And Dane? Though he pretended otherwise to his pals, he thought only of Astrid. He scanned the crowd for a glimpse of her, hoping to have a moment together before the games began. He had something to say to her. Something important. And he yearned to be alone with her, away from the prying eyes of his parents. Like Lut, he too had had a dream the night before, a troubling dream in which he and Astrid were afloat on a cloud, blissful and free. But when he went to kiss her, he accidentally knocked her off the cloud and she fell screaming earthward. Dane was unable to save her from a death he feared he’d caused.
Dane had awoken early and left before his parents arose. He hadn’t spoken to his father about his name since the day they’d fought. He hadn’t wanted to think about it, or to face him; something in him still refused to give in or to grow up. His mind in turmoil, Dane couldn’t quite make sense of it all. And then he spied Lut the Bent. His old friend had been avoiding him, it seemed to Dane, but now there he was, rounding a corner, shuffling along at what, for Lut, was a rather high speed. And Dane felt the urgent need to get the old man’s counsel.
“Lut!” Dane called, raising his voice above the raucous din. But Lut didn’t stop. Dane fought his way through the throngs. “Lut, it’s me!” he said as he caught up and took Lut’s arm. “I need to talk! I had a dream—”
Lut dropped his eyes, darting them this way and that, not wanting to meet Dane’s gaze. “Not now, son, I—” Lut fell silent, unable to give voice to his thoughts. “I—I have to go!” And with that he sped off.
Dane felt stung. Rebuffed by his closest confidant when he most needed to talk? Why? What had he done? What had spooked Lut so? Dane had seen something in the old one’s eye, and it disturbed him. What made Lut run off?
Dane’s mood would have darkened further, but the sudden blare of a horn struck all thought of Lut from his mind. He sensed a tension in the air, a murmur of fear amid the commonfolk. The horn announced the arrival of Thidrek the Terrifying, lord and ruler of their northern fjordlands.
From out of the trees he came, the twin red flags bearing his black wolf’s-head emblem. The flag bearers themselves rode horses draped in the royal colors. Next came a marching phalanx of some twenty guardsmen, in leather and coats of mail, their heads helmeted in iron, their long spears held at their sides and pointed skyward in warrior fashion, sunlight glinting off the tips. Then, astride a shiny black stallion, his long black satin cloak rippling, Prince Thidrek himself rode into the village, quieting the raucous crowd.
To Dane he looked ever so lordly and imperious atop his horse, and even more imposing walking among the commoners. He stood six foot four, with long, black hair, finely combed and worn in a ponytail. His piercing gaze was said to be so penetrating that it made men’s bowels squiggle in disquietude. People bowed and averted their eyes as he passed, fearing that to meet his gaze would incur Thidrek’s displeasure, a thing to be avoided at all costs.
Dane stood at the rear of the hushed crowd, watching. Growing up within sight of the castle, Dane and his friends had heard tales of Thidrek’s cruelties: Far to the south he had terrorized entire villages, making men dance while wearing their wives’ clothing before he had them executed. And he took special pleasure in watching things die: Men, women, horses—even children and their pets, if the mood struck him. It was said that, just for entertainment’s sake, he would force doddering old folk to fight to the death with nothing but knives, and even wager on which one would win.
They’d also heard tell of his own terrifying skill with weaponry. A master archer, Thidrek was rumored to be so skilled, he could shoot an arrow straight through a man’s heart at a hundred paces. Even more daunting was his swordsmanship. As a youth, Thidrek was so deft, he’d lopped off the heads of two men with one lightning-quick swipe of his broadsword. Knowing of his athletic prowess, Voldar had once invited Thidrek to compete in the games, but the prince had graciously declined, citing a schedule conflict.
Dane had heard talk among the villages that something was afoot, whisperings to the effect that Thidrek had plans to expand his empire. He was hungry for more land, more taxes, more power. Recent comings and goings at the castle had set tongues a-wagging but, as yet, no one really knew what Thidrek was after. All the village elders, even Dane’s own father, were careful to say nothing against Thidrek. And though Dane knew full well why fear had silenced them, he couldn’t help recalling that it hadn’t always been this way. There’d been a time in Dane’s boyhood, soon after Thidrek had launched his reign of terror on the northlands, when Voldar had spoken ill of Thidrek without fear. Dane remembered the night he had awoken in his bed-straw to hear the voices of Voldar and other elders of the village, gathered round a fire outside his home, drinking and discussing Thidrek’s doings.
“Bloody dung eater,” he’d heard his father mutter. “I’d sooner piss down his throat than bow to his wishes.” Dane had been shocked to hear these words come from his father, but had been excited by them all the same. Voldar had continued fuming and fulminating against Thidrek’s oppressive reign, bemoaning the loss of Mirvik the Mild and the lost days of his own reckless youth, when no man who dared disrespect him would live to see the dawn of another day.
Unaware his boy was listening, Voldar had gone on to vividly describe the many ways he’d like to bring discomfort to Thidrek, something about having him trampled by horses and thrown into a pit aswarm with poisonous vipers and then having his fingers chopped off, one knuckle at a time, then his toes, and maybe each of his ears, and then when Thidrek lay bleeding and pleading to be put out of his misery, Voldar would lash him to a tree and smear him with honey and leave him for the bears to finish off one limb at a time. And when it was all over, he’d remove Thidrek’s head and have it mounted on a spike outside his hut with his eyes propped open, and every time he went in or out, he would smile and say hello and then spit in Thidrek’s face and ask how he was feeling.
There’d been more uproarious laughter, until Dane’s mother had discovered him listening in. She’d scolded the elders and bidden them go home to their wives. She’d upbraided Voldar for having used such foul language in front of the boy, and Voldar had then explained to Dane that it had all been in fun and that it was something men did when they wished to impress one another and that he hadn’t meant a word of it. But Dane knew the truth, and had been proud of his father for speaking out so fearlessly.
Now, as Dane stood with his father and mother alongside the council of elders, welcoming the self-proclaimed prince, Dane was saddened to see what his father had become: a servile supplicant. He saw the dark pleasure Thidrek took in seeing these grown men—men Dane had looked up to his whole life—bow to him and touch their forelocks in fealty. Dane, his insides aboil with fear and shame, in turn bowed in obeisance before his liege lord, the prankster in him fighting the urge to make light of it all.
The prince was presented with gifts: casks of mead, doeskin slippers, and a long ermine coat with the name THIDREK stitched across the back. But as Thidrek’s gaze fell upon his name, his smile withered. His eyes went cold and, drilling Voldar with a look, he said gravely, “Where’s ‘The Terrifying’?”
The crowd went silent, all fearing Voldar’s blood would soon be spilled. Dane feared it too as he saw his father’s face go pale. It angered him to see this once-great man, his own father, forced to cower like a child.
“Well, my lord…” choked Voldar, fumbling for an answer that would keep him alive, but not having one. “It’s—it’s—”
And Dane was as shocked as everyone else when he found himself stepping forth and blurting, “It’s only a lounging jacket, sire.”
Oops. Too late. The words were out.
“A lounging jacket?” intoned the prince, eyes narrowing.
“Yes!” said Dane with an innocent grin, realizing he now had to explain his idiotic remark. “You know, casual attire to be worn round the house. Or, in your case, castle, sire. When you’re lounging alone, smoking a pipe, or having a brandy befo
re bed, or whatever it is that great men such as yourself do in the privacy of your rooms. Because let’s face it, you are great and, uh, you do have rooms. Many, many rooms.”
Thidrek stared at the boy for a painfully long moment. Then, with the barest hint of a smile, he said, “I was only joking.”
His royal guardsmen guffawed in laughter. What a jest! Voldar laughed as well, profoundly relieved to still have his head. Dane, too, was feeling lucky—until he caught Thidrek’s baleful stare.
“So,” said Thidrek, “pray who is this young pup?”
“Begging your lordship’s pardon, sir, he meant no disrespect,” said Voldar proudly. “This is my son, Dane. Dane the…uh…Defiant.” Dane shot his father a look, but then caught himself and bowed to the prince in obeisance.
“Defiant, eh?” Thidrek said, eyeing Dane appraisingly. “Well, I like a boy with nerve. So long as he knows his place.” He then turned to Grelf the Gratuitous, his right-hand man, who for some inexplicable reason stood to Thidrek’s left. “Isn’t that right, Grelf?”
“Oh, yes, sire,” said Grelf, “a place for everyone and everyone in their place, I always say. Best way to run a fiefdom. And speaking of running, shan’t we be moving along, sir? The games await.” Thidrek agreed, and without further ado, Grelf led Thidrek away.
Voldar moved to join them, but Dane held his father back. “Dane the Defiant? Father, how could you? That’s not the name I wanted!”
“Well, it’s the name I’ve given you,” said Voldar, “and a fine name it is. Even the prince was struck by it. It’s the nature of your character, too, if you must know. Defiant, rebellious, willful, headstrong. If you’re lucky, someday you might live up to all the promise it holds.”
“But Father—”
“I’ll hear nothing further. I bid you luck in the games, Son. Give it your all. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a tyrant to appease.” Voldar turned and strode away from the scowl on his son’s face.
Voldar led Prince Thidrek and his retinue to the most honored place on the field, a great wooden throne carved of oak and set atop a viewing platform. There with great fanfare Thidrek waved to the crowd and took his seat, Voldar sitting to his left and Grelf—being the right-hand man—this time sat, correctly, to his right. Thidrek again waved to those assembled and, having a fine eye for the ladies, gazed with keen interest over the girls in the fourteen-and-older section.
“I like blondes,” he told Voldar. “Buxom and blond, that’s how I like ’em.”
Voldar nodded noncommittally. All too aware of Thidrek’s mercurial moods, he knew no argument could arise from his silence.
“And redheads, if the mood strikes me,” Thidrek continued.
“Yes, m’lord,” said Voldar, “rødhåres are nice.”
“I once had a beastly maggot of a woman who shaved her head and bit the heads off rabbits for fun. Hideously foul smelling she was, stank like an odious cheese, but, oh, how she danced!”
Not knowing what to say, Voldar just nodded and grinned, as if this were the most fascinating thing he’d ever been told. This upstart had the gall to call himself a prince? The barbarian in him wanted to take a knife to Thidrek’s throat right then and there. But this, he knew, would only lead to more killing and, his love for family being greater than his need for blood, he stifled the urge. For now, survival for his kinsmen lay in his appeasing Thidrek’s every wish and whim, and this he would do ’til such time as things were different.
Anxious to get on with it, Voldar gave a signal and the hornsman blew a ram’s horn.
The crowd quieted. Voldar drew the Shield of Odin from its fur-trimmed sheath. He was about to rise with it when Thidrek himself abruptly took the Shield from his hands and held it aloft for all to see, wanting this moment all for himself. Voldar stayed seated, gazing at the Shield agleam in the sun as Thidrek moved it left to right, reflecting rays of sunlight off the disk and onto the people gathered on the field below. No sound was heard as every man, woman, and child fixed their eyes on the sacred talisman. Eldermen stood, straining to be hit with the light. Mothers raised babies into these gleaming flashes, believing that to be touched by this godly glitter—the very “light of Odin’s Eye”—was to be bathed in its protective powers and blessed with good luck and good health as well.
Thidrek, it seemed to Voldar, was anxious for his own moment of glory, for he soon dropped the Shield into Voldar’s lap and struck a regal pose. And, keenly attuned to the use of the dramatic pause, Thidrek gave his subjects time to gaze upon him in wonderment. When they’d been given a long enough look, he raised his arm and let his princely voice ring out.
“Let the games begin!” he cried. And so decreed, the competition commenced.
And great games they were! Archery and axe-throwing contests for both distance and accuracy. Tree-climbing and wood-chopping and spear-throwing. There were foot races and boat races and wrestling matches and rope-pulls. There were even ice-carving and cheese-sculpting contests for the less athletically inclined. The winner of each match moved on to the quarterfinals, the semifinals, and finally to the final finals.
The crowd saw amazing feats of athletic prowess. One young man could lift twice his weight in ox manure. Another could wrestle three men at once and pin them all. There was even a senior division, in which the elderly (those over forty years of age, long past their prime) were allowed to compete in contests more suited to their physical abilities, such as ale chugging and thumb wrestling.
There were also moments of lesser athletic prowess. During the river-cross—with men racing hand over hand along ropes suspended across a raging torrent of water—Drott the Dim had lifted a hand to wave to his mother on shore, fallen in, and nearly drowned. And in a tree-climb, Orm the Hairy One lost his footing and fell down onto Fulnir, who was clinging to a limb right below him, and they both went tumbling all the way to the ground, where they landed in a heap and lay moaning and writhing in pain, and had to be carried off and tended to. This, of course, drew cheers from the raucous crowd, seeing others cry out and writhe in pain being the whole reason most folk watched sporting events in the first place. The other reason being to watch people actually die.
Perhaps most popular of all was Astrid, Mistress of the Blade, as she had come to be called. Looking fine and fetching in furred vest and blond braids, she put on a dazzling display of axe throwing that had the crowd on its feet. In speed, distance, or accuracy, no one could beat her, and by midafternoon she’d swept all five axe-throwing events, winning a standing ovation. Then, as spectators chanted for more, she began juggling her axes, spinning them up in the air two, three, four at a time, until finally she was juggling five axes at once, each sharp enough to slice off a finger in one false move. And then—just as the crowd thought she could do no better—she caught and threw them one by one backward over her shoulder and thwik! thwik! thwik! thwik! thwik! each axe sank into the side of a tree, forming the runic symbol, which represented her name.
The Blade Mistress had done it again! The place exploded in cheers! No one appeared more pleased than her father, Blek the Boatman, who looked on in pride, cheering a little too loudly at his daughter’s prowess.
Thidrek took a keen interest too, telling Voldar that he thought Astrid possessed “remarkable poise and a pleasing shape.” She would make a fine serving wench, he went on to say, to cook and clean and polish a man’s armor and bring him a drink whenever he liked and work out the kinks in his back. Voldar agreed, saying the Blade Mistress’s beauty was indeed a subject much talked about throughout the surrounding fjordlands, and adding that several men had already approached Blek with proposals to take her to wife, but her father had driven them off at spearpoint.
Dane gazed at Astrid with the kind of singular intensity and longing that only comes to one first in love or to a wolverine in heat. He cared dearly for the girl, and not a night went by that he didn’t wish upon the stars and ask the gods to grant him the strength, charm, and musculature to win her affections and so
meday make her his wife.
But Astrid was no buttercup. Though she had feelings for Dane, she wasn’t going to let him win her easily. Others sought her hand. Suitors from neighboring locales and even eligible young men from her own village had given her pause.
There was the good-looking Jarl the Fair, for example. And once or twice she’d entertained the notion of going with Orm the Hairy One, but the thought of all that braiding and combing had put her off. This, and his annoying habit of saving the heads of all the animals he’d killed. No, there’d be no easy way into her heart. To win her, a young man would have to prove himself worthy. She wasn’t going to give in and give over to just any smooth talker who professed undying love. She knew that, for love to last, for it to grow and endure the various calamities of life, a man must be made of harder stuff than talk. And though her affections were with Dane, he still had yet to prove that he possessed the kind of inner fire her heart told her she deserved in a man.
Dane fought hard to stand out in the day’s contests, and by afternoon’s end, it was down to him and Jarl in the final round. They were called out to the center of the field and stood side by side in the sun.
Jarl the Fair had great hair. Gorgeously long flowing locks that shone golden in the sun. He did a thing with it—tossing back his head to flip his hair off his forehead—and when he did the hair thing, the girls would squeal in delight and Jarl’s toothy grin would grow wider, his muscles would bulge a bit bigger, and his chest would puff up ever so slightly. This made girls swoon all the more, which was the very effect he hoped it would have. This kind of display of vanity was known in the village as “doing a Jarl,” and no one could do it quite like him, what with his golden hair, his high cheekbones, and his high opinion of himself.
It drove Dane mad to see Jarl so full of himself. Boastful and brash and so arrogantly humorless! “What do they see in that guy?” he once asked Fulnir while out on a soul-searching walk.
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