Sword of Doom

by James Jennewein

  Torchlight danced upon the cavern walls as everyone crept forward into darkness. At last the cave walls grew higher and wider, and Dane saw the true nature of the place. It was a soaring, many-chambered cavern, the sides of which were covered with a thick, sea-washed frost. Huge stalactites hung from the ceiling a good distance above their heads, and embedded in these were crystals such as he had never laid eyes on, flecked green and orange in the flickering torchlight. As they were moved onward, the splashing of water was heard, and peering ahead across the dimly lit floor of ice, Dane saw that the sea itself had entered through a side chasm and filled the far side of the chamber.

  At the rim of the misty pool, Godrek lifted his torch higher, and the light from it illuminated the entire cavern. “There!” he cried. “Over there!” Dane could see the faint outline of a passageway cut into the wall on the far side of the dark pool.

  It was the entrance to the vault, Dane realized, his heart quickening. Could Odin’s Draupnir actually exist within? Godrek hurried forward, intending to cross to the other side via a narrow walkway along the right wall of the cavern. But he suddenly froze and hurried backward, shouting to his men to stand back.

  Something was in the water.

  Kára gasped. Then Dane saw it—the tail of an enormous sea beast rising straight out of the water, black and glistening in the amber firelight—and he knew they were in the lair of Jörmungandr, the hideous monster of his nightmares.

  Everyone shrank away, Godrek and his men drawing weapons. The serpent’s tail came forward, slithering along the surface of the lake and right up onto the ice floor itself, dripping water and bits of seaweed as it snaked left and right in search of a warm body to snatch. Dane saw the monster’s scaly spikes protruding along its undulating spine, spikes so sharp, he was sure they could puncture a man straight through.

  In terror everyone scrambled backward and stood with weapons raised and torch fires brandished in self-defense.

  “My lord, it will not let us pass,” Thorfinn said. Godrek was undeterred.

  “It must feed,” he said, more fascinated than afraid. “The very thing I prepared for.” A sick grin crossed his face, and he nodded toward Astrid and Kára. “Which of you wishes to be first?”

  For a moment Dane and the women were struck dumb.

  “Godrek, you can’t be serious!” Dane gasped.

  “I’ll let you choose,” Godrek said to Dane. “Which one?”

  “By the gods!” cried Geldrun. “What depravity has poisoned you?”

  “Wait! You—you brought me here to be—to be food?” Kára sputtered. “I am not food! I am of royal blood! I deserve to be ransomed! Not eaten!”

  Godrek appeared to consider her argument. “You are entirely correct, princess. Perhaps the beast prefers blondes, anyway.” He gestured to Thorfinn, who grabbed Astrid, his forearm around her neck.

  “No!” Dane cried, coming at Godrek. He too was grabbed from behind, as were Geldrun and Kára. Astrid struggled like a wildcat, screaming curses, but Thorfinn’s grip was too strong, for he was a warrior who had killed opponents with his bare hands and enjoyed it. He pulled her toward the pool.

  Hearing a sharp cry of pain, Dane saw that Kára had sunk her teeth into the hand of the liegeman restraining her. And in the instant the howling man loosened his grip, Kára swung round and gave him a ferocious kick in the groin, which made him bellow in agony. She squirmed free and, before Godrek could stop her, ran toward Thorfinn, shrieking like a she-demon. As Thorfinn looked up in distraction, Astrid viciously whipped her head back into his nose, shattering it. Blind with pain, blood spraying from his nose, he stumbled backward. Righting himself, he drew his knife from his belt and screamed, “You daughter of Hel, I’ll kill you—”

  His words were cut short when Kára charged and head butted him in the chest, knocking him into the pool. Thorfinn gave a hideous cry, and Dane saw he had landed upon one of the creature’s tail spikes, impaling him back to front. Pinned there on the beast’s tail, helpless, a look of horrified disbelief on his face, Thorfinn disappeared under the water as the creature sank to the depths, no doubt to enjoy a hearty repast.

  Dane expected Godrek to explode in fury and exact retribution for his man’s death. But as the bubbles of Thorfinn’s last breaths broke the surface, all Godrek said was “Well, that was a surprise.” Intent only on Draupnir and seeing the path to it now clear, he commanded everyone onward. They advanced across the narrow walkway until Dane found himself standing on the threshold of the inner sanctum itself.

  We’re lost, Lut thought. I hate being lost. A heavy mist had swallowed them hours before, obscuring any sight of land. Worse, it obscured the massive ice floes that loomed in their path like giant battering rams, threatening to sink them with a single collision. The seawater, he saw, was seeping in between the rotten keel planks even faster than before, now near to his ankles. And from where he sat in the bow, helping William bail with buckets, he kept watch for icebergs ahead.

  Lut was not a praying man. He thought such pleas rarely moved the gods to intervene in human affairs, either in help or in hindrance. But being in so dire a plight, he cast aside his doubts and said a silent prayer. Merciful Odin, I beseech thee…spare the lives of these courageous men and boys….

  His prayer was cut short. “Look—fire!” Fulnir cried, stabbing a finger at something just over the port bow. Lut peered into the mist, and, by the gods, there it was. An orange glow! At the rudder, Jarl steered the ship to port and they slowly drew closer. It was a ship, a large one, ringed with the light of a dozen or so torches. Lut spied a figure on deck, one side of his face made momentarily visible by the torchlight. It was Ragnar, one of the liegemen. They had found Godrek!

  Jarl ordered the rowing be stopped, for if they came any closer, they risked being seen through the mist. A dim outline of land appeared, and they now saw that the torchlit ship lay anchored near a small, forbidding-looking rise of rock and ice.

  “Oh, look,” said Drott dryly, “it’s…the Isle of Gloom.”

  “It’s the Isle of Doom, idiot,” said Jarl, always quick to criticize.

  “I got the ‘isle’ part right, didn’t I?” said Drott with an air of pride.

  But Jarl ignored him, already asking Lut why Godrek’s ship was ringed with torches. Lut paused, anxious over the answer he was about to give.

  “Legend has it that fire is the only thing it fears,” said Lut.

  Drott asked the only question on everyone’s mind. “It?”

  Lut could hold off no longer. “The deadly sea serpent seen on the rune sword itself,” he said. “Jörmungandr.” The very utterance of its name brought sudden looks of fear to their faces.

  “It’s…real?” Ulf asked, his voice aquiver.

  “Apparently so,” Lut said grimly. “As guardian of the treasure, it forever haunts and hunts in these waters, intent on keeping men away. Ever vigilant, ever ravenous. So seeing as how it is we who are trespassing in its realm,” Lut said, dropping his voice to a cautionary whisper, “I think it wise we stay as quiet as possible and hope its hunger finds bigger prey.”

  “And exactly how big might this Jörmunblundergunder be?” asked Vik. “Roughly. I mean, is it bigger than, say, this ship?”

  Lut gave a grim nod.

  “Bigger than two of our boats?”

  Again Lut nodded.

  Vik gulped and looked at his brother, Rik. “So,” said Rik, “if I’m catching what you’re saying, you’re saying—”

  “He’s saying it’s big!” hissed Jarl, at last exploding, but never raising his voice above a harsh whisper. “Huge! Big enough to eat us all and still be hungry for more! But if I hear anyone say they want to turn round and go home, they’ll have to answer to me. ’Cause I want that reward for Godrek’s head.”

  “You sure that’s what you’re after, Jarl?” teased Drott.

  “Why else would I be here?” Jarl shot back. “Not because I enjoy your company.”

  “We all know whose
company you love,” Fulnir said. “Impossible as it seems, there’s someone you’re more sweet on than yourself.”

  Jarl just stared at them for a moment, waiting for everyone to stop their snickering. “What are you getting at?”

  “Come on! You’re smitten with the princess—admit it,” said Drott.

  “Smitten? With that stuck-up harpy? If anyone is smitten with anyone, she’s smitten with me,” Jarl said, throwing back his lustrous hair. “And for good reason.” Jarl stood and made his way back to the rudder. The others sat there a moment, not knowing what to say. Then Ulf spoke.

  “Not that I don’t find the whole ‘who is smitten with whom’ thing fascinating…but on another subject—Lut, you think the next time we sail into ice-choked seas in a leaky boat, you could maybe tell us about the humungous man-eating monster beforehand?”

  “Yes,” said Lut, “I’ll make it a top priority.”

  30

  INTO THE JAWS OF FATE

  Godrek urging them onward, they passed through an ice-rimmed hole in the wall. Soon the path plunged downward along a perilous series of crumbling steps, and Dane realized their descent was taking them into the very innards of the isle, below the waterline. Finally the steps ended in a chamber that was perhaps thirty paces across and a good ten paces high.

  “The door! Find it!” Godrek demanded.

  His men spread out as commanded, holding their torches aloft as they searched along the walls. “Over here!” a man cried, and there in the torchlight Dane saw a massive iron door set in the rock. Scarred and encrusted with rust, the door looked ancient, perhaps many centuries old.

  Godrek excitedly brushed away the accumulated bits of dust and rust to reveal the door’s keyhole, the size and shape of a scabbard opening. He unsheathed the rune sword, and Dane now realized that the blade itself was the “key” to opening the door! But instead of inserting it into the lock, Godrek turned to face the captives, his eyes shining with diabolical calculation.

  “The blade needs blood,” he murmured. “Hold the others!” The liegemen sprang to seize Dane, Astrid, and Kára. Godrek now came at Geldrun with a slow, stalking gait, holding the rune sword before him.

  Struggling to free himself, Dane shouted, “If it’s blood you need, take mine!”

  “Only your mother’s will do,” Godrek uttered, backing a terrified Geldrun into a corner.

  Dane’s mind shot back to Lut’s warning: Succumbing to the rune sword meant sacrificing those you loved. Did the sword need proof of such a sacrifice to unlock the door to the treasure? Dane saw Godrek raise the rune sword to strike down his mother—and realized the madman had forgotten one thing.

  “But you don’t love her!” Dane cried.

  Godrek froze, the sword poised. “She is the only woman alive I loved.”

  “Long ago, perhaps,” Dane said. “But that love is gone. Killing her will be no sacrifice, if that’s what the sword demands of you. There’s no one in this world you love, Godrek. Which means you’ve come all this way for nothing.”

  Godrek lowered the sword. He turned to Dane. Instead of a look of defeat on his face, he wore a malevolent smile. “Cut him loose,” he ordered. The liegeman cut Dane’s bonds, freeing him. “There is someone else who loves her,” Godrek said. And before Dane could even absorb these words, Godrek threw him the rune sword. With the hilt end of it coming straight at him, Dane had no time to think—he instinctively caught the sword in his hand, gripping its hilt. Too late. Instantly jolted, he felt his whole body give way, once again overtaken by the torrent, the surging rune song now stronger and more irresistible than ever. Waves of sound and light swept through him and gave rise to a kind of chilling, all-commanding voice. Kill, it told him. Resist! Resist, he told himself. But the old part of him grew smaller and smaller as the new part grew ever more omnipotent.

  He saw figures standing before him in the flickering light. Three women, two young ones and an older one, their faces unfamiliar. They meant nothing to him. But the man, the one with the gleaming white cloak, he was the one Dane was drawn to. Bathed in light, his cloak like a glowing aura behind him, this man seemed a part of him somehow, a figure of fatherly protection. The people in the room were talking to him—yelling, it seemed—but he could not hear a word of what they were saying. Suddenly the only voice he could hear was that of the white-cloaked one standing before him—Godrek, yes, that was his name—and then other voices entered his mind. Gruff and howling voices, some speaking strange and ancient languages, and instantly Dane knew who they were: the voices of all the others who had ever held the rune sword! Such was the magic of the blade! He moved toward the older woman, his only impulse being a desire to kill her, to end her life as quickly as possible, the chanting voices inside urging him on, their bloodlust filling his ears. Another step forward, the woman seeming faintly familiar—then a new voice spoke to him, one he instantly recognized. It was a more recent holder of the rune blade—his own father! Dare not, son! the voice of Voldar commanded. Kill and lose the very thing you seek! It is love that gives one strength, not riches! The cloaked one is your enemy—trust him not…. In a momentary flash the face of the woman was revealed to him—his mother. And with new eyes, resisting the call, blocking out the voices, he turned toward the cloaked one, knowing what he had to do, the thing his father had given him the strength to do—

  As Dane grabbed the rune sword, Astrid saw the shock go through his body, the force of it knocking him backward. She saw his eyes go dead, drained of all kindness and feeling. It was the same look he had worn when first under the spell of the broken rune blade, but now even scarier.

  “Dane! Drop the sword! Resist it!” Astrid cried.

  He looked at her as if she were a stranger who meant nothing.

  “You’re with me now, Dane,” Godrek crowed. “You’re the man your father was afraid to become.”

  “Don’t listen to him, Dane!” Astrid begged.

  “We’ll ride together, Dane. Conquer worlds! Be kings! You want that, don’t you, son?”

  An alien voice came from him; it said, “Yes.”

  “We’ll have it all…if you will do one thing,” Godrek purred. “The blade demands a sacrifice.” He pointed at Geldrun and said, “Kill her.”

  Dane turned to face his mother. For an instant Astrid saw a flicker of something in his eyes, his emotions straining to act. But his face deadened again, becoming a cold mask—and at that moment Astrid knew the rune sword had seized all control of his mind and that he was going to kill his own mother.

  And then it all happened so fast. Compelled by something deep inside, with a sudden surge of superhuman strength, she broke free of her guard and ran at Dane, grabbing the hilt of the sword, wrestling with him for control of the blade. Their eyes met. She saw a flash of raw terror—and the bloodthirst of a monster. Having surprised him, she had gained a firm hold on the hilt of the sword, both of their hands now gripping the handle, whipping it back and forth through the air, each trying to wrest control of it from the other. Godrek’s guards advanced, but in the struggle she whipped the sword in circles, holding them at bay. She felt his hot breath upon her; worse, she felt the power of the rune song surging through her, filling her with new urges. With an animal growl, Dane tried to wrench the sword away, and in the ensuing struggle she heard a scream.

  Next she knew, she was alarmed to see Dane sprawled on the floor, blood flowing from what looked to be a mortal wound in his side. She was further horrified to find the rune sword clutched in her hand, the blade wet with Dane’s fresh blood, the runes upon it glowing white hot. What had happened? What had she done? Her head spun. She heard Dane’s mother scream. She heard another voice say, It is time…. Everyone in the room seemed to have frozen in place as if time itself were standing still. A light flashed. A moment later, Astrid found herself standing beside the pool beneath the sacred tree Yggdrasil, startled to find herself once again in the moss-hung grotto of the Norns.

  “How ironic,” cackled Skuld. As
trid turned to see the three Wyrd Sisters sitting comfortably on the bank. “She asks to spare the boy’s life, then kills him with her own hand.”

  “Do you take joy in your cruelty?” Astrid asked, her voice ringing with anger.

  “Life is cruel,” said Verdandi with a shrug. She gestured to the water. There in the reflection Astrid saw Dane lying motionless where he had fallen, blood pooling around him, the light in his eyes dimming. “Now to the business at hand. When last you were here, need I remind you, we made a little deal: At the time of his death, you could spare him by pledging your life to Odin. Well, the time has come, my dear. He lies at death’s door. What is your decision?”

  “You tricked me!” Astrid cried in tears. “You knew he wasn’t going to kill his mother, but you made me believe it was up to me to stop him!”

  “Still,” said Skuld, “he is going to die.”

  Astrid gazed down at the image of Dane in the pool, anguished by the choice she had to make. If she spared him, she was giving up her human existence. She would become a Valkyrie, forever apart from Dane, her father, and all her friends in the village. She would never be a wife or have children. And worst of all, she would never again experience the joy of being loved.

  “Answer now!” demanded Skuld. Astrid saw the Book of Life before Skuld. The Norn tapped a finger upon an opened page. “Answer before the ink is dry, or the boy will be gone forever!”

  Astrid gazed again at Dane’s lifeless body and knew she could never live with herself if she did not save him. “May I return to him?” she murmured sadly. “Just for a while?”

  The Sisters shared a look, made gleeful by Astrid’s submission. “You may return,” Skuld said. “When it is time, we will summon you.” Skuld flicked a hand at the page, and pliff! It burst into flames and was gone.

  Astrid blinked and found herself back in the ice dungeon, standing over Dane, the pool of blood now strangely fading away. Geldrun, Kára, and their liegemen guards stared in befuddlement for a moment, as if all awaking from a dream. The rune sword lay at her feet, still wet with blood. Stirred by the sight of it, Godrek snatched up the sword, hurried to the door, and thrust the blade into the keyhole. It fit. He turned it. There was the sound of rusted gears moaning within its ancient mechanism. The door groaned open, and fetid air trapped for centuries rushed out. A golden glow radiated from within, a light so blindingly bright that Godrek and the others had to shield their eyes. And the look on his face as he entered the vault of Draupnir was one of invincible rapture.