her words he began blubbering real tears. Dane watched in awe as they rolled in great rivulets down his cheeks and froze solid right there in his beard, a sight he would not soon forget. They waited for Thrym to regain his composure, and for the longest moment Thrym stared down at Astrid, a smile growing bigger and bigger on his face. The next thing Dane knew, the frost giant had gently set him back on solid ground, and bending down, Thrym brought his face so close to Dane’s that their noses practically touched.
“So when do we leave?” Thrym asked.
19
A SECRET DISCOVERED
Geldrun knew it would be her end if they heard her crying, and so it took everything she had to hold in her tears.
It had happened quite by accident, as they were making camp at sunset in a wooded canyon. Geldrun had been idly watching Godrek, enjoying the gentle way he had with his stallion, talking to his horse as he removed his saddle and patting him on the head. And then, as he removed his pack, she’d seen it poke through the blanket. A flash of bronze caught the light for the briefest moment, but it was enough for her to recognize it.
The hilt of Dane’s rune sword!
What was he doing with it? Godrek had quickly covered it up with a blanket and thrown a look to Geldrun, but she had given no sign that she had seen it. Though her heart was pounding, she had simply smiled and calmly gone about cutting the dried deer meat into edible chunks and gone into the trees to gather wood for the fire. Only then, safely out of sight and out of earshot, did she finally break into great muffled sobs, knowing something had gone terribly wrong and fearing her son likely dead. Why else would Godrek not want her to see it? The very sword from the war chest? And why had he kept it hidden? Dane would never have freely parted with it, unless…Clearly, there was something Godrek did not want her knowing, and harking back to what she had heard while eavesdropping on the men—that they were running short of food—she knew that Godrek was no longer to be trusted.
She felt swallowed in darkness. She had lost her dear husband just last spring—and now her son? It was all too much to bear. She felt the urge to run and throw herself off the nearest precipice. And blinded with grief, she would have followed her impulse had not some hopeful inner voice reached out from the darkness and pulled her back from the abyss. Perhaps Whitecloak had only stolen
it from Dane, she thought, or maybe something else had happened—a fight, a disagreement. Again the voice spoke to her, and she felt new strength arise within, the urge for self-preservation and revenge. She must save herself.
Her sobbing subsided. Regaining some clarity of mind, she recalled the moment Dane had opened the war chest. Godrek’s eyes had flashed with covetous desire when he snatched the scabbard from her son’s hands and shown disappointment that the blade was broken. Had Godrek discovered some secret about the weapon? And, if not marriage, what did he want with her?
“Geldrun.”
Chilled by the voice, she turned to see him standing on the rise, looking down at her. For a moment his face was expressionless, and she could not tell if he had seen her crying. But then he smiled and in a playful, chiding tone said, “A fire will not make itself, my love.”
She affected a smile and said, “A woman can’t have time to think?”
“That depends on where her thoughts might stray.”
“I pledge you my heart,” she said, returning his chiding tone. “But my thoughts remain my own.” She beamed him the brightest smile she could muster, turned her back, and continued her wood gathering. When she looked back, he was gone. It was then she decided that whatever purpose Godrek had for her, she would not wait to find out. The question now wasn’t if she would flee, but how. She was one woman against thirteen hardened warriors. To get away unnoticed seemed impossible, but then a notion presented itself. It was daring and dangerous, yet she had to try it.
That night before náttmál Geldrun waited for her chance, and when Godrek was busy dressing down one of his men, she slipped unseen to his bundle and stole his bag of wenderot. She had remembered that he carried a supply of the dried herb to ease the pain of his “battle-weary bones.” He swore by its pain-easing properties; but would his medicinal cure work the way she hoped it would?
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