Sword of Doom

by James Jennewein

  “Higher, Thrym!” Astrid cried. “Reach higher!”

  The giant struggled to raise his arm higher, though it shuddered with each hack of the axes. At last his upturned palm reached high enough, and Astrid, Kára, and William jumped into it. He began to lower them in his hand, when CRR-AAACK! his arm fell away like a mighty tree. Astrid, Kára, and William crashed hard onto Thrym’s chest. Kára rolled off, landing with a thud on the ground next to Thrym’s severed arm. She was sitting in something wet and saw it came from a troll who had been crushed by the falling arm.

  “Ew, troll blood.”

  Three trolls sprang up, scrambling over the top of the dismembered arm, coming at her with axes. She screamed, and William’s arrows drove them back. Astrid reached down and pulled Kára up onto Thrym’s chest. Kára retrieved the axe she had thrown, and she, Astrid, and William now stood guard over the fallen giant. The trolls retreated like rats into the dark recesses of the pit, where they hissed and hurled insults, their pink, malevolent eyes glowing out at them in the dark.

  Thrym’s eyes were mere slits, his vaporous breath reduced to a bare whisper. Astrid patted his cheek, horribly scarred by the troll axes. “We’ll protect you, Thrym,” she whispered, “we’ll protect you.” And it gave her heart hope to see the tiny smile that he managed to make in answer.

  After Dane saw that Astrid, William, and Kára were down in the pit protecting Thrym, he turned his attention to the troll army, which was regrouping for a counterattack. Their commander, a vicious-looking fellow with beady eyes and fat, puffy lips who strutted about in gleaming chain mail and a plumed silver helmet, barked an order. The troll army quickly took positions, encircling the humans. Dane and the others drew together, and everywhere they looked, there were trolls five rows deep, banging loudly on their shields and shouting. Not knowing a word of the troll tongue, Dane could only assume they were spouting obscenities, for their faces twisted into scowls as they spoke and they spat the words as if they were poison.

  “Exbla teva blombah karreggaha!”

  “What are they saying?” Drott asked.

  “I’m familiar with the southern dialect of the troll tongue,” said Lut, “but these being northern trolls, I can’t make out exactly what they’re saying. It’s either ‘Come, share a leg of mutton’ or ‘We wish to make furniture from your bones.’”

  “I hope it’s the first one,” said Drott.

  Dane now saw that the trolls had wheeled four catapults into position, forming a rear guard behind their ranks. The throwing arms of the siege engines were cranked back, weapons loaded. The troll commander raised his hand, preparing to signal the launching of the catapults, when the troops behind him parted and out marched a phalanx of soldiers fancily attired in black-plate armor. Dane took them to be the royal guard, for behind them strode someone who could only be their ruler, the troll chieftain, a noble-looking fellow of regal bearing, ruddy cheeked and rather stout. His eyes shone with bright intelligence and he carried in his left hand a long kingly staff that bore on its end the head of a wild boar carved in amber. Over his tunic he wore a woolen tricolor robe, and over his shoulders a bearskin cloak fringed with white fox fur. Ringlets of gold and silver jangled from his neck and wrists, and when he opened his mouth to speak, Dane saw that his two upper canines were made of glistening gold. Crowning it all was a magnificent turbaned headdress made of woven silks and feathers, and sunk in its center, Dane saw, was a hollow-eyed troll skull.

  “Cease!” the troll chieftain demanded. All the troll warriors immediately stopped thumping their shields and went down on one knee, bowing their heads in obeisance.

  The troll commander, irked by his chieftain’s command, neither bowed nor knelt. He looked insolently at his ruler and said, “We must press our advantage.”

  Surrounded by the troll army, Dane and his friends could not hear all the words, but they grasped that the leaders were arguing over their fate. “The one with the headdress, he’s the king?” Drott asked.

  “That would be my guess,” Ulf replied.

  “I’m rooting for him.”

  Dane now saw the king and the sour-faced commander walking toward them, flanked by ten members of the royal guard. They halted a safe distance away and the ruler spoke. “I am Dvalin, Lord of the Trolls, ruler of all weefolk in this forest realm, chieftain of all that you see. And this is the captain of my troops, Commander Greb.”

  Harrumphing a greeting of his own, the commander angrily spat at the feet of the humans. Jarl stepped forward and spat at Greb’s feet. Greb spat. Jarl spat. They spat until they were all out of spit.

  “Well, now that we’re done with that,” Dvalin said airily, “perhaps we can proceed. I have no wish to see you harmed. Leave your weapons and go the way you came.”

  “But the frost giant is ours,” the commander snarled. “You leave without him.”

  Dane exchanged looks with his mates and saw they all thought as he did. “Thrym is our friend,” he said firmly. “He has no part in your war.”

  “He’s a filthy frost giant!” barked Greb. “Our prisoner!”

  “We won’t leave without him,” Dane said.

  “As you wish! Then you’ll all die,” said Greb with a grin, showing his sharp, pointed teeth. “You’ve made my day.” And with that, Greb stalked away alone. The chieftain stood somewhat uncomfortably with his guard.

  “What is your name?” Lord Dvalin asked.

  “I am Dane. Dane the Defiant.”

  Lord Dvalin’s face lit up. “Oh, but you are legend here! You returned Thor’s Hammer to the heavens.”

  “He had help,” Jarl snapped, looking down with scorn at the troll lord.

  “It is said that in ancient times, my kind made the Hammer for Thor, did you know that?” Dvalin said.

  “The legend we heard was that dwarves made it,” Jarl said, unwisely calling Dvalin a liar in front of hundreds of his armed subjects.

  “A gross misassertion!” Dvalin shot back. And then he gave a forlorn sigh. “We once made many wondrous things, but now…we have no magic.”

  “Magic is indeed a precious commodity, your lordship,” Lut said with authority. “I am Lut the Bent, runemaster and sage. We have journeyed far and trekked here not to harm trollkind, nay, but to rescue this boy’s mother, who was taken by a foul band of brigands! Surely they have come this way?”

  “We saw no one come before you,” the troll chieftain said.

  “Or their heads would be on poles too, hmm?” said Jarl.

  “I have cast the runes and the gods have spoken!” Lut said in a threatening tone. “Our cause is just, and those who impede our journey will be—will be visited by…” Here he faltered, and Dane quickly realized what words he sought.

  “Boils and pustules,” Dane whispered, recalling the lurid curses of King Eldred’s oracles.

  “Yes! Great boils and pustules!” Lut thundered. “Their insides will rot and their eyeballs explode! And that’s just on the first day; it gets worse.”

  Lord Dvalin considered Lut’s warning and said, “You see what ruin the giant ones have wrought here. Our village and countless families destroyed. And when they retreated, they took many of my subjects captive. My people are demanding revenge.”

  “Thrym is a peaceable fellow,” said Dane. “He had no part in the attack. If you are a just leader, you cannot punish him for what he has not done.”

  “I have offered you freedom,” said the Lord of the Trolls, his cheeks reddening. “If you choose not to take it, then it is out of my hands.” He turned and quickly strode away with his guards.

  “I left out unrelenting diarrhea!” Lut shouted after him. “The runes never lie!” But Lord Dvalin continued walking as if he didn’t hear or care about Lut’s warnings.

  “We should attack now,” Jarl said.

  “That’s your answer to everything,” Dane said.

  “I wasn’t the one screaming ‘Trollslayer,’ Dane. It was you.”

  “That was before I knew they
weren’t all savages. The chieftain—”

  “Is a troll—and the only way to deal with a rump-fed troll is with the point of a blade. And by the way, I won’t allow infringement upon my sword name. I claim Trollslayer and all the other names with troll in it, such as Trollkiller, Trollslasher, Trollcrippler—”

  “You can’t own the whole troll category,” Drott protested.

  “Trollmaimer, Trollbutcher, Trollannihilator—”

  Fortunately a sharp command from Commander Greb interrupted Jarl’s litany of sword names he claimed were his. The troll forces rose from their knees and snapped to attention. They stood there, unmoving, poised for battle, their pink, unblinking eyes all fixed on the only target before them: humans.

  “Let’s rush them,” Jarl said. “They’ll scatter like rabbits.”

  “They’ll expect that and flank us before we reach their lines,” Dane said.

  “Well, whatever we do, let’s do it soon,” said Fulnir, “’cause I’m itching to kill something.”

  Again Dane was struck by Fulnir’s uncharacteristic aggression, and even the very hair on Fulnir’s face seemed to bristle in anger. Feeling the urgency of the moment, Dane turned to Lut, eagerly hoping the old one might have some solution.

  “Don’t look at me,” Lut said. “You saw how well my idea fared.”

  Commander Greb’s voice rang out. “Ready!” He raised his sword skyward for a moment, then whipped it down, screaming an order in the troll tongue.

  In quick succession, the throwing beams on all four catapults shot forward, launching their payloads.

  Dane saw four large bundles soaring upward, and curiously, a troll was atop each one. The bundles arced downward, coming straight at the circle of humans. They tried to scatter, but it was too late. Atop each projectile, the trolls sliced through a cord and the bundles sprang open, revealing nets ringed with iron weights. The nets plunged down over Dane and the others, trapping them like so many helpless quail. They desperately tried cutting and slashing their way out, but in moments, the troll army rushed in, and when given the chance to drop their weapons or be hacked to death by a sea of angry trolls, Dane and the others surrendered. Last to give up was Jarl, of course, the idea of surrender—to trolls, no less!—so abhorrent to him that the shame he felt made him sick to his stomach.

  22

  A PITIFUL SITUATION

  So it had come to this, Dane thought. Trapped for hours now in a dark pit with unscalable walls, the night air freezing cold and getting colder, everyone miserable and aching with hunger. They’d been given neither food nor blankets—not that either of these would have raised their spirits much—and everyone had descended into a bitter silence. But at least they were all together and alive, Dane thought, although poor Thrym was failing fast. For hours the frost giant had lain motionless nearby, his frosted breathing growing increasingly labored.

  And then, to Dane’s alarm, it got worse. Seemingly unprovoked, Fulnir began to argue with Vik, saying that he could tell by his smell that Vik was hiding food.

  “Fresh hazelnuts and salted fish!” said Fulnir. “I can nose it! Check his clothes!”

  Vik vehemently denied he was hiding any food, and soon they came to blows, Fulnir erupting, snarling and snapping like a wild hound, trying to bite Vik. The others pulled them apart, and it took five of them to hold Fulnir down on the ground.

  “His teeth!” said Rik pointing at Fulnir’s face. “Look!”

  Dane was horrified to see that Fulnir’s canines appeared to have grown longer and sharper. Worse, his hair was growing thicker, stiff bristles of it appearing on his hands and arms and all over his face. Fulnir continued trying to bite them, fighting with an animal fury, his teeth bared and frothing. “Tie him to the log!” Dane ordered, and it took all hands to tie him to an uprooted tree that had fallen into the pit so he couldn’t harm himself or anyone else. Lut examined him in what light there was, then took Dane aside.

  “It’s bad,” Lut said. “The marks on his arm show he’s been bitten by a ghostwolf. It’s only a matter of time.”

  “A matter of time before what?” Dane asked, worried for his friend.

  “Before he becomes a varúlfur,” Lut said, “doomed to spend the rest of his days roaming the forest as half man, half wolf, with a savage taste for human flesh.” Dane could only stare in disbelief. His best friend a murderous beast? Such was the legend, Lut told him; he who was bitten by a ghostwolf was doomed to become one. In a matter of days the transformation would be complete. Lut’s father, Lundrin the Wise, had once told him of the legend of the ghostwolves, and now he was seeing it firsthand.

  “There must be something,” Dane said. “A poultice? An incantation? Some kind of cure?”

  “The only cure I know,” Lut said, sadly shaking his head, “is a quick and merciful death. For now, all we can do is watch and wait.”

  Dane waited for Fulnir to fall asleep before discussing the situation with the others. It was agreed they would keep a close eye on Fulnir for signs his condition was growing worse.

  “What do we look for?” Ulf asked.

  “If he starts howling at the moon, he’s no longer one of us,” said Jarl. “And then we do what we have to do.”

  “What—kill him?” Drott said, his face hardening. “No one is touching my friend. I don’t care if he grows a tail and starts licking his privates. Nobody touches him!”

  “I agree!” insisted Dane. “He’s risked his life too often for us to turn on him now!”

  Rik too sided with Dane. “I say we keep him alive as long as possible,” said Rik, “before we put him out of his misery.” Surprising everyone, he turned on his brother. “And you! You say you have no food? Prove it! Empty your pockets!”

  “I’ll do no such thing,” said Vik with an iron stare. And then, to no one’s surprise, the brothers instantly fell to fighting. For a time it was all fists and elbows as the two threw each other around in the dark, spitting and cursing, until at last Rik got the best of Vik and forced him to hand over the food. Vik shamefully did, and Rik shared the nuts and fish with the others, insisting that Vik apologize, which he did and then went off to sulk.

  The few bits of food were quickly eaten, and a sullen silence again descended on the group. Later, when Fulnir awakened, Dane went over and found his friend feeling better. He had no recollection of what had happened, he said, and was saddened to hear of what he had done. His fits seemed to come and go, and Ulf said that perhaps when he was in their grip, he lost his mind. Drott said he sure knew what that felt like, not having much of a mind himself, and Fulnir laughed and said Drott didn’t have much of a face either, and everyone else except Drott laughed at that too.

  Dane saw a stone fly down from above, and heard more derisive hoots. He looked up to see a dozen or more trolls dancing along the rim of the pit, throwing taunts and rocks down at them.

  “Slavia crupto et kumgh bah!”

  “Lut, what are they saying now?” Drott asked. “They wish to make footstools from our skulls?”

  “Close,” Lut said.

  “Dirty trolls!” Jarl shouted. He picked up a stone and winged it back up at his captors. Dane heard a cry of pain from above, followed by more unintelligible troll oaths. Rik and Vik joined Jarl in hurling more stones, and soon the trollfolk tired of their game and drifted away, no doubt joining the loud victory celebration that could be heard, the steady drumming sounds growing louder.

  It was hours later now. Fulnir was awake as well, still tied to the log but talking as if nothing were the matter, calling out the sounds and smells his heightened wulfen senses could detect.

  He sniffed the air, catching a scent. “Celery root. Willow bark. Turnips pickled in brine…”

  Ulf’s stomach growled like a hungry bear. “Sounds like they’re having quite a feast.”

  “Or preparing for one,” Jarl said ominously.

  “Fishwife tales,” said Lut, dismissing this with a wave of his hand.

  “But the skulls w
e passed?” asked Ulf. “What do you think they did with the bodies?”

  “…honey, barley cake, berries and cream,” Fulnir said, still sniffing.

  Princess Kára finally caught on. “Are you…are you telling me that—that—trolls eat people?”

  “If they can find the right seasoning,” said Lut, trying to lighten the mood.

  “Or the right person,” said Ulf.

  “But worry not, princess,” Jarl said. “They’d never eat anyone obviously as spoiled as you!”

  Kára glared at Jarl. “You’d be cooked first if they prefer eating dumb animals!”

  This brought chuckles at Jarl’s expense, but the mirth didn’t last. They were all too cold, hungry, and tired for much of anything. Fulnir piped up again with one of his food reports, and Ulf snapped at him to shut up already, he was too hungry to hear it, and soon the mood of the group sank into the dark gloom of the pit.

  Seated off by himself, Dane mused on other problems they faced. He wondered if their fate was being debated at that very moment by the trolls. Obviously the king’s orders to spare them had been followed. Greb could have slaughtered them when they’d been helplessly trapped in the nets. Or perhaps the commander didn’t want their deaths to be quick. Perhaps he preferred the slow, painful, crowd-pleasing kind. Dane had seen the cold hatred in the commander’s eyes and knew he was capable of such deeds. His business was killing and inflicting pain on the enemy. His village had been crushed by frost giants, hostages had been taken, and so he needed—his fellow trolls needed—retribution. It was as simple as that. It mattered none if Thrym was innocent. In Greb’s mind, one frost giant was like all other frost giants. Just as in Jarl’s mind one troll was like all the rest.

  “Fear blinds,” Dane’s father had once told him, and that was why it was the cause of most of humankind’s pain. That which blinds turns men irrational and foolish, often dangerously so. Men from a neighboring village had attacked Voldarstad because they’d feared hunger. It was fear of retribution that caused Godrek to try to kill Dane. Jarl hated trolls because he feared them, so why not kill them all? Likewise, to Commander Greb, the only good frost giant was a melted one. And any human who trespassed in the troll forest deserved to have his head displayed on a pike.