Sword of Doom

by James Jennewein

  Later that evening Geldrun lay still in her bedroll, pretending to sleep. The fire had long since dwindled, and now the camp was still, everyone asleep, or so she hoped. Beside her, lying motionless beneath his great bear-fur bedroll, Godrek lay asnore. Still she waited. The venison and barley stew she had made in the big iron cook pot had been so enjoyed by the men, many had asked for second and third helpings, which had only given her scheme confidence. Goatskins of wine had also been passed round, and she had seen to it that the men had drunk to their heart’s content. It hadn’t taken long for the men to take to their blankets, and not much longer for them all to fall asleep. All save the sentry assigned first watch. And sneaking a look now, she could see that the guard, wrapped in a brown woolen blanket, sat with his back against a rock and was using his dagger to pick at stones on the ground. Would he ever fall asleep?

  She hadn’t been sure how much wenderot to put in the soup. What would be the proper dose for thirteen men? Worried she might not have enough and with no time to spare, she had hurriedly dumped the whole contents of the bag into the bubbling pot and just started stirring, quietly hoping her desperate plan would prove effective. Now, lying there under the stars with a chill wind at her back, she knew that she would have to make her getaway soon. Again she cracked open an eye and looked across the camp at the sentry. He slept. It was time. She slipped from her blankets and crept toward the horses with the bundle of dried fish and flatbread she had packed, gaining more hope with every step.

  Ragnar watched the woman as she saddled her horse, not knowing what to do. Had she decided Godrek was not good husband material and wanted out? Or had she discovered the plot against her? Perhaps one of the others had secretly told her of it and they were going to escape together. He glanced round the moon-shadowed camp, but all the others were fast asleep. So she was escaping on her own. This woman had fine looks and grit.

  He lay watching, unable to take his eyes away from her. He had seen her crying in the woods. He had eyed her taking the pouch of wenderot from Godrek’s bundle and had surmised what plans she had for it. And pretending to eat that evening, he had instead dumped his venison stew in the bushes. Much later, he saw her make her move after the sentry had fallen asleep.

  Where would she go? A woman alone in this cold, harsh clime would be lucky to survive. And when Godrek discovered her missing in the morning, he’d go after her with a vengeance. She had no chance. But what could he do? Would he not be risking his own life to aid her? Torn, he prayed that the wenderot was sufficiently potent.

  Moments later Ragnar came up behind her and thrust a hand over her mouth. Instantly she swung around with a knife to plunge it into the unscarred half of his face. He caught her hand a hair before the blade broke skin and whispered, “Your son lives.”

  She stared at him, her eyes afire. Ragnar was unsure whether she believed him.

  “He’s two days behind us,” he said, seeing her look soften.

  “Why do you tell me this?”

  “Because you’re a good woman. Go now.”

  She held his eyes for a moment, the way women used to in his youth, and said, “I was right about you.”

  Watching her mount up and ride off into the night, he spied in alarm the handle of the rune sword poking out from the pack behind her saddle. By the gods, she has taken it! Godrek’s vengeance, he now knew for certain, would be swift and merciless, and he was relieved to realize that he could easily escape his lordship’s wrath by pretending to have been drugged like everyone else. But escape for Geldrun, he feared, would be far less likely.

  As Kára rode on the pine-log sled pulled by the frost giant, she thought about something that had never concerned her before. Jarl had said that everyone in the party had a role, everyone contributed in some way. Well, what did she do to help? The very idea of helping others was odd to her. Being noble born and accustomed to commanding others to help her, she had never had to perform a menial task. She had no notion of what it felt like to fetch or lift or mend or clean. She was never taught to do anything of a practical nature; she had servants to do those things. So why was she even remotely bothered by this?

  After Thrym had agreed to lead them to Utgard, he went down into the ravine and retrieved the supplies from the poor dead horses. Five of them had been lost in the wolf attack, and it was decided that instead of riding tandem on the remaining horses and straining them further, they would build a new, much larger sled to carry people and provisions. Thrym strode away across the mountains and, in no time at all, returned with a bundle of pine trees he had uprooted. Everyone had set about stripping the trees of branches and lashing the logs together.

  Everyone but Kára. She had done nothing but sit and watch, of course, physical labor of any kind being below her station. Jarl had actually dubbed her Kára the Idle, and she had stuck out her tongue at him as the others had laughed. Watching now, she began to notice how everyone actually enjoyed the communal effort. Even William, all of ten years old, eagerly pitched in. And she couldn’t help but notice that Astrid worked hardest of all, expertly chopping off branches with her axe and stripping off the bark. Kára had marveled at how quickly they had lashed together a sturdy-looking sled and was especially struck with the pride and pleasure they had taken in such backbreaking work. Even Jarl and Dane, not always the best of friends, she had noticed, heartily clapped each other on the back, as if brought closer by the cooperative work. Though it had been too cold for the men to go shirtless while wielding their axes, she had noticed, not to her displeasure, that Jarl seemed particularly well sinewed through his arms and chest.

  Now, riding the sled with Astrid, Will, Lut, and Drott, Kára mused on what it might be like to have a role, or “function,” as she had heard it called. Perhaps she might find it amusing. She turned to Astrid and said, “I want you to teach me a skill.”

  Astrid appeared surprised. “A skill? You?”

  “Something I can excel at.”

  “Other than being a royal pain?”

  “I am trying to be civil. All I ask is for—”

  “You didn’t ask.”

  Kára gave a petulant sigh. This was far too much trouble. She gathered her words, forcing them out with the utmost calm. “I want you to…I mean, would you teach me how to…do something?” Astrid just looked at her, expectantly. Through gritted teeth Kára said, “Please.”

  “Was that so hard?”

  “Yes.”

  Astrid smiled. “What would you care to learn?”

  Her eyes went to Astrid’s sling of throwing axes. “Perhaps how to use one of those?”

  “What for?”

  “To kill obstinate commoners,” she said wryly.

  Astrid drew forth an axe and placed Kára’s hand on its handle, showing her how to employ her thumb for throwing leverage. The wood felt rough in her soft, dainty hand. As Astrid let go, Kára was surprised at how heavy the axe felt in her hands, yet there was an excitement to it, an anticipation of what the weapon was capable of, and what she might be capable of doing with it.

  “Best to use both hands at first,” Astrid said.

  Kára grasped the handle, hefting it with two hands. “I will keep this…I mean, may I keep it for a while—to practice?”

  “You may keep it forever. It is yours.”

  With a careful finger, Kára touched the edge of the blade, thrilled by its lethal power. She had received countless gifts before—furs, jewelry, once a full-grown dancing bear—but this one, she thought, was the best gift of all. She was reminded that there was a certain something one was supposed to say in these situations, but what was it? Oh, yes. The words came, but none too easily. “Thank you, Astrid.”

  “You’re most welcome, Kára.”

  Kára? What cheek she had, addressing a royal by her first name! Kára had half a mind then to dress the girl down, but looking again at the axe, she decided to let it pass.

  Later, as they stopped to rest and water the horses, Astrid noticed Lut eyeing her intent
ly. Ever since the night she had surprised him in the brush after visiting the Norns, the old one seemed to be watching her, studying her more closely than ever. And every look he gave her reminded her of what the Norns had told her—of the offer they had made to her—and it made her sick with worry. Had it really happened? At the time it had seemed so real—the women, the pages of time in the book, her reflection in the pool, the waterfall.

  Now, two days later, whenever she allowed herself to think of it, it seemed like a bad dream. Something her mind had fabricated to help her cope with her fear of Dane’s death. But she knew it was real. It had happened. And in time, if she chose to, she would have to pay the consequences.

  She turned to walk back, surprised to find Lut standing before her, blocking her path. The look on his face told her that they weren’t going to talk about the weather.

  “I think it’s time you tell me,” he said. “About the ghosts.”

  “Ghosts? I said I had seen goats,” she replied as blithely as she could, hoping she could bluff her way out of this. But as she tried to walk past him, he caught her arm in his hand, his fingers surprisingly painful as they dug into her flesh.

  “I know you, girl. I’ve known you all your life. I know how you look when some boy has irked you or you’re so mad you want to chop off someone’s arm or even when you’re afraid for your life. This was worse. And it’s haunted you ever since, hasn’t it?”

  She nodded, a single tear running down her cheek.

  “Is it about Dane? I see the fearful way you look at him.”

  “A Valkyrie was about to take him, but—but I couldn’t let her.”

  She fell into the old man’s arms, more tears came, and the story spilled forth. About Mist and the Norns. Everything. And choking out the words through her tears, she told him the worst of it. If Dane was to die, when the time came she would be given a choice: To save his life she would have to pledge her own instead. And for nights now she had been unable to sleep, tortured by the question she soon would have to answer: Whose life was more important, hers or his?

  Lut held her at arm’s length. His eyes were wet and he let out a deep, mournful moan. “Oh, child,” he said, barely able to speak, and she fell into his arms again and stayed for a time, sobbing out her tears.

  Geldrun’s roan, Freyja, chestnut and white, was much smaller than the brutish mounts bred for battle that Godrek and his men rode. During the journey, these warhorses had tried to have their way with Freyja, biting and bullying her. But the little roan would have none of it, using her teeth and sharp hooves to give back in kind. Freyja was brave, but also calm and dependable, qualities Geldrun needed the night she escaped, for the trail was strewn with rocks and pitfalls, and she had to trust that her mount would not be spooked by shadows or a sudden hoot from an owl. Still, the going was slow, and when the dark veil of night lifted, Geldrun quickened the pace, riding as fast as Freyja would abide, for she knew Godrek and his men were already on her trail. And their horses were trained to ride hard for days, if need be, to relentlessly hunt down an enemy. Freyja was simply not capable of galloping without stop for long distances. She was game and gave it her all without complaint, but Geldrun had to often stop to give the horse respite.

  Late in the day she dismounted and broke the ice on a stream so Freyja could drink. Giving the animal rest, Geldrun climbed a steep rise that afforded a view to the south for leagues. All there was to see was the harsh terrain of mountains, rocks, and snow she had traversed before. Had Ragnar lied to her? Was Dane out there somewhere, or was she riding into a wilderness in which she could not possibly survive alone? Despair overtook her, and she felt her escape foolish and impulsive. Just as her agreeing to go away and marry Godrek had been. How blind she had been not to see his true motives!

  In the midst of berating herself for all that had gone wrong, she glimpsed something moving far in the distance. Something big…no, gigantic. A frost giant! Yes! And it seemed to be pulling something behind it…perhaps a sled of some kind? Then she saw horses and riders, and knew the frost giant was Thrym and that Dane was with him.

  20

  WHITECLOAK’S REVENGE

  The five men on their mounts crested a ridge. It was nearing nightfall, they had ridden all day without rest, and their horses were glistening with sweat. Man and animal alike were hard-bitten warriors, accustomed to pushing themselves past exhaustion in the pursuit of prey, for their leader never gave up, never retreated until he had either killed or captured what he was after. And he expected no less from those in his service.

  In the dim light, movement in the rocks below caught Godrek’s eye. It appeared to be the roan, maybe a league up the trail. He saw a figure on foot, hurriedly mounting the horse. For a moment she looked his way, and he was sure she saw them, silhouetted on the ridge, for she immediately spurred her horse and took off at a gallop. The pursuers spurred their mounts on, the heady scent of the chase filling the nostrils of both man and beast.

  Geldrun knew her only hope was to reach her son before they ran her down from behind. Once they saw the frost giant, either they would turn back or, if they chose to fight, their weapons would be useless against a gigantic man made of ice. Thrym would crush them.

  As if sensing new urgency, Freyja, tired but game, raced south, her golden mane and tail flying. When Voldar had presented Geldrun with the horse, he’d suggested naming her Shining Mane, after the steed that pulls the chariot of the sun across the sky. But Geldrun chose the name of her favorite deity, Freyja, the golden-haired goddess of love.

  She heard a hiss and saw a white-fledged arrow fly over her head. She knew it was a warning shot, a message telling her the chase was over; they were close now and there was no escape. But with safe harbor so near, she was not about to stop. She rounded a turn on the trail and spied Thrym in the distance, the soft amber light of the setting sun coloring his ice-clad body. She was only a half league away now, but it was too dark for Dane and the others to see her.

  Another arrow flew by. She heard hoofbeats thundering ever closer behind her. And then she was panicked to see Godrek himself coming up beside her on the right, riding his coal-black stallion. At full gallop she rammed Freyja into his horse, trying to knock him off the trail and into the ravine below. Both horses stumbled, Godrek’s massive war mount veering into her little roan, biting her neck in fury. The roan’s teeth flashed, biting back the stallion on the soft, tender flesh of his nose. Godrek leaned in and grabbed her reins, trying to pull up the mount. Geldrun fought him with her fists and went to draw her knife from her belt, when a vicious backhand from Godrek sent her tumbling off Freyja to the ground.

  She lay dazed for a moment, then got to her feet and ran, screaming, “Dane! Dane!” Godrek leaped from his mount and caught her, wrestling her back to the ground. His men rode up, Thorfinn gasping, “Lord, look!” All eyes followed his petrified gaze. There in the dusky light they saw the colossal monster down the trail in the distance.

  “Frostkjempe!” Svein uttered, touching the Thor’s Hammer amulet around his neck.

  All the men looked stricken with terror, even Godrek. Geldrun tried to call out again, but Godrek clamped a hand over her mouth. She was quickly dragged away, her mouth stuffed with cloth, and was lifted back atop Freyja. Godrek made sure the arrows they shot were collected, so as to not give away they had even been there. Her hands were tied to the saddle and the reins given to one of Godrek’s men to lead the horse away. Godrek gave the order to retreat, but half his men were already galloping away, fleeing in fear of the frost giant.

  Dane heard a cry in the distance. He ordered everyone to stop so the air was not filled with the sounds of horse hooves and the loud scraping of the log sled over the trail. He listened for it again, hearing nothing but the brush of cold wind on his face.

  “What is it?” asked Jarl.

  “It sounded like someone calling my name.” They heard the distant cry of what sounded like an eagle.

  “Bad omen,” Jarl said. Dane
shot him a questioning look, and Jarl explained, “Well, you know, ‘feed the eagle’ means to die in battle. So if you hear the bird call your name, you’re maybe going to die.”

  “Thanks for sharing that with me,” Dane said.

  “Next time I see an omen, I’ll keep it to myself,” Jarl said tartly.

  “You do that, Jarl.”

  Was it an eagle’s cry, or had his burning desire to see his mother again made him think he’d heard her call to him? Was she near? He wanted to press on, but darkness was upon them, another storm was approaching from the west, and they had to make camp for the night.

  Ragnar kept wondering when and if Geldrun would reveal his complicity in her escape. After they had captured her and retrieved the rune sword, he tried to covertly meet her eyes a few times while they rode away from her son’s party and the frost giant. Her return look was sullen and hostile, which only increased his disquiet.

  She was tied to a tree when they returned to camp so she could not escape. Godrek went and spoke alone to her. Although unable to hear much of their conversation, Ragnar did catch a few of her loud curses. Godrek stood, and his hard eyes found Ragnar across the camp. In that instant Ragnar thought his only chance of escape was to run to his horse. But he saw it was picketed with the other mounts and knew that by the time he got it free, he’d be cut down. Why had he shown mercy to her? Didn’t he know mercy always makes trouble for a warrior? Godrek was now walking toward him, and he thought it a good time to compose his death poem.

  O mighty Ragnar!

  Once handsome and plucky

  Then a Jutlander’s knife

  Left him scarred and unlucky

  Though it was still a bit rough, he knew there’d be no time for revisions as he saw Godrek striding toward him, and he girded himself for the thrust of his lord’s blade.

  “Guard her—never let her out of your sight,” Godrek said as he walked past. Ragnar’s guts unclenched. His feelings of relief were momentary, however, for soon he realized she still held the proverbial axe over his head—and could spill the beans about him yet. Well, at least now he’d have time to work on a second draft of his death poem.