And then, just as he burst into the daylight, something hit him from behind. The next thing he knew, Dane was falling through the air, plunging toward the sea, a panicked scream filling his ears. The scream, he quickly realized, was his own. Plummeting beside him was Jarl, his long golden hair whipping in the wind.
But worse, falling just above them was the ice rat!
It hissed, and its horrid fangs snapped at Dane’s head—once! twice!—but it caught only air. Dane spun, and again the rat came, this time its teeth finding the flesh of his upper thigh. Dane felt a stab of pain, then—kuh-flooosh!— he hit the water, the weight of the monstrous ice rat crushing him senseless as they both went plunging deep into the sea, the rat’s manic churning finally throwing Dane free. He struggled his way to the surface, gasping for air and coughing up water, Jarl, he saw, a short distance away, doing the same.
And the ice rat? It came out of the water half a ship’s length away, thrashing to stay afloat, its paws flailing and tail churning behind it, a flash of raw panic in its eyes. Once, twice, it went under, each time rising again, gasping and spitting water. And then at last, unable to propel itself or stay buoyant, the ice rat sank beneath the waves for good, leaving only a few last bubbles floating on the waves.
For a moment Dane marveled at this sight, which proved the truth of the story his father had told. Once in his youth, Voldar had said, after setting fire to an enemy warship, he’d seen rats, many on fire themselves—a few with their whiskers singed off—fleeing the ship as it sank. Voldar had sworn that as the rats abandoned the burning ship, some swam to safety, but those who’d lost their whiskers soon sank like stones. Perhaps a rat’s whiskers, his father had surmised, were like a ship’s rudder; without them the creature’s navigational skills are gone and it drowns.
Even though he was ice cold, Dane felt happy in the water: He was going to live. Until he felt something coil and tighten around his legs—and looked down to see it was the tail of the ice rat. If it was to drown, it seemed bent on taking Dane with him! Dane tried to pry loose, but no, the rat’s tail held him fast. He felt for the sword he’d worn slung across his back, but it was gone, no doubt jarred loose in the fall. And now he was pulled under by the weight of the rat, and the harder Dane fought, the tighter seemed the grip of the tail.
Desperate to free himself, he opened his eyes and saw, through the murky water, the creature’s face staring up at him as it sank belly-side up into the blackness of the deep, its own imminent death made easier by the knowledge that Dane too would die. The rat’s grin gave Dane a final surge of anger; he reached down into his boot, and finding his dagger, he slashed the creature’s tail repeatedly, until he’d cut clean through it and slowly its grip gave way and Dane floated again to the surface, back to friends and freedom.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THE MISTRESS OF THE BLADE TRIES TO BURY THE HATCHET
For what seemed days, Astrid had lost all track of time. Behind the oarsmen, at the aft end of the ship, on a bed of dried grass and goose down, she’d lain in a kind of delirious fever, coming in and out of consciousness. In her few lucid moments, she’d formed the idea that she’d been drugged—with oleander leaf or some other sedative—and suspected it was in the herbal concoction the so-called healer had been forcing her to drink. But soon she’d grown wise to it—realizing that the healer was no man of medicine at all but merely Thidrek’s sly man-in-waiting—and then only pretended to drink the brew, spitting it out when no one was looking. And sure enough, in the last few hours her head had sufficiently cleared to give her a better idea of exactly where she was and what was going on, though she still pretended to be in the grip of the potion.
She’d been kidnaped, that much she knew, and was on board a longship bound for she knew not, as yet, where. The woolen sail amidships billowed sideways across the vessel, where she lay screened from view at the aft end of the ship, giving her a modicum of privacy. Berserker guardsmen came and went, as did the one who’d masqueraded as the ship’s physician. Was it Gerulf? Galf? She couldn’t remember his name.
Every so often Thidrek would come to inquire about her condition. At times he seemed genuinely solicitous, almost affectionate. The more she’d feigned a fever, the more attentive he became, sponging her brow and caressing her hair, whispering assurances that all would be well. There’d even been a moment when she felt faint stirrings of regard for him, but it was only the kind of stifled warmth a prisoner feels for her jailer when asked if an extra pillow might make her solitary confinement more comfortable. No, Thidrek was up to no good, of that she was certain.
Now she lay there, very much awake, very much afraid, alert to the fact that the guards were soon to change and that this would be her chance to escape. The past few hours she’d kept track of when her sentries had come and gone and knew that one guardsmen in particular—Blackhelmet, she’d named him, for his war helmet was painted as black as his heart—was quite fond of his drink and so drunken a sot that he always sank into a stuporous snooze soon after coming on duty. It was her plan to wait for Blackhelmet to fall unconscious and then slip past him. She lay debating what to do. If she were to get free and dive overboard, she’d have a real chance of slipping away undetected if she were close enough to shore. But if they were too far out to sea, or if she were caught…well, she pushed all thoughts of failure from her mind. She’d mastered many a blade; surely she could surmount this situation.
After a time, she heard the shuffling of feet and the exchanging of oaths too crude to repeat. Peering through half-opened eyes, she saw to her excitement that Blackhelmet had indeed relieved the former guard and now sat slumped against the bulwark, benumbed and belching as he mumbled, the odor of liquor so strong on his breath that even from these few feet away she had no doubt of his intoxication. Never had a man’s drunkenness so pleased her. She lay motionless, feigning sleep, anxiously awaiting her moment. She heard him mumble a few epithets regarding the prior guard’s manliness, and then a long stretch of silence.
She opened her eyes wide. Blackhelmet was at last snoring away, dead to the world. She was alone at the aft of the ship. From voices carried on the chill night air, the others, she could tell, were all amidships, dicing, drinking, and guffawing at what she imagined could only be rudenesses of the lowest kind. With their view of her blocked by the sail that stretched between them, Astrid set to work trying to free herself.
All she had to work with, she realized, were her legs, since both wrists were lashed to the railing above. She stretched her left leg toward Blackhelmet’s knife, the wooden handle of which protruded from his belt. Arching her back and straining to reach it, she managed, with the tips of her toes, to nudge the blade’s handle a tiny bit closer toward her, away from the folds of his tunic. Then, with keen concentration, gripping the handle between her toes, she lifted it up. The blade slid free of its scabbard—there! She’d done it! Now to bring it toward her…and with a deft flick of her foot, she flung the knife backward…the blade spinning end over end in the air and embedding itself—thwack!—in the wooden deck inches from her ear.
Then voices! Closer now. Thidrek, it seemed, murmuring to—what was his name? Grulf? Grelf? Yes, that was it. Something about colder winds in the northlands…a half day’s journey…and the power just within their grasp….
Only half listening, straining in silence, she stretched out the fingers of her left hand and yanked the knife free. Then, slipping the knife blade between her teeth, she transferred it to her other hand and worked to cut through the bindings. In moments she had them severed and now, half freed, she made short work of the corded rope round her left wrist, cutting clean through. Unbound, she leaped from the bed and looked for her pack of axes, the ones taken from her the night she’d been seized. They were nowhere to be found, of course. Thidrek had been careful to keep her clear of any weapons. But they must be somewhere on the ship, she reasoned.
She peeked out, seeing a knot of guardsmen at the far end of the ship, their bodies d
raped in various angles of repose over the deck and ale casks. The cloaked figure of Thidrek stood at the bow, towering over the diminutive Grelf, who, rabbitlike, was bobbing his head in assent at whatever his master was saying, a quill pen poised above a scroll. Between Astrid and Thidrek were some twenty trunks, upon which the oarsmen usually sat. The oars themselves were neatly laid in horizontal rows, with each oar shaft poking through its individual oar hole on either side of the ship, the blades of the oars a good six feet above the water line. For a brief moment she considered just jumping overboard, without her precious axes. But leave them behind? How could she? Without them, the Blade Mistress would be powerless.
Peering again through a small tear in the sail, she spied the pack. It hung upon a peg on the mast, between where she stood and Thidrek. Getting to it would be difficult, but not impossible. She slipped over the bulwark and crawled out onto the outstretched oars, crouching and moving on her knees from shaft to shaft, careful to keep them from creaking. Thidrek’s murmuring, like the voice of death calling from the depths of black seawater beneath her, spurred her on.
Once amidships, Astrid lifted her head and peeked over the bulwark. Her pack of axes hung just a few steps away. Hungry for the power they would impart, she drew a quick breath and nimbly climbed aboard. Hiding first behind a stack of ale casks lashed to the deck, she crept shadowlike to the mast and pulled down the pack, its familiar heft renewing hope that freedom would soon be hers. But no sooner had she reached inside to find her favorite blade, when a voice rang out.
“The girl! She’s gone!”
It was Blackhelmet, now awoken, bellowing in alarm from aft. Then all seemed to flash by at once. Thidrek whirled, eyes blazing as he caught sight of Astrid there on deck. Cries. Chaos. Thidrek roaring, “There! Get her!” Pushing beneath the sail, Blackhelmet tore toward her. Astrid drew back and let fly her axe—whoosha-whoosha-thwack! Its razor-sharp blade caught the drunkard’s tunic, pinning him to the mast as he grunted in pain. She spun round, but another man lunged. Her swift kick to his groin crumpled him in a heap. Surrounded now, with more men advancing upon her, in one smooth move she vaulted over the bulwark and dove overboard. Except she’d forgotten one thing: the oars. And instead of hitting water, she went sprawling over the oar shafts. Before she could roll off and disappear into the sea, the Berserkers were upon her.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
OUR TALE TAKES A STUPIDLY MELODRAMATIC TURN
Jarl the Fair stood on the prow of the ship, his goatskin bag of well water held aloft as he addressed the men, his long golden curls aflutter in the wind.
“I have braved the labyrinth! You see before you water from the Well of Knowledge!” The men sent up a Huzzah!
Dane finished taking a leak off the side of the ship, pulled up his trousers, and turned back to the men. In between gulps of ale, Jarl had excitedly related the high points of their adventure, enlarging and embellishing, naturally, the part he had played in the ice cave proceedings. Dane had then explained about there being two different wells, one that would make you wise, the other an idiot, but that they didn’t know for sure which was which. Jarl was making his case before the men.
“The gods have chosen my water,” Jarl proclaimed. “And because we are on a just quest, my water brings wisdom, Dane’s idiocy.” The men began talking at once, trying to figure out what this all meant and what they should do. Perched upon the rail, Klint too seemed to be listening intently, following the proceedings with keen concentration.
“I shall drink my water and gain ultimate wisdom—and shall know in which direction Thidrek and his Berserkers have gone so that we may hunt them down and kill them like dogs!”
“Like dogs?” said Drott. “But I don’t like killing dogs. It’s not right to kill a poor, defenseless—”
“Drott! It’s a figure of speech, okay?”
“Oh.”
“But what if you’re wrong?” asked Vik the Vicious. The men fell silent, for Vik had voiced what they were all thinking. “What if—I’m just riffing here—but what if, you know, the troll tricked you or something and you just happened to get the idiot water by mistake. You drink that, you’ll lose all your wits forever, right?” The men absorbed this for a moment.
“Not that we’d care, mind ya,” said Rik with a sly wink. “You’re a little too smart for your own good anyway.” The men roared in laughter, enjoying this little dig at Jarl’s vanity. Jarl beamed, their laughter like a gust of fresh air to him, too vain to think the joke had any grain of truth.
Then Ulf spoke. “So what do we do? We need what’s in that water. But who’s going to take the risk? Who among us is stupid enough to…” His voice trailed off. Everyone had the same idea simultaneously. The men swiveled to look at Drott the Dim. Drott stopped picking his nose and looked back at them, as it slowly dawned on him—really slowly—what their looks meant. He was already an idiot: He had little to lose.
“No, not doing it, no way,” said Drott, shaking his head. “You heard what the man said. If I drink the wrong water, I could lose the few brains I have left. Forever! Pick one of the smarter guys!” Seeing that his words had no effect, he backed away as the men slowly advanced and he continued to protest. “My family! My brothers and sisters! My pet pig! They depend on me! They need me at the peak of my mental powers—for food! shelter! entertainment! It isn’t fair, I tell ya! It isn’t fair!”
Fair or not, the men fell upon him, elbowing Dane away, Vik and Rik holding his arms and legs down on deck as Jarl pried open Drott’s mouth. He looked up at them, utter terror in his eyes. “Bloody pirates! At least let me pick which water I have to drink!”
Dane thrust himself into the fray, stopping Jarl from pouring his water into poor Drott’s mouth. “He’s right! I say let him choose.”
Ulf the Whale’s prodigious brow furrowed again. “But if he does pick the idiot water, how will we know? I mean, his name is Drott the Dim, right? How much stupider could he get? The change could be imperceptible.”
“It’s a chance we’ll have to take,” said Dane. “The man’s volunteering for dangerous duty. We use him as a test subject, he gets to pick.” No one argued. Dane lifted the goatskin bag holding his well water. Jarl brandished his goatskin. Drott looked from one to the other, thinking hard, unable to decide. He counted eenie-meenie-miniemo. He flipped a silver piece. The men waited, giving him time to make up what mind he had. Finally…
“I pick Dane’s water,” said Drott. “He’s my friend. I trust him.”
Dane smiled, knelt, and uncorked his goatskin. He looked at his friend, a man he’d known all his life. “Don’t worry, Drotty. If this goes south and you lose your marbles, I promise I’ll take care of your family for you. They won’t go hungry.”
“Thanks, Dane,” said Drott. “You’re a pal.”
Dane slowly brought the goatskin to Drott’s lips. Drott stared up at it, steeling himself. Then he shut his eyes and opened his mouth, and Dane gave Drott a tiny swallow. Drott blinked once. Twice. Then…nothing. He still looked as stupid as ever to Dane. The men began to grumble. Dane wondered whether the Well of Knowledge was all just hogwash, whether they’d been had, given false hope by the cunning little imp guarding the well.
Then Drott’s eyes abruptly shot open. Seizing the wineskin from Dane, Drott put it to his lips, sucking down the liquid in great gasping gulps. Some of it spilled over his chin and down his chest, but most went down his gullet. Afraid of what too much of the stuff might do to Drott’s meager mind, Dane tried to wrench the goatskin away. But Drott held on, guzzling down all the contents until, just as suddenly, he fell backward to the deck, stuttering and sputtering so violently, he couldn’t get out a single word. He grabbed his neck with both hands, tearing at himself as if something were stuck in his throat that he couldn’t get out. His body went into spasms, great heaving convulsions, his limbs jerking this way and that as he rolled back and forth across the deck, the men all recoiling, shrinking back, no one wanting to catch whatever Drott h
ad caught.
“Somebody do something!” cried Fulnir, worried for his friend.
“I ain’t touching him!” said Vik.
“Nor me,” said Rik.
“Must be the idiot water draining the last bit of brains from his head.”
“Maybe he’s turning into a beast!”
“Or maybe he’s possessed by a demon! Throw ’im overboard!” shouted Jarl, suddenly concerned for his own safety. “Serves him right, not picking my water.”
“Nobody touches him!” said Dane, stepping in front of the twitching figure of Drott, daring anyone to step up. No one did. Jarl gave Dane a hard look but did nothing.
At last, the conniptions stopped. Drott’s eyes fell shut, his tremors ceased. He lay still for a long moment. Dane’s heart sank for his friend, feeling at fault.
“Is he breathing?” somebody asked.
“Can’t tell,” said Fulnir, and carefully leaned over Drott’s motionless body to look for signs of life. “Drotty, you in there?” No answer. Fulnir’s eyes met Dane’s, tears welling up. Their dear friend gone? It was too horrible to think of. Then all of a sudden Drott’s eyes popped open, and he looked up alertly into the faces of his friends.
“What are you ox brains staring at? Have you never seen a man in a postcataleptic state before?”
Speechless, the men watched as Drott got to his feet. The man wasn’t dead at all. In fact, he was so full of vigor and vitality, he seemed like an entirely new person, nothing at all like the slow, slack-jawed Drott they’d known before. His voice boomed with new baritone authority and brightness. His eyes sparkled and seemed to dance. He seemed absolutely electrified with a new kind of energy and intelligence. And now he began in the most animated way to strut about the deck, spouting all kinds of strange and wonderful information that seemed to burst forth from his mind with unstoppable force.
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