“’Tisn’t your fault,” said a voice. Dane looked up to see Jarl crouched beside him, his handsome face dimly visible in the moonlight that shone through the one tiny barred window that looked out over a grove of trees growing on the rocky cliffs below.
“You did your best, mate. Even I could’ve done no better.” It was amusing, Dane thought, how even in giving what he thought was a compliment, Jarl was still paying tribute to himself. But Dane knew Jarl’s heart was in the right place, and he nodded and knocked fists with his friend. They sat a time, listening to the snores of their brethren who lay asleep in the darkness beyond. Dane asked Jarl how he thought the others were doing.
“Well, Lut’s on his last legs, poor spiker, Orm’s been blubbering for his mother, and Ulf’s so starved he’s gobbling cockroaches. Twenty-nine at last count.” A silence passed between them.
“She forgives you too,” said Jarl, Dane knowing full well whom he meant.
“Strange, eh?” said Dane, who felt closer than ever before to the young man he’d once hated and hoped would die. “Us both loving the same girl.”
“She’s worth it,” came the reply.
“That she is,” said Dane. He feared he’d never see her again. He had but one seed of hope: the weapon he’d covertly slipped to Astrid while captive on the ship sailing to Thidrek’s castle. If she could find a way to use it, perhaps all was not lost.
Astrid’s place of confinement gave far more comfort than did Dane’s dungeon. For a country girl who knew only the confines of smoky, dirt-floored huts, her opulent castle chamber was something from a fairy tale. There were plush carpets to walk on, a luxurious canopied bed to lie in, and artful tapestries on the walls to entertain and entice her. And though at first she resisted and tried to fight the servants sent to fuss over her, she eventually gave in and let them do their work.
They bathed her and scrubbed her clean. Then they brushed back her golden hair and trussed it atop her head in silver ribbons. They rouged her cheeks and painted her lips red. And at last, for the crowning touch, they dressed her in a gown of scarlet Oriental silk, long and flowing, its ruffled bodice bedecked with golden threadwork and a jeweled brooch.
Now, alone in her locked chamber, she gazed in wonder at herself in a large mirror made of beaten and polished silver. She looked so…beautiful. Before, she’d seen her face and figure reflected only in the still waters of a pond. In her brief life she’d pursued only the rough-and-tumble activities of men: hunting, fighting, flinging her axes. But now, admiring her image in the mirror, resplendent in her finery, she saw a wholly different Astrid. Is this indeed the look of a queen? she wondered, utterly enchanted. And for a moment the thought of a whole new life stretched before her. One of leisure and refinement, of power and privilege and—
She caught sight of her smile in the mirror. Pompous, smug, imperious—all the things she hated. No, no, no! she told herself, disgusted. This wasn’t her at all. No, she would either slit Thidrek’s throat or take less direct means to bring him down.
Thidrek rose from the table as Astrid was led into his chamber. “Ah, Astrid, my sweet! You look ravishing!”
She did a girlish twirl, presenting herself.
“You,” he oozed, “are the fairest in all my domain.”
“Truly? You’re sure? It’s a big domain.”
“And getting bigger all the time!” Thidrek gave her a caught-little-boy look. “I hope you’ve forgiven me for leaving you with that ugly frosted fellow. An unfortunate lapse of judgment, I’m afraid.”
“That was rather rude,” Astrid purred, caressing his cheek with the back of her hand. She shot him a pouty, playful look.
Thidrek felt his blood begin to boil. His plan was working! He knew if she got a taste of the lavish life he could provide, she’d be his. What woman wouldn’t be? He had wealth and, most of all, power. Women loved power. They couldn’t resist it. She’d hated him before because he hadn’t proven himself. He’d been but a man grasping for control and authority. Unworthy. But now—now he possessed the ultimate power of the land, and she was helplessly drawn to it. To him. In her eyes, he’d become a kind of magnetic force, pulling her closer, ever closer into his web of dominion. Aah, women. Such simple creatures. So easy to control when you got right down to it. Thidrek moved closer, gently entwining his arm in hers.
“I suppose you know why I summoned you.”
“…a girl does get ideas.”
“It would greatly gladden my heart if you’d agree”—here he lowered his voice to a suggestive whisper—“to marry me.”
Astrid batted her eyelashes and gave him her most bewitching smile. Her plan was working. Thidrek was proposing! She had him on the hook. “I’d certainly consider it,” she purred, “but let’s be honest, you are Thidrek the Terrifying. Known for acts of cruelty and, some might say, crimes against humanity….”
His face abruptly darkened. Oops. She tried to recover.
“On the other hand,” she continued coyly, “you’re rich, handsome, and so very, very virile. Certain aspects of your character could be overlooked.” This made him brighten, and Astrid, feeling back in control of things, in full command of her charms, stretched languorously, affecting a kind of feline self-absorption. “And I imagine marriage to a man of your position would come with certain…fringe benefits?”
“Why of course!” Thidrek crowed. She’d have unlimited visits to the castle physicians, he explained. Her own private sauna, imported from Finland. And, if so desired, she could get all the beauty treatments she wished without ever having to make an appointment.
She cooed in response, and his head began to spin. She wanted him! Being a bloodthirsty barbarian at heart, he’d usually never think to ask. He’d merely take the girl by force. And once he’d had his fun, he’d keep her in servitude forever, as a serving wench or foot masseuse or some other minimum-wage employee. But this—this stirred him even more. A queenly lass who’d actually consent to wed! Her perfume had him dizzy with desire. He bent to kiss her—but she abruptly pulled away, and he nearly fell over.
“Wine!” she cried. “We must have wine to toast our union!” Hiding his annoyance with a smile, Thidrek snapped his fingers, and in came a servant with two goblets and a pitcher of wine.
“No, allow me, m’lord,” she said, taking the wine from the servant and beginning to pour it herself into the goblets. “If I’m to be your wife, I must learn to serve you myself. As only befits a king.” Ah, Thidrek thought, alluring and submissive. How could he resist? Eager to be alone now with his intended, he shooed away the servant, turning his back on Astrid to usher the lowly one to the door.
With Thidrek’s back momentarily turned, Astrid made her move. She quickly drew out the goatskin of idiot water from the folds of her gown, the item Dane had slipped her back on the ship—and poured a prodigious amount into Thidrek’s goblet. Was it enough, she worried? It would have to be! She frantically slid the bag back into her gown, and just as Thidrek turned round and returned to the table, he found her filling his goblet with burgundy. He took it up and held it aloft.
“To love everlasting,” he said, eyes filled with desire.
Astrid returned his smile and raised her own glass. She watched the prince lift the goblet to his lips. He tilted it up. The liquid touched his tongue—and then just as quickly he lowered the drink.
“How silly of me,” he said, shaking his head. “My taster! Nothing against you, m’love, but a king-to-be mustn’t take chances.” He tinkled a bell at his right hand, and in trundled a porcine, broad-bellied ball of corpulence with a look of utter terror on his face. “This is Bodvir the Unlucky,” Thidrek explained, “my personal food taster. We men of power are prone to be poisoned, you know, and I must take every precaution. The eleventh taster this year, I’m afraid.” He glanced up at Bodvir, completely oblivious to his taster’s discomfort. “Not to worry, eh, Bodvir? A stomach of iron, they say.”
“Y-yes, sire,” said Bodvir, nodding and wiping the
sweat from his brow. Astrid blanched. She couldn’t let him drink the idiot water! It wasn’t right. But how? How could she stop him without drawing Thidrek’s suspicion? Bodvir raised the goblet to his lips. He shut his eyes, about to drink.
“No!” cried Astrid.
Bodvir lowered the goblet, relieved to have some reason not to drink.
Thidrek frowned. “What is it?”
Astrid searched for the right thing to say. “Uh, the wine! It’s corked!”
“Corked?” Thidrek said, looking perturbed.
“Gone bad. Can’t you smell that?” She put the wine to her nose and made a face. And then, seeing Thidrek staring in suspicion, she took a large gulp of the burgundy wine, swirling it round her mouth—as if having a tasting expertise of her own—and then, eyes bulging in sudden disgust, she spat the wine to floor, spraying some on the table. “Can’t you taste that? It’s pisswater!”
Thidrek drew back as if slapped by her words. She poured the rest of her drink out on the floor, hoping he would do the same. He didn’t. He reached up and grabbed the goblet from Bodvir, putting it under his nose to smell it himself. He crinkled his nostrils. He flicked his gaze to Astrid, giving her a long, searching look. And then, flashing a conciliatory smile, Thidrek rose from his chair, goblet in hand, and told Bodvir he was excused.
“Yes, sire! Thank you!” Never had Astrid seen a look of such relief on a person’s face as Bodvir showed as he bowed and backed out of the room, acting as if he’d just escaped the executioner’s axe.
Thidrek grinned and set his goblet in front of her. “Astrid, you seem to know a lot more about wine than I do. Tell me, is mine corked too? I can’t tell.” He stared down at her and gave a chilling grin.
Uh-oh. He was going to make her drink it. Astrid fiddled nervously with her brooch, stalling for time. “Well, of course it must be, sire,” she said, thinking quickly. “Both goblets were poured from the same bottle. Here, let’s throw this out and open a new one—”
But as she reached for the goblet to empty its contents, Thidrek suddenly thrust his hand down onto the base of the goblet, holding it firm, fixing his eyes then on hers, and saying, “Drink it. I really want your opinion.” Astrid paled. There was no way to avoid it. With Thidrek’s fingers held fast to the stem of the goblet, she took his hand in hers and slowly drew the glass halfway up toward her lips. Her eyes met his, where she saw a mixture of contempt and regret burning in his gaze. She looked down into the goblet itself, eyeing the red liquid, knowing all too well what lay therein. And then, in one smooth movement she pulled the goblet to her chin, making sure to scrape Thidrek’s forearm against her brooch pin. Thidrek yowled in sudden pain and jerked his arm away, upturning the goblet and splashing wine all down her gown.
“By the gods—!” Thidrek cried, grabbing his arm.
“Oh, sire! My brooch pin must’ve come loose and stabbed you. I’m so sorry—”
Thidrek whirled, now in high dudgeon. “Sorry? You don’t know the meaning of the word!” He advanced on her, pushing her backward and pinning her against the wall. “You tried to poison me!” With one hand tightened round her throat and his body pressed against hers, he rifled her skirts with his other hand until he found the goatskin bag. He wrenched it free and threw it to the floor. From beneath her belt she drew a dagger and swiftly brought it up to thrust into Thidrek’s chest, intending to kill him before he even knew it. But his hand caught hers, stopping the knife inches from his heart.
Thidrek yanked the knife away and slapped her hard across the face—once! twice!—and before she could flee, two guards rushed in and seized her. Thidrek’s face was black with fury.
“Lock her up in the tower, the filthy wench! No food! No water! No visitors! And no honeymoon!”
Dane tried to sleep, but his mind wouldn’t rest. If Astrid had succeeded in slipping the idiot water to Thidrek, wouldn’t he have heard something by now? Panicked whispers from the guards? A wild rumor? But nothing had changed. Nothing at all. And now worries of what would happen to Astrid after the wedding went spinning through his head. Sleep was made even more impossible by the fact that Ulf was snoring like an inebriated walrus.
Dane sat at the window, staring through the bars at the stars in the night sky. He remembered Lut’s words: “We never lose touch with those we truly love.” Was it true? Oh, he so wanted to believe it. He peered at the two brightest stars, the same ones he’d seen while lost at sea, and closing his eyes, he soon found himself praying and pouring out his soul—to his father, to the gods, to whoever might be listening at this late hour. And then, wonder of wonders, he heard an ethereal voice…and lifting his head he saw it: a ghostly image of his father shimmering before him, the familiar red hair and beard fluttering as if blown by an invisible wind. And the spirit of the father spoke to the son.
“Dear boy, what is it you seek?” Voldar asked, his voice echoing as if traveling from a faraway place.
“Father…?” said Dane, transfixed. “Where are you?”
“I’m in Valhalla,” Voldar shot back. “Where else would I be?”
“What’s it like up there?”
“It’s a dream. The weather’s pleasant, the food flavor-some and plentiful. There’s all the mead you can drink and, well, other amenities I shan’t go into now. Did you have a question?”
Dane hesitated, not sure he wanted to hear the answer.
“Father…am I fated to be destroyed by Thidrek?”
“Nothing is written until it is done, son. A man can fool his fate.”
“That’s what Lut told me! So it’s true?”
“Yes, it’s one of the many truths revealed to me up here. Also, that fruits will keep longer if left to ripen in a cool, dark place. But as to the problem at hand, know this: Your destiny is yours to make. He who fights blindly will be defeated. Be brave, but most of all, be wise. Then you will be worthy of winning back the Shield.”
“And if I fail…?”
His father’s brow furrowed. “Then you will die a gruesome death, your body hacked to pieces and fed to the dogs, your severed head mounted on a pike for all to see, a rotting, miserable, humiliated failure—”
“O-kay, I get it! Thank you, Father.”
“Well, you asked….” Voldar’s image began to shimmer and fade away. Dane called out to him one last time.
“Father, wait! There’s something else!”
“What? You want to tell me that you miss me terribly and realize now how wise and loving I was and how much you wish you appreciated me more while I was alive? And that you feel responsible for my death and want to ask my forgiveness and hope there’s no hard feelings? And hope we can talk like this again sometime?”
Dane was dumbfounded. “How—how did you know?”
“I know everything, son. And I know that when the time comes, you’ll be every bit as brave as I was—maybe even braver….”
Now his father’s image faded more and moved farther away. And Dane finally found the courage to tell his father the deepest secret of his heart.
“Father…I love you….”
“I love you too…,” came the reply, and Dane watched in bittersweet joy as the old man’s hair and beard turned into wisps of smoke that dissipated into nothing and his eyes receded into the blackness of the sky, becoming two tiny points of light that merged into stars….
Dane lifted his head with a start and looked around. The pearl-gray light of dawn was peeking through the window. He heard the early birdsong in the trees beyond the castle wall. Had he fallen asleep after all? Had it been real or only a dream? Soon it would be morning, perhaps the morning of the last day he would walk the earth. But strangely, he felt happy, abuzz with vigor and confidence. He drew out the silver Thor’s Hammer locket he’d carried for luck, the one intended for Astrid. Even if he had only a few hours to live, there was a chance he’d see Astrid one more time before he died, and this thought further lifted his heart.
At that moment he heard a familiar crawk! and was del
ighted to see an old friend fly down and land on the windowsill.
“Klint! It’s you!” The bird’s amazing ability to track prey had also allowed him to relocate his long-lost master.
Again the bird squawked, and let drop something from his beak into Dane’s palm. Nuts and berries the bird had gathered for his friend. Then Dane saw, out on the window ledge, a pile of berries the bird must’ve brought while he’d been sleeping.
“Hey, boy,” he murmured to the bird. Dane ate one of the berries and set them aside for the others when they awoke. He stroked the bird’s glossy feathers. The sight and feel of the bird so close made Dane yearn again for the comforts of home, for the familiar feel of his own straw-soft bed, the taste of his mother’s venison stews, and the bright laughter of the village children at play.
The raven cocked his head and looked at Dane, then at the bars. It seemed to Dane that the bird understood his master was in dire straits.
“Good to see you, my friend,” Dane said, allowing the bird to perch on his outstretched finger. “But I’m afraid there’s nothing you can do. Not unless you’ve a key to this dungeon. All the same, it’s good to be together again.”
Behind him, the men began to awaken, and seeing the bird, one by one they came to the window, Drott and Vik and Rik and Fulnir, each reaching through the bars to touch and talk to the raven. They, too, had known the bird since boyhood and looked upon him with the same affection Dane did.
“Eh, Klinty,” said Vik, always entertaining thoughts of violence, “why don’t you fly down and peck Thidrek’s eyes out?”
“And after that,” said Rik, not to be outdone, “you can tear his ears off and shove ’em down his throat!”
Klint squawked in reply, as if he understood just what had been said, and the men laughed, cheered by it all. Then Klint flew down into the trees and returned momentarily, his beak full of more berries and nuts, which he deposited on the sill.
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