“What do we do?” Fulnir cried. “Run for it?”
Dane’s heart raced. The wolves drew closer, snarling and baring teeth. He knew it was useless to run. Their only chance was to stay and fight, to make the wolves believe that they were bigger and more dangerous than they really were and to scare them away. But how? The boys were running out of stones to throw.
All at once the boys heard an angry crawk! and, like an arrow shot by the gods, a raven swooped from above and began to attack the wolfpack. It was the very raven Dane had saved. Down it came with surprising ferocity, cawing and clawing and swooping and swiping, heroically pecking at their heads so viciously, the four wolves had to turn from the boys to fight off the bird. The wolves tried to swat the raven with their paws, but this only intensified the bird’s attack. And with the boys yelling and hurling stones, and the raven attacking with unrelenting ferocity, the wolves finally retreated back across the stream into the trees. After a few desultory yips, they hung their heads, turned, and slunk off, disappearing into the deeper shadows of the forest, defeated.
The boys continued their yelling, slapping hands in victory, until they spied the bird hobbling around on the ground, unable to fly. Dane saw that the raven had been injured in the fight, its left wing broken. Lifting the bird with care, he set it upon his shoulder, and the four of them began their trek back to the village. The raven seemed at home perched beside the boy’s head, and it squawked as they walked along, Dane laughing and mimicking its cry.
After a time, boy and bird had grown so at ease with each other that whenever the raven gave Dane’s ear a nudge with its beak, Dane would take a berry from his sack and feed it. The three boys walked through the summer-scented forest, happy to be alive, and Dane happiest of all to have made a new friend in so unlikely a way. And though he couldn’t have known it then, it was a friendship that would last the rest of his days.
CHAPTER FOUR
OUR HERO GOES TO WAR WITH HIS FATHER
The moons rose and fell, and by the time he entered his teens, Dane had ripened into a strapping young man, stalwart and strong, with glittering blue eyes, a big, easy smile, and a shock of unruly red hair just like his father’s. A skilled swordsman, adroit with bow and arrow, he could also play a lively tune on the wooden pipe. And if not exactly picture-book handsome like Jarl, he was what Astrid’s father had once described as “a lad not lacking in charm.”
A young man of impulsive good humor, Dane always looked to make others laugh. He would mock the explosive sound of Fulnir’s epic farts or walk into a tree, imitating Blek’s poor eyesight, and he could mimic the voices of most everyone in the village, especially his father’s.
But one bitterly cold day at winter’s end, just after he had turned thirteen, he got his comeuppance. Eager to amuse his friends, Dane hid in the outhouse, imitating with surprising accuracy the colorful oaths his father made when his bowels were stopped. “By stinkers!” he groaned. “My innards are in knots! No more horsemeat, woman! You’re killin’ me!” And to his delight, he heard his friends explode with laughter. But then came another voice—
“Well, I’ll be dipped in weasel spit!” The outhouse door flew open. It was Voldar, come to use the privy. He’d heard the shenanigans, and now Dane was caught in the act. “I’ll teach you to respect your elders!” He’d tried to grab his son, to knock some sense into him, but Dane had slipped free of his grasp and run off laughing, pulling on his long bear-fur coat as he disappeared into the woods with his friends.
“You forgot your chores!” Voldar called after him, seeing that the tree limbs he’d stacked against their house had yet to be chopped into firewood.
“I’ll do it later!” came Dane’s faint reply and then more snickering. Voldar fumed. Once again his son had chosen play over work, and it steamed him no end. He was all of thirteen! When would he grow up? Voldar stood there, watching the snowflakes fall in the soft afternoon light, wondering if perhaps he himself was to blame for his son’s soft character, and this thought vexed him even more.
So when Dane came home an hour later without his fur coat, shivering cold and stamping his feet in front of the fire to get warm, Voldar ordered him to go chop the wood. Dane said he would, just as soon as he got warm again.
“What happened to your coat?” Voldar asked.
Dane looked sheepish and said he’d lost it.
“You lost it?”
Dane explained that he’d taken it off to climb a tree, but then the coat had fallen into the river and been swept away. His mother, Geldrun, said it was all right, he could use her coat. Voldar said, no, he’d go out and chop the wood wearing what he had on.
“Hey,” Dane said, “it’s freezing out there.”
“Yes, and the cold can kill,” said Voldar. “A man can easily freeze to death for want of proper clothing. You were given a coat of the finest furs, a coat your dear mother slaved for weeks to make—skinning, cutting, sewing. But you? You throw it away as if it were nothing. You appreciate nothing. And so to learn this lesson you will go out only with what you have on and do what you should have finished hours ago. Chop the wood. And you’ll stay out there until it is done.”
Then Dane, being headstrong, made another mistake. He said he wouldn’t do it. It was too cold, he said, to go out without a coat. And it was then that Voldar rose from his chair, forcibly removed the rest of the lad’s clothes, and pushed him out into the snow, shutting and barring the door behind him and shouting that because of his insolence, he would do his chores without any garments at all.
Dane stood bare naked in the freezing twilight, the falling snow and icy air so cold on his skin, it was only a few moments before he took up the axe and began to chop wood, desperate to do something to keep himself warm, as the voices of his parents continued arguing inside.
“Have you completely lost your mind?” he heard his mother ask.
“A father stern is a lesson learned,” came Voldar’s reply. “He defied me.”
“But ’tisn’t healthy—”
“Serves him right, disrespecting us. Discipline! That’s what he needs.”
“But,” said Geldrun, “how’s he to learn if he freezes to death—”
“Woman!” barked Voldar, losing patience. “It’s decided!”
So naked Dane stayed out there, hacking away at the wood, his hair frosting white and lips turning blue, further humiliated as the village children appeared, jeering and pointing at his privates, receiving even worse ridicule from those his own age, particularly Jarl the Fair.
But no one laughed harder than Astrid, comely daughter of Blek the Boatman. Yes, Astrid had flowered into a fetching young lady with long blond hair the color of sunshine and a smile that lit her face whenever she laughed, a laugh so bright, it seemed to Dane the most beautiful music on earth. Whenever he heard her voice in the village or saw her at work with her axes, chopping firewood or hacking meat from a carcass, his vision grew misty and his heart filled with a feeling much like a flower in bloom, and he found it hard to speak. So when an iceball of her own hit him hard in the buttocks and he heard her giggle, it was truly a dagger to his heart.
My father doesn’t understand a thing! Dane silently fumed as he stared into the fire, covered in blankets, eating the venison stew his mother had made, ignoring Voldar, who sat across the table. The cozy warmth inside reminded Dane just how bitterly cold he’d been outdoors. How dare he humiliate me like that? In front of my friends? And Astrid? Leaving me out there a whole hour? The man’s a monster!
His father’s lips were moving, but Dane refused to listen. Something about it being time to stop his foolish ways and grow up. Be a man. Time to choose what to do with his life. Be a swordsmith. Shipwright. Farmer. A trader of furs. A tender of livestock. A maker of maps or cheese. All were respectable trades, he heard his father say—
“…and I just pray you choose the right path.”
“Oh? And what path is that, Father?” Dane asked sarcastically. “Follow in your footste
ps and become village leader?” Dane scoffed. “Uh, I don’t think so.”
“Well, make some decisions!” his father exploded. “A so-called man of thirteen and still no nickname? The festival is just weeks away! You haven’t practiced. If that’s not irresponsible, I don’t know what is!”
The Festival of Greatness, competitive games held every year in the village, was a ritual rite of passage for those moving into adulthood. It was common practice that if by his fourteenth year a man had not yet received his nickname, he’d choose one of his own and keep it the rest of his days. But Dane, much to his father’s shame, had yet to pick one. Dane the Dangerous. Dane the Amuser. Over the years he’d been called many names, but none had ever stuck, perhaps because, as Dane liked to believe, his positive traits were too plentiful to pin down.
“Actually,” said Dane, “I have picked a nickname.”
“Is that so,” said Voldar. “And what name have you chosen, son?”
“From now on I shall be known as…Dane the Insane.”
His father just looked at him and nodded, saying nothing, appearing to give serious consideration to what the boy had said. “You’ve given this a lot of thought, eh?” came Voldar’s calm reply.
“Yeah. I guess. I just like the sound of it. ‘Dane the Insane.’ When people who know me hear it, it reminds ’em what wild fun it is to know me, and they’ll laugh. And when strangers hear it, my enemies in battle, it’ll make ’em think I’m insanely violent, and they’ll run in fear and wet their pants in panic. ‘Dane the Insane.’ Pretty good, eh?”
Dane grinned, expecting it to be met with hearty approval. But the grin quickly disappeared when Voldar rose and roared at the top of his lungs, “That’s doubtless the most asinine thing that’s ever come out of your mouth! ‘Dane the Insane’? Are you really that backward, boy? You may as well call yourself ‘Dane the Idiot Son of an Embarrassed Village Elder!’”
Dane froze, momentarily speechless.
“D’ya hear this, Geldrun? What your boy is saying?” cried Voldar, beside himself with rage. “This is the best you can do? What about ‘Dane the Despicable’? Or ‘Dane the Destroyer’? Or ‘Dane the Fierce’?”
“Oh! So the only name I can pick is one of your choosing?” Dane yelled, now finding his tongue, his anger spilling forth. “Killing is the only thing that makes a man?”
“Of course not! But at least it’s got character! Iron! ‘Dane the Insane’? That’s a joke. A fart in a windstorm! A—”
“But I like being funny and carefree! It’s who I am!”
“You’re my son, that’s who you are!” Voldar exploded. “Don’t you ever forget that!” His father erupted in a fit of swearing, overturning the kitchen table, his eyes afire. Dane feared they’d soon come to blows, but Voldar caught a reproachful look from Geldrun and, bottling his rage, made a supreme effort to sit back down and speak in the calmest, most well-reasoned of tones.
He explained that he’d been the same when he was young. He too had defied authority. All he’d wanted was freedom. To blazes with responsibility! But he’d been wrong, Voldar admitted. He’d come to realize that freedom itself was nothing without a family, that taking responsibility, for himself and for others: This was the true road to manhood. And he wanted this for his son more than anything.
Dane nodded, feeling stupid but not about to show it. His father laid a hand on his shoulder, blue eyes ablaze with love.
“Son,” Voldar said, “it’s not just having a name your enemies will respect. It’s having a character your people will look up to and follow.” Dane listened now, his anger subsiding. Voldar explained that the strength of a man’s character, the wisdom that lay in his mind and heart, were far more valuable than the brute power found in muscle and bone. “Violence. Killing. Destroying things,” said Voldar. “That’s easy. Anyone can do it. But building something—a home, a friendship, a family—and making it last? That’s hard. It takes a real man to do that.”
Voldar rose and left the room soon after, and Dane sat for the longest time, staring into the fire, pondering what his father had told him.
“‘Dane the Insane’? You actually told him that? Are you crazy?”
Dane was walking in the forest with his pals Drott and Fulnir, hunting quail. Klint the raven flitted about through the treetops above. (Dane had named his bird Klint after one of his own great-grandfathers on his mother’s side, who had lost his wits at age thirty and fallen off a cliff while trying to fly.)
“Not a name I’d have chosen,” said Drott.
“Oh, and ‘Drott the Dim’ is so heroic?” asked Dane defensively.
“No,” said Fulnir, “but it’s accurate.”
“So is ‘Fulnir the Stinking,’” said Drott with a smirk.
“Hey, I know what people say,” said Fulnir. “I should feel shame for my name. That there’s no dignity to it. But the way I look at it is this: On the rare occasions I don’t smell, people are pleasantly surprised. They’re thinking, ‘Hmm, he doesn’t smell half bad.’”
“So you’re saying,” said Dane, “a name shouldn’t promise too much.”
“Yeah. Like if your name were, say, ‘Dane the Magnificent,’ you’d be expected to always be magnificent. But c’mon, even on your best day, folks would bound to be disappointed.”
“I never thought of it that way,” said Dane. “So what name should I choose?”
They walked awhile in silence, their sealskin boots crunching over the now sun-softened snow that carpeted the forest floor. Drott suddenly stopped. “I know! You shall be known as ‘Dane the Nose Picker!’”
Dane and Fulnir just looked at him. “Don’t you see?” said Drott. “When you meet people and you’re not picking your nose, they’d be favorably impressed!”
Fulnir burst into laughter. Even Klint gave a derisive squawk. Dane shook his head and walked on, his pals hurrying to follow, Drott continuing to spout more names, each more ridiculous than the last, like “Dane Fish Breath,” “Dane the Strangely Warted,” and “Dane the Kisser of Sheep.”
Then, as Drott paused to take a breath, Fulnir said, “Why get upset? It’s only a name, Dane. Just a few meaningless words thrown together to define you the rest of your days and the way generations of Norsemen will remember you long after you’re dead. What’s the big deal?”
Dane caught sight of the big grin on Fulnir’s face and realized his friend was just messing around. “Right,” said Dane. “It’s only a name. I’m sure to hit on a good one by the day of the games.”
Then, cresting a hill, Dane stopped in his tracks. Before him lay the snow-frosted valley, his village appearing far below like a collection of small gleaming stones beside an uncoiling ribbon of river that ran into the bay, the flower-buds dotting the trees and green shoots breaking through the melting snow crust a welcome reminder that spring was nearing. Dane and his friends gazed out in silence, absorbing the breathtaking beauty of the place they called home.
“Sweet, eh?” Dane heard Fulnir say. Dane agreed it was.
Then they slowly became aware of another imposing presence. Following the shoreline to the southernmost rim of the bay, their eyes were drawn to a great castle perched ominously on a distant cliff top overlooking the sea, its dark ramparts faintly visible above the veils of gray mist hugging the rocky shoreline.
There in his great princely castle, Dane knew, lived the man who lorded over these lands, a man to fear, his presence like some never-sleeping sentinel, ever watchful, seeing far and wide, as if this ruler’s vigilance were as constant as the sun, moon, and stars themselves.
“Talk about names,” said Dane softly, his voice having lost all sense of fun. “Prince Thidrek has trumped us all.”
“Yeah,” said Fulnir flatly. The three then fell silent, possessed by thoughts of the man in the castle, the man whose name was Thidrek the Terrifying.
And then they started homeward, threading their way through the high whispering pines, the lightness returning to their boyish hearts as th
ey began to race each other down the rocky hillside, their laughter echoing. None had any notion of the perilous turn their lives were soon to take.
CHAPTER FIVE
ENTER THE VILLAIN
The hooded figure moved up the stone steps, his pace quickening, for he carried a secret so great, he could barely contain his excitement. Up the curving castle staircase he went, his torch casting a dancing light onto the steps ahead. A flurry of thoughts tore through his mind as he climbed, wondering what this might mean for the future of their fiefdom and his own future as well. As the prince’s second in command, this certainly would reflect well on him, he mused; it was the kind of moment every man-in-waiting waited for, all too aware that most might wait a whole lifetime and never get a chance like this.
And Grelf the Gratuitous—for this indeed was his name—was not a man to squander opportunity. Orphaned as an infant, Grelf had grown up under the shrewd tutelage of a spice merchant who plied his trade in a large port town far to the south. The many years of indentured servitude had given Grelf a worldly education; he’d learned to cipher figures, to read and write in Latin, the Roman language, and to practice the greatest art of all: the art of listening.
Reaching the door to his master’s chamber, he paused and gave a knock. A familiar voice issued forth, uttering a sharp command. Grelf put his weight against the door and it creaked open.
Peeking inside, he saw only the silhouette of his lordship seated in his grand chair before the fire, the flames licking up to form a flickering orange halo behind his head. Grelf crept closer and waited, knowing not to approach until given permission. He’d made that mistake once—invading Prince Thidrek’s privacy—and he’d nearly paid with his life. Ever after he was careful to tread lightly and never speak until spoken to, and especially never to mention the knitting.
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