“Look!” Vik cried, pointing portside. A flash of moonlight revealed a new horror. A jagged rock twice the size of their ship hove into view dead ahead. If the ship were to strike it, they’d all be dashed to bits.
“The rock!”
“We’re finished!”
Jarl, his rain-lashed hair now matted across his face, turned to the others huddled nearby. Ruled as he was by fear, he could think only of his own survival. “Throw Dane overboard!” he shouted in desperation. “The gods will be appeased and spare the rest of us!”
Vik and Rik traded looks with each other, then with Fulnir and Ulf the Whale. As they hesitated, Jarl tried to push them into action. “He’s a blasphemer—it’s our only chance! The gods are smiting us because of him!”
Still, no man moved. Taking matters into his own hands, Jarl leaped to his feet and grappled with Dane, trying to throw him over the side.
“We must stay together!” Dane shouted over the wind. “We’re stronger as one!” But Jarl wouldn’t let go. The next instant Fulnir was at his side, trying to pull Jarl away, and then the Vicious Brothers were there, too, all five men in a death struggle, Rik and Vik and Jarl trying to throw Dane overboard and Fulnir and Ulf the Whale trying to stop them. Jarl’s hands gripped Dane’s coat so tightly that when the ship suddenly lurched, tipping the ship sharply forward, it tossed both Dane and Jarl together over the side and into the roiling sea. And by the time the others had risen to their feet and looked over the side, their two friends were gone.
For the longest moment of time it seemed to Dane that the world had stopped. He felt disconnected from his body. All was nothingness. And then—chaos. The raging force of the wind and rain felt like a hammer in his face as suddenly his head popped out of the water and he caught—in a moonlit flash—a look at the ship, which seemed about to topple sideways off a towering wall of water. A churning, thrashing panic. Then blackness again. And a stinging cold so bone chilling, he felt too shocked to move.
He kept swallowing water and coughing it back up as best he could. But some inner drive, the need to see and save the people he loved, drove him. He fought against the force of the sea, thrashing toward a dark object that seemed within reach. He felt something hard and grabbed it—it was something from the ship that had been swept overboard, an empty ale cask that he clung to, trying to catch his breath and regain his wits. He was alive! And this knowledge gave him new fortitude. He glanced down and saw the marking on the side of the cask and realized it was one from Drott’s own personal supply. Aha! he thought, Ale literally saved my life—a notion he knew Drott would find greatly amusing.
And then, through the sheeting rain, he saw something thrashing in the foamy swells a distance away. He glimpsed a white face, a wet mop of blond hair. It was Jarl, flailing around and looking as though he couldn’t stay afloat much longer. Dane tried to call to him, to yell over the deafening winds. It was no use. Dane started to kick his way toward his friend, for even the worst of enemies can find kinship when fighting for their lives. And then a giant wave rose up, carrying Jarl toward him, and holding on to his floating cask with one arm, Dane reached out with his other, snagged Jarl’s sleeve, and pulled him to safety.
Dane sputtered a greeting over the banshee wail of the storm, happy to see him. Jarl didn’t answer. Dane looked down and saw that Jarl seemed not to be breathing. His face was as pale as the moon.
Then, from out of the spray, Dane spied a new figure athrash in the sea. It was Fulnir swimming toward them, with a coil of rope over his shoulder, the other end of which—Dane now saw—led back to the prow of the ship, which suddenly hove into view. Hit by a wave, Fulnir went under for a time, and Dane’s heart sank when he lost sight of his friend. Had he drowned? Had he been snatched by the sea demons? But Fulnir popped up again and kept on coming, like a loyal dog, paddling onward. Dane spent his last fiber of strength hanging on to the cask to keep himself and Jarl afloat a few more moments. And as Fulnir finally reached him and began to tie the rope around his waist, Dane felt lightheaded and sank into blackness….
He awakened again as he was being hoisted up out of the sea, passing the big, pudgy face of Ulf the Whale as he came over the bulwark and flopped onto the deck like a sack of grain. He lay there, grateful to be alive, with the hard rain pounding down and into his eyes as he watched the others pull Jarl and Fulnir over the side and safely back on board. Relieved to see his fellow shipmates still alive, he let a wave of exhaustion overtake him and sank again into darkness.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
A HEROIC RESCUE
A cool breeze brushed Dane’s cheek. He opened his eyes to see the night sky aglitter with stars, the moon big and round as if hung from a string by one of the gods above. Still weak and achy, he stretched his arms and slowly got to his feet. He saw the silvered shapes of other shipmates lying asleep on deck, seawater from the storm still pooled beside them, and surmised that it was yet a good hour ’til dawnlight. The sea itself was calm once more, smooth as a baby seal’s belly. Dane cocked an ear and listened, scanning the skies for any sign of Klint, but the bird was gone. He felt a pang of sorrow at the thought of never seeing his feathered friend again.
Others on deck now saw Dane awake and came over to welcome him back to the land of the living. Fulnir was the first to greet him.
“Welcome back, mate. Thought you were history.”
“Would’ve been, if not for you,” said Dane, embracing his friends.
Blek and Ulf the Whale clapped Dane on the back, glad to see him alive. Drott came and hugged him, saying, “The breath of life becomes thee.” Not understanding, Dane looked to Fulnir for translation.
“You didn’t drown,” he said.
“Oh, right,” said Dane.
Then Fulnir told him the good news. Once the storm had abated, they’d realized they had made it through the Shallow Shoals of Peril and were now lying to in one of the many inlets, far, far to the north. They were so far north, Fulnir said, they were now in sight of wondrous Mount Neverest, and he pointed to its snowy peaks agleam in the moonlight, the distant mountaintop so high it disappeared into cloud fluff.
Could this be Thidrek’s ultimate destination? Dane knew that Mount Neverest was said to be near the Land of the Frost Giants, but why would Thidrek venture there? And then another thought struck him: the storm. Strangely, there’d been no thunder or lightning! Not a jot. In fact, he realized, it had been some time since he’d seen any signs of Thor’s power. Could it be that the prophecy was true? That Thor’s Hammer had indeed been lost? Or stolen? And if so…
His eyes rose again to Mount Neverest, while his thoughts were beset by the perils that might lie ahead, and to wishes that he’d never boarded this ship of fools, much less agreed to be in charge of it all. Then an old familiar voice broke his reverie: “They’re gone, son.” Dane turned to see Lut the Bent standing stoop-shouldered beside him, staring out to sea, his eyes silvered in the moonlight.
“Gone?” asked Dane, glad to see the old one up and around again.
“The runes,” Lut explained. “Swept overboard. Taken by the storm. Gone.” No runes? This was yet another blow, and Dane’s face must have shown his dismay. “You really needed a reading, didn’t you?” Lut said. “For Odin’s god-sight to give you guidance?” Dane nodded, though his disappointment at this setback was softened by his relief to see Lut feeling better. The sound of one of Drott’s mad cackles then reached their ears from the other end of the ship.
“I guess now we have only our wits to guide us,” Dane said, sharing a rueful grin with Lut. “However meager they might be.”
“Not so bad a thing, perhaps,” said Lut, staring out again over the water, his eyes narrowing, as if seeing deep into the truth of things. “Sometimes I think the gods designed this life to break men’s hearts.” Then, issuing a defeated sigh, he said, “But now with the runes lost, I guess this old bag of bones is no good to you anymore.”
“Don’t say that,” said Dane, putting a ha
nd on his shoulder. “You’re a father to us all, Lut. It’s not just your rune sight we value, it’s all the other things you teach us. Everyone looks up to you. And you roll a mean game of dice.” This put a smile in Lut’s eyes again, and their eyes met for a moment.
“You have a lot of your father in you, son,” Lut said.
“Nothing I can do will ever bring him back,” Dane said bitterly.
“Oh, son, didn’t you know? We never lose touch with those we truly love.”
Dane didn’t look too certain of this.
“He sees you now,” said Lut. “And he loves you still. You don’t believe it, just ask him.”
“I did. He never answered.”
“Well, keep trying. Maybe he was busy.”
Dane thought on this. And then said, “That thing you said last night. ‘A man can fool his fate.’ What exactly did you mean?”
Lut chewed his lip and stared up at the stars, trying to form a reply. “They say a man’s life is a tale already told, a story already written, and that he is but playing out his part with no choice as to its end or even its many chapters. But perhaps, just perhaps, by listening to the voice inside himself, a wise man can craft a surprise or two.” Then the old one looked at Dane, and off he hobbled unsteadily, leaving Dane to ponder what it all meant.
A short time later, Dane sat with Fulnir sharing a meal of salt fish and ale. Counting heads, Dane saw that two men were missing. Rik and Vik the Vicious Brothers. Were they lost at sea? Two more dead because of him?
“The brothers…?” he asked. Fulnir quickly assured him they hadn’t come to any harm. After the storm had abated, they’d been sent out to scout for signs of Thidrek and his Berserker marauders. Hearing this, Dane felt a rush of relief sweep over him. His men had lived! Thank the gods! Then, again on solid ground and in control of the ship, Dane felt his sense of authority return as well.
“And who gave that order?” he asked in annoyance.
“I did,” said a voice. Blek was pushed aside and Jarl the Fair presented himself. His hair now combed out and blown dry by the winds, his high cheekbones shining in the moonlight, he seemed fully recovered, save for a small scratch above his right eye, and as full of himself as ever.
“You were unconscious,” said Jarl with a hint of defensive bluster, holding Dane’s gaze, the tension still thick between them, neither wanting to back down or show weakness to the other.
Catching a cautioning look from Fulnir, Dane said, “Well, you are my co-captain. I’d expect nothing less.”
A brittle moment passed. Finally, Jarl spoke the words they all awaited. “I owe you my life. I was wrong.”
“Hey, choosing the water was just luck—”
“No,” said Jarl, “I meant about wanting to throw you overboard. I was wrong.”
Dane absorbed this. “You were afraid,” said Dane. “We all were.”
Jarl thrust out his arm. Dane reached out and locked his arm in Jarl’s.
“We are stronger together,” said Dane.
“As friends always are,” Jarl replied.
A sigh of relief went through the men as they chimed their approval. The quarrel was now past, a peace of sorts had been brokered, and the men were cheered by the sight of the two joined in friendship, believing this a good omen.
The peace didn’t last. The voices of Rik and Vik the Vicious Brothers suddenly rang out from off the starboard bow. Dane saw them oaring up in the small launch that was kept aboard for going ashore. Vik and Rik pulled up alongside the longship and clambered aboard, and the men anxiously gathered round to hear their report.
Rik opened his mouth to speak, but breathless from his furious rowing, he could only make his words come in spasmodic bursts between gasps for air. “Just round”—pant, pant—“the next bend”—pant, pant—“a mile”—pant, pant—“and a half”—pant, pant—“good cover—”
Tired of waiting, everyone turned to Vik for translation. He drew a breath and said, “We found Thidrek and his bloody Berserks camped onshore—all asleep, save two sentries on watch. We can set ashore to the west of ’em and use a thicket of woods for cover all the way to his camp. Just the surprise attack we hoped for.”
“Well, brother,” said Jarl, clasping Dane’s shoulder. “Seems we got some killin’ to do.” There were satisfied grunts from the men. Jarl began barking orders as he set to arming himself with sword and dagger and other implements of war. But Dane could only stand there as a shiver of dread shot through him; all too soon he’d know what he was really made of.
The rich scent of pine needles filled Dane’s nose as he and his men crept through the forest of firs, their feet crunching over the thick crust of old snow. Dane felt the blood thundering in his head, and it was all he could do to stay calm. To his left, led by Jarl, were Rick and Vik, their swords at the ready; Orm and Blek, both carrying knives; Jarl with his bow in one hand and trusted Demon Claw in the other. To Dane’s right, and under his command, were Fulnir, Drott, and Ulf. Fulnir and Drott were armed with axes and two daggers each, Ulf and Dane with their broadswords. The storm had taken most of their helmets, chest armor, and other protective gear, and this loss made Dane feel all the more vulnerable.
It had been agreed they’d split into two raiding parties and attack Thidrek’s encampment from both sides. Whichever group found Astrid first would make it their business to save her while the others formed a defensive shield behind them to help spirit her safely away. The plan had been Jarl’s, and though Dane wished he’d been the one to hatch it, he knew it was a sound and solid plan. He’d even told Jarl this in front of the others, and hearing this had given the men confidence. Dane knew they dearly needed to feel confident if they were to succeed, for if any man failed his task, it would mean injury or even death to them all.
The idea, of course, was to surprise the enemy and not to have to kill anyone. Dane had in fact told his men that when engaging an enemy, they should first try to strike a blow to knock him unconscious, so that they could slip in and out with minimum bloodshed and lessen the chance of Astrid’s being harmed. But Dane had listened well enough at his father’s knee to know that no rescue raid such as this would be without peril. The Berserkers, even if slowed by drink, were merciless and would fight to the death. Worse, they had the Shield of Odin, and whichever man wielded it would be impossible to beat.
His mind filled again with thoughts of his father, of his raucous laugh and the big grin he so easily flashed. Dane remembered with sudden clarity that day as a boy when he’d first held his father’s battle sword. What joy to see the pride in his father’s eyes! Dane felt a sudden need for his father—and then a jolt of alarm. Did this yearning for his father mean he wasn’t man enough to do this alone? Did it mean he lacked the fire? His mother had told him he had the strength of his father within him, yet now, miles from home, tramping toward who knew what, he felt his insides turn to jelly. Cold and afraid, he prayed his men couldn’t see his fear or hear how loudly his heart was pounding.
Nearing the edge of the forest, Dane signaled the others to stop. He pulled aside a dewy tree branch and peered out into the predawn mist. All was quiet in Thidrek’s encampment. A dozen or so tents made of stitched-together animal hides were set in a half circle round the smoking embers of a fading fire. Two figures lay asleep, their snoring easily heard through the mist. Only two sentries stood watch, and they were deep into their drink and on their knees playing dice, their attention fully diverted.
Dane scanned the tents for signs of Astrid, or clues as to where she might be held. There were none. Memories flashed: the girlish way she giggled while spearing fish in a stream; how she bit her lip when sharpening her axes; the smile agleam in her eyes as she spoke his name. His yearning to find her safe and unharmed made his insides quiver. Dane looked back to meet the eyes of his men. He saw a tense excitement on their faces, each awaiting his command. Dane drew a breath. It was time.
On his nod, they all moved at once. They broke out of the trees and
into the open, rushing raven-swift over the hard snow and into camp. Dane struck first, he and Drott dispatching the two asnore by the fire with hard blows to the head, while moments later, Fulnir and Ulf crept from behind and knocked the two sentries cold. They had the camp surrounded. All was still quiet.
Dane signaled to Jarl, and the search of the tents commenced. Jarl, Rik, and Vik started at one end of camp, Dane, Fulnir, and Drott at the other. Dane crept to the door of the first tent, pulled open the flap, and peered in. Three Berserkers lay fast asleep under their furs, their heads unhelmeted. No sign of Astrid.
He shut the tent flap and moved on. So far, all was proceeding as planned.
At the next tent, he drew a breath and peeked inside. It appeared unoccupied. He moved in further to make sure and—donk!—took a hard blow on the head. Falling to his knees, he quickly drew his sword and turned to find—Astrid! Recognizing Dane, she gasped his name and fell into his arms, saying she’d never have hit him if she’d known it was he. He kissed her hair, her cheeks, the very sight of her too lovely to bear.
“You’re all right!”
“I’m still alive, if that’s what you mean, but far from all right.”
“Have they hurt you?”
“No, but I haven’t had a bath in days. And food! Their idea of a good meal is cold rabbit stew once a day, if that—and no vegetable side dish. Where were you, anyway? What took you so long?”
“So long?” She had him flummoxed. “We’ve been—well, we’ve been working very hard to find you!”
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