RuneWarriors

by James Jennewein

  “Well, not hard enough, apparently,” she huffed.

  Dane said there’d be time enough to talk later, but now they had to steal back the Shield of Odin and get away. Astrid said she could use a weapon if he had a spare one, and Dane drew a dagger from his belt and gave it to her, watching as she drew its blade across her fingertip, testing its sharpness, and then slid it into her boot for safekeeping.

  He peeked out of the tent flap. The two sentries lay motionless by the dwindling fire. All clear. He helped gather Astrid’s things and whisked her out of the tent, coming face to face with Drott, who blurted, “They’re awake!” And the camp erupted.

  The sentries were up and shouting to their brethren that intruders were among them. Dane heard the clang of swords and spied through the mists—on the far edge of camp—that Jarl and the Vicious Brothers had engaged a trio of enemy fighters and, thus far, were holding their own.

  A flaming arrow whistled past and struck the tent Dane had just left. It exploded into flames. Bzing! Bzang! Two more tents went ablaze. Dane knew it must be the work of Blek and Orm, who’d been told to stay hidden in the woods to provide cover if discovered.

  In moments the encampment was in tumult. Berserkers awoke and found their tents in flames, choking on the smoke as they crawled along the ground, groping for their weapons, some with their tunics afire. Through the smoky haze, Dane could see that Jarl and the Vicious Brothers were now joining Ulf and Fulnir in fighting off a new group of attackers who’d appeared, the men in full fury though only half dressed. Seeing an opening, Dane and Astrid began to make a run for the trees, when right in front of him a helmeted Berserker crawled out of a burning tent, coughing. Instinctively, Dane raised his sword to lop off the man’s head—then saw it wasn’t a man at all, but just a boy no more than ten!

  The boy looked up at Dane, trembling, knowing he was about to die. Dane too knew the boy should die. It was war. Survival. Dane had him cold and so should quickly dispatch him without pause and get on to killing whoever else stood in his way. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. And in that hair’s-breadth moment of hesitation—of Dane not doing what he knew any other right-thinking Viking would—the boy rolled away and ran off.

  Astrid threw him a puzzled look. “What are you doing?”

  “Trying to save your life!” he said, and yanking her by the hand, he hurried them both out of the camp.

  It flashed through his mind, as he stumbled over the snow crust, that perhaps the gods would look kindly upon his act of mercy and reward him now with an easy escape and a happily-ever-after with his fair maiden. Marriage. Kids. A nice home. Dogs and cats and maybe even a pet rabbit and—

  But, sadly, ’twas not to be. For moments after he’d let the boy go free—in what any hardbitten Norseman would agree was an especially cruel twist of fate—that very lad decided to take Dane’s life.

  It was no easy decision. For failure would carry a rather high price. But it was time for the boy to prove himself, and prove himself in blood he must.

  Crouched behind a rock, the boy drew back his bow, taking aim at the redheaded one running beside the escaping female, caring not a whit that he was preparing to take the life of the very man who’d just spared his. For, whether he liked it or not, the boy was a thrall, a slave, to Thidrek the Terrifying. And though just ten years of age, he knew that coldblooded killing wasn’t only expected. It was an art that any stripling lad his age must master to earn his manhood and avoid incurring Thidrek’s wrath.

  And so, as the redhaired one and his girl neared the safety of the trees, the boy took aim at the center of the man’s back and, after the tiniest moment of hesitation, the thoughts of which were known only to him and the gods, he let fly his arrow and—zzfffftttt!—saw the figure suddenly stiffen and fall face forward.

  Astrid heard the arrow’s whisper, then a thump in the snow. She turned, shocked to see Dane lying motionless a few paces behind her. Hearing death calls from camp, she hurried back to the fallen Dane and tried to lift him, anxious to carry him to safety. But just as she was hefting him to her shoulder, two Berserkers appeared, one armed with a spear, the other with a broadsword. Astrid let Dane’s body slide to the snow as they slowly advanced.

  “Well, aren’t you a pretty,” said Spear, giving her an I-can’t-wait-to-kill-you grin. She drew out the dagger from her boot and brandished it.

  “Ooh, now I’m affrighted!” Spear said in mock fear, throwing an amused look at Broadsword. “What you gonna do, eh? Give us a shave?” And without waiting for an answer, he ran straight at her with his spearpoint aimed at her heart. But then, suddenly stricken, he clutched his chest and sank to his knees, shocked to find her dagger’s blade sunk into his heart. In a blink, Astrid had flung the dagger airborne and it had found its target. With dispatch she then seized the spear from his hands and put a foot to his chest, and he went crumpling over onto the crusted snow.

  Broadsword then raised his mighty blade and came at her with a war cry. Swoosh, swoosh. Jumping left and right, she deftly evaded each swipe of his sword. With great practiced speed, using the butt of the spear, she poked him hard in the belly, then jabbed him right in the eye. Her favorite one-two combination. He dropped his sword and reached for his eye, howling in pain. And for a moment Astrid thought she might get away. But then she heard the crunch of boots on the snow behind her, and before she could even turn round, they were upon her, two more iron-helmeted Berserkers, bashing the spear from her hands and brutally batting her around. She fought them off as best she could, landing a few kicks and bare-knuckle punches, but soon they’d shoved her to the ground, her cheek crunching into the cold crystalline snow. And then Broadsword, angry about his now swollen eye, came and stepped on her neck, crushing her windpipe with his boot.

  Choking and gasping for air, Astrid gave a strangled cry of anguish as she caught sight of her beloved lying still beside her. The toothless grins of Broadsword and the other Berserker men were obscene to her. The young man to whom she’d given her heart was now gone forever; her pain was near unbearable. She felt hot tears streaming down her cheeks and heard the cold laughter of the men, and when the boot was lifted from her throat, she heard her own voice cry Dane’s name.

  Her vision hazed with tears and the acrid smoke of the fires, she now saw that, back in the encampment, Drott and Fulnir and the others had been captured and were being led to a small rise. And her mind was so filled with thoughts of death and other dreary unpleasantries that when first she glanced back at Dane and saw his eyes flutter open, she gave it scant notice. Then he issued a groan and a grimace of pain…and this she noticed.

  Her heart soared. He was alive! She saw his hand move up his leg to his right hip, where she now saw blood seeping from a gash on one of his buttocks. The Berserkers began to drag them roughly back to the camp. And now, her vision clearing, Astrid glimpsed—behind them, embedded knee-high in the bark of a tree—the shaft of an arrow, the one that no doubt had been meant for Dane but had left only a gash in his rear.

  His mind ablur and backside throbbing in pain, Dane was dragged through the snow and dropped at the feet of Prince Thidrek. Still in his night robe, the prince stood there complacently, sipping from a mead horn, regarding Dane with mild amusement. A young boy stood before him, his eyes on the ground. The same boy, it seemed to Dane, whose life he’d just saved.

  “This your work, boy?” Thidrek asked, a bit of brightness in his voice.

  “Aye, sir,” said the boy softly, still eyeing the ground.

  “Nicked him, eh?” said Thidrek with fatherly pride, tousling the boy’s hair. “Almost a kill.”

  “Almost, sir,” said the boy, relieved to have the great man’s approval.

  “But ‘almost’ isn’t good enough, is it?” Thidrek snapped, his tone abruptly darkening, eyes flashing in anger. “We aren’t hunting hares, boy! Never give a man the chance to return fire! Shoot once and shoot to kill! Learn it quick or you’re a danger to the rest of us, and then I’ve no use for you
. Is that clear?”

  The boy said it was clear, quite clear indeed, it wouldn’t happen again, and then quickly excused himself. A few guardsmen chuckled and jeered as the boy walked away.

  Thidrek smiled at their taunts, looked again at Dane, and said, “Perhaps I made the same mistake with him that your village made with you.” Then he leaned down and whispered, “Never send a boy to do a man’s job.” Thidrek issued a self-satisfied chuckle, for he delighted in rubbing the noses of his victims in their failure and defeat.

  Dane’s eyes found the boy as he stopped and looked back. The boy’s face showed not a trace of remorse, nor did it reveal that he had deliberately saved Dane’s life.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  OUR HERO’S LIFE HANGS BY A THREAD

  Dane disliked being upside down. The world not only looked topsy-turvy but the blood had rushed to his head and put such pressure on his brain that he’d gotten a blinding headache. And each time he caught sight of Thidrek’s face, due to his peculiar point of view, the prince’s inverted features appeared all the more malevolent. No, the situation wasn’t good, whichever way you looked at it.

  Thidrek had captured them all—even Lut left aboard the ship—trussed them up in a large fishing net, and hung the net full of men on the limb of a tree, so that now they were precariously suspended over a pristine mountain lake, with Mount Neverest itself visible far away in the distance.

  This fact alone wouldn’t have been much cause for alarm. After all, it was only water they were suspended over, and rather shallow water at that. But there just happened to be one small, rather significant other fact they were soon to learn that would put things in a far more dangerous light.

  Thidrek stood on the muddy shore, amused and delighted. The sight of Dane and his men hung there like so many herring, so helpless and terrified, tickled him no end.

  “Well, look what we have here,” he said. “It’s the catch of the day! Suckerfish!” His men snickered, save for three who’d been wounded in the fracas at the encampment and were off moaning and dressing their wounds.

  “Let’s see,” Thidrek said, rubbing his chin. “What shall I do with them? I suppose we could fry them up and have them for supper.” His men made frowns and throwing-up gestures with their fingers down their throats. “But we’re not that desperate, are we? No, these ruffians would be far too unappetizing. Well, perhaps we could just kill them and let them hang and rot ’til their carcasses are picked clean by the crows!”

  This drew guffaws of approval from his men. Dane, less amused, with Jarl’s odoriferous feet jammed in his face and Orm’s elbow digging at his ribs, had an awful ache in his head.

  “No, we can’t just kill them,” continued Thidrek. “That would be too easy. A quick, clean death is too good for these rogues. They must suffer. Feel pain. Lots and lots of pain.” Then, so prompted, One-Eye, the Berserker leader, poked the net with his spear, causing it to swing to and fro over the water.

  “C’mon now, men,” moaned Thidrek. “What are we missing here?”

  Then from behind Thidrek, the ten-year-old slowly put up his hand and tentatively said, “Torture, sir?”

  Thidrek whirled round to face the boy, eyes ablaze. The boy flinched, fearing he’d spoken out of turn and would feel the sharp slap of Thidrek’s hand. But a huge grin broke over Thidrek’s face. “Good show!” he cried, fairly crowing with pleasure, going over to the boy and tousling his hair, aglow with fatherly pride. “Yes, of course! Torture!” Then turning to his men, he said, “You ought to be ashamed of yourselves, shown up by a mere ten-year-old boy!” Men hung their heads. A mischievous twinkle then came into Thidrek’s eye. “But not just any torture, no! Something spectacularly—what’s the word, lad?”

  Again, a timorous look came over the boy, afraid he’d blurt out the wrong answer.

  “Come, come, now,” said Thidrek. “Don’t disappoint me.”

  Having had little education, the boy had little command of language. Only one word came to him, and he hoped it was the right one. “Gruesome?” he said.

  “The very word I was thinking of!” Thidrek ecstatically hugged the boy to his chest, pleased he was showing such promise. He then let go of him and, stepping to the water’s edge, pulled off one of his leather gloves. Grelf saw him flick a look at the placid water lapping the shore, knowing now what his master had up his sleeve.

  “Oh, sire—stroke of genius, sir! Hideously perfect.”

  Thidrek threw a sly look at Grelf. Then, archly eyeing Dane and his men, he said, “This should clear things up for you,” and tossed the glove in the lake. It stayed afloat there; for a moment, nothing happened. Then…a stirring. Dane saw fins break the surface, shadowy shapes darting and circling. The water round the glove began to thrash and foam. Then, with blinding speed, a writhing mass of dark shapes attacked and tore into the glove, and in a frenzy of feeding, the thing was torn to itty-bitty shreds in seconds. Just as fast, the thrashing and splashing subsided, and the creatures—a dozen or more, at Dane’s count, slick, gray, flat-snouted things, with long, pointed tails and each an arm’s-length wide—disappeared under the glassy surface of the lake, and all was calm.

  All save Dane and his men. They were understandably agitated by this upsetting turn of events.

  “What in Odin’s name was that?” said Fulnir.

  “One of nature’s more charming creations, gentlemen,” said Thidrek in answer. “The giant flesh-eating, poison-tailed doomfish. Talk about killing efficiency! First it hunts you down with lightning speed. Then it stings you with its tail, delivering a dose of poison so potent, it paralyzes you in seconds. Unable to swim, you sink underwater, and then—hah, wait’ll you hear!—as you begin to drown, its teeth—” Thidrek stopped, his grin growing even bigger. “But hey, why spoil the surprise? Better you find out for yourselves!”

  Dane couldn’t have felt sicker. Doomfish? They were the most dreaded of all aquatic creatures, and definite meat eaters! With their single-finned, triangular, wing-shaped bodies, and propelled by their whiplike tails, they could cut through water ten times faster than any man could swim. And once they had stung, their fast-acting poison would render a man helpless, and all he could do was bid good-bye to this world as their rows of razor-sharp teeth sank into his flesh and tore him limb from…Dane tried not to think of it.

  “How bad you must feel, boy,” he heard Thidrek say with an air of mock fatherly concern. “To have failed in your quest to save your beloved and retain your honor. A pity. But we can’t all be winners, can we? No, the world needs losers, son, if only to make men like me feel smug and self-righteous in our superiority. Kill or be killed. Eat or be eaten. These are the laws of nature. Laws I’m afraid none of you are smart enough or strong enough to beat.”

  “Enjoy your head while you still have it, Thidrek,” Dane coolly replied. “For I shall use your skull as a cup to drink your blood.” Words he’d heard his father often say when recounting his glory moments in battle. Words that made Jarl and the others issue oaths of hearty approval.

  Thidrek merely chuckled, spat an obscenity, and said, “Dinner is served.”

  But Astrid broke free of her guards and ran to Thidrek, crying, “Free them, please, I beg you! You can’t do this—you just can’t!” She was seized again by the guards but kept yelling, getting right into Thidrek’s face. “A man who can’t show mercy is nothing but a—a—” So upset, she couldn’t find the word.

  “A what?” coaxed Thidrek. “A tyrant?”

  “A mean little child!” she blurted. Thidrek didn’t blink. He calmly drew off his other glove and whipped it back and forth across her face. The sting of the leather was so sharp, it drew blood on her lip. She gave an anguished cry as the men dragged her off, while Dane and Jarl shouted out how despicable Thidrek was, and how, if given a chance, they’d tear him limb from limb.

  “You can marry her,” Dane bellowed, “but she’ll never love you!”

  Thidrek stopped walking. He turned.

 
“Love? Is that what you think this is all about?” Thidrek threw back his head and erupted in dark laughter. “Sorry to disappoint you, but marriage was the last thing on my mind. No, she’s not to be my wife. She’s to be traded. For something infinitely more valuable than love. I’m trading her for the ultimate power on earth. And once I possess that, it will not only make me the richest, most feared of kings. It will make me—dare I even utter it?” His voice fell to a whisper. “A god.” He paused, luxuriating in his earth-shattering pronouncement. “And I have all you gentlemen to thank.”

  Thidrek tipped his head good-bye, drew his cape around him, and marched off up the snowy mountain. In minutes, he and his men were gone.

  “The doomfish look hungry!”

  “Maybe they’ll just go after Ulf and be too full to eat anyone else.”

  “Ballocks! We’re dead for sure!”

  “The gods are against us, I say!”

  “Nay, it’s yer arse against me—get off!”

  They’d hung there for over an hour, the sun now high overhead, the doomfish aswarm below, fins cutting back and forth, their long black pointed tails whipping out of the water, straining to reach the net full of live bait.

  Knowing they were soon to be unceremoniously devoured, their nerves had begun to fray. The weight of ten men had also begun to fray the length of rope that rubbed against the rough bark of the tree branch above. Still, Dane and his men strained to break free. In a bestial frenzy, Ulf the Whale had tried to chew through the netting with his teeth, and Jarl had tried to cut through it with a knife—the one weapon Thidrek hadn’t confiscated because he’d hidden it down his backside, a near heroic feat in itself. But Dane had warned them against escaping, for if the net broke, most would fall into the water and be fed upon, which wouldn’t be good.

  The more the men struggled, the more the rope frayed. It looked bleak. Their spirits had never been lower. Jarl had changed his tune and turned on Dane again, predictably blaming him for their predicament, and complaining that this kind of death certainly would not gain him admission to Odin’s mead hall in Valhalla. He’d also lost his collection of grooming combs during the storm, and this irked him sorely.