“Great hair, good looks, a fine singing voice—”
“I know what they see in him! It was just a rhetorical question.”
“Oh. Right.” They walked on.
“What does rhetorical mean again?” asked Fulnir a few moments later, but Dane didn’t answer.
Jarl and Dane stood side by side in the center of the field, preparing to face each other in the final round of competition.
“And now…” the ringmaster’s voice rang out, “the final round!” Jarl did the hair thing. Girls went wild. Even some men cheered. Jarl did a two-fisted “victory dance,” playing to the crowd and drawing more cheers. This dented Dane’s confidence, until he caught sight of Astrid waving to him, and he waved right back. Jarl then threw her a wave of his own, grinning his perfect-toothed grin, and under his breath said to Dane: “She’ll be my wife, y’know.”
Dane eyed Jarl and, keeping a smile on his face for the crowd, said, “She’ll be mine or I’ll die trying.” At that moment the ringmaster again called to the crowd.
“Jarl the Fair!…versus Dane the Defiant!”
Dane’s friends on the sidelines cheered when they heard his name announced. Astrid did too, he noticed, as did Klint, who gave a crawk! of comment from high in the fir trees overlooking the field.
Jarl merely sneered. “Ooo, ‘Dane the Defiant,’” he said mockingly. “I’m so-o-o scared.”
Dane’s cheeks burned in anger. He yearned to flatten Jarl right there and easily could have had the flag not been raised, signifying that the final event had begun.
They drew lots. Dane’s hopes sank as he saw Jarl draw the long straw. It meant Jarl would choose archery. Dane was handy with bow and arrow, but Jarl was a master. There was no way Dane could win. Briefly, he entertained the notion that if he signaled to Klint, the bird could fly high in the air and knock Jarl’s arrow off course. That would surely fix him, Dane thought, cheered by the idea of Jarl humiliated in defeat. But this, he knew, would be cheating, a thing strictly forbidden in Viking society. The Viking code of honor was a sacred bond, never to be broken. So Dane said not a word.
From his seat beside Thidrek, Voldar looked down in pride, silently imploring the gods to give his son strength for the final contest. Dane had greatly surprised him in getting this far. He’d thought the boy would surely be eliminated by now, believing him somewhat lacking in stamina. Yet there he was, his own flesh and blood, one of the last two standing. Perhaps Dane had it in him after all. The crowd went silent. The day’s events would be decided by three shots: each man to let fly three arrows, and he who shot the farthest would be declared the winner. Voldar saw that Thidrek too had taken interest in the outcome; his lordship’s gaze was fixed on the field.
Jarl and Dane took turns shooting arrows. And when it was over, the ringmaster pronounced it a draw: Each had shot the same distance. Now it was a free shot; each man would do the trick shot of his choice.
Jarl shot first. He pointed his bow straight up in the air over his head and, holding his arm stock-still, let it fly. Bzing! Up, up it flew, disappearing, it seemed, into the clouds…and then down, down it came, speeding straight for Jarl. He moved not a muscle. The crowd gasped. His arrow was falling directly toward him; if he didn’t move, he’d surely be killed. Then, at just the last moment, he thrust his bow aloft over his head and thwwfft! the arrow point sank into the wooden bow itself, stopping inches from Jarl’s face.
Cheers went up! The spectators could scarcely believe it, and neither could Dane. He was beaten. He knew he had no trick shot to top Jarl’s stunt. He dropped his bow and walked off the field, the villagers rushing past him to crowd around and congratulate the victor, their chants of “Jar-rl! Jar-rl! Jar-rl!” making Dane feel empty and small.
Astrid felt sick. She’d dearly wanted Dane to win. Feeling his pangs of dejection as if they were her own, she tried to find the words that might ease his pain. Pushing through the throngs of commoners, she was halfway to him when the crowd abruptly parted, and a tall commanding figure moved toward her.
It was Prince Thidrek, pinning her with his coal-black stare.
“You, young lady,” said Thidrek, “were magnificent. Allow me to congratulate you.” Curtsying, she offered her hand. He kissed it and said, “Do me the honor of dining with me tonight at the feasting?”
She eyed her father, then Thidrek. What could she do but accept? And by the time Thidrek withdrew, she looked round to see Dane was nowhere to be found.
Lut the Bent felt momentarily dizzy as the crowd swarmed round him, streaming toward the feasting tables. Where was Voldar? And how would he tell him of his awful premonition with so many people around? He’d wanted to take him aside and tell him at first light that morning. But he’d overslept, and by the time he’d risen and stretched and bathed and combed his beard and breakfasted on ale and salt fish, well, Voldar had been too involved in preparation for the festivities. Then Lut had been asked to say a blessing over the athletes and Thidrek had arrived, and then the games had begun and Lut decided he’d have to wait until later. But when? The longer he waited, the harder it would be. Wearied by the long day in the sun, his belly rumbling in hunger, he looked for a place he might sit down and rest. Yes, he would get his strength back. He needed his strength.
And then the crowd parted and there was Voldar, standing right in front of him, deep in excited conversation with a half dozen elders from the outlying villages, the men all drinking with gusto and replaying favorite highlights of the day’s games. Lut saw too that Thidrek himself was among them, joining in the joviality.
“Lut!” said Voldar, spotting the old one. “Great games, huh?”
Stepping forward, Lut cleared his throat and tried to speak.
“My friend—” he rasped. “I need a word.”
“A word?” Voldar said, playing up to the men. “I got a word—bacchanal! How’s that for a word?” The men exploded in knowing laughter. Lut felt his nerve now faltering, acutely aware this was the worst moment possible for broaching such a delicate subject.
Then, noticing Lut needed to speak, Voldar said, “What is it, Lut?”
In a blink, everyone stopped talking. They turned to stare at the seer, waiting to hear what he had to say. But Lut couldn’t speak. His mind went blank. His throat went dry. His insides quaked with hunger. The sky spun overhead. His thoughts were ablur. Lifting his gaze, he found Thidrek staring at him, the dark eyes drilling into his.
“It’s about—your son…,” Lut blurted out.
“What about him?” said Voldar.
“I—I—”
“Well, out of with it, old man!” said Thidrek, drawing a laugh from the men. Lut’s nerve then evaporated altogether.
And Lut said, “He played well today.”
“Yes, yes, that he did,” said Voldar. “Now to the feast.” And off he went with Thidrek and the others. Lut was only too relieved to see them go.
CHAPTER EIGHT
A FEAST OF DELICIOUS COMPLICATIONS
The feast was a grand event. There were goats and wild boar and game birds roasting on open spits, a long buffet table laden with dish after dish of great hearty fare, such as elk steaks and rabbit stews and smoked fish, and platters piled high with various breads, nuts and cheeses. There were sauces aplenty, sugared plums, and mounds of fresh elderberries for dessert, and, as always, lots of freshly churned butter.
Inside a great circle of torches, the athletes and their families sat at long, roughhewn tables having a raucously good time, guzzling mead made of fermented honey, stuffing their faces, and pinching the bottoms of the womenfolk who served up the food.
At the head of the main table sat Thidrek and his retinue, along with Voldar, Geldrun, Blek the Boatman, and other village dignitaries. Astrid sat to Thidrek’s left, as his guest of honor, or “dinner companion” as he insisted on calling her. And Jarl, as winner of the games, sat to his right.
Much to Astrid’s surprise, Thidrek was thoroughly charming, engaging in witty
repartee, complimenting the athletes, taking his drink in moderation—acting in every way the perfect gentleman, not at all the imperious, over-bearing boor she’d heard he could be. At times he actually paused to listen to what others had to say, chuckling at jibes that proved unamusing, not once interrupting or disagreeing. And when Blek lamely blurted out that the taxes on their village were too high, instead of ordering that the man’s tongue be cut out, Thidrek calmly explained that, yes, perhaps they were a bit steep, but it was all to build new roads to encourage trade between the villages, which would thus improve the economy and hasten in a highly desirable thing called “progress.”
“Bah! Bring back the old days,” said Jarl, with a mouthful of food and a head full of drink. “Pillage and plunder. That’s what real Norsemen were made for. ‘Live off the land’? Pisspots! We’ll have peace in death. We, the living, should spill blood!” He gobbled another portion of boar meat, chewing with his mouth wide open, and as its juices dribbled down his chin, he thoughtlessly wiped his mouth on his sleeve, leaving a long, unsightly smear of grease.
What happened next was a revelation to Astrid and other women at the table. Thidrek drew from his pocket a soft, square piece of cloth, wiped his lips and mustache clean of gravy, and then returned it to his pocket. Astrid and the other ladies looked upon this in wonder. A man had actually cared enough to remove the unsightly food particles from his mouth! Thidrek noticed their interest.
“It’s a lommetørklæde,” he explained patiently. “A handkerchief. What a true gentleman uses at table. Part of a new idea called ‘personal etiquette’ that’s all the rage on the continent.” Not wanting Jarl to feel bad, he added, “No way for you to have known, boy—just one of the perks of upper-class life, I suppose.”
Jarl issued a loud belch and laughed, unaware that the older man had just insulted his utter lack of sophistication. “Whatever,” Jarl muttered, and refilled his mead cup.
Thidrek then paid a compliment to the table centerpiece, a handmade ice sculpture of a flower, its open petals aglow from the lighted candle inside. With obvious pride, Blek said his own daughter, the Mistress of the Blade, had carved it.
“I’ve never seen a woman so artful with an axe,” Thidrek said, flashing Astrid a grin, “or so deadly with a smile.” And then the sound of music filled the air. Musicians—three pipers, two lyre strummers, and a drummer—had arrived and begun to play. Stirred by the music, one by one everyone began to join in a chain dance.
“Ah, music,” said Thidrek, and he turned expectantly to Astrid. But Jarl was already on his feet and saying, “Honor me, dear lady?”
She hesitated, not wanting to breach princely protocol. But Thidrek, ever the gentleman, nodded his approval, knowing that the winner of the games always had first pick of the ladies.
She rose, bowing once to the prince, and went off to join Jarl at the end of the chain of dancers.
Dane fumed. Stuck at the far end of the table, twenty seats away, he could barely eat, having to watch both Thidrek and Jarl seated beside his girl! They looked too cozy up there, the three of them smiling and chatting away like the best of mates. It sickened him to see it, and the longer the night went on, the worse he felt. And then seeing Astrid get up to dance next to Jarl—well, that just tore it. Taking a flagon of mead, Dane stood to walk out, but caught a reproachful look from his father at the far end of the table. Obediently, he first went to Prince Thidrek and, with all the decorum he could muster, bowed in courtly fashion and bade his lord good night.
“Turning in early, I take it?” asked Voldar.
Dane gave a sullen nod.
“Well, good job in the games, son.”
Dane produced a shrug and a half smile, turned, and walked off.
“Good lad,” said Thidrek to Voldar.
“Yes, my lord. Still too young to show proper respect to his elders, I fear.”
Thidrek waved it off. “Shows spirit. Guts. He’s his own man.” Then he added, “Could be worse. You could have him for a son.” Thidrek nodded toward Drott the Dim, who at that very moment was crawling across the ground with a leg of roast lamb clenched in his jaws, grunting and growling like a deranged dog at no one in particular, looking every bit the village idiot.
“Yes,” Voldar agreed. “Much worse.”
Out on the dance floor, Astrid wasn’t giving Jarl an inch. She hadn’t wanted to dally with him at all, having agreed only so as to avoid dancing next to Thidrek. She felt uncomfortable under the prince’s penetrating gaze. Yes, he was handsome; yes, he was charming; and, yes, he had a certain rakish appeal. But her intuition told her that his intentions were anything but honorable. Flush with the exaggerated emotions often found in girls her age, she felt a sudden hand on her shoulder. A chill shot through her when she heard Thidrek’s voice, all velvet. “I believe it’s my turn,” he oozed.
Jarl bowed and went away wordlessly. Steeling herself, Astrid turned to Thidrek, put her hand in his, and allowed him to join in the dance next to her.
As she nervously made small talk, Thidrek’s gaze never wavered. He kept his eyes fastened only on her. As she danced beside him, she felt the cold hard cut of his leather coat against her side, his steady gaze drilling into hers. The image of a scaly reptile suddenly leaped to mind. A snake, perhaps. Or one of those green four-legged crawly things with the long tail her father had brought back from one of his long sea voyages to the south. What was it called? A lizard? Yes, that was it! Thidrek reminded her of a lizard. A sly creature with cold, rough skin and eyes that seemed to pierce right through her. The words of her father came back to her now as she recalled what he’d often said while gazing at the prince’s distant castle: “There is nothing colder than the heart of a tyrant.”
Absorbed in this reverie, she was surprised to find Thidrek moving closer, pulling her into the shadows and putting his mouth on hers, or trying to, at least. Astrid stepped away before he could successfully complete his maneuver, careful to keep the smile on her face and conceal her revulsion.
“I’m feeling poorly, m’lord,” she said quickly, clutching her belly as if ill. “Something I ate disagrees with me. I should take my leave.”
“By all means,” Thidrek purred. “Tend to thy health, dear girl. So that one day we may dance again.”
“It shall be an honor, sire,” she said, and then excused herself with a curtsy, turned, and walked off, relieved to be free of him.
Moments later, having watched this last with some concern, Grelf arrived at Thidrek’s side and asked if they should save a slice of elderberry pie for him, though he really only wanted to be sure his master hadn’t been rattled by the girl’s rudeness. His nostrils flaring, Thidrek said nothing, fixing his gaze on the girl as she disappeared past the torchlit line of dancers and into the shadows of the village beyond. Noticing the possessiveness in Thidrek’s stare, a look he’d too often seen before, Grelf issued a naughty smile.
“Caught your eye, has she, m’lord?” Grelf asked airily.
The look Thidrek gave him in return suggested that she might have caught more than that.
CHAPTER NINE
LIFE IS TORN ASUNDER
Dane couldn’t sleep. He lay in his bed-straw, tossing and turning, his mind astir. No matter how hard he tried to think of other things, images of Jarl and Thidrek whirled through his head, making sleep impossible. Worse, he cursed the gods for having let him down. Odin? Thor? How foolish he’d been to have ever believed in their powers. And how dare his father force him to honor them? If they were truly powerful, they’d have helped him win that day, but clearly they cared little for him or his dreams. No one understood him, it seemed—his own father least of all.
His confidence shaken by the loss to Jarl and driven by a rebellious impulse to strike back at his father—to steal his power—Dane rose and went to take the one thing his father most revered. And, slipping it beneath his coat, Dane crept from the house, moving through the village in the moonlight, careful not to wake the sheep and goats in t
heir pens, nor the dogs that lay asleep. The air was thick with the smell of wood smoke that rose from each of the homes’ hearth fires. Soon he stood outside Astrid’s home, a modest log hut built into the side of a hill. Flik, flik, flik. He tossed pebbles against the shutters, hoping to wake her without raising the ire of her father. As fortune would have it, Blek had drunk too much mead at the feast and was snoring soundly. But Astrid had been very much awake and heard the tip-tap of the stones. In a trice she slipped out the door, a fur wrapped over her underthings, and joined him in the moonlight, her pack of axes on her back. Wordlessly, he took her hand in his and disappeared with her into the woods.
A tingle ran through her as she moved under the towering firs, Dane at her side, leading her by the hand, their bodies casting moon-shadow shapes along the ground. There was a special kind of excitement in meeting him like this, away from the prying eyes of the elders.
“I think we’re alone now,” she heard Dane say.
They stood at the edge of the woods, the smell of the pine needles like perfume in the air, the night sky above them a dome of glittering stars. The moon, rising just over the trees, shone clear and bright. Below them lay the silver oval of a frozen lake blanketed in new-fallen snow. They watched in silence as a mother deer and her young fawns made their way across the lake, leaving a line of tiny hoofprints in the snow.
“It’s beautiful,” said Astrid in a hushed whisper.
“You’re beautiful,” he told her, squeezing her hand and drawing her closer.
“And you’re a fool who’d say anything for a kiss.”
“I can’t deny it. I do dream of a kiss…and more.”
They fell silent. The only sound was their breathing, which came in icy wisps of steam that gleamed in the moonlight and then were gone. Dane opened his coat and brought out the Shield of Odin, the violet-colored stone in its center—the magic Eye of Odin himself—agleam in the moonlight.
RuneWarriors Page 6
