Sword of Doom

by James Jennewein

  “Does this mean we’re not having blódíss?” one of the giants asked. Thrym proclaimed that blódíss, although tasty and tart, would never again be served. Giants griped and grumbled, but the peace held. Assured that they would not be turned into frozen desserts, Fulnir and his friends emerged from hiding.

  Thrym saw them, and instantly his face showed alarm. “But where are Astrid and the others…Dane, the princess, and Lut?”

  “I’m afraid,” Fulnir replied gravely, “I haven’t any idea.”

  28

  NORTHWARD TO PARTS UNKNOWN

  Dane was in torment. Biting winds tore through his coat, his whole body numb from the cold, and though he had lost all feeling in his hands and toes, the bitter sting of shame and failure felt even worse. There was no denying it: He had led his mother and friends into utter disaster. And worst of it all, he feared his dearest friend, Lut the Bent, was dead.

  Now as he lay on the exposed deck of the longship Godrek had seized, looking up at the gathering storm clouds, Dane clung to a single strand of hope. Their only chance for survival lay in the slim possibility that somehow Jarl and his friends had not been killed in the frost giant arena, and would bravely give chase. But if not—and if Lut had been killed by Ragnar, as he feared—he knew it spelled their doom. For now that they were Godrek’s prisoners here on this longship—he, Geldrun, Astrid, and Kára—who could possibly save them?

  In Utgard when Dane and the others were captured at swordpoint and spirited away, it wasn’t until after they were out the fortress gates that Dane had noticed Lut wasn’t with them and neither was Ragnar. An awful dread had struck Dane as he realized that the liegeman had no doubt been ordered to kill Lut, the only one who knew of Godrek’s intended destination. Dane, his mother, Astrid, and Kára were tied onto the backs of horses and forced to ride hard with Godrek and his men down the western slope of the mountain. When Ragnar had joined them soon after, suspiciously alone, his face had revealed nothing, and Dane had felt a boiling rage that the old man had been killed so casually. He vowed to seek revenge on Ragnar and Godrek the first chance he had.

  A day later they had reached the coastline, for it was here that the last part of their journey would begin to Ey Daur, the dreaded Isle of Doom, located in the northern-most seas. Desperate for a ship, Godrek and his men had commandeered one from a village of peaceful fisherfolk. Their chieftain, a toothless fat man, had tried to reason with Godrek, telling him that without the ship his people would starve. But to Dane’s disgust, Godrek had wordlessly plunged the rune sword into the poor man’s belly and, ripping it sideways, spilled out the man’s vitals. The villagers—along with Astrid, Geldrun, and Kára—had gaped in shock as the chieftain collapsed, writhing in death spasms. Even Godrek’s men had appeared taken aback by his brutality, since it was clear the boat could have been taken without violence. But Godrek strode, unruffled, aboard the ship without looking back—and it was then Dane had realized that the rune sword had completely poisoned his heart, and whatever humanity had once existed within the man was gone. Dane and the other captives had been herded onto the ship and tied securely, Astrid and Kára tied to oarlocks in the stern, Dane and his mother at the bow, and there they had stayed, pondering their fate.

  Now, as the boat made its way north through ice-choked seas and wet flakes of snow began to fall, Dane felt a great wave of despair. How could he have been so naïve to think he could ever best a warrior like Godrek? King Eldred had warned him, but Dane, in all his foolhardy recklessness, had thought he could prevail. What a Rune Warrior he had turned out to be! If his rash and foolish exploits were ever carved into stone, it would surely be only as a dire warning to future Norsefolk, a lesson to all: how Dane the Defiant’s actions brought ruin and death to his brethren, or something to that effect.

  Dane watched Godrek, a soulless husk of a man, stride the deck like a glowering monster, mumbling and muttering foul curses under his breath. Dane saw that the men shared uneasy looks behind Godrek’s back, as if they too were alarmed by their liege lord’s transformation. And when Godrek gave an order, the men swiftly hopped to as if fearing the thrust of his blade if they dawdled for even half a moment.

  Dane looked at his mother, who sat with her back to the mast some distance away, arms tied behind her, looking to starboard, a fiery determination still in her eyes. “I will not go like a lamb to slaughter,” she had whispered to him as they had been herded aboard the ship hours ago. This was so like his mother, Dane thought. Even when times were at their worst, she was never one to sink into despair and wait for the axe to fall. She expected him to fight back, but how? They were bound hand and foot, without weapons, and at the mercy of a pitiless madman and his hired killers. Even if they managed an escape, how could they swim through freezing waters?

  And then Dane thought of what lay under the water—the thing that had for so long invaded his dreams and robbed him of peace. The serpent Jörmungandr. He knew now that his dreams were a premonition and that his journey was destined to end where the gigantic beast dwelled, hungry and waiting. “Life feeds on life,” his father had always told him, all living things food for something else. Something larger, tougher, hungrier. The trick was to last as long as you could without getting eaten yourself. Well, soon it would all be over. He was being drawn ever closer to the thing he feared most, perhaps into the very belly of the beast itself. His best efforts had failed, so perhaps he deserved to die in this fashion. Men were not meant to live forever. How different things would be if he had only followed Lut’s sage advice and never opened the trunk at all.

  Astrid had never felt so cold and angry and twisted up inside. To feel so powerless, unable to fight back—it was as if the Norns had been toying with her all along. Each time Dane had faced danger and survived—against the ghostwolves, in the troll village, and in Utgard—Astrid thought the peril could not possibly get any worse.

  But it had. Much worse.

  Oh, the cruel-hearted Skuld! Was this how the Wyrd Sisters got their jollies? Holding out hope and then cruelly yanking it away? And what of Lut? She feared his life had been snuffed out on Godrek’s orders. Beside her she heard Kára loudly sniffling. “I doubt that tears will soften them,” Astrid said, as she saw Thorfinn eyeing the two girls wolf-ishly.

  “I’m not crying,” Kára shot back. “The cold makes my nose run.” Turning to Thorfinn she said, “You there! Untie me so I can dab my nose.” But all Thorfinn did was give her a chilling leer and turn away, which only riled the princess further. “Rude!” she cried after the brute. “When I get my hands on an axe, you’ll be dealt with! Your impudence will not be tolerated—”

  It was at that moment that Astrid leaned over and, with her own sleeve, wiped Kára’s runny nose, as much to shut her up as to clean her face.

  “I doubt that insults will help us either, Kára.”

  “Well, I don’t intend to sit here and be treated like rabble until I’m ransomed.”

  “Ransomed? Is that why you think Godrek took you?”

  “I’m certain of it. As a royal I’m worth more than the combined treasuries of several small kingdoms.” And then, not wanting Astrid’s feelings to be hurt too badly, she said, “Oh, and I’m sure that you will fetch a pretty sum as well. A dozen cows and pigs, perhaps.”

  Holding her tongue, Astrid realized that perhaps Kára was right. As a princess she could command a queenly sum. But what of a commoner like Astrid? What fate did Godrek have in store for her if not to ransom? She wasn’t naïve; she knew there were terrible things that could befall young women in the company of such savage men. Lying forward, she caught sight of the sling of axes that had been taken from her. If only she could get to them some way, she thought, at least she would go down fighting.

  Although his beard was frosted with ice and he shivered in the cold, Lut was very much alive. Adrift on the frigid sea in a leaky boat, Lut clung to the hope that his life had been spared for a reason. He was tempted to throw the runes but frightened of
what the gods might foretell. Was their mission doomed, or were the gods on their side? And what of that pain in his lower back? Would that ever go away?

  Back in Utgard, after Godrek had taken Dane and the others, when the scarred one had come at him, Lut had been sure his end was near. So it had surprised him when, instead of dispensing a swift knife to his throat, Ragnar had taken him into the shadows and waited until he was sure Godrek was gone.

  “Godrek ordered you to kill me,” Lut had said.

  “It is not in my creed to kill defenseless old men,” Ragnar had answered.

  “A creed I admire,” Lut had said. Ragnar had told Lut he had to tie him and gag him to make sure he would remain silent and not alert Godrek that Ragnar had disobeyed. He had then asked Lut if he knew of Godrek’s destination.

  “I do,” Lut had said. “The Isle of Doom.”

  “Well, perhaps our paths will meet again.” From the bodies of dead trolls lying nearby Ragnar had found enough leather belts to secure Lut’s hands and feet and left the old man in an alcove of the arena and disappeared.

  Many hours later, when Lut at last had been found by Fulnir and Drott, Lut had been untied and happily reunited with his villagers. When Thrym learned of Godrek’s destination, eager to smash the brigands who had kidnapped his beloved Astrid, the giant had given chase immediately. Carrying Lut and all the others in a sling on his back, he had quickly found Godrek’s trail down the mountain and followed it to the same coastal village Whitecloak had terrorized. But alas, they had arrived many hours too late, the fisherfolk explained, telling of their chieftain’s murder and the theft of their only seaworthy ship.

  Fulnir had spied another craft, a weather-beaten, woebegone flea-scow of a ship, lying beached on the pebble-strewn shore. Half the length of the usual longship, it boasted a single tattered sail and there were gaps in its gunwale planking. Aboard the ship was a small, coal-fired brazier used to heat pots of pitch that had been used to repair the boat’s caulking, a job, they were later to find, that had not yet been completed. “If you lend us this boat, we will pursue the one who killed your leader,” Fulnir had told them. Jarl, Rik, and Vik had doubted the craft was sea-worthy, but when they considered the load of silver that awaited them for the return of the princess and Godrek’s head to King Eldred, they had agreed it worth the risk. Asked about their destination, Lut had told them they were going to Ey Daur. The villagers had gasped and clutched the Thor’s Hammer amulets around their necks, for the Isle of Doom was a place of dread from which no one returned.

  Thrym being unable to accompany them any farther, they said their good-byes to the giant and climbed into the ship. Thrym gave it a push and stood watching and waving as they oared away. And just as their ship was disappearing into the sea mist, Lut had looked back to see the giant’s face etched in apprehension, as if the frosted fellow knew only too well that this could be the last he would see of his friends.

  Now they were hours at sea, rowing through an ever-thickening obstacle course of icebergs that threatened to smash their boat and send it to the bottom. Though there was wind, to be under sail would be too dangerous, given the icebergs, so they were forced to oar instead.

  “Lut!” Jarl cried, manning the tiller, trying to steer the craft away from growlers, the word seafarers used to describe the house-size chunks of floating ice. “What say the gods? Are they with us?” The others kept to their work but cocked their ears to hear Lut’s response. William bailed water, trying to keep up with the constant seepage through the ship’s rotted caulking, while Rik, Vik, Fulnir, Drott, and Ulf strained at the oars.

  “The runes say we must press on,” Lut lied. “The signs are favorable.”

  “You already threw them?” said Jarl with suspicion. “I didn’t see you do that.”

  “Uh,” said Lut, searching for an answer, “I did it while you weren’t looking.”

  “Starboard ice!” cried William. Jarl jammed the tiller, the bow lurched to port, the starboard rowers quickly pulled in their oars so they wouldn’t be broken, and the ship narrowly passed a chunk of ice that would’ve crushed it.

  Lut saw the frightened, ashen faces looking to him for reassurance. “Fear not!” he boomed. “The gods will protect us!” At that moment a wave crested the gunwale, splashing Lut in the face, dousing him with freezing seawater.

  “That’s some protection, Lut,” chuckled UIf, and this brought laughter from the group. Were the gods scolding him for evoking their names without consent? Perhaps, but he wanted to believe the gods were on their side.

  A sudden screek snapped Dane from his stupor. The longship had just scraped an iceberg along its portside gunwale and now Godrek’s men were scurrying about, using oars to push the berg away from the ship. His mother signaled him, and as he caught her eye, she began mouthing words to him, covertly glancing at Godrek and his men to be sure they were not watching. Dane tried to make out what she was saying, but reading lips was not one of his talents. He shook his head to tell her he didn’t understand. Exasperated, she mouthed the words again. He thought he understood one of them. Friend…friend, she seemed to be saying. Friend? What did it mean?

  She began nodding toward the aft part of the ship. What did that mean? That a “friend” was on board? But the wordless conversation abruptly ended when Godrek strode forward between them to the bow, where he stood gazing out at the seas ahead, the mad shine in his eyes now like a fever. Godrek wore the rune sword at his waist, sheathed in its scabbard, his hand caressing the bronze serpent’s head on its protruding hilt. Dane stared in fear at the rune sword so dangerously close, feeling again its fearsome power, feeling the pull of its call.

  “Where we go, a monster dwells,” uttered Godrek, peering into the snow-laden mist. “Do you fear it?”

  “Sane men do,” Dane said.

  Godrek turned his head and pointed his lethal gaze at Dane. “Sane men? Or men who fear the gods? With Odin’s ring I’ll be a god.” Godrek drew forth the rune sword, raising it before his eyes and running a finger lovingly along the length of the blade, gazing at his own reflection in the steel. “This,” he said hotly, “this is what binds us, boy!” He brought the rune sword down with sudden swiftness and laid it flat it against Dane’s brow, pressing it there. Dane felt instantly electrified, a surge of energy pulsing through him, overtaken by the scream of the rune song, his mind drowning in the sound and fury of it, every fiber of his body alive and vibrating. Dane realized with horror that it was the very madness of Godrek himself flowing into him! The terror! Helpless to stop it, tied as he was, he tried to resist, to block it out. But like a furious river it flowed, a torrent of mad desire, the urge to kill and possess and dominate and destroy. But, oh, the power he felt! The same sweet invincibility! “You feel it now, don’t you?” he heard Godrek purr madly. “The power? The glory of it? We are bound together now, boy, joined in united purpose, you and I melded as one, free and fearless and one!”

  Godrek abruptly drew the blade away, sheathing it in his scabbard. Dane slumped against the gunwale, shaken and feeling suddenly empty.

  “That’s what your father lacked the courage to grasp,” Godrek said, dripping disdain. “And what you no doubt lack as well, though it pains me to say it.” Godrek swept away, leaving Dane lying on the icy deck, more bereft than ever.

  29

  A BEASTLY SACRIFICE

  Godrek’s ship sailed ever northward, the air growing colder, their sea path increasingly blocked by icebergs large and small. A sudden flare of light caught Dane’s eye, and looking to the port side, he saw that oil lamps were being lit and hung at intervals along the gunwales of the ship. Soon he learned the reason for this, for he overheard a man saying that Jörmungandr was repelled by firelight. So we have entered the realm of the beast, Dane realized with dread. The Isle of Doom was near.

  The scarred one known as Ragnar approached, hanging a lamp on the bow. For an instant he flicked a look at Dane, his face illuminated by the amber lamplight. “The old one li
ves,” he whispered, and then moved on. Lut was alive? Could it be true? Dane’s heart leaped with hope. If so—and if Jarl and his friends had not been killed in the Utgard arena—Dane knew there was a chance now, however slim, of rescue.

  He looked over at his mother. Again she mouthed the word “friend” and nodded toward Ragnar. And now he realized their chances for survival had suddenly improved. They had an ally on board.

  “Land ho!”

  Men scrambled about, peering ahead into the thick curtains of mist. It first appeared as a ghostly suggestion, an otherworldly apparition. But soon its outline solidified, a craggy gray spike of an island rising up out of the black flatness of the sea, its one thorny peak shining silver in the moonlight. And as the boat came abeam, the dark shape of Godrek himself stood out in silhouette over the view of the island, and it seemed a mystical foreshadowing of fate itself, as man and island merged into one striking image.

  Within moments the ship was anchored and a small shore boat put into the water. Dane, his mother, Astrid, and Kára, their hands bound tightly in front of them, were lifted up and loaded in with Godrek and five of his liegemen. Ragnar, Dane was disappointed to see, was ordered to stay aboard the main ship and keep watch, so it seemed the one man they were counting on for help would not even be with them.

  Godrek urged his oarsmen on, lashing them with curses as he sat caressing his rune sword in worship, and a short time later they reached the isle. Disembarking onto land, such as it was, Dane saw they were standing on a small, flat chunk of windswept ice broken only by the craggy spire of rock that rose at its center. Now so close to the treasure of his dreams, Godrek strode ahead with mad purpose. Dane and the women were herded onward by the five liegemen. When they arrived at the spire, they discovered a large crack in its side, and Godrek entered without trepidation, the captives pushed in after him.